Chapter Text
Soap is panting, ignoring the sweat dripping into his eyes while he runs, mouth agape slightly to take in as much breath as possible. Gripped tightly in his bare hands is his rifle, raised in a firing position while his head is angled slightly to put his eye in line with the crosshair sight. His black tactical boots thump loudly on the smooth concrete of the barely illuminated alley as he sprints, but he suddenly changes direction and deftly ducks into an alcove and crouches, now holding the rifle upright beside his head.
He harshly drags his right sleeve across his eyes to clear the sweat from them as he simultaneously tries to get a hold of his breathing. Soap forces his mouth to close so that he must draw in his breaths through his nose, swallowing hard on nothing as his mouth has long since dried up.
The alleyway is quiet for the moment, so he rises and takes a careful step back out once his lungs stop burning so badly, easily sweeping both directions to confirm that all is clear for the moment. He slightly nods to himself in confirmation before taking off at a slight trot in his original direction.
The attack comes suddenly from above. He is blasted backward off his feet as the heat and shockwave slam into his body from an explosion just a few meters away. His unprotected head slams against the grey ground with a sharp crack, which causes blindness both from the stars and the pain, as the wind is forced out of his already straining lungs. Soap gasps for air as he slowly arches away from the pain, desperately trying to get his lungs to open back up and accept the air that his mouth is trying to gulp down into them.
The soldier struggles to roll onto his left side, right hand still clutching his rifle in a grip so tight a dead man would be jealous of it, trying to get his feet underneath his body again. His nails grind against the ground as his strong muscles pull his frame up onto his knees, a few nail beds begin to bleed as the nails themselves crack and split.
He whirls in the direction of the blast, now having both hands on his raised gun, prepared to drop the attacker that he suddenly finds he cannot see as his eyes finally open again. The bright stars still blot out his vision, causing a nauseating, swirling effect. He wavers slightly, repeatedly clenching and unclenching his eyes as if to clear them.
It takes agonizing long moments before the lights fade out and the vision of the fires around him comes back into view, although still slightly blurred. Unfortunately, that is precisely when the next blow comes. It comes in the form of a rifle stock being slammed squarely on his nose, shattering it while sending him reeling once again with all-new, but not unfamiliar, agony.
Soap clenches at his nose, feeling the warm blood gushing through his fingers as his whole face is alive with hot sparks of pain shooting deeply back into his brain. He almost wonders if this was the break that finally broke its way into his brain case, but going by the fact that he was alive enough to have these thoughts in the first place, he dismissed the hope.
A grossly proud laugh erupts from where he was just kneeling moments before, the attacker gloating and basking in their success. The laugh promises much more pain to come as hands seize Soap, wrenching away his rifle as they roughly haul him to his knees with arms twisted up so sharply behind his back that they feel as though they may dislocate under the pressure.
He tries to open his eyes, but just as he manages to look up, the rifle comes down on his face again, this time connecting with the left side to shatter his cheekbone. Soap groans in pain, but bites down hard on his tongue to keep from crying out. The strong pairs of hands and arms keep him upright despite the way his body sags, nicely in place for the unknown attacker to continue their beating of him.
Continue they do, striking him again and again in the face and head until he is just barely conscious and completely limp, though still held in place against gravity's will. He is now covered in blood flowing from deep gashes from the weapon stock, his vision nearly fully sunken into black bliss, but not quite yet. Soap wishes the unconsciousness would wash over him already as it has done so many countless times before in his rough life, but knows it’s not always so simple.
Blood pours from his mouth, and many teeth are now broken or missing entirely. He weakly spits a few out, vaguely hoping a tooth or some blood may get onto his attacker's shoes. Not that his eyes are working well enough at the moment to see the results. It was the thought that counts.
Soap can hear the shattering of his bones moments before he feels it, one of the attackers had stomped down hard with a heavy boot onto his right ankle that was sticking out just beside his thigh as he was held there kneeling. He screams with this fresh and intense wave of agony, more of a wet pop as blood sprays from his destroyed mouth. He can feel his foot is now twisted around in the wrong direction.
Suddenly, he feels his body lurch and begin to fall, the hands that unmercifully held him, as well as the ground, were suddenly gone and he was in blackness.
“Johnny.” A voice gently says.
Soap gasps loudly and falteringly as he lurches upright onto a knee on his cot, hand clenching his pistol in a grip so natural he doesn’t even register the firearm in his thoughts. Not that his thoughts were on anything other than /escape/ and /pain/. His heart pounds in his throat, choking him and preventing the wind from getting in.
Slowly, his mind finally begins to take in its surroundings while he kneels there, soaked in sweat and shaking rather uncontrollably. He is in a green military tent, “safe” for the time being, and feels a single pair of eyes on him.
“Johnny, you’re alright, mate.” The deep, calm voice comes again. The owner of the eyes, Ghost, is kneeling beside Soap’s cot, one hand extended out and almost on the sergeant's knee but is still hovering.
Soap clenches his eyes closed, willing his breathing and heart both to return to normal functions, slowly getting forced control back of his burning lungs. His heart is still slamming away in his chest as he pries his own grip off of the handgun and slowly lowers it onto the bed with trembling hands. He leaves the piece there in favor of wiping sweat from his face with the crook of his arm which is propped on his left knee, simultaneously hiding his pained face from view if only for a few moments.
Ghost watches him, not saying anything. He is simply there if or when he is needed. He knows nightmares.
Soap tries to swallow a shaking breath, but his mouth has turned to cotton. He coughs on the unpleasant taste and sensation, finally lifting his head from his arm but doesn’t quite look at Ghost again yet.
“‘M alright…” He all but croaks out, receiving a slight but understanding nod from the lieutenant. Ghost remains silent and rooted in place, letting Soap take what time he needs.
Soap’s eyes occasionally flick over to Ghost’s, trying to get a read on the other man’s thoughts. It was a rare occasion in which Ghost was without his balaclava to conceal his dark, serious, features. Being as it was the middle of the night and they were both inside their shared tent in the middle of base camp, it made sense he’d finally taken the damn thing off. He did sleep in it most nights though.
It takes feeling the warmth of Ghost’s hand now resting against his knee that finally prompts him to speak again. “I’m solid. Just nightmares.”
“I know.” Was the simple reply. Soap returns the plain, watching stare of Ghosts, wondering what to say or do. He knows that Ghost also has issues sleeping and many other symptoms of PTSD, so he knows he isn’t being judged.
Slowly, Soap's attention is brought back to the fact that the man’s hand is still resting on his knee. It's a comforting weight but he stubbornly remains silent, not knowing what Ghost wants, and instead locks his eyes on his pistol as it currently sits on the thin cot blanket that is bunched up before him.
Ghost eventually lightly pats Soap’s knee before he removes his hand and stands, brown eyes still gently watching and reading every seemingly indiscernible sign on the sergeant’s body.
“You need anything, you need only ask, Johnny.” Some of the tension melts away from Soap’s body upon hearing the deep and melodious voice say as much but simply nods, not having a response ready just yet.
The lieutenant returns to his own cot, sitting on the edge rather than laying down for sleep, and pulls out a thick file of the day's intel. It was his own work that he was merely returning to now that Soap was back among the waking world and no longer being beaten. Ghost has roomed with Soap many times now over that last year or so and knows the younger man well. He twitches and groans most nights, but the more intensely felt nightmares could wake his own dead. The screaming, full flight or fight mode, the /terror/. Ghost always prefers to wake him from those, this was no exception.
Soap watches him for a little bit while his heart rate slowly comes down to a more normal rate before stashing the pistol, still resting at his knee, back to its place under his pillow. He rubs his screaming shoulders and neck, squeezing hard in an attempt to work out some of the stress and deeply formed knots, but to no avail. He unfolds his leg out from under himself, wincing at the resurfaced pain in his ankle, and stands up onto the plastic tarp that makes up the floor in bare feet.
If it weren’t for the hot air of the desert, he would be very cold, all covered in sweat as he was.
“Thank ye, Ghost…” He says, rather lamely but doesn’t know what else to say. He quickly grabs a change of boxers, jogging shorts, and a shirt. He slips on sneakers before excusing himself from their tent. He bee-lines for the showering stalls, weaving between numerous tents. Once there, he swiftly strips and steps into the pleasant stream.
He stands very still under the water, deep in thought and trying to relax, but that word is practically a joke in his life by now. The water steams lightly as it impacts and sprays off his tight shoulders and mostly shaven head. He is oblivious to it, lost in his mind.
This night's terror came in a fairly mild form from what a lot of nights could consist of, but the pain was so real and nothing had seemed out of place to him. It's the most real ones that tend to hit the hardest. Dreams where he was a long-term captive or being slowly blown to tiny pieces usually have a few tells that let his brain at least somewhat recognize that it was dreaming. He would still wake in a cold sweat and have a pounding heart rate, but not usually the full physical response as well.
Only the stinging cold of the shower, officially out of hot water, brings him back to the present, finding that his vitals are elevated again. After a slow, deep breath, he flicks the faucet off with a sharp twist of his wrist and steps out of the little stall and into the open-air bathroom space.
Within a few strides, he stands at the sink basin beside which his thin towel and a few articles of clothing were waiting for him. He plucks up and shakes out his towel, checking for scorpions, before draping it over his head and scrubbing his strip of hair dry in a few vicious yanks of his hands. Soap drags the now wet and warm towel down over his face and just presses it into his sore eyes for a bit, still steadying his breathing.
Eventually, he gets the rest of himself dried off and pulls on his clothes and shoes. He tosses his wet towel over his shoulder and clutches his clammy cold pajamas, which consist of a different pair of identical shorts, boxers, and plain white tee, in his hand. It was the base's only casual clothes, after all. He absently kicks at rocks on his way back to their shared tent, trying to not let his mind wander again.
Ghost is still sitting up, pouring over the paperwork when Soap returns, even though he notices that he’d been gone for nearly an hour, as he checks his watch upon entering. Soap pauses in the doorway, looking at Ghosts’ exposed face, a sight he has seen only a handful of times before. The man has a slightly longer or narrower face than you may expect from the dense tank of a body he has, which looks extra large due to always wearing tactical gear and armor. He now sits in more comfortable clothes, but not standard base-issue stuff. It’s all black, cargo pants and a long-sleeved henley for a shirt. His large pile of body armor was just beside his feet, ready to put on at the first hint of danger, as it always was on the rare occasion it came off. His black hair is short and is currently messy, not slicked down with sweat from a day of hard labor under his balaclava, Soap notices. Freshly showered then.
Ghost looks up at him, brown eyes searching his green ones for a bit until Soap shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.
“How copy?”
Soap blinks, but doesn’t take any longer than that to respond. “Solid, sir.”
Ghost nods and then motions for the man to come sit beside him. Soap complies, not completely taken by surprise. They’ve sat up on long, sleepless nights numerous times before, either in comfortable silence or with mild, quiet, banter depending on their moods. Working easily fills time and occupies both their minds alike.
He takes the proffered stack of papers without a word and looks over them quickly. It is planning for the next day’s training projects with the new recruits as there was still room for editing and new ideas to keep things fresh, if only for themselves. Soap accepts a pen being handed to him, then begins to mark and add comments where he feels necessary as Ghost returns his attention to his own papers.
They go on this way for nearly an hour more before Soap runs through all of the papers he had been handed and checks his watch again. 0400. Today’s training starts later on than the usual 0500 and was instead at 0600 due to it being Saturday. The uppers felt it would be generous to give the greenies an extra hour to sleep in on Saturdays. They’d never have allowed such leniency when Soap was one himself, but hey, better late than never.
He absently rubs his tired eyes with one hand and heaves a big sigh as he stretches his arms far over his head. Ghost takes the papers from Soap's lap and thumbs through them quickly, eyes taking in information at such a rapid pace that Soap often wonders how the hell it was even possible.
It was Soap’s turn to absentmindedly watch Ghost as he reviews, but he was done in under ninety seconds. His eyes meet Soap’s and neither looked away for a time, just looking in comfortable silence.
“You know, I agree with you.” Soap finally breaks the silence with a few quiet words. Ghost slightly cocks his head in question. “In Las Almas, when I asked you if you were ugly and you said “quite the opposite”.” Soap imitates Ghost’s voice from that day, the day they were betrayed by Shepard and Graves in Mexico. Soap swears he can see a tiny tug at the corner of Ghost’s mouth of an amused smirk or smile as the latter nods an acknowledgment to his statement.
“Don’t let it go to your head, you ain’t that pretty.” Soap jabs, if nothing less than to try to move the topic past him complimenting Ghost. He was sleep deprived and not thinking clearly enough to censor himself. The comment brings an actual small smile to Ghost’s lips.
“The same could be said about yourself, Johnny.” The words were soft, no malice was behind them, merely returning the jest.
Surprising himself, Soap feels a slight warmth touch his cheeks as they flush faintly. With the warm-hued lamp light of the tent, Soap was hoping it couldn't be seen at all. If Ghost could see it, he didn't mention it.
“Let’s get some rest, sergeant, while we still can.” Ghost says as he tucks the stack of papers back into their folders and then securely into his briefcase, which was more of a tactical bag than a classic business briefcase. Soap involuntarily yawns at the suggestion, but he stretches again and shakes his head.
“Nah, ‘m not tired.” Ghost gives him a knowing, sideways glance before laying himself down on his cot but to the side against the tent wall with just enough room for Soap to fit if he also laid on his side. Ghost motions for him to lie down. Soap watches, brows knitting slightly in thought, wondering about Ghost’s intentions and not wanting to overstep even while not knowing his own feelings on bed sharing with the man.
Soap has known for a while now that he likes Ghost in a different manner than a sergeant should about their lieutenant, but he’s never bothered to give them any thought as Ghost isn’t exactly open to human connections. But ever since they were initially betrayed in Las Almas, Soap has known something was awakened inside himself. He had yet to discover if Ghost has similar feelings or if, rather, this was a platonic, touch-starved request.
Whatever way Ghost means the invitation, Soap decides he doesn’t care to figure it out right now, all he wants to do is lay against Ghost to see if he really was as warm, and honestly solid, as he looked. Ghost's arm lays straight out from his shoulder, so Soap also has a pillow to rest his head on once he finally commits to the act of laying with his superior. The man is indeed very warm and very firm.
The warmth in his cheeks grows as he doesn't quite know what to do with his arms, and so he opts to curl them up between their chests but resting them against Ghost. To avoid potentially making eye contact Soap instead looks at Ghost's throat once he's settled himself, seeing the fine lines of old scars amongst the newer and angrier ones. He knows Ghost has been through hell countless times, fighting his way out through sheer grit alone, and has the scars all over his body to prove it, clearly. This is the first chance he's had to really observe any of the man's skin as he's always covered from head to toe. It looks softer and paler than he'd thought it would. That's likely because it's always protectively covered from the sun and the environment alike.
Feeling through his arms the slow rise and fall of the man's chest as he calmly breathes, as if nothing they were doing were new, has a strangely relaxing effect on Soap. His eyelids grow heavier, feeling his sleep deprivation. He fights with his own mind as it tries to shut itself down, but is rather quickly overruled and is lulled into a light sleep when he begins to feel fingers gently brushing along his scalp in a gentle massage.