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there is something fucking wrong with simon riley.
soap thinks that it should be obvious, even though he’s only ever met the guy twice since he joined the 141. he parades around in a skull mask. no one has ever seen his face. half his vocabulary appears to be grunts, and he deals in violence more than anyone he’s ever met— and for soap, that’s saying something.
but no, that’s not it.
he realises there’s something wrong with his lieutenant on the day they’re on a mission in the middle of serbia. the sky is dark with the threat of a storm, the fields empty. soap’s on overwatch, holed up on his stomach behind a sniper on the side of a mountain. ghost is down on the base, and is a weapon.
black gear, black clothes, even through the scope of his rifle, ghost is nothing but a white skull and the flash of blades. he watches one of their targets outright scream at the sight of him. ghost rips through him without a second thought, and there remains a smear of blood where he was.
he’s never seen ghost without the mask, but he has seen him up close after the kill— he can imagine him now, eyes dark and dilated with the fall of fresh blood. everyone in the SAS has got something wrong with them, but he is almost sure ghost is licking blood off his teeth behind the mask.
“jesus, lt,” he breathes through the mic, unable to help himself. “quit showin’ off.”
ghost’s busy with firing two bullets into the head of one target, and using him as a human body shield for the next. when they’re both downed, he looks up off the roof of the abandoned base he’s clearing, right at soap through the scope, and he swears he sees his eyes narrow.
“keep the comms clear, sergeant.”
he’s not particularly talkative, either.
but when it happens, it happens in a flash. he sees ghost ambushed, shoved back before he can fire, fall two stories, and through the mic, hears the distinct snap of at least three of his ribs as he crumples on the floor.
soap’s heart falls into his arse.
“shit—”
but then— but then, ghost shifts. stands. lifts his sidearm, fires six rounds, and the body is still falling off the roof as he takes hold of the fire escape ladder, and starts climbing back up.
soap thinks he’s going fucking crazy.
“what the fuck, lt.”
“what?” he grunts, and then all at once, he’s back on the roof and back in the firefight.
he hadn’t misheard the crack of bones. he knew it. in fact, from that height, and falling down the way he had, it was impossible he hadn’t broken something. but there’s the thing: he watches ghost tear through the last two targets, and it’s impossible to tell what he’s broken.
he’s fighting on broken bones. scratch that, he’s ending the fight on broken bones. he doesn’t even look hurt.
the last target falls, and ghost gives it a full thirty seconds before calling it out.
“all stations. targets neutralised. heading to the lv site now.”
and then, switching to his private comms—
“solid overwatch, sergeant. if we get going now, we’ll make it back to base in time for breakfast.”
soap picks his jaw up off the floor.
“that looked like a nasty fall, sir,” soap scrambles out, as he hurriedly packs up his rifle— ghost shrugs a little, makes a non-committal hum.
“wasn’t the fall that got him. bullets did their job first.”
soap blinks, confused for a moment, before it hits him.
ghost doesn’t even realise he’s talking about him.
it gets weirder in price’s office.
“downed the last target at about 0400,” ghost explains, “got to the lv site at 0445. all objectives secured.”
“that’s good,” price replies appreciatively, looking between them— soap, more distracted by the fact ghost hasn’t even mentioned that he needs to go to medbay, barely notices. “you two’ve worked well since you got here, soap. anything else?”
“negative,” ghost provides, and soap looks at him, even more confused. injuries in the line of duty go straight on the mission reports to ensure clear communication between medical teams and the officers who handle leave where it’s needed— ghost doesn’t catch his confusion, preoccupied with the snowglobe on price’s desk. it’s a novelty gift that gaz got him from milton keynes, of all places, and has what looks to be an office block surrounded by grey glitter. ghost pokes at it when he realises soap’s looking at him— price, following soap’s line of sight, sits with a lifted eyebrow.
“ghost?”
“hm?” ghost hums, looking up from his snowglobe.
“is there something you need to report?”
“no? i just said there was nothing.”
“uh— lt,” soap hints, nudges at him, leans a bit closer to let his voice lower. “you— fell?”
“what?” ghost replies, equally confused and somehow annoyed with it.
“remember? right at the end? you fell, and then you, uh— something crunched?”
“oh—,” ghost nods, stands up straight and looks back to price. “right. i fell.”
“fell off where?” price replies, and suddenly, seems to have lost all the professionalism in favour of looking at ghost like a dog that’s chewed up his slippers. soap blinks, bewildered by the tone shift.
“i dunno. the roof. two stories.”
price’s eyebrows contract.
“did you go to medical?”
of all things, ghost looks confused by the question.
“uh— no? i didn’t think i needed to?”
ghost is a scary fucker, but when price’s eye is twitching the way it is, soap doesn’t feel much safer.
“where,” price begins, voice dangerous, “did you land?”
ghost’s eyebrows furrow under the skull mask as he seems to genuinely consider it. soap watches him check his arms, legs, thighs, before he finally gets to his ribs, and pokes far too hard at where he landed. it is plainly obvious, even through the hoodie, that his bones shift too easily— experimentally, ghost takes a deep breath in, before his eyes widen, and he looks back at price.
“my ribs.”
“yeah,” price replies, eyebrows furrowed and eyes narrow. “your ribs. what on earth would you’ve done if soap hadn’t pointed it out?”
wouldn’t have noticed, apparently, soap thinks, in disebelief. ghost is now glaring daggers at him, so he swallows, looks back to price.
“you’re dismissed, sergeant,” price tells him, stands up and looks at ghost witheringly. “and you and i are going to the bloody medical wing, lieutenant.”
yeah, something’s really wrong with simon riley.
once he’s started noticing it, he can’t stop.
here’s the thing. ghost’s full of weird habits.
he wears a balaclava all the time, and soap’s pretty sure he wears it to sleep. he’s always in gloves, and always in a hoodie. when he gets bored, he cleans his knives and his guns, but soap’s also seen him sit behind the scope of a rifle for hours and hours and not so much as shift for his aching arms, so the idea of ghost getting bored is incredible to him.
he ends up asking gaz about it.
“no, no, tav, mate, you’ve got him all wrong—,” is gaz’s answer to the gloves thing, which soap had figured was the safest place to start, “he’s not got anything wrong with him the way you’re thinking, they just stop him from hurting his hands as easy.”
“not got anything wrong with him?” soap replies, bewildered— they’re in the rec room, and it’s half past six on a saturday, the evening light flooding in and antiques roadshow playing on the tv.
“well—,” gaz replies evenly, “not got anything wrong with him anymore than you have.”
“i’ve not got anything wrong with me!”
“yeah, so how’d you explain that haircut then?”
“i’m not—,” soap replies, kneading at his forehead with his fingertips instead of taking the teasing, “i’m just not gettin’ it. his hands get hurt? what, is his skin made of bleedin’ tissue paper?”
“and my bones are made of glass,” a voice comes from behind him.
soap didn’t even hear the fucker come in.
“so if you’re that bloody desperate to know what my hands look like, sergeant,” ghost continues, and he sounds incredibly unamused, slamming his empty mug of tea down in the sink and turning to him, brown eyes narrowed venomously, “you can just ask me, instead of harassing garrick.”
“he wasn’t harassing me,” gaz pipes up. “i like answering questions.”
“i wasn’t—,” soap splutters, as ghost turns, begins to go— “i didn’t—”
ghost pauses at the door, and looks over at him.
“don’t tell me the hand thing’s a fetish for you?” ghost asks, sounds genuinely disgusted.
“no!”
gaz laughs as ghost leaves, and soap is absolutely mortified.
“he’s taking the piss out of you, john, it’s okay.”
“that was him taking the piss?!” soap exclaims incredulously, turning to him— “how the fuck’m i supposed to know when he’s bein’ serious, then?!”
he keeps seeing it, once he starts.
ghost doesn’t flinch when he gets punched in the nose on an op. a target comes at him with a knife another time and ghost simply grabs the knife by the blade to rip it off of him— price notices when ghost is frustratedly wiping the blood away on his trousers when it starts bothering the grip on his gun. soap swears to god, on one mission, ghost finds a trafficker and nearly breaks his own hand with how hard he hits him— it’s insane, but funnily enough, he gets more stuck on the fact he’d put the victims in the other room, and sat with them until the team to evacuate hostages arrives. one little girl, far too young to be where she was, falls asleep on his thigh— ghost is stock still until someone comes to take her somewhere safer, and wipes dark curls out of her face where she had been chewing on them to put herself to sleep.
but the first time he notices it— really notices it, is in the rec room, at half past midnight, having had a nightmare.
rec room is a bit of an exaggeration. it’s a wide space with two sofas that smell like death, an office table and a desk, both stolen, upon which several tea and coffee supplies live, and a tiny tv which soap happens to know exactly where to kick to get it to work.
ghost is there, and rather typically, making himself tea.
what no one had ever told soap about nightmares— not bad dreams, but ptsd nightmares— was the sticky film that seemed to cling to his skin after the fact. the only thing he’d ever found it comparable to was what he imagined someone must feel if they were still alive as their skin began decomposing, like everything was falling apart at the edges.
so he walks in. ghost half turns, and soap freezes when he spots him, half expecting to be dressed down. instead, when soap says nothing, he just shrugs, returns to his tea. ghost puts all the ingredients except milk in the cup first, which is something he’d noticed while watching him for all those weird quirks— soap stands in the doorway and watches. teabag, two spoons of sugar, one spoon of honey. ghost spins the teaspoon over the jar to release the long golden tendril that hangs down, and rather than tipping the contents of the spoon into the mug, just puts the entire spoon in.
“alright?” he finally asks, stiff as usual, although it suddenly sounds more awkward than standoffish.
“fine,” soap replies, toneless. “you makin’ tea, lt?”
“you want some?”
“absolutely not,” soap replies, but he’s smiling slightly, and he knows ghost knows he’s smiling because he huffs softly, with what he thinks is amusement. he’s not got the hardshell on, just a balaclava and hoodie, and is missing his gloves— he hits the kettle, and soap sees pale fingers illuminated by the red led light.
“you’re up late.”
“what,” soap asks, and the weight on his chest shifts slightly as ghost meets his eye, “are you going to report me?”
“oh, i just might. price’ll want to be woken up for this.”
he baulks, before considering— maybe gaz was right, and ghost was taking the piss out of him. he doesn’t look like he’s taking the piss, tone as cold and lifeless as ever, but he tries humouring it, stepping closer.
“you could. price’ll be so preoccupied tryin’ to kill you for wakin’ me up, he’ll forget all about me.”
another soft huff. ghost is not talkative in the slightest, but he sort of gets it— he’s almost sure it’s as close as he’ll get to making him laugh, and ghost suddenly seems less intimidating like that.
“so?” he tries, trying to look at deep brown eyes for a hint of emotion— “why’re you still awake?”
ghost just looks at him for a long moment. it makes soap squirm, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t somewhat intimidating. he holds his ground.
“i wanted tea,” ghost replies, gruff. absolutely no room for any continuation of the topic, but soap’s quite frankly relieved he hasn’t changed his mind on sending him to his room.
the kettle clicks off, and ghost turns to tip water in his cup. soap, suddenly resenting the silence, licks his lips and speaks—
“actually, maybe i changed my mind on that— shit—”
because, while he’s talking, ghost’s managed to tip boiling water all over his hand.
he doesn’t even flinch. looks down to what soap’s looking at, and his eyebrows lift slightly.
soap swears, and immediately goes for his hand, pulling it away. ghost blinks, perplexed, and doesn’t even let go of the kettle until soap makes him put it down— he drags him over to the sink, all too aware of reddened, burning skin over the back of his hand, and he can practically feel the water boiling where he pulls him by the wrist—
“shit, lt, just—,” he gets on the cold water, forces his hand under it, “hold on, there’ll be burn cream in the first aid kit—”
“soap—”
“five minutes— it doesn’t look too deep,” he appraises, before turning to the cupboards to rummage through for the first aid kit, “but it looks like—”
“johnny.”
soap pauses, and turns.
the tap gets switched off.
“it doesn’t hurt,” ghost tells him, which is bullshit, seeing as he can see the red, shiny, burned skin— but his hand isn’t even shaking with pain, and like to prove it to him, ghost presses his fingers over the burn. soap splutters, nearly stops him, but ghost doesn’t even wince.
“it’s fine. it doesn’t hurt,” ghost says again.
soap thinks he’s genuinely going insane.
he knows, on missions, some mix of adrenaline and dissociation makes it difficult to keep stock of your body at all times. he also knows, just looking at the burn, that it hurts like a motherfucker.
ghost seems nearly confused by how horrified he is. to demonstrate it to him again, he presses his fingers in, drags his nails through raw, burned skin without flinching.
soap can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“hell’s fuckin’ bells, lt,” he mumbles, looking up at him. “what’s wrong with you?”
it is the wrong thing to say, and for all the wrong reasons.
ghost doesn’t even yell, or get angry— but blinks, and suddenly, he seems quite hurt. he goes quiet, and where his hands had been in front of him to demonstrate, he pauses, shoves them in his pockets and turns before taking them out to take the milk out of the fridge. in the bright fluorescent light of it, the burn looks even worse.
“just a high pain tolerance,” he replies finally, walks back over to the counter. he has to put the milk down before he reaches over to grab the kettle and to finish pouring the water— he takes his tea milky, the dark tea lightening with it.
mouth opening and closing, soap can’t even think of what to say.
“i have a high pain tolerance, ghost,” he replies, as ghost puts the milk away and picks up his mug— “that’s not— that’s not a high pain tolerance, it’s like— what, do you even feel pain?”
ghost pauses, mug in hand, where he’s moving to leave, and then seems to consider it.
“no,” he answers, simple, just like that. “not really.”
soap suddenly regrets his tone. before he can apologise, though, ghost is out of there— he doesn’t follow, and he’s left in the dark.
a high pain tolerance. once soap starts noticing, he can’t stop sating this burning curiosity that comes with ghost.
he doesn’t want to say ghost’s clumsy, because he’s not. on missions, he’s the most precise, clinical, lethal person he’s ever seen.
more specifically, it’s like he forgets what is and isn’t supposed to hurt.
in order to get into a safe, ghost jams his fingers around the lock and physically rips it off. for soap, this would probably dislocate a finger— he spots ghost popping them back in on the heli back, and makes him take off his gloves so he can do it for him.
“out of your goddamn mind, lt,” he commented, but ghost was looking at him in that long way again— soap was coming to learn it wasn’t necessarily a glare, although he truthfully wasn’t sure what else it could be.
another time, it’s far in the night and they’re on a recon mission. for once, ghost is humouring his inane questions— he’s got a mug of tea, scalding hot, in his hands, and is sitting behind the dustiest game of connect 4 soap’s ever seen, eyes twinkling as soap loses for the sixth time in a row.
“jesus, johnny,” ghost remarks, in disbelief, “you just letting me win because you feel bad?”
“bile yer heid, ye wee cheatin’ neep,” soap argues furiously, breath misting in the air and gloved fingers trembling in the cold. he holds his cup tighter, desperately trying to leech some of the warmth from it, and scowls darkly at ghost.
“english, mactavish,” ghost chides, though with no heat— he looks to be dealing with the cold absolutely fine, and even though his breath is misting and he should be freezing, he isn’t even shivering.
“i’m not translatin’ that one. you can figure it out.”
“neep?” ghost echoes, laughs and turns in his seat as soap stands. “what the fuck’s a neep, johnny?”
“aye, wouldn’t you like to know, sir,” he snarks, walks over to the bed and snatches up the blanket. he stalks back over, throwing it around ghost’s shoulders.
“best of seven. i’m just hittin’ a losin’ streak, ghost, but you’ll see.”
“what’s this?” he asks, perplexed, as soap sits heavily back down and bundles into his jacket— soap tips the game over to empty out the counters before he starts splitting them, yellow and faded red.
“it’s freezing, lt. you’ll catch your death.”
“i don’t get cold.”
“yeah, yeah,” soap waves him off, “don’t get cold, don’t feel pain, whatever. if you get sick on this mission and price finds out he’ll stick me in a shoebox and send me back to my ma. and i can’t do that to her.”
ghost still looks perplexed, but with his answer, looks amused— another long look, but all at once, it seems overwhelmingly soft.
“you’re ridiculous,” he laughs softly, and there’s a sound soap didn’t know he could make. he blinks, cheeks suddenly hot in the cold, and looks up— ghost is preoccupied with fixing their board and doesn’t notice.
“i’m pretty sure the last winner’s s’posed to make the first move,” ghost tells him, “but at this point, soap, i don’t think it’ll make a difference for you. go ahead.”
a different time, they’re kitting up for a mission. the kit room is dark and dim, with grey concrete walls and hooks on the walls. ghost strips off his hoodie for his tee and tac jacket in his periphery, and soap pretends he isn’t looking as closely as he is as he takes off his top.
ghost’s covered in scars, front and back— a big, gnarled one into his side, cigarette burns all up his back, a choking one ringing all the way around his neck where his mask rides up, and across his front, a massive incision scar.
“do those not bother you when it rains?” soap finds himself asking, before he can stop himself. ghost, not quite self conscious but obviously not comfortable being observed, shucks on his t-shirt before he answers.
“why would they?”
“the scar around my knee gets sore as all fuck when it rains,” soap explains. ghost blinks at him, tilts his head like he’s made a joke, and when the punchline doesn’t come, frowns.
“what— really?” he asks, like soap’s taking the piss out of him.
“you’ve never had any pain off your scars?” soap replies, equally surprised.
“they didn’t hurt when i got ‘em, why the fuck would they hurt now?” ghost asks, bewildered. soap thinks back to the scar on his front, a deep and painful incision scar, y-shaped like an autopsy, but whatever question he is about to ask chokes in his throat, and the next moment, gaz and price troop in and the moment is broken. sometimes, he thinks ghost must be teasing him about it all— but he looked a bit too serious, and soap finds himself running his own knuckles up and down his sternum, the same spot as the scar.
and soap wouldn’t go as far as to describe his lieutenant as cute, either. that’s a word reserved for puppies, kittens, and the occasional baby. but, he does notice that ghost has a ridiculously endearing habit of what he suspects is overcorrecting— he drinks water more regularly than anyone else he’s seen, shows up for meals like clockwork, does those little checks often. arms, legs, thighs, ribs, fingers, and it’s at that point he usually gets sidetracked with something else— soap watches him get distracted by a thread on his hoodie one time, and pick at it for the next half hour instead of doing paperwork, and then have to do the rest of his paperwork twice as fast, grumpy and miserable with it. when he doesn’t think anyone is looking, he blows on boiling tea, and still drinks it too fast, never flinching at the way it steams angrily. price catches him one time, complains like a mother with his hands on his hips that he’s going to burn the inside of his mouth, and it gives soap a convenient excuse to start making ghost’s tea for him. teabag, two sugars, one spoon of honey, spin the spoon so it doesn’t get everywhere and put the entire thing in the cup for the water. ghost starts making him his coffee, and endearingly, seems to be far more conscious of the temperature than for his own tea— not that he’d ever say it out loud, but soap watches him glare at the steam tendrils, waiting them out like a sniper.
it fits in, the more he sees it. ghost drives dangerously, because short of dying, he doesn’t seem to have internalised the fact that soap gets very sore when he’s bumped around the car for an hour. he does risky, dangerous things because if he can’t feel the consequences, why bother? and then, every time soap thinks he’s got the guy figured out, ghost does something that throws him.
it’s not like soap thinks he’s some superhuman, or something. but then he’ll comfort a hostage, pick up a spider off the wall of the rec room and cart it outside before gaz can kill it, throws a jacket over price’s shoulders when he falls asleep at his desk, and it makes something very different to curiosity burn in soap’s chest. he doesn’t quite know the word for it. it makes him curious, in the same sort of way as ghost’s apparent indifference to pain does, but somehow, it’s different, still— he almost wants to see ghost in those precious few moments where he stops being an operative and starts being a man. soap likes ghost, but he likes him when he’s simon, too.
and then sometimes— sometimes, the high pain tolerance stops being an interesting character quirk, and suddenly seems fucking dangerous.
private darlington is nineteen years old, a baby in comparison to the rest of them, and it’s plainly fucking obvious the brass have decided to see if his skills are valuable enough to let him live. they do this to most recruits who show talent, throw them into death defying situations— those who live end up where soap is, and those who die are sent back to their families wrapped in a union flag. soap knows the brass either considers them an asset or a drain on resources, and they’ve thrown darlington into the thick of it to see which is which.
but— they’ve not factored one thing in.
“we’ve got suppression fire—,” soap barks at him down the comms and in the low buildings they’re using for cover, “soon as we start firing make a break for it, lt!”
“don’t have to tell me twice,” ghost rumbles, incredibly calm for being in the middle of the firefight. the privates soap’s been left in command with look apprehensive, afraid as gunfire roars above their heads; he claps the nearest one on the shoulder, shoots him a reassuring smile.
“they’re goin’ to be fine, larson. ghost’s got a soft spot for him, he’s goin’ to get him home safe.”
“respectfully, sir,” larson replies, peering up through sandy hair at him, “the last thing ghost said to darlington was that he’d personally pay for glasses and hearing aids for the proctor who passed him in selection, because he had to be blind and deaf to let darlington in.”
“aye, i know, but from ghost, that’s practically an i-love-you. eyes up,” he orders the rest of them, switching on his comms, “in the next interval of gunfire you’re providing suppression fire! ready—”
the interval comes— a second of silence, and it’s immediately filled by the explosive sounds of nine privates unloading their rifles at the firing line. six seconds later, ghost bursts into the building, darlington over his shoulder— he’s unconscious, covered in blood, but alive, and ghost drops him before hurriedly starting the field medic routine. darlington’s hair is matted with blood, helmet gone, and ghost should be exhausted— he barely shoots him a spare look, though, as he tightens the bandages and barks at the rest of them to get into order.
“soap to price,” soap begins, over the comms, “how copy?”
“solid copy, soap, send traffic.”
“bravo team’s all accounted for.”
“ghost got him?” gaz, on their comms, asks— soap hums the affirmation, awaiting command.
“get your team and fall back to the lv site,” price orders, and soap makes the motion for them to hold their fire. “we’ve got emergency evac.”
darlington takes up the space for two men, which means the heli suited for eighteen men definitely can’t hold all 24 of them— ghost carries him all the way to the heli, trekking through a wet forest, drops him off with his teammates with stern orders that they never leave a man behind, and stands back with the three of them to watch it lift up and away.
they’ve found a safehouse, and the 141 can wait out the twelve hours for the next heli to avoid overloading it. it’s a long trek there, and soap’s muscles are screaming as they trek through endless forest. he can’t imagine how ghost, who carried darlington from six miles behind enemy lines, sprinting for half of it, feels.
funnily enough, though, ghost looks fine.
or— or he seems fine, until, with less than a hundred metres to go before the safehouse, ghost wobbles on his feet dangerously. soap, walking behind him, notices first.
“lt?”
“what?”
“you okay?”
“tripped over a branch,” ghost replies, tersely, half a glance over his shoulder. “focus, soap.”
but then it happens again— and again. when they get to the safehouse, it takes obvious self control for ghost to clear the place and not just flop on the couch.
“we should take shifts sleeping,” soap suggests, when they get the all clear. “only one of us needs to be up, i can go first?”
“you’re alright, soap,” ghost waves him off where he’s sat heavily in a chair, which is the opposite of what he wanted, “you sleep.”
with what looks like a monumental effort, ghost picks himself up— and promptly stumbles, and barely catches himself on the table. price and gaz turn.
“ghost,” gaz is there first, pushes him to sit back down, “you alright?”
“fine,” ghost grits out, and it’s obvious he hates being coddled, but price forces his head up and snatches up the torch on his vest to shine it in his eyes, “i’m fine. tired. overdid it.”
“overdid it?” price echoes, and it’s not quite anger that colours his voice, but something deeper— “jesus, ghost, how many times’ve we talked about this?!”
gaz and soap give each other a little look, all too aware of how much this conversation feels like intruding. ghost only flares, glaring angrily up at him—
“darlington needed help. he would have died otherwise.”
“you could have died!”
“but i didn’t, did i?”
“stop treating yourself like you’re fucking expendable!”
“i am expendable,” ghost snarls, venomous. “i wasn’t going to darlington die for nothing.”
price looks like he is genuinely going to throttle ghost. his eyes are twitching, jaw working furiously.
“you two,” he growls, glaring over his shoulder at soap. “out of here.”
the shouting follows them outside. it’s late autumn, so all the trees of the forest have fallen, and everywhere soap looks, the world is a bright, warning orange.
“price gets really pissed whenever ghost does that,” gaz provides, as they step outside. gaz doesn’t smoke, but he does have a lighter he loves to mess with— it’s an old zippo, and he flicks it open and closed, open and closed, open and closed. “acts like he can’t die.”
“that was insane today,” soap acquiesces, leaning against the wall and listening to them yell at each other. “i don’t even know how many miles he did at a run with dead weight on his shoulders. and darlington’s not small, either. i don’t know how he does it— dunno why, either,” he adds, jerking his head back inside. gaz’s lighter catches the light again and again— open, closed, open, closed.
“i don’t think he realises he’s doing it,” gaz replies truthfully. “i mean— you’ve seen the scars, haven’t you?”
soap doesn’t like to admit how closely he looks at him whenever he gets the opportunity, so instead, he gives a non-committal hum.
“how badly do you have to be hurt to not notice when you’ve run so far your legs are giving out?” gaz asks, half incredulous and half exasperated, glancing back at the door.
“he’s got a high pain tolerance,” soap shrugs, same as he’s been told.
“yeah,” gaz agrees, “he does. but pain’s there to tell you when you need to stop. price has a point,” he insists, and soap looks back to the orange leaves, “he physically has no idea where to stop.”
and there’s a fucking thought. soap thinks, at some level, it must be a bit of a novelty to have such a high pain tolerance, but it occurs to him, in the practical world, it must be more inconvenient than anything— not knowing how hot something is until you see your skin burned off it, not feeling the ache in your muscles until they give way, or the ache in your bones until they snap. soap remembers, when he was a kid, he fell off his bike and got sick all in the same week— he remembers the warm press of his ma’s lips over each plaster, the cool sensation of her hand over his forehead as he lay in bed, comforting all the pain away.
no pain means no soothing. it means he watches ghost get hurt, breaking himself for a mission because it felt the same regardless, means there’s no comfort in going to medical, only longer to stay awake as they poke and prod, means that he sets a higher and higher standard for himself each time— because if he can walk off spent muscles, he can deal with broken ribs, and if he can deal with broken ribs, shattered bones won’t make any difference, either. and if hunger doesn’t ache, they could cut the corners and just give him enough food that he wouldn’t keel over dead— he remembers ghost’s insistent way of drinking water, and wonders what it’s like to not be able to feel the way his lips were cracking with dehydration until blood was rolling down his chin.
darlington makes a full recovery— back soon enough for ghost to keep barking orders at him like nothing had happened. he’s a kid, really, and the brass were willing to let him die to see if he would steel himself or if he’d snap under the pressure— it makes him think of the way ghost called himself expendable without a trace of irony, and that makes him feel worse. if ghost can keep going, run over his limits and then some, to the brass, he’s an asset, and that’s it.
he knows ghost doesn’t have any family, no one who writes him from home— ghost’s superior’s can apply as much pressure as they want, and ghost won’t break— or, more correctly, he won’t know he’s about to break until he’s irreparably shattered on the floor. not that anyone seems to care.
and funnily enough, he’s aware of all of this— but he isn’t thinking about it when it happens.
they’re stationed on another base on the other side of the world, where instead of autumn, it’s a bitter spring. not that soap can tell, of course, because they have them in rooms of two with one window that is dark and frosted over in the night. price and gaz are next door, and they each have a single bed in the room, side by side.
soap is up, and the only light in the room is from his desk. ghost lets him stay up, doesn’t care so long as he uses his desk lamp, and he busies himself sketching the deep orange forest in his journal— he doesn’t have anything to colour it with, so he focuses on the depth of it, tries to make it as deep and unending as he remembers. ghost has fallen asleep facing him, and in his sleep, he’s taken the mask off— he obviously doesn’t care if soap looks, but soap’s got his back turned all the same, respecting his privacy. there is no sound aside from the scratch of graphite and ghost’s long breaths, where he’s fallen asleep hours before. even though soap knows if he presses his hand to the glass of the window, it will feel freezing, inside is pleasantly warm, and ghost has a blanket wrapped around him all the same, lying on his side to face him.
he’s shading the darker parts of the forest, when he hears it.
the tiniest hitch of breath. once, and then again, in rapid succession.
his pencil pauses over the paper.
“ghost?”
he doesn’t turn, even when his entire body seems to burn to. there’s several beats of silence, interspersed by soft, broken breathing, and then, in a voice so small soap didn’t know ghost could make it—
“i’m sorry.”
“hey,” soap replies immediately, doesn’t hesitate, snaps his journal shut and crosses the room in a second, kneeling by his bed— “hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay. nothin’ to be sorry for.”
ghost’s eyes are squeezing shut, and he has his hands over his ears like a kid, enough that his elbow hides the bottom half of his face. like the rest of him, his face is moon-pale and littered with scars, big and small— more than that, though, soap can see freckles like constellations and a flush to his cheeks that’s only marred by the way what little of his face is visible is twisted in pain. his hair is short and a light brunette, cropped on the sides and visibly having grown out, a bit— without even having to think about it, he wipes a thumb across his face and buries his hand in the hair at the side of his head, smoothing it back over and over.
“i’m sorry,” simon’s whispering— and this isn’t ghost, this is simon, small and hurting— “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i really am—”
“i know,” soap soothes, running his hands through his hair again, “but you haven’t done anything wrong— you’re okay, simon, sh, sh. you’re alright, now.”
gently, he presses his thumb in the furrow of his eyebrows and kneads the frowning skin there, and then he brushes all his hair back off his forehead— simon barely relaxes, so he does it again and again, murmuring reassurances and praise all the while.
“there’s a lad,” he chuckles softly, as ghost finally stops covering his ears like there’s someone screaming into them— “nothin’ to be scared of, i’m right here. i’m right here.”
ghost outright sighs at that, relieved, and it hits him, that as high as his pain tolerance is, he must still get scared. it’s a thought that makes his chest feel soft as much as it aches— as invincible as ghost likes to act, he’s just as much of a man under the mask as any of them.
and a pretty one too, he thinks quietly, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone as the tears slow, and begin to stop.
and then, all at once, ghost’s eyes fly open.
he doesn’t flinch, but soap feels his entire body tense under him when they do— they are a deep, dark brown in the dim light, enough that soap could lose himself in. by instinct, soap runs his hand through his hair again, smoothing it back.
“what—,” he begins, and his voice is wrecked, eyes wide and wet, “what— what’re you doing?”
“you had a nightmare, lt,” soap explains, voice low and soft. “you’re okay.”
“i know that. i know— i know that, but what are you doing? what’s this?”
he sounds— confused, if soap was honest, but a mix of adrenaline and panic made it sound more ragged, frantic. he pauses, but doesn’t lift his hand.
“do you want me to stop?”
because really, it did relax him. when he was a kid and had a bad dream, it was how his dad used to wake him, ruffling his hair affectionately, and it was something his teammates used to do to wake him up, mess with his hair when he was asleep like the dead on exfil or between missions. he knows ghost isn’t a touchy person, he knows that, but he also knows the military just has a way of making soldiers starve after it.
ghost blinks at him, and without the mask, it’s a surprisingly demure look. his elbow is still hiding the bottom half of his face, pressed into the mattress, and his hand has come to rest over the back of his neck, defensive over the scar that circles his throat all the way around.
“i don’t need this—,” is what ghost replies instead. when soap must look confused, he swallows, continues— “i don’t— there’s— there’s something wrong— with, with me,” he manages, and the nightmare is still scrambling his words, so soap runs his thumb in an arc above his ear.
“i don’t understand.”
“i’m not— i don’t hurt, soap,” ghost confesses, like a secret, something dirty. he looks up at his expression, and he doesn’t know what ghost’s eyes are raking for. “there’s something wrong with me, i don’t hurt.”
there is something deeply disconcerting about hearing ghost talk about himself like that. he doesn’t know when he himself stopped thinking like that, but he knows it’s true— ghost’s different, but there isn’t anything wrong with him, not justifying of the derision with which he talks about himself.
“there’s nothing wrong with you,” soap replies, tilts his head to look at him better. the way he’s kneeling, their faces are inches apart— it hits him that ghost fell asleep watching him at his desk. “i know you don’t hurt, i know that.”
“so,” ghost says, and he hasn’t moved an inch, like despite himself he’s scared to make soap recoil and let go— “so, i don’t need this. i don’t— you don’t have to do this.”
and— oh.
comfort is for people who hurt— and ghost, of course, doesn’t hurt. it’s not something he gets, because it’s not something he needs.
several things about ghost’s life, the way he treats himself, the way he acts, suddenly slot into place.
“oh, simon,” soap breathes, and ghost’s eyes widen, more so when he brushes a tear away from his face. “you’ve got nothing to be scared of, i’m right here. i’m not going anywhere, i’ve got you.”
“wh— johnny—”
“i know,” he says again, and carefully, checking his expression with each step, he shifts ghost to one side so he can slot in besides him on the single bed, sit up where ghost is lying down and ignore the wheeze of the bed frame— “i know, and if you want me to stop, i will, but i promise you, if you want me, you’ve got me.”
he doesn’t know when the curiosity about ghost morphed into this burning feeling he gets about simon, that scorches up the inside of his chest like an ache. what he does know, is that when he puts a pillow in his lap and pulls ghost’s head into it, he looks up at him with an absolutely stunned look, that’s surprisingly cute. he moves his elbow off his face, and finds that ghost has a long scar that runs from his chin vertically up. it’s ridiculously charming, catches his lips on the way up, and he knows by the way ghost shivers when he runs his thumb across it like it’s still tender that no one had ever soothed it when it was fresh. it makes him think of his ma kissing every single bandage, and that thought makes him ache, so he runs another hand through his hair, murmurs how good ghost is being for him— and then, ghost’s eyes well with tears all over again.
without the mask, he looks younger, smaller— it hits him, like that, that if he’s twenty six, simon is only a few years older than him, practically his age.
“oh— come on, c’mre,” he murmurs softly, because he can’t bear the idea that ghost is mortified right now, shifts further down and lifts ghost up so his face is buried in his neck— “you’re alright, now, you’re okay. i’ve got you.”
ghost’s breathing hitches sharply, so soap rakes a hand over his back, and tucks them further into the blanket, because it really shouldn’t matter if ghost doesn’t feel the heat or the cold, he deserves it either way. when he accidentally brushes his hand over the back of his neck, ghost shudders— he knows he doesn’t feel phantom pain off of them, but it had to have been scary, to be hurt so badly over and over and over, and so he keeps one hand in his hair and brushes the other in circles over his back.
“you’ve been so good,” soap soothes, right by his ear, “been strong for long enough, aye? let it out, you’re okay. i’ve got you now.”
ghost gets his arms around him, and it’s not quite with the precise measure of his movements as he uses on a mission, it’s hurried, like if he second guesses himself for a second, he’ll talk himself out of it.
so they lie together, half sitting up, and soap keeps going until ghost’s breaths even out and he falls lax in his arms. he’s surprisingly heavy, and of all things, that makes soap tired— what feels like hours later, he blinks lazily, and moves to shift the weight of ghost’s head onto his chest. ghost is heavy, breathing slow.
“you never told me what a neep was,” ghost murmurs sleepily, and it’s half with relief and half with disappointment that soap realises simon’s been tucked away, replaced with the gravel of ghost. he wipes again at his face, and even though there’s no more tears, he lets him.
“a turnip,” soap admits, laughing softly. “not got the heart to insult you properly.”
“yeah?” ghost asks, laughing slightly himself— he yanks soap down, so they’re both lying down on the bed, and shifts slightly so that there’s a little more space between them. “pretty sure i know about a joke about a turnip.”
“oh, god, ghost— please, no.”
“what nationality are turnips?”
“don’t know, don’t care—”
“swede-ish,” ghost grins, lopsided and sharp. soap looks over to him, nearly in disbelief, and ghost manages to even look proud of himself.
“genuinely, lt,” soap replies, looking down at him, “i think it’s incredible that every time i think you’ve sunk to your lowest, you sink lower.”
ghost snorts, but doesn’t say anything— looks at him with that long look again, that he had thought for so long was a glare.
without the mask, it looks surprisingly soft, though. there’s a heat behind it, and it isn’t anger. relieved at the dim light, soap pretends he can’t feel his face burning and looks away.
“quite the opposite,” he finds himself saying, and looks back at him to watch ghost’s eyebrows lift, “huh?”
“go to sleep, johnny,” ghost grumbles in response, pulls the sheets higher. soap makes a face, pretends to argue, but acquiesces— they fall asleep pressed together in a single bed, and soap keeps one hand pressed against his chest, right over the y-shaped scar, keeping it safe like a secret.