Chapter Text
22:30 (around 10:30pm)
Ghost lets him take the bed.
Because of course he does.
Hands run along the back of the sofa, the rough leather of his gloves catching on the tattered material.
A ticking noise comes from the kitchen. It rings through the air, plastic-y and jarring. The dust remains stagnant in the atmosphere, still and patient. Waiting for…something.
Anything.
And so is Soap. Waiting, watching, analyzing.
He feels his pulse in his arm, right in the gunshot wound. Tapping in time with the clock in the kitchen: drumming and aching in his skull. In his bones. In his blood.
Please, move. Say something.
Tell me to leave, tell me to go to sleep, get my rest.
Tell me to stay.
Tell me-
“You’re staring.” Ghost says plainly, his eyes slowly rising to meet Soap.
The clock’s ticking seems far off now, time coming to a standstill.
“Yes, sir,” Soap speaks, huffing out a breath,
“…zoned out.” Is what he settles for.
It couldn’t be further from the truth.
The truth is, the terrible truth is, that Ghost’s presence feels like the rapture. It is painful and Godly, and all-consuming. His body demands attention, every curve and dip of muscle, every nick and scrape on the surface. God, he was everything.
So, while Ghost turns his attention back to re-buckling his tactical vest after giving a curt nod in Soap’s direction, he continues to admire. And want and yearn from the distance. His fate was to want, and want, and need. And never to touch.
Maybe not ever again.
At least not after tonight.
Never to be allowed to touch the planes of Ghost’s back, to press kisses between his shoulder blades, and let his blunt nails map out the scattering of freckles there. His breath would never ghost across his lips or his jaw, just to breathe in the scent of him. He’d never trace delicate circles into his calloused palm, or press his hand to his chest, lay his head over Ghost’s heart just to listen to his pulse.
And Ghost adjusted his tactical gear, hands dancing over the clasps and triggers, while Soap ached with all of his being. Felt it in his chest, the soft pull of something that he chose to leave unnamed.
To name it would be akin to suicide. It would bring the feeling to life, let it blossom within Soap’s chest, and take root within his soul.
Ghost grunted as he sunk into the sofa, low and almost imperceptible.
And Soap stamped out the feeling in his chest with a turn of his heel. Depriving the remaining embers of oxygen and light as he left the room and shut the door behind him.
————-
23:00 (around 11pm (Alejandro’s Safehouse))
The rest of the night passed quickly; Soap busied himself with organization. Methodologies. Obsessions and compulsions.
He cleaned his knife meticulously and completely excessively. He nearly nicked himself on the blade a few times, running it between his fingers and a black cloth.
Over and over and over.
He ran his hands through his hair, frowning at the length of his mow-hawk when it passed too easily through his fingers. He combed and combed, smoothing it back before running his fingers against the shorter hair on the sides.
Had he had any instrument suitable for cutting hair, he would have done so, despite his lack of any proper mirror.
The military was a breeding ground for these sorts of things, weird quirks picked up over the years. Compulsive thoughts and impulsive attitudes. It was a collection of people who got off on pain and a culmination of all possible attempts to find a place of belonging.
It was sick and twisted. It was home.
Soap lost himself again in his routines, straightening up the few belongings he had on his person, cleaning and organizing in a mind-numbingly meticulous manner.
He cleaned under his fingernails with the tip of his knife, watching the grime and gunk collect on the blade, before wiping it off on a cloth.
The hallway creaked behind Soap’s closed door, the room he had essentially claimed as his, in sight of Ghost’s complete determination to sleep on the sofa instead of the bed, away from Soap.
The bed which was perfectly suitable for two adult men to sleep in at the same time, with some minor adjustments.
Soap had told Ghost as much when they first arrived at Alejandro’s safehouse.
(20:00)
8pm (first arrival at Alejandro’s Safehouse)
They had stumbled through the doors, one of Ghost’s arms wrapped around Soap’s shoulders, holding him upright and steady, and they beelined to the couch, letting Soap lay down.
Ghost had hastily kicked the door closed behind him, before kneeling in front of Soap, his gloved hands hesitantly reaching out to Soap’s bleeding shoulder.
“The bullet’s still inside.” Soap had grunted out. His head spun when he looked at the ceiling, so he willed to close his eyes instead. Eyebrows furrowed together from the pain he knew was coming, and the absolute exhaustion that coursed through his body.
Ghost leaned forward, the picture of collectedness. Although if his brow was pinched together beneath the mask, that was for only him to know.
Steady hands pulled Soap’s shirtsleeve over the wound, pulling some of the fabric away from the bloody mess. His movements slowed when Soap let out a string of curse words brought on by a particularly hard prod on his shoulder from Ghost.
“Sergeant, this is going to hurt, fair warning.” Ghost breathed, reaching down to a pocket in his vest, pulling out a lighter and setting it down next to Soap’s elbow.
“Shit, Sir, just get on with it.” Soap snapped impatiently, covering his face with the arm that wasn’t currently in Ghost’s hold.
Soap took a steadying breath, clenching his teeth together in an effort to silence a groan that was forming within his chest. His stomach dropped at the sound of the lighter igniting, hissing as its flame came to life.
“Fuck!”
Soap’s arm tensed at the sharp pain, muscles flexing rapidly as he felt something unceremoniously jabbed into his wound.
He hissed wickedly, fingers tightening on the fabric of the sofa, and toes curling in his boots. His arm felt completely alight with fire, burning hot and aching as if his very nerve endings had been sliced.
“Oh, Jesus fuck-“ He was cut off by a sharp whine of pain as Ghost dug the object deeper into his arm, nestling at a different angle as the tips of the object made contact with the bullet.
Ghost had one arm splayed on Soap’s chest, holding his body forcefully onto the couch, his hand pressing hard at the base of his neck, likely to leave finger-shaped bruises. The other hand held a small pair of tweezers that had been in the bottom of a small med kit that had been stashed near the sofa.
The tweezers nestled their way into Soap’s shoulder, disappearing into the bloodied mess and eliciting sharp howls of pain from the man beneath his grasp. Ghost’s eyes darkened as Soap came completely undone beneath him, screaming every blasphemy under the sun, cursing and swearing obscenity after obscenity.
“Who knew you had such a filthy mouth.” Ghost grunted as the tweezers made purchase on the bullet for the second time. They slipped on the bloodied surface, and the bullet was again lost.
“Oh, fuck you!” Soap shouted, turning his face to bury it in the sofa’s cushions.
A quick chuckle left Ghost’s mouth, breathless and barely-there. A noise that Soap wasn’t able to catch through all of his banshee-wails.
The tweezers made contact with the bullet, grabbing on and pulling, as Ghost pressed harder on Soap’s chest to keep him still. In a tantalizing move, the tweezers were finally lifted from the wound in Soap’s shoulder, releasing the bullet with a wet noise as it fell onto the fabric of Soap’s vest.
Ghost sat back with a sigh, resting his weight on his heels as he picked up the bullet between two gloved fingers and wiped the blood off with his thumb.
A slow, shaky breath passed Soap’s lips as the tension left his shoulder, the fire from his wound slowly dissipating into a dull ache. Nothing like the sharpness that had been before.
“Here you are, Sergeant.” Ghost huffed, a small crinkle by his eyes the only thing to hint that he was smiling.
“Believe this is yours.” He said, holding the bullet out for Soap.
Soap held out his hand, twirling the small bullet between his fingers before pocketing it in his vest. He tapped the pocket where the bullet now lay twice with the palm of his hand, smiling a small cheeky grin.
“Took it like a champ, I did.” Soap sighed, the adrenaline slowly leaving his body, leaving shaky limbs and an uncertain lilt to his voice.
Ghost hummed in uncertainty, his hands pulling at a small bunch of twine, threading it through a needle with precision.
The lighter ignited again, and Soap watched as Ghost hovered the needle above the flame for a few seconds, both of the men transfixed by the red-hot metal.
“This is the easy part, so try to relax?” Ghost said condescendingly, moving forward to pinch the skin of Soap’s wound together.
The needle pushed through the skin of Soap’s shoulder, pulling the thread and sealing the wound. It ached and pinched where the needle pierced skin. It never felt less odd, the feeling of skin being stitched closed, no matter how many times Soap had experienced it.
The first when he was little, accidentally slicing his finger with a knife while cutting up something (the memory had faded over time, he forgot what he had been slicing, and had tried to forget the after of cutting himself. The yelling and the reprimanding. No matter how much of an accident it had been).
He had cried a lot that first time, like most kids would. He was scared of needles, and of the doctors. And the sight of his blood had unsettled him, but he found it hard to look away as the nurse made quick work of the slice on his finger.
Another time when he was older, but still just a child. And again, and again. In unremarkable places under unremarkable circumstances until he first received an injury in combat.
And he stopped keeping track at that point. The scars and injuries bleeding together to create a patchwork on his skin of raised slashes and deep divots.
Ghost tied the twine off and cut the remainder of the string with one of his knives.
Soap sat up weakly, turning to set his feet on the ground, as he experimentally rolled his shoulder and flexed the sore muscles there.
Ghost had stood, watching him patiently, and not-so-subtlety admired his stitching.
Ego sufficiently stroked, Ghost began to pack up the roll of twine, tucking it neatly into a part of his vest, and pocketing the tweezers as well, swiping the blood with his thumb and stroking the metal.
Soap watched him from the couch, following Ghost’s fingers with his eyes, admiring Ghost’s own compulsions. The way he ran his hands smoothly down his clothed thighs, thumbs running in small circles as he compiled a mental checklist.
Ghost cracked his knuckles meticulously, working each finger individually and let his eyes flit across the rough leather of his gloves.
Soap was staring, plain as day, not moving to a more subtle position; just roaming his eyes across the expanse of Ghost’s exterior as he sat on the sofa.
Ghost was aware he was being watched; aware he was under Soap’s prying eye. He felt his hair stand up as Soap’s eyes caressed every inch of his body, washing over him with blue-grey irises.
And he ached, a pain deep in his chest that knocked the wind from his lungs and sent his head spinning. It was want, it was yearning and a primal urge to take and savor.
And Ghost was reeling from the sudden acknowledgment of hunger within his chest. God, the wanting and the needing, that bubbled up from within him, feeling Soap’s gaze completely strip him bare within the dingy room of a safehouse in the middle of God-knows-where.
Soap’s eyes had found their way to Ghost’s masked ones, creasing at the far-off look that was suddenly present.
Ghost’s hands stilled on his belt, gripping the material tightly, and taking a deep breath before turning to meet Soap’s intent stare.
Oh.
“Shit.”
———————
23:30 (around 11:30 (Alejandro’s Safehouse))
A light tap on the door is the only warning before Ghost stands in Soap’s room, pushing the door slowly open.
Soap looks up from his hands, from where his fingers had been trailing along the callouses of his own palms.
“Can I help you with something?” Soap asks, feigning indifference at Ghost’s expression.
Something was hiding behind his eyes, pupils and irises stark against the white of them. Searching for something in Soap’s own.
“Yeah, actually,” Ghost begins, stalking into the room. His voice is low and gruff, close to a growl, as he takes another step closer to Soap’s position on the bed.
“We need to talk.”
Soap’s face pales, and he grinds his jaw in preparation for whatever special type of fresh Hell that Ghost is about to unleash upon him.
“Whatever about, sir?” Soap speaks, finally meeting Ghost’s eyes in a challenge. He practically spits the words, driving the title of Sir someplace tender in Ghost’s chest, despite the dripping sarcasm that follows it.
“You know.”
—————
20:30 (around 8:30pm (Alejandro’s Safehouse))
“Shit.”
Ghost’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“Excuse me?”
Shit!
“Nothing, Sir. Was just… uh… y’know.”
“I don’t actually. Care to enlighten me?”
“Just thinking about the mission, all that shit.”
Soap ran a hand through his hair, tugging on the longer strands at the base of his neck.
Get yourself together, soldier.
“Missions go wrong Soap, it’s the way it is.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thought I almost lost you tonight.” Ghost grunts out, waking around the back of the sofa, out of Soap’s field of vision.
A snort nearly escapes Soap, but he catches himself.
Bullshit, that is.
A damn bullet to the shoulder, it only nearly grazed him. Radio silence and adrenaline had drowned Soap in a feeling of hopelessness, of desperation.
‘Please God,’ he had begged silently, ‘I know the shitty things I’ve done before. I’ve been a downright hellion.’
He thought of all the things that had been unsaid, between everyone. So many fucking things that would never fall upon the right ears.
‘I want to tell Price how thankful I really am, for everything. No matter how much of an ass I’ve been at times, please tell him that I care, I do truly care. And appreciate everything.’
The bullet throbbed in his shoulder, like a second heartbeat just beneath the bloodied skin of the appendage.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Footsteps echoed through the stone walls of the city. Shouts just barely registered in his ears. They were looking for him. They were coming, closing in.
And Soap was alone. And he was blind, huddled against a wall, with one hand clasped over his mouth to silence his heavy breathing.
‘If I die tonight, I want you to tell Laswell… please tell her-‘
Gunshots ring through the city, closer than before.
The noise is sharp in Soap’s ears, and he pulls his head closer to his chest, lungs screaming with the effort to calm his breathing.
One of Soap’s hands rises to clutch onto his hair, pulling lightly in a desperate attempt to return to the present.
‘Don’t leave now, please. Not now.’ He begged himself, his conscience threatening to leave his body, leaving him more defenseless than before.
It happened sometimes, the unconscious need to escape the present at the most inconvenient times.
‘GodDamnit!’ He wanted to cry out of desperation. Twenty-something years on the job, and he was going to die in the middle of this fucking city. Killed by some nameless Shadow while waiting for anything. Anyone.
His heart was racing. He’d been in worse situations with lower odds, but the goddamn monotony of it all made it hurt worse. He didn’t want to die like this.
He’d called for backup over the radio minutes ago, all to no avail.
‘Ghost?’ He’d practically begged, whispering so as not to be heard.
‘There’s so much more that I have to say, please…’ He pleaded silently, so whoever was listening. To whatever force or cosmic being would await him after his almost certain death.
‘Ghost, I need to tell him, I need to tell him please. Please, tell Simon-‘
The radio crackled to life.
Soap could have cried right then, could’ve kissed whoever was on the other end.
“Johnny?”
“Johnny?”
Ghost’s breath hits the back of Soap’s neck, knocking him out of his own head.
“Sorry, Sir. What was that?” Soap asks, shaking the fog from his mind.
“Where’d you go,” Ghost began, “just now?”
His fingers picked at the material of the sofa, pulling on a lose thread and twirling it between his thumb and forefinger.
Soap fought the twitch in his body to turn around and face Ghost, the urge to be face-to-face again with him.
But something in Ghost’s voice told him not to turn around, to remain still on the sofa, hands clasped together on his thighs, and eyes fixed unsteadily on the wall in front of him.
“I was thinking.” Soap replied.
“About?” Ghost pried.
“Tonight, just then, when I was alone out there.” Something switched in Soap then, fire coursing through his veins, as the desperation boiled up again. The helplessness that he had felt. The complete terror that he had been left for dead. He took a deep breath before continuing, unnecessarily driving the point home, with words aiming straight for Ghost’s heart.
He hoped they would land. Bury themselves straight into Ghost’s chest, where they would pull that stupid smug look off of his face. The look that Soap was sure was just there to taunt him.
He wanted the words to hurt, and hurt badly. He wanted Ghost to apologize, get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness.
‘I’m so sorry Johnny,’ because that’s what Ghost called him, and God the way it made him feel-
‘I left you for dead, and I’m sorry, Johnny. So sorry, please let me make it up to you.’
In Soap’s imagination, Ghost would be kneeling on the floor before him. Hands clasped over his heart in sincerity. He’d be down to his balaclava, his dark eyes welled up with tears and leaving tracks through the eye-black he wore.
He wanted to see Ghost hurt, to express any other fucking emotion than the complete apathy he showed every minute of every day. He wanted Ghost to cry, or to laugh, or to fucking smile for once in his miserable life.
He wanted to see Ghost bare, wanted to see the naked expanses of his body. Wanted to see his face without that stupid mask in the way.
He wanted to be the source of Ghost’s pain and anger, he wanted to hit the damn man firmly in the chest.
He wanted to be the source of Ghost’s pleasure, wanted to watch his eyes roll back, and feel the breathes and words of ecstasy spoken against the skin of his neck. He wanted his tears and sweat to decorate his skin.
He wanted and wanted and wanted.
He spoke the next words carefully:
“Because someone didn’t fucking pick up the radio. Because someone left me for fucking dead!”
To his credit, Ghost didn’t say anything more, hardly reacted at all, just stepped back from the sofa as Soap rose to his feet and prowled around to face Ghost at his full height.
“You left me for fucking dead, Ghost. You all did!”
Ghost stood as still as a statue, eyes fixed on Soap’s reddening face, the sheer beauty of his anger.
Soap was nearly chest-to-chest with Ghost. The material of their tactical vests catching on each other as Soap took another step towards Ghost.
The mirth was now completely gone from Ghost’s eyes. Replaced by something hungry.
He was fucking enjoying this!
Soap’s expression faltered, if only for a second, taken aback by the light that had ignited within Ghost’s eyes.
He was getting off on Soap’s anger.
“Hey!” Soap shouted, shoving his palms against Ghost’s chest.
It was like hitting a concrete wall, hands coming in contact with the vest on his chest, and slamming into the muscle of him.
It didn’t hurt, but Ghost humored him, stumbling back wildly and feigning surprise. Ghost let the back of his thighs hit the back of the sofa, nearly tipping over in his excitement.
Ghost snapped his hands out to Soap’s vest, gripping the edges to keep from flailing backwards onto the sofa.
“Are you even fucking listening to me!?” Soap exclaimed wildly.
His eyes challenged Ghost’s, refusing to look away first.
Ghost’s hands still grasped on the edges of Soap’s vest, for much longer than anything that could be considered purely necessary. And still, he held Soap like a lifeline, white-knuckled and close.
Chest-to-chest.
Soap’s breath came out in short puffs and he searched Ghost’s eyes.
The barest bit of naked skin was visible from beneath the mask, the eye-black long since smudged from the sweat of the past few hours.
It was taunting him. The milky-white of Ghost’s skin barely visible beneath the dark makeup was there just to spite John MacTavish. Just to tempt him to do something he could never take back.
It made him want to take unforgivingly, something that could never, would never, belong to Soap. Nothing he could ever have within his lifetime.
And before Soap could make the decision of whether or not to take, to have, Ghost had made the decision for the both of them.
————-
23:30 (around 11:40pm (Alejandro’s Safehouse))
“You know,”
“I think we need to talk.” Ghost repeats, pressing Soap for any reaction.
And as Ghost’s eyes search for any hint of emotion, any sign of anything at all. He comes up from drowning in Soap’s expression completely empty-handed.
Stubborn bastard.
“I tried talking to you earlier. You completely blew me off.” Soap grits out, unblinkingly staring into the other’s eyes. It’s a silent challenge.
And Ghost, never one to back down from a challenge, steps closer to Soap, standing almost completely between Soap’s opened legs, forcing Soap to tilt his head up to keep eye contact.
Ghost pretends like the words don’t sting, instead smiles at the new angle he has forced Soap into, hoping the display soothes Soap’s nerves.
Or, maybe, riles him up even more.
————
21:00 (around 9pm (Alejandro’s Safehouse))
Ghost moved slowly, giving Soap as many outs as possible.
He leaned forward, and if their previous position was bordering on dangerous territory, then their current one was completely void of any excuse.
Just because they wanted to.
Just because Ghost was a selfish man who was never one to deprive himself of something he wanted.
So, he took.
One of his hands pulled away from the edge of Soap’s tactical vest, and slid across Soap’s chest before finding hold on his bicep.
Another unspoken challenge.
Soap had never been one to back down from a challenge.
Tell me to stop, and I will.
Ghost thought, letting his fingers move dangerously against the tensing muscles of Soap’s arm, the one with the gunshot wound.
Ghost’s fingers moved slowly up, caressing the puckered skin of the stitches he had put there. His mark on Soap’s body.
It would leave a scar, he’d made sure of that. Weaving the twine just slightly more violently than was absolutely necessary.
The scar would be a small one, nothing too offensive on the eyes. But it would scar nonetheless. Because Ghost wanted it to.
Because Ghost took what he wanted.
Push me away, Soap.
Tell me to stop before I can’t.
Soap took a sharp breath, eyes completely drilling into Ghost’s mask, his gaze still murderous.
Ghost’s hand migrated towards Soap’s shoulder, fingers grazing the bare skin of his neck. His other hand was still clutched onto Soap’s vest, drawing them impossibly closer.
An out that Soap didn’t take.
Please, Soap.
The hand on Soap’s skin moved higher, curling around the back of his neck, fingertips pressed lightly into the skin there, meeting the fine hair of Soap’s mow-hawk.
His thumb smoothed slow circles onto the side of Soap’s throat, caressing the Adam’s Apple there, feeling it bob as Soap swallowed thickly.
Another out.
Please, Soap, please tell me to stop.
The hand still grasping the edge of Soap’s vest was edging up now, smoothing over Soap’s chest and sneaking around to loop around his back.
Ghost’s hand pressed deeply on Soap’s skin to feel the ribs there, letting himself indulge in the heat of him, of the feeling of his breaths just beneath the surface.
Another out.
You feel like Heaven.
Soap.
The hand on Soap’s back slid to his hip, and the grip became harder, fingers pressing desperately against his hip-bone. Against the clothed skin of his waist, thumb rubbing intently against his side.
Another out.
Soap didn’t take it.
Johnny.
A mouth came down upon Soap’s, covered by a black balaclava, wet heat still descending upon him despite the fabric.
It was quick and desperate. Ghost’s eyes scrunched closed as he pressed his mouth to Soap’s forcefully.
It only lasted a second, it was gone as quickly it had came.
But Ghost relished the feeling before pulling himself away. He felt the way Soap’s body had quickly tensed, becoming rock solid under his hands.
He felt the hot exhale of a breath as Soap gasped onto Ghost, his mouth open in surprise. He let himself commit the moment to memory, the press of Soap’s lips against his despite the physical barrier between them.
Soap let out a high sound through his throat, hands coming up quickly to press against Ghost’s chest, shoving him backwards.
Oh fuck.
“Johnny-“ Ghost began, hands outreached and gesturing wildly in explanation.
He was cut off by a slam to his side, choking the oxygen from his lungs and catching him completely off guard.
Soap had tackled him to the ground, sending both of them sprawling onto the hard wooden floor of the safehouse. Soap above Ghost, with knees on either side of his hips, hands holding Ghost’s arms next to his body.
“What the fuck is-“ Soap spat through gritted teeth. He sat back on his heels, releasing Ghost’s arms after giving him a sharp look of warning.
“You fucking kissed me.”
Soap ran both hands through his hair, huffing a deep breath as his eyes scanned Ghost’s face.
“Why the Hell did you do that?”
Ghost blinked up at him, racking his brain for any coherent thought.
It wasn’t often that he was completely taken by surprise. And almost never had he been rendered completely defenseless.
Defenseless.
Shit.
The guard Ghost had meticulously crafted over the years had faltered.
He had let himself be taken by goddamn surprise.
He had let his guard down, blinded by stupid Johnny and his stupid righteous anger, and those fucking beautiful eyes of his.
And Ghost ached, his chest pinching painfully in desperation at the thought of being completely blindsided by whatever the Hell Soap was making him feel.
Ghost’s eyes darkened, his expression hardening under the mask, closing off every weakness he held, the weakness that Soap had exposed.
And through some cruel twist of fate, as if God was personally testing Ghost, taunting him with things he could’ve had, Soap leaned down to kiss him.
Their lips met again through the fabric, Soap’s hands coming down to hold the sides of Ghost’s face.
His touch was feather-light. It was achingly tender and sent Ghost gasping for air, panting heavily against Soap as the latter pressed more forcefully. But the kiss was still painfully sweet.
Of their own accord, Ghost’s hands came up to grip Soap’s thighs where they were squeezed against his sides. His fingers dug into the tough muscle of them, eliciting a gasp from Soap that, against his better judgement, caused Ghost to completely lose himself.
He moved wildly, the rational part of his brain shut down, just the animalistic want raging in his chest as Soap pressed his tongue against the fabric covering Ghost’s mouth.
It was hot and wet and desperate. The air around them filled with Ghost’s choked-off groans and the high whines that came from somewhere in Soap’s throat.
Neither made any move to remove Ghost’s mask, just gasping at the soaked fabric between them that made it difficult to deepen things further.
Soap broke away from Ghost, smoothing one of his palms against the side of Ghost’s face despite the mask there. It was a gesture more than anything.
Ghost’s breath caught in his chest, some semblance of composure crashing back into him before being completely ripped away as Soap moved to kiss Ghost’s neck.
Oh, God.
One hand pulled the fabric of Ghost’s balaclava up, revealing the white skin of his throat.
Ghost screwed his eyes closed at the feeling of being so suddenly exposed, as Soap’s lips gingerly placed a kiss to his Adam’s Apple.
He nearly cried at the feeling, at the gentleness with which Soap was touching him. As if he was something valuable to be cherished.
As if he was something lovely.
Fighting the stinging in his eyes, Ghost gripped the meat of Soap’s thighs harder to hide the shaking of his arms.
He’d never been touched like that before.
He’d never been wanted, not like that.
Soap pressed softly against Ghost’s neck, touching the tip of his tongue to the skin there.
He moved slowly and meticulously, breathing slowly through his nose, which tickled against Ghost’s skin.
It was gentle and soothing, a complete contrast to the affection Ghost was used to.
Where is the biting? He wondered.
Where is the scratching?
He braced himself for a pain that never came.
Soap worked his way down and across the expanse of Ghost’s neck before moving to mouth at the sharp jawline that was peeking from the edge of the rolled-up balaclava.
His fingers touched the material there, a silent question.
Ghost made no move to stop him.
The balaclava was pushed higher, coming to rest just below Ghost’s nose, exposing his chin and mouth.
It took everything in him to not stop Soap’s hand, to grab his wrist and pull him away.
Don’t look at me like that.
Soap’s eyes lit up at the sight, letting his fingers graze the stubble on Ghost’s chin, and the cleft of his top lip.
Ghost was frozen beneath him, preparing for some cruel remark to leave Soap at the sight of his lower face. At the scars there, and the marring of his pale skin.
But Soap let out a shaky breath from above him, his eyes softening at the sight of Ghost’s lips opening slightly beneath his touch.
Soap leaned down, one hand coming to finally, finally, rest upon Ghost’s cheek, feeling the warmth of him, feeling the soft skin there.
It was an out.
Ghost didn’t take it.
Their lips met cautiously in a hesitant press. Skin finally meeting skin in a soft, feather-light brush.
Tears welled in Ghost’s eyes, hoping Soap wouldn’t see, wouldn’t hear the quiet sob in the back of his throat as Soap finally moved to deepen the kiss.
He sighed against his lips, losing himself completely in Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.
Soap’s thumb pressed into Ghost’s cheekbone, providing a landline for Ghost to hold onto, every sense completely drowned by Johnny.
The feel of him: his wet lips against Ghost’s, kissing and pulling and pushing. His hand on Ghost’s face, stroking his face, thumb catching in the tears that were now streaming from his closed eyes. His other hand moving across Ghost’s body. Touching his chest, his arms, his neck, anywhere he could reach.
The smell of him: gun smoke and sweat, the familiar musk of him that had never been so all-consuming before, circling under his nose with the faint smell of his shampoo, something masculine.
It was all so much, the feeling, the wanting, and the needing of it all. The obscene sounds that began to pour from Soap’s mouth as he began working himself on Ghost’s thigh. The heat of him pressed against Ghost that made desperation bubble up from inside him.
The wanting to please Soap, to do anything to make those noises fall from him, feel the words mumbled into his skin. Feel them pressed against his lips.
I want you.
More, more.
The hand not cupping Ghost’s face moved down to his chest, fingers trailing over the material of his vest. They found one of the clasps, playing with it before unbuckling the trigger with a click.
Ghost’s body stiffened suddenly under Soap, itching at the contact, as nausea boiled up in his stomach at the action. A pressure pushed at his chest, tensing with a newfound anxiety.
Soap doesn’t want this, he can’t.
And Ghost felt foolish for entertaining his disillusioned fantasies, losing himself in the press of Soap’s lips against his own and the needy sounds that spilled from them.
Soap was taking him apart. Piece by piece. Weaving his way under Ghost’s tough exterior. Taking root in his chest, worming a home within him.
It was pathetic, all of it. From the moment he let his hands selfishly grasp onto Soap’s tactical vest, to the moment that he pressed his lips to Ghost’s in a tantalizing move, he was completely fucked.
He’d let himself indulge in Soap’s affection, let himself dive dangerously into the unknown, completely blind and unguarded.
And he laid there, Soap working the clasps of Ghost’s vest open, kissing his mouth with the fervor of a man possessed.
When Ghost’s grip on Soap’s thighs loosened, and he stopped chasing after the other man’s lips, Soap pulled away, lifting himself off of Ghost.
A trail of saliva followed Soap’s panting mouth, and the sight of his completely destroyed expression and dazed eyes nearly had Ghost leaning forward again to catch his lips.
But he stopped himself, pulling his hands off of Soap entirely, and forcing his eyes up into Soap’s own.
It was torturous, it was the hardest thing he’d ever done, removing himself from Soap entirely.
You don’t want this, Johnny.
You don’t want me.
Soap’s hands stilled on his chest as Ghost forced himself to sit up, Soap remaining seated on his lap.
Their faces were closer now, and Ghost could feel Soap’s breath against his spit-slick lips and cheeks still wet with tears.
Soap stared dumbly at Ghost, awaiting any sort of reaction from the man in front of him.
“That was a mistake.” Ghost managed to grunt, roughly pulling the balaclava over his mouth.
Soap scrambled off his lap, watching as Ghost stood up on shaky legs, bracing himself against the sofa.
Soap followed him up, putting distance between the two of them as Ghost wordlessly began to straighten his vest, fingers pulling the clasps back together.
“What?” Soap managed weakly.
His voice almost crumbled Ghost’s resolve. It was pathetic and watery, tugging at the guard that Ghost had pulled back over himself.
“You take the bed.” Ghost said, his voice not betraying anything.
“What?” Soap choked, reeling from the sudden change, “Ghost, talk to me.”
Ghost didn’t acknowledge him, instead busying himself with his vest.
A ticking noise comes from the kitchen. It’s jarring in the air, as if waiting for something…anything.
“You’re staring.” Ghost says plainly, finally meeting eyes with Soap.
“Yes, sir.”
His voice is quiet now.
“…zoned out.”
He offers as an explanation.
There is no response.
Ghost grunts as he collapses backwards onto the couch, letting fatigue take him. His eyes close, and an arm comes up to cover his face.
And Soap leaves the room.