Chapter Text
Ghost smokes when he's bored.
Noticing that the habit isn’t triggered by anxiety but actually, mundanity takes a lot of dedicated staring on Soap’s part. Of course, in the back of his mind he knows it isn't right to pick his superior officer apart, piece by piece with his eyes and later picking each piece up to examine more closely to help him drift off to sleep. Before Ghost, he could sleep soundly after prayer, kneeling at the foot of his bed with fingers linked and eyes closed. Such activity has been replaced. Every experienced militarian Soap has ever met always has the same sage advice; don't get too attached. So certainly, tracing over the lines of Ghost’s hands in his head and trying to commit it to memory is most definitely ill advised when they could both be shot dead at any moment. The same thing could be said for spending so much time trying to paint the perfect image of him in his mind or sketchbook is futile. Or maybe it's the precise reason he does it.
Nonetheless, from what Soap’s studied, Ghost smokes for something to do, something to keep his hands dirty when a gun feels too clean. Ghost smokes, ash dusting his sleeves like gunpowder.
Soap watches Ghost when he's bored, it’s like one of those symbiotic relationships you see on the Geographic channel. With the rhinos and the beetles. The sharks and the sucker fish. Soap also watches him when he's anxious. Mostly, he watches him because he's the easiest place to look, sometimes Ghost watches back and sometimes he stiffens up, his shoulders tight as he pretends not to notice Soap noticing him. He stares hard, straight ahead and Soap doesn't mind, he usually gets to look at him for as long as he wants, breaking off as many little hidden pieces of Ghost as he can carry for that night – the way he stands, the way his arms hang tense even if they're limp at his sides, even the way his chest expands and contracts – unless Ghost gets really sick of it and breaks the silence with a joke or an order.
In many twisted and sick ways, Ghost fascinates him. The solid force of him. The tension he carries around like a dead body slung over his shoulders. The way his fingers grip a trigger, his big hands fitting in and filling all the gaps as if, over time he’s molded them perfectly to cradle a metal rifle.
It would surprise many should Soap ever admit the comfort Ghost provides with his presence. The unstoppable, ever loyal, talented sniper, always at Soap’s six, always with a tip, always there to break the tension with a terrible joke. He knows when to fuck around and when to get back to work. He knows when Soap needs a firm voice in his ear, telling him just what he needs to do to make it out alive and when he needs his simple, rough praise.
Before they had met in person – before Las Almas, before Hassan, before the missiles – Soap had of course heard the legend of The Ghost. Cruel, heartless Ghost, already dead in every way that mattered, a mindless kill drone. Barely human.
He can't say he wasn't intrigued when there were rumors Ghost had overpowered a schoolroom full of armed men while having been bound to a chair, or how he allegedly dug himself out of his own grave with a half rotted jaw and his own bare hands. But those stories only had Soap expecting a skilled soldier, nothing particularly heartless about this character yet.
When he met him on that runway, the first thing he noticed were his eyes. Wide eyes. Stories he had heard left narrowed, blank, void eyes to fill Soap's expectations and these were anything but. Ghost forgets often just how expressive his eyes can be, putting too much trust into his mask to act as his shield. He holds his exhaustion and grief in his red eyes. His pupils expand when he kills, feeling the sickest of satisfaction. The gray of his irises had shone when they first met, interest clearly peaked. Soap looked right back and found himself pleasantly surprised. Save you a seat, sir. He’d said, throwing all those horror stories and warnings to the wind. This was no monster. Just a man beneath a mask, still a man nonetheless.
For the rest of his time working with the lieutenant, his eyes never betrayed Soap. Even when his words were harsh or his body language unresponsive, his eyes were kind. His eyes held Soap in place.
After today’s mission, they’re both covered in blood and other varying degrees of filth such as mud, sweat, toilet water – something Soap never wants to revisit ever . Both of them in an absolutely disgusting state and smelling about ten times worse. However, it's all with the satisfying weight of a mission completed over their shoulders. Holed up together on a roof of a nearby abandoned building, they wait for exfil to get them back to base.
Ghost has leaned himself on one of the big, bulky, busted generators, tapping a cigarette out from the carton he stores in his vest. Soap steps away from the ledge where he was on look out for the helo or any more potential threats, but eventually, his exhaustion kicks in, overpowering the adrenaline rush so much so that continuing to stand guard feels tortuous. He figures, if Ghost’s not paranoid, why should he be? Uncocking his rifle and holding it firmly in both hands as he saunters over to the back of the roof, near to the staircase, takes a seat on the ground a few respectable meters away from the sniper.
Settling into place, Soap settles his rifle to the side, rocking on his ass a little to get comfortable before he leans back against hollow-sounding metal, arms brought up to rest on his bent knees. There’s a big, nasty bruise coming in on his ankle from where he was tripped over some rumble whilst he was in the midst of running for his goddamn life. Just a little sprain, as his Lt said, he’ll live.
The Lt in question is fiddling with his unlit cigarette, his eyes downcast, looking over his tightly tied combat boots. With pale eyelashes fanning over his eyes, it’s strange how calm that makes him seem, how it disguises the purple eye bags and the redness that crawls in vines over the whites of his eyes. Soap picks at his own laces, notices how his are tied in a messy knot while Ghost’s are tied neatly and skillfully, stretched over scuffed leather. His free hand lightly traces the assortment of knives strapped onto his vest.
Soap drinks him slowly like smooth liquor running warm down his throat. Once satiated, Soap does turn away to gaze out across the picturesque sight of the sky turning to a deep blue as the sun rises up ever so slowly, the city lights becoming dimmer as natural light takes over. Soap leans his head back with a dull thud, watching as life begins to start up again.
“Any chance you got a light, Mactavish?” Ghost’s rough voice breaks his comfortable silence, rather inconsiderately.
Soap looks over to see Ghost, his cigarette held steady between his fingers, with his balaclava sans the mask rolled up over his nose. He almost never wears the full mask get-up when it’s just the two of them on a mission and Soap takes that for what it is; a sign of trust. Though, he hasn’t got a clue in hell how he gained such a thing from Ghost. Friendship isn’t in the field manual, Johnny. It’s almost a laughable memory. Soap supposes Ghost always had a sweet spot for him. He takes advantage of this, of course he does, he talks too casually to his superior on missions, bordering on insubordination, but Ghost will barely go further reprimanding than a slap on the wrist – if that. And now, he takes it all in, as much as he can and lets his eyes roam over the better view of his features - his split lip, his big nose and strong jaw. Ghost’s shoulders are slumped and his body language screams absolute exhaustion. He puts the end of the cigarette in his mouth, it hangs sadly, unlit from his lips.
Soap sighs, taking pity and dutifully fishes one out from his vest’s front pocket, secretly delighted when he catches Ghost's eyes light up, pleased. It’s not a shitty, disposable lighter either, it was his grandfathers, left to him when he died. Sleek, cool metal that feels good in a firm grip. Ghost is lucky he keeps it in his pocket as a good luck charm.
“How is it,” He begins, eyebrow arched, thumb flicking the flame to life and leaning over with his arm stretched out. “That you always have a fag but never a light?” Ghost positions the head of his cigarette over the flame using his scarred lips, sucking in deeply when it catches. “Seems a little impractical, ‘m not always gonna be there to help ye out.”
Ghost puffs out some smoke, leaning back, away from Soap. “Why's that?” He asks, staring down at his own fag as if talking to it instead of Soap.
“What?” Soap asks as he places his light back in its pocket, zipping it back up.
Blowing a long wind of tobacco out pursed lips, he finally raises his watery eyes at Soap. “Why’re you not gonna be there to help me out?”
Soap stares at him, the question catching him off guard. He expected a gruff dismissal. Maybe even sarcastic, “I could only be so lucky to get rid of ya,” or even just a disinterested snort. A grin spreads its way across his face, “Aw, now, Lt, I know ye love me but you cannae always have me all to yerself.”
This time, Ghost does just snort at him.
“Hey,” He begins about two minutes later when the silence that follows becomes unbearable. Ghost swivels his head to look at him with his cigarette swiftly shrinking between his scared lips. Soap can't say he's not staring at them when he questions, “What happened to the half smoked cigarette when the smoker couldn't get it to light?” Soap asks him, voice soft, but his gaze feels heavy as it rests, caught on the side of Ghost’s hooked nose like shoe in uneven concrete, holding it in place.
Ghost looks him over, assessing with something gentle swimming in his eyes before he looks away, “Go on then, what happened?” He plucks his cigarette out of his mouth to stub it on the ground.
“Nothin’.” Soap says, leaning back with his arms crossed, shrugging. “All it led to was a dead end.”
Ghost's mouth tilts, obviously amused. Corny jokes aren’t Soap’s sense of humor, in fact anyone else doing it just about makes him want to hurl. But seeing Ghost break his stoic exterior just to smile at a pun makes him want to spew them out all the time.
When his smile dampens, he speaks again, expressionless again. “Did you just make that up?”
Soap nods, “Oh, aye. Been saving it just for you.” And because he can’t help himself, he winks.
Ghost says nothing to that, his bottom lip moves in a way that suggests he’s chewing on the inside of it. Suddenly, Soap’s entire focus is on his mouth, the dry crack of his lips, pink from the chill morning air. His stare never breaks until Ghost’s mouth opens again.
“You don't smoke, do you, Johnny?” He asks as he picks another cigarette from his carton.
Without having to be asked, Soap offers his lighter, flicking the flame for him and holding it under his cigarette. “No, sir, they gie me the boak.” He says as he shakes his head.
But it must be a little windy now, because Ghost leans even closer, cups his hands around the flame. Soap can feel the heat radiating off him from so close. Though his hands are cold, frigid even, his covered arms are warm and they nearly brush against Soap’s. Of course, as luck would have it, Ghost runs cold and Soap runs hot. A niggling thought worms it's way into Soap’s head and he imagines sliding his warm hand over the Ghost’s icey fingers until he warms again.
When the fag lights, Ghost leans back, departing with a brush of the backs of his fingers against Soap's hand.
“Sensitive stomach?” Ghost inquires as he shuffles a few more respectable inches away, breathing in smoke.
Soap blinks himself back to reality.
Clearing his throat, he doesn’t quite make eye contact with Ghost as he rubs his thighs, hands feeling empty, jittery. “Aye, since I was a lad.”
“That's cute, Johnny.” Ghost's mouth isn’t smiling when Soap risks a glance up, but his eyes are.
Soap, running even hotter, kicks him for that one, “Donnae call me cute, ye fucking bawbag.”
His lieutenant grabs the offending foot by the ankle, pulls it into his lap. “Don’t tell me what to do, tosser.”
Holding his leg, he takes another puff and lets the smoke roll out of his mouth, “They make you sick?”
“Yeah, that’s– I said– ” Soap stutters, a little stunted by the sudden contact, the fact that his legs are spread and his foot is hooked over the lieutenant’s thigh.“Yeah, they’re just plain rank.” He mumbles, not making eye contact.
“Mm.” Ghost hums. He thumbs the hinge of Soap’s ankle, tracing it in a way that almost makes him want to shiver. But he bites his lip and stays perfectly still in Ghost’s grip.
“Why?” Soap asks when the silence becomes stifling, “Gonna offer me one?”
Ghost’s mouth seems to twitch around his cigarette, He plucks it out to exhale smoke, then coughs into his elbows. But it's only a move to hide his smirk. The cough is obviously fake and Soap can see the upturned corner of his mouth and this makes Soap’s blood run hot .
“Not exactly.”
Soap just shifts on his rear, his occupied leg not moving a twitch. “Do I want to know?” He coughs himself, a nervous gesture more than anything else.
Ghost is looking at him through his lashes, through the black holes in his mask. “No.” But the way he says it; like he's already tricked him. Like he's already got him right where he wants him.
“That's never stopped you before.” Soap shifts his foot, the toe of his boot brushing Ghost’s stomach.
Ghost’s hand palms up his calf almost soothingly. “You ever heard the term 'playing with fire’, Sergeant?”
“Seems only one of us got a lighter,” Soap says cheekily, eyebrow raised, almost challengingly.
“If you want to know so badly, Johnny.” Ghost’s hand wraps around his knee and presses down hard. “Just ask.”
He tries not to squirm, voice barely steady as he speaks, “...Just ask, yeah?”
Ghost takes a deep inhale through his nose, releasing an exhale as he releases the death grip on Soap's knee, “Yeah.”
Soap looks at him, his half exposed, half flushed face, half scattered with scars, scars which Soap knows nothing about. Soap knows nothing about this man.
Soap looks and because he’s never known when to stop before he gets burned, says, “Tell me.”
“Mm.” Ghost hums, as if considering, “No manners in Scotland?” His tone is chiding, mocking a scold. Soap wars with himself for a moment, before ultimately relenting. Hell, Ghost could probably tell him to jump off the side of this damn building and Soap would do it, if only to please him.
“Please?”
Ghost chest jumps, catching Soap by surprise as he silently laughs, “You just keep surprising me, Sergeant.”
Insecurity seeps in; he took it too far, Ghost was only joking, this was only another joke. Soap has just revealed just how pathetic he is for whatever Ghost’s willing to give him.
He swallows dryly and looks away again, “What’d ye mean? ” His voice is purposefully aloof, although his frustration likely creeps into his tone. Lying’s never been Soap’s strong suit.
“Come here.” Ghost says once. Soap doesn't immediately follow his command, still thrown off, still unsure where he stands and where his lieutenant stands. Is this a bit? Gay chicken? Are these orders? Does this really mean anything or are they just going around in circles like always? Ghost rolls his eyes at the hesitation and nearly yanks his leg out of its socket, pulling him closer.
“Fuck!” Soap gasps as his arse is pulled out from under him and the back of his head hits the ground. He sits up and gets up on his knees, reaching towards the offending smug bastard. “Oi, what the fuck, you bleedin’ tube!” He shoves Ghost in retaliation.
Ever stoic, Ghost simply reaches up and wraps a hand around his vest, pulling him down until he’s eye level again. Soap’s ass sticks out as he bends forwards, balancing on his knees. Never breaking eye contact from Soap, he takes a long puff of his cig, held between his thumb and forefinger. His cheeks hollow out, and lips that he pinched tight around the fag are swollen and split from one hostile’s mean right hook. Soap is distantly aware his mouth is hanging open like a panting dog. He doesn't care, Ghost’s eyes have never looked so bright against the matte black. Soap has never wanted to hook his fingers into the holes in the skull face and rip the fucking thing off, but his fingers itch with the urge.
There was a time when Soap would've been elated to be reminded of Ghost’s lips after everything in Las Almas. The one glimpse he got around the table of Los Vaqueros and 141 was short lived and the image was getting fuzzier and fuzzier each day. Little details forgotten: was his nose straight or hooked? How many freckles fan out on his cheeks? Did he have a beauty mark on his cheekbone or on his chin?
But now, Soap can't help but get greedy. He wants the rest. Hardly waiting before Soap can breathe another breath, Ghost is tossing his cigarette to the side and hooking a hand around the back of his neck.
Mouths collide and Soap flinches. On instinct he tenses, his mind hollering at him to pull back, to tell him superior officer they can't, not even if they really, really want to. But he can't deny how the hot slide of Ghost's wet mouth, how the taste of smoke and mint makes him relax against the hand on the back of his neck. Oh, how it makes him lean in for more. At one point, he opens his mouth to Ghost. At one point, he makes the decision that he wants Ghost to fill every empty inch of him.
Ghost licks into him, the wet swipe of his tongue on the roof of his mouth makes Soap shudder and shakily moan against him. He quickly rises up, eagerly crawling over him to position himself over his lap, meeting Ghost tit for tat and sliding the rough flat of their tongues against each other. The lieutenant’s huge hands spread over the small of his back, then grab his hips with an intentful, firm grip before Ghost’s tongue moves past his to caress the flat of his teeth, even as far back as the back molars. Swiping along the inside of his cheek, making it bulge out as he licks across the fleshy inside hard. Sitting up straight, Ghost grabs his grime matted hair to keep him still. With an artful tug and twisting of fingers, he damn near makes Soap fucking gag as he nearly brushes against his uvula, fucking deep into his mouth. Soap moans again, broken and pathetic around him. Smoke lingers in Soap’s mouth, but he can hardly taste it, he can hardly feel his fucking fingertips.
Ghost’s other hand is digging bruises – Bleeding Christ, Soap hopes to find bruises in the shape of his lieutenant’s fingers in the morning. It might be the only evidence he has that this ever even happened and it wasn’t some sick fantasy Soap’s deprived mind convinced him was real– into Soap’s side while both of Soap’s hands are gripping Ghost’s shoulders like the lifeline that they are. His hips go around in these muted, tiny circles against Ghost’s crotch, unable and too desperate to stop himself. He's so hard, there might be a friction burned hole somewhere in his briefs.
When Ghost pulls back to breathe , there's a wet string of spit connecting their red mouths.
“ Johnny .” Ghost groans and Soap nearly creams himself there and then. Instead, he grabs his lieutenant by either bicep and yanks him closer to latch onto the exposed neck Soap sees once every lifetime.
Ghost moans . A soft, breathy noise that is immediately followed by his hips canting up so high it actually jostles Soap where he's practically straddling him.
As his teeth sink into the sweat slick skin and the taste of copper seeps into his mouth, he can't help but bite down a little harder and make his lieutenant gasp a little louder. He's never really had a thing for blood, not really a freak in the sheets by any standards…but Ghost’s blood? The Ghost? Ghost bleeding for him ? It has an effect.
When Ghost’s finally had enough, he pushes Soap back, just far enough to dislodge him from his neck. Without the plug of Soap’s teeth and incisors, red starts dripping down his throat rather invitingly. Soap dips back in, only to delicately clean up his mess, sucking on Ghost’s fresh wound – not unlike a vampire. It tastes like warm pennies and if this were anyone else, Soap would likely gag and recoil after the first swipe of his tongue. But Ghost is huffing out these soft breaths, almost whimper like. Soap leans away again, takes Ghost’s hands into his and goes right back in for a kiss. Their lips meet, soft. Making a little sound again, Ghost whines when Soap licks the seal of his lips. Not for entry, just to taste. And Ghost still tastes like smoke and Soap tastes like blood. What a fucking pair they make. Pulling away with a parting nip to Ghost's lower lip, Soap sees Ghost’s eyes widen as he gets a good look at him.
“What?”
“You–” Ghost clears his ragged voice, “You’ve got…” Ghost’s exposed throat bobs, “Here.” He licks the pad of his thumb and rubs the corner of Soap's mouth, his thumb coming away tinted red.
“Thanks, sir.” He says and means it in more ways than one.
Ghost’s shaky fingers brush against his jaw as he adjusts, staring up at Soap like Heaven sent him down his way. His insides squirm but Ghost yanks his hand away like the touch burned. Like Ghost’s hands are too stained to touch what Heaven sent.
The familiar drone of the helo alerts them out of their haze.
It’s like ice cold fucking water was poured over both their heads and they flinch in harmony. Soap’s hands close into fists around Ghost’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric. They breathe in sync for a minute, a minute and a half, until the helo is too close for it to be safe for them to be breathing the same air.
“On your feet, soldier.” Ghost rasps, patting his sides but then retreating, making his hands into tense fists by Soap’s sides.
Then Ghost shoves him off his lap when he doesn’t move.
“Ghost?” Soap steadies a hand on the rough ground when he’s tossed to the floor. Soap stares at the floor, the floor stares back at Soap. Jesus. Steaming Jesus .
“Lt?” He tries to call after him but Ghost is already gone, not even offering a glance over his shoulder as he approaches the landing helicopter. Soap hisses a curse and adjusts himself through his pants before hurrying to his feet before Ghost up and decides to leave his sorry self on the top of an abandoned building.