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Sprawling out across the cardboard mattress, Soap fights to find a position that’ll satisfy the nagging discomfort in his mind. It shouldn’t be this hard to get comfortable. It’s not like he’s sleeping outside in the rain or on a splintery wooden floor or propped up against some other poor bastard in a vehicle, desperate for even a minute of shut-eye before the next fight.
He’s in a goddamn bed at base- a bed that’s his and has been for nearly a year. The sheets smell like him and everything, and he still can’t get comfortable.
He stretches out his stiff muscles, wincing at the ache that resounds from every inch of his body, and pops his back with a sigh. It only gains him about four seconds of peace- just long enough for him to close his eyes- before his brain protests, and he’s forced to repeat the process. Frustration builds like smoke filling a room. He hisses quietly.
The closed door taunts him from across the room.
Shoving to his feet, he steps towards it carefully, like he’s sneaking up on an armed enemy.
He could find his teammates and bury himself in some menial conversation, return to the ever-growing pile of paperwork collecting dust on his desk, or hit the gym and work out until the energy brewing underneath his skin like scalding coffee finally evaporates.
Any one of those would be better than sitting here, wallowing and waiting until it’s an understandable time to fall asleep only to wake up far too soon to do it all over again.
His hand pauses on the handle. He should stop being pathetic.
Should walk out that door and do something.
But he’s tired.
The door is abandoned, left behind as he stalks back towards his bed and drops onto it, dead weight. He forces his stubborn eyelids closed, but a minute passes and they never grow heavier with the promise of sleep. Energy burns through his veins like gasoline. If he doesn’t find an outlet soon, he’ll explode just like the charges he rigs- but the excess energy is at war with his body itself. It’s as though someone filled his bones with cement; he can’t move.
And so, he lays there, a man with cement bones and gasoline blood.
The door creaks open, but the concrete leaves him motionless. He can’t even bring his head to look up.
He’s been trained- he should always be aware of his surroundings- he needs to- The soft footsteps approaching his limp form could easily be a threat. He should check. The knife beneath his pillow- he needs to protect himself.
The bed dips as a weight joins him. He doesn’t move.
So what if it is a threat, some demon from his past finally come to finish him off? What does it matter? It’s a hollow victory to them. He’s dying anyways, hardening into stone, scorching from the inside out as the gasoline ignites.
What does any of it fucking matter?
“‘M tired,” he whispers. His vision goes blurry.
The weight shifts, and Johnny finds himself cradled in strong, familiar arms. He’s held close to a warm chest that rises and falls evenly enough that he echoes it without thought. His heart finally slows to a gentle song in his chest, matching the one beating beside his.
“I know, sunshine,” a voice whispers back.
Soap’s breath shudders. His chest shakes. He sobs.
Hands move across his back, rubbing circles into his stiffened muscles until they finally relinquish their rigidness. He melts into the embrace, little more than a puddle. Gone is the concrete in his bones or the gasoline in his veins. Gone is the little voice in his head screaming that nothing is right, that he isn’t right.
Everything is okay again.
Sobs quieted to little more than shaky breaths, he holds on tighter to the body warming his. His lungs taste their first deep breath in a long time, and he exhales out the last of the smoke lingering in his chest.
“You broken, MacTavish?” his captain asks as gently as his gruff voice, hardened from cigars and horrors no ordinary man could withstand, will allow. He runs a hand through the younger man’s hair, unbothered that it’s still muddied with dried blood and sweat and grime from the battlefield even though they’ve been back on base for hours- maybe even a day or two, he doesn’t know anymore.
“Solid,” Soap croaks back.
“Good lad.” John squeezes him tighter until his ribs protest. He presses his lips to Soap’s forehead and guides his head to bury into the crook of his neck; his fingers continue to brush through his mohawk. A contented sigh leaves the older man’s chest. “Good lad.”
It’s undeniable, the warmth that spreads, like honey, through him at the praise. Starting in his heart, it flows outwards to his chest, his arms, his fingertips, finally fending off the stubborn cold that lingered in the darkest parts of him; a blanket wraps around his most fragile pieces.
While the rest of his body grows lighter, his eyelids turn to lead. He burrows closer and lets his captain tuck a blanket over the pair of them. His breaths slowly even out and soften, John’s echoing his.
“There you go, sunshine,” John whispers, his voice hushed and thick with sleepiness. “Rest. I’ll keep watch. I’ll protect you.”
A sleepy smile quirks Soap’s lips up. John has made that promise hundreds of times in hundreds of different ways, and he’s never broken it. Come hell or high water, nothing will hurt him so long as John is there. He’s safe. He can rest.
And so he does.
John holds him close, a hand rubbing circles into his back while the other one works through his hair, until Soap finally slips away.
~*~
Hours later, he awakens to hushed voices surrounding him- two- no, three. His fingers inch for his knife as he strains his sleepy ears. Despite the alarms screeching in his head, he can’t lift his leaden eyelids even a millimeter. The harder he tries, the tighter they seem to pinch shut.
“You’re alright, Johnny,” a voice promises, its deep, decadent timbre resonating through Johnny like music for his soul. It’s a voice he’s used to having in his ear, just never quite this hushed or reverent. A calloused thumb smoothes over the wrinkles of his scrunched up face until the stubborn muscles relax, and his head lulls forward.
His eyelids finally lift to reveal the black fabric he’s become so familiar with. His head is leaned up against it, his nose tilted to press up against the warm skin of Simon’s neck. Each gentle breath of his fans across his pale skin.
The rest of his body is molded to Ghost’s. Their chests are pressed together, rising and falling in tandem, warm breaths mingling. His legs are tangled into Ghost’s, threaded between them, to keep him from moving away.
But there’s another set of arms snaked across him, too, wormed between their stomachs, and another warm body pressed against him, sandwiching him in warmth.
“Morning, Tav,” Gaz whispers, his voice thick with sleep. That answers the question of who the other body belongs to.
“What ‘appened?” Soap all but grunts, aching muscles working to push himself out of their hold. He doesn’t want to think about how he ended up burrowed between them or why Ghost’s arms seem to tighten for a second, hesitating, before they let him free. He doesn’t even want to know why Price has dragged his chair to his bedside, his hand outstretched as though Soap had been holding it.
Then, like most things he doesn’t want to know, he finds out anyway. Like a hangover, memories of the night before slam into him unforgivingly.
His cheeks burn at the realization that his captain of all people had cuddled him like a goddamn baby; he called him sunshine and kissed his forehead and everything. Not only that, but his lieutenant and the other sergeant on his team have taken his spot, holding him like he’s fragile, like he’d break if they didn’t.
What’s worse is that he liked it.
He liked the comfort, and the part of him that doesn’t want to melt into the floor from shame craves more of it.
He curses himself for looking, but his eyes, without his permission, glance down to the empty space he left between Ghost and Gaz. It’d be so easy to lay back down between the two of them and let them hold him for a little longer. Just for an hour or two. Just so he could sleep a little longer.
No- No. He’s a grown ass man, a fucken soldier at that; he doesn’t need anyone to kiss him on the forehead or hold him.
He clears his throat. “Sorry- shouldnae ‘ave- could’ve handled it alone- should have,” he fumbles out, cheeks burning red. God, he’s fucken pathetic. “Aye shouldnae ‘ave bothered you all with it.” He moves to slip off of the bed, but he’s not even sure where he’s going since this is his room, and they’re all in it. There isn’t a single other place to be alone in this godforsaken base.
He just needs to get away from all of this.
A hand wraps around his wrist and stops his escape the second he makes it to his feet. Ghost stares at him, eyes intense as they study every inch of his face, like he might be able to see into his soul if he looks hard enough. His brows furrow.
Eventually, he must find what he’s looking for because finally, he breaks his silence. “No one fights alone.”
Soap stares back. He inhales sharply at the words and argues, “There’s no fight here.” He hates the way his voice threatens to crack, hates the hot tears boiling in his eyes. “Ahm a wee bit dowie s’all.”
“Eng-”
“Ahm fucken sad, okay? Nothing more. Ahm just sad, and aye wanna sleep.” He blinks back his tears and instead glares at Ghost. His veins fill with gasoline once more; like the C4 he loves so much, he’s going to explode, going to blow this goddamned base to bits.
“You slept. Try a different excuse,” Ghost says, giving Soap an unimpressed look that has the sergeant wishing he could just crawl under his sheets and die. The disappointment in his eyes leaps out at him and holds a knife to his neck, and Soap’s breaths grow shallow and careful, not wanting to be cut.
“ Simon ,” Price chides with a sigh before turning his attention onto Johnny. It takes all he has not to crumble beneath the crushing weight of his superior’s eyes. Price runs a hand down his face, looking more tired than Johnny’s ever seen him. “John, I’m only going to ask you this once, not as your captain but as your friend. You tell me now, and the brass never has to hear a word of this. It won’t ever touch paper, yeah?”
Soap swallows and looks away from the three pairs of eyes on him. “Aye, sir.”
“Good lad,” John praises. He stands and approaches Soap with heavy footsteps, his boots echoing with the weight of what he’s about to ask.
Soap straightens up, biting his lip until it bleeds and steadying his breath. His chest caves in on itself, making each breath more difficult than the last, making it a conscious effort to not shrink in on himself.
John places his hands on his shoulders, and Soap nearly crumples, his weak mind immediately searching for comfort in the contact. He waits until Johnny’s avoidant eyes finally meet his before he rips the ground from underneath him with one quiet question: “Are you okay?”
“Yes, sir.” The words are croaked; they’re his last attempt to preserve the few shreds of dignity he has left.
Ghost scoffs, and Soap’s watery eyes slip towards him, pleading with him like a child who just got scolded, begging to be loved even after he’s messed up.
Price squeezes his shoulders tighter until Soap finally draws his eyes back to him. He says very carefully, “I’m going to ask again, sergeant-” Johnny’s breath grows even more shallow; his body burns- “and I want a proper answer. That’s an order. Are you-”
Johnny slams into him, hands scrabbling to hold tight to something as he breaks into a million little pieces. He slams his head into Price’s shoulder hard enough to make his brain throb and burrows even closer in a poor attempt to muffle the ugly sobs that he can’t seem to stop from pouring out of his mouth.
Price’s strong arms wrap around him without hesitation, pulling him close like he’d been waiting for this very moment to happen. “You’re alright, sunshine,” he promises. “I’ve got you.”
The pet name has Johnny sobbing harder. He’s a weak, pitiful, pathetic man. He wants to be held, wants the too-sweet pet names, the forehead kisses, all of it. He wants to be loved.
“I’m sorry- I’m sorry,” he gasps out, not even sure who he’s apologizing to.
“What are you sorry for? There’s nothing to apologize for.” Price’s voice is quiet, lowered, so only he can hear it. These words are for him and him alone. “We’ve got you, sunshine. You’re gonna be alright.”