angst for the mated raven mhmhmh because ravens mate for life and can die of a broken heart. (don't worry. no one dies here.) plz don't ask me what the context is. they're on a base with tents and idk what's wrong with Soap.

cw for ity-bity mention of suicidal ideation.

The med tent smells like antiseptic and canvas. It’s too bright and oo loud in the wrong ways, hushed voices, the beep of monitors, the hiss of oxygen, but somehow still empty of the only sound Ghost wants to hear:

Soap’s voice.

He’s been out for three days.

Ghost sits in the hard-backed chair by his cot, gloved hands resting loose between his knees. His mask is up just enough to breathe easier, but not enough for anyone else to read his face. His wings are half-out, shadowing the bed, the edges brushing the floor. It makes the space feel smaller.

No one tells him to leave anymore. They tried at first, said he needed rest, food, a break. But the way he looked at them… no one’s asked twice.

It’s late on the fourth night.

The med tent has gone still, lit only by the soft, green glow of monitors. Outside, the rain taps a thin rhythm on the canvas.

Ghost is in the same chair, the hard shadows under his eyes darker than yesterday. His wings curve around the cot like a barricade, low enough that anyone would have to step over them to reach Soap.

Gaz steps in quietly, carrying a mug of tea he knows won’t be drunk. He sets it on the small table beside Ghost, then just… stays.

For a long time, neither speaks.

“You’ve not moved in hours,” Gaz says finally.

“Don’t need to,” Ghost answers, eyes still fixed on Soap’s face.

Gaz studies him. The stillness isn’t the disciplined kind. It’s the frozen, don’t touch or I’ll break kind. The kind Gaz has only seen a handful of times, and never this deep.

“You’re not eatin’ right. You’re not sleeping.”

Ghost’s hands flex against his knees, feathers whispering against the cot. “Not until he wakes up.”

Gaz swallows, glances at Soap, then back. “Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’… if Johnny goes—” He stops and takes a breath. “…you won’t be far behind, will you, Lieutenant?”

The silence that follows is heavy.

Ghost doesn’t answer, but the way his gaze flicks up, sharp like he might argue, and then drops back to Soap’s still face says more than enough.

Gaz leans back in his chair, folding his arms tight. “Then I’m stayin’ too. Not lettin’ either of you go anywhere without me knowin’.”

Ghost doesn’t look at him again, but his wing shifts just enough to brush Gaz’s boot.

And so they sit.

Price visits that morning. Talks about the op, the fallout, how the rest of the team’s holding up. Ghost barely moves. His only reaction is when Soap’s breathing hitches, his head snaps toward him, every muscle ready to move. When it evens out again, he settles back into the same stillness.

When the tent thins out again that night, he lets himself graze the back of his fingers against Soap’s temple, tracing the edge of his hairline. The heat of his skin is reassuring.

“You’re not leaving me,” he says, barely more than a breath. “You hear me, Johnny? I’ve already—” He stops, jaw locking hard.

The rest of the sentence stays trapped in his throat: I’ve already chosen you.

On the sixth morning, Ghost is there before dawn, same chair, same posture. His tea has gone cold by the time Soap stirs.

It’s small, just a twitch of fingers and a faint shift in his breathing, but Ghost is leaning forward instantly, his hand closing over Soap’s.

Johnny’s eyes crack open, confused, dry. “…Si?”

Ghost swallows hard. “Yeah. I’m here.”

The relief is quiet, but it’s whole body.

Ghost won't tell him how scared he was. Won't tell him about the nights he counted every breath Soap made, or the way his chest ached like something in him was breaking. Won't tell Soap he didn't sleep the first three days, though Gaz will tell him and he'll get a scolding later.