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When John MacTavish stepped foot on solid ground, for the first time in what felt like months, he wanted to collapse and not stand up again.
A trail of blood dripped on to the floor behind him, as he disembarked the chopper. Suddenly his boot slipped, the mud under his sole preventing them from having any grip. He barely managed to catch himself on a random sling, the friction burned his palm.
"Bullocks! Ah cannae' believe this fuckin‚ shit!"
He heard a low chuckle behind him, the white skull of Ghost’s mask barely visible in the dark. He flipped him off, before picking his bag up, again. Carefully hoisting it up, onto his uninjured shoulder.
"English MacTavish."
The smug bastard leaned against the overgrown walls of the base. Course it had to be a shitty old building, the mental image of a comfortable shower, fading in front of his eyes. He would be lucky if it even had warm water.
A rare feeling of homesickness carved its way into his mind, not home per say, he rarely missed his sad old flat in Glasgow. He missed their home base. His own room.
Missed not having to share with other sergeants, who he right now hoped would either be dead, or at least dead asleep, so that he could get some shut eye. He’d probably strangle them if not.
"Oh fuck off ya cunt! If yer not plannin' on gettin' me a bath 'nd a back rub, ah don’t want to see ya within the next twenty-four-fucking hours!"
The seemingly floating skull came closer, it was too dark to make out the lieutenants body. Only a glint of metal, every now and then even gave a hint that he wasn’t hallucinating death personified.
Which would certainly be a possibility, considering his current state. He still felt a bit woozy, probably dehydrated.
But when the skull stepped into the meager light of a, half broken, flickering, lamp, the eyes of death were too soft.
Trailing along Soap’s body, checking him for injuries. The same way he would, every time Ghost arrived after a mission.
"You look like shit, Johnny."
He rolled his eyes and marched past the man, towards the entrance, ripping open the velcro of his vest.
Ignoring the soft spoken words.
He couldn’t be calm yet. Didn’t want to either. The mission was shit, wrong intel and bad luck had lead to his clothes drenched in blood, most of which wasn’t his own. It was now clinging to his limbs, making him shiver in the cold British air.
"Tell me somethin' ah don’t know, ye cunt."
Soap knew this wasn’t fair. He had no idea why Ghost would come check on him, this late at night. Usually he'd be happy, but today it just felt wrong. He felt Judged. Judged for failing the mission. Judged for-
"Sharks have two dicks."
Ghost deadpanned, apparently following close behind him.
Soap tripped over his own feet in bewilderment. But before he could crack open his skull, strong arms wrapped around his waist catching him mid fall.
He deflated, the pressure around his middle somehow pulling his soul back into his body. Something settled inside him.
He had missed Simon, over the past few days. Nowadays they rarely went on missions alone, the 141 too attuned to each other, to let it go to waste.
Soap and Ghost too good of a pair to split them up. But Ghost had to take some leave, since his last had been over a year ago and Soap was more than capable of going alone, so he did. Reluctantly, but he had to.
To fucking Spain of all places. He had been overheating over the entire course of his stay and was now seriously considering to throw away his shirts, because he was certain that no matter how often he’d wash them they’d still reek.
Good thing Ghost was wearing his mask, if Soap could smell himself, he really didn’t want to know what he smelled like to others.
They had worse but still… The smell of blood and sweat wasn’t easy to stomach.
"Away n bile yer heid, that was terrible."
Ghost chuckled and let go of him but didn’t step away. When John turned they stood chest to chest only his vest between them.
Ghost's eyes sparkled with mirth.
„You wanted me to tell you something you didn’t know!“
He shook his head exasperated, trying, and failing, to hide the involuntary smile that crept on his face. He hoped that the dingy lights did a better job at that.
"What are ya doin' here anyways? I know that my jet lag is bad but isn’t it like three in the mornin'?"
Ghost looked away, not meeting his eyes, he could see the fabric shift when the masked man mumbled something inaudible. Missed you.
"Wot was thah'? My ears are still ringin'. Ah think that blast fucked up my eardrum."
Soap had stood to close to an explosion, one he hadn’t set himself. Which was only the first harbinger of how fucked up their intel would actually turn out to be.
It had completely wrecked his radio and thrown him against a wall with enough force to dent his helmet. Getting his radio back online took him a good few hours, between running from the guards, that weren’t supposed to be there. And searching for backup that was, but wasn’t. It wasn’t his first priority.
When he had eventually reconnected his radio and found Laswell‘s channel, he was fuming. Wanting to tell her that he was a. sill alive and b. that her intel sucked and was in no way responsible for the former statement.
But instead Ghost had answered, Soap was able to hear him before he managed to fix his own mic. The quality was shit, he couldn’t make out what was being said, just that it was repeated like a mantra. Over and over again, it made Soap‘s blood run cold.
The other man was frantically checking in, barely letting Soap talk when he had finally managed to do so. Before, with one final shaky "Johnny", getting back to work and seemingly handing the reigns back over to Laswell.
She finally managed to get him an evac a few hours later.
But Ghost’s silent pleas were still echoing in his head.
"I love you"
Said man’s gloved hands now scratched against his stubble and slid upwards, into his hair. Johnny leaned into the touch.
"Wanted to check that you came back in one piece."
His head was turned both ways, Ghost was still checking him for injuries, eyes flickering between Soap’s eyes and every other inch of his body now that he stood close enough.
He could see the moment the other man took notice of the blood that ran down the side of his face, stemming from his ear. It had dried by now and was flaking off his skin, as a gloved thumb swiped over it.
"Aye, I'm fine, Si. Just sore as fuck… "
Simon didn’t let go of his face now cupping Soap‘s cheeks.
He was breathing very deliberately, as if his hands would shake if he didn’t keep them in check.
"You went dark Johnny, I thought…I thought you were gone."
One hand slid down his bare arm, the movement heavy and sluggish. All of Ghost seemed too heavy, he looked tired.
Well, more tired than usual. His eyes were half lidded and red rimmed, he swayed back and forth slowly. Still, the grip Ghost now had on his wrist was strong, almost painfully digging into his flesh.
Soap could feel his own heartbeat against the pressure. It was calm and steady. He noticed Simon‘s eyes fall shut for a moment, mask moving in an even beat, as if he was counting silently.
"I‘m here now though, aren’t I?"
Soap placed his hand atop the one on his cheek, the skeletal print cold against his abraded skin. Slipping his fingers between the others as he pulled them away from his cheek and to his lips. Soap kissed the rough fabric. It was damp, as if Ghost had been sweating.
"Price extended my leave, said I was worse off than before."
Soap chuckled, he could imagine Ghost climbing up the walls whenever he was on leave. He knew the other rarely took leave, but he never mentioned how bad it could get, bad enough for Price to worry apparently.
He wanted to ask about it when Simon spoke again, almost whispering. As if not even the darkness around them was supposed to hear what he was about to admit.
"Do you know how long you haven’t been on a solo op?"
He shook his head unsure, days often blurred together for him, especially when they were on missions as much as they were currently.
"Few months, ah think. The' recon in Belgium?"
Ghost huffed a laugh and shook his head, looking into John‘s eyes for a moment before leaning down and letting their foreheads rest against each other.
The air was comfortably warm between them.
"No, I was in your ear on that one, few kilometers away, on that construction site."
Simon took a deep breath, clearly bracing for something.
"It‘s been eleven months since you went out alone, no Price, no Gaz…no me.
And…fuck Johnny…it’s the first time I’ve been on leave while you were gone and I went absolutely crazy, I didn’t sleep, I barely ate."
When he spoke again he sounded almost angry at himself.
"I sat at my window and waited for you to arrive like some fucking dog. And when Laswell told us you went dark…Bloody hell, Johnny. I thought I had lost you... before…fuck…"
He sighed and John felt the gentle pressure of Simon‘s mouth against the bridge of his nose.
He pulled away slightly, making sure to keep Simons hand in his, not wanting to spook the man by pulling away.
Soap searched the others eyes, suddenly remembering the distorted words he had heard over the radio.
"I love you."
John smiled at him softly, letting go of Simon's hand to instead slide his own up the taller mans neck, resting there gently.
"Before what, Si?"
Simon glared at him, the tension his shoulders were under constantly, slipping away along the path Johnny‘s hand took.
There was nothing but adoration in his eyes, even though he was clearly trying to get rid of it.
"Don’t make me say it, Johnny. I think you know where this is going, you know me better than I know myself sometimes."
Ghost was whispering again.
"I didn’t even realize…I knew that I missed something, nowadays. On solo- OPs, whenever I was gone, I was always looking behind me, only to be disappointed because you weren’t there. And that was bad enough, but this time you were gone and I was just sitting here twiddling my thumbs.
And I missed your chatter and I missed your warmth and I had no reason for it.
No: 'I need to stay sane for the mission‚ No: 'I need someone to watch my back'.
I just wanted you back, safe and within reach. And I wanted to reach out, actually, physically reach out to you, because whenever you touch me, I don’t want it to end…"
Simon was suddenly pulling off his mask, revealing a man that looked worse for wear, his hair matted and greasy against his forehead. Patchy stubble that was only broken up by pale scar-tissue.
Johnny cupped his cheek, stroking along the Glasgow smile that twisted the others features.
"Aye bonnie, I want tha` too. I-"
Simon shook his head, blackened tears rolling down his cheeks. He wiped them away himself, soaking into his glove, where they disappeared.
"Johnny, no…a dead man shouldn’t want things.
A solider shouldn’t want things.
I shouldn’t want things."
His eyes darted towards John‘s lips for a split second.
"But I want, to want things. You made me want again."
Soap was beaming at him now, pulling him down by his collar. He smiled into the kiss, keeping Simon close even after it ended.
"You can `ave this, this an' everythin' else. You’re allowed to want things, mo chridhe."