Archive of Our Own ^beta

"A swim?" Soap's breath shakes on his exhale.

"Affirmative." 

The rain’s abominable, but for the tunnel to be flooded over his waist? The night’s getting shitter and shitter.

He lingers in the next house, rips a strip of cloth from a tea towel and fishes through all the drawers and cabinets until he finds a roll of heavy-duty tape. It’s dusty at edges, and he spends too long picking his nails at the loose end before it peels nice. 

He's been ignoring the bullet in his arm. Riding over-high on adrenaline, like if he doesn't look at the damn thing it won't be real. Hasn’t told Ghost about it neither. Wouldn’t make a lick of difference as things stand.

He peers at the hole Graves made and his chest burns nearly as hot as the wound. He’s ever been so betrayed. The anger has a cooled edge to it, like cinders from an inferno that’s burnt itself to exhaustion. He’s so angry there isn’t room for the anger. He’s goddamn tired, his arm aches and he just… doesn’t have the grit left to spare for being pissed. The blood weeping gently from the site is the only part of him that's still warm. Boiling like the flesh the bullet seared through. Fuck, it aches.

He bites his teeth together as he wraps the towel over it, seals it up tight with layers of tape, his breath lodged in his chest. He wants to scream. 

"Status?" Ghost asks. He doesn’t go much longer than five minutes without checking in to see if he should leave Soap for dead.

Soap takes a shamefully weak breath, replies as steady as he can, "Jus' makin' sure I won't get gangrene from that tunnel, sir."

“See that you don’t.”

“Aye, sir.”

The make-shift waterproofing on his arm is too bulky—the tape tugging on his skin every time he checks over his shoulder. It has to come off. He stifles a shout, his skin—even distant from the wound—tugs at the torn flesh as he rips the tape back.

It’s better, marginally, with cold air touching the swelling. Blood dribbles down his arm where he’s disturbed the tentative clotting. He refuses to look at it further. It’ll be fine.

His soaked jeans chafe something wicked on his thighs. He’d be a dead man without the stim he found—wouldn’t have the strength to drag his heavy arse more than ten steps. They make him sluggish enough that ripping the trousers off the next dead man he finds sounds appealing. But he’s so close to the church, and his head is swimming, and the sooner they get out the less likely it is Graves will have the satisfaction of finishing the job. And that’s worth the struggle through whatever’s left to get to Ghost’s side, every step like a mountain with the lead casing choking his legs.

The truck barrels through a few more road blocks—intentional and not—before they escape the inner city. Ghost takes the poorly maintained back roads to wherever they’re going. Soap grits his teeth every time the truck jostles and doesn’t complain.

A few klicks out and Soap’s soaked a puddle into his seat and the floor of the truck. His feet feel strange in his boots. Probably pruned enough for the skin to come sloughing right off. He bites back a sigh. He’s going to lose his calluses.  

“You’ve held up,” Ghost says, inflected with a question. One way of asking if Soap’s okay, giving him an out if he wants to be a stubborn bastard about it, which he does.

“’m drookit,” Soap grumbles. He doesn’t want to get into the fire still blazing through his arm, or the hurricane in his head, or how every bone in his ribcage aches, or the itch in his knees where his jeans are stuck to his shredded skin. He’ll never be warm again. Never be dry again.

“Lost your tongue out there, did you?” Ghost grumbles back.

He spares a second to think of a response, then another. He wants to take another shot at making Ghost laugh, maybe finally get lucky. But nothing comes through the haze smothering his skull. Something pulses inside. Something hurts.

Soap leans back in his seat, his hands are trembling around his stolen pistol, and flicking the safety on shouldn’t come as an afterthought, but it does. Slow, distracted. His heart hasn’t stopped pounding since Graves opened fire. Even now, with a head so minced he can’t think and Graves several kilometres behind them, it doesn’t stop. He thinks better and holsters the pistol entirely.

Ghost murmurs, “Hang in there.”

Soap still can’t wrap his mouth around a response, so he just grunts, and even that sounds weak.

They drive on. Ghost makes strange turns in the outer areas of the city, making sure they’re not followed. He seems satisfied they’ve lost any would-be tails as he starts checking road signs. They drive straight for a long stretch, and Soap wishes he felt better with Las Almas fading behind them. But he’s feeling worse the further they go.

"Pull over," Soap drags the words from a murky pit in his throat. Jesus. He's not going to make it. Ghost doesn’t hesitate—leans the wheel as acid sears up Soap’s throat and he swallows into a brick wall. The truck's only managed to slow to a cruise but he pitches sideways and clings to the door with his good arm as he heaves. Sick fills his mouth and he fumbles the door open as he gags and heaves again, spilling every foul, awful piece of the night into the dusty void of Las Almas' backcountry. 

The truck stops. Soap tightens his grip on the door handle, knuckles white, his palm slick with sweat. He gasps for air that smells too much like his own blood. "Fuck," he wheezes, high and weak and so unlike him, and God—Ghost's just silent behind him. He can feel him staring. 

This is worse than Julie Walker pulling down his trousers and shrieking pervert loud enough for every godforsaken head in the school to turn on a swivel. 

Soap spits, groans. He's shaking where he's holding the door but he can't move. Not now. Not yet.

Ghost shifts behind him and Soap's shadow spills onto the dirt as the cabin light clicks on. Soap snaps his eyes shut, doesn't want to see. Think. Feel. 

Then the driver's door is opening. Shit fuck. 

Ghost's boots crunch as he rounds the truck, and Soap keeps his eyes shut, tries to breathe, to focus on anything else. But all that's left is the grey itchy-numb feeling in his chest, throat, and mouth, and the pulsing throb of every hurt in his body. 

Ghost's right there, he can feel it, and then he says, "Soap… you with me?" 

Soap shudders, adjusts his grip on the handle again, his arm is screaming, overtired and overtense. Ghost sets a hand on his shoulder, braces him, and pushes on Soap's hand until he lets go of the door. Ghost eases him upright, and Soap keeps his head tucked and his breathing in check. 

"Solid?" Ghost asks, and Soap knows he means the position change, and it's fine, but he's not. God, he's not solid. 

"Yeah," he says wretched, cracked. The pain is his arm—his head—it's making him dizzy, and he tips forward again, his eyes jolt open as his forehead bumps Ghost’s gear. Soap grunts. 

"You knock your head back in the city?"

… He did, actually. Maybe this isn’t entirely the stim wearing off. "That shadow you shot…" Soap mumbles. 

Ghost's hands move, switching the shoulder he's bracing and using his other to take Soap's chin and tip his head up. Ghost's eyes dart as he searches his face. And maybe this is why he turned the light on. Soap winces, tries not to wither under the scrutiny. He doesn't have the strength to shove him off and tell him to keep driving. 

Ghost traces the site of the hit. "Pain?" 

"Four." Soap's not sure what the point of hiding it anymore is. He doesn’t even know where they're headed. Maybe this is the end of the line. He can't think straight. He's never been like this in the field, and it must be fucking Graves’ fault—all of it. They're supposed to have each other's backs. They're supposed to be on the same damn fucking side. 

He winces as Ghost prods. "Look up," Ghost orders. Soap drags his eyes up, bears through Ghost studying them. "Dizzy? Seein' double?" 

"I'm fine," Soap murmurs, drops his gaze. Ghost lets him. 

Ghost releases Soap’s head, and he nearly tips into Ghost's vest again. "Sergeant."

"Jus' tired." Soap blinks hard, makes himself stay upright as Ghost’s attention shifts to Soap's arm. 

"You go through the tunnel with that?" Ghost grunts. 

"I wrapped it. Duct tape." 

"Good." Ghost leans close, inspects the hole, and this for some reason is what breaks Soap. He shifts away, it's not a flinch, but he knows it damn well looks like one. Soap's next breath comes out harsh and Ghost’s eyes snap up to his. "We need to wrap this," he warns. “You’re still bleeding.” There's judgement there, and Soap doesn't know what he's done wrong. 

Soap swallows, feels his throat stick to itself. He nods. He's fucking SAS, he can take it. He doesn't know what good touching it'll do now, on the side of the road with no supplies, but he’s too hurt to care. Ghost can do as he pleases.

"Anything else I should know?" Ghost says, low, close. 

Soap shuts his eyes again. "'M alright. Jus' scraped up n' bruised from falling."

"Mn." Ghost's hand leaves his shoulder, skims Soap's arm where he caught himself on the cobblestones.

Then the touch is gone. "Rest, Johnny,” he murmurs. Oh. Soap folds himself back into the truck. Ghost closes the door for him and returns to the driver's seat, kills the cabin lights as he gets them moving again. Soap follows orders and lets his mind drift. 

He can’t have been out for long. He comes to feeling worse, starts shivering soon after. He tenses all over trying to hide it from Ghost, but the tremors keep coming, and his teeth start to chatter violently. 

"Shit," Ghost glances at him. He checks their rearview and then starts looking out the driver’s window more than at the road ahead. He pulls over, and Soap twists in his seat to see what he's seen, blinks away the wave of dizziness it brings. 

Ghost’s pulled into the drive of a quiet farmhouse. The lights on, no car in the carport.

"Ghost…" 

"They're not home," Ghost says, tightens his grip on the wheel. Soap didn't think he was a betting man.

"Stay 'ere," Ghost says and levels his weapon as he steps from the truck, leaving the door just shy of closed so it doesn't slam. 

Soap's wound tingles—burns. He might be sick again just from hunger. He hasn’t eaten since pre-mission, must have burned through a week’s worth of calories trying to keep his blood in.

His eyes weigh like lead, and he’s shaking like a newborn lamb—couldn’t shoot straight even if he tried, but Ghost’s gone in alone and he’ll be damned if doesn’t at least keep watch. He blinks, and the front door opens, and Ghost’s jogging back to him. He turns off the truck and Soap doesn’t catch up until Ghost has the passenger door open for him.

He’s looking at him like he regrets waiting for him.

Soap moves before Ghost can say anything, lurches out of the truck like the risen dead. Ghost steadies him when he sways, bodily moves him out of the way so he can shut the door. The rain joins the rest of the water soaked into everything that refused to dry during their drive. It’s cold. Soap’s still shaking.

He moves when Ghost nudges him, and he doesn’t need the hand that lingers on his back as he walks to the house, but Ghost leaves it there, and Soap doesn’t push him away.

He smells cattle hidden somewhere in the dark paddocks. Soap wonders if their owners will return.

The farmhouse is nice, its cladding well-maintained where it’s lit by the open door. The inside tells a different story. Junk is strewn all through the entryway, haphazard piles of discarded paper and clothes. Soap carefully avoids the spilled pet biscuits scattered across the tiles, they’d turn to mush and stay with his boots given the amount of water he’s dripping.

Ghost locks the door behind them and Soap stops and waits. He doesn’t want to stray far. Doesn’t let himself think about why.

Ghost moves past him into an equally messy kitchen. The cupboards are thrown open, almost all the food ransacked. Some spilled on the floor.

“They fled,” Soap says.

“Looks like,” Ghost says. “Must’ve heard about what’s goin’ down.”

Ghost picks through the cupboards. Finds a stash of plasters and OTC medicines that he lugs from the top shelf.

Soap pictures reaching for it himself and winces. He’s gone stiff from the road. Stiff and tired and sore. Ghost eyes him and jerks his head for Soap to get on the worktop.

Soap sits, and Ghost disappears, looting for whatever they’ve left, he supposes. His chest feels tight. He eyes the rain lashing the windows and tries to breathe.

Ghost comes back with nail scissors, towels and—Soap blinks, feels like he’s tipping to the side. But he’s not.

Ghost steps in close between Soap’s thighs. Soap twitches, his leg brushes Ghost’s, and Soap turns his head away, inhales ragged and strained. Ghost unstraps Soap’s vest, sets it on the counter where it starts making its own puddle to match Soap’s. He wishes he’d stop shaking. He doesn’t think it’s from the cold.

Ghost’s wet glove crawls under the hem of Soap’s shirt, and he allows Soap the grace of not mentioning his flinch. He glides the scissors up to Soap’s neck and across each of his shoulders, peels the shirt off his back like it’s something sacred, but the moment Soap can’t feel it anymore it’s tossed to the floor. 

Damp skin touches his, and Soap turns his gaze to his arm.

Ghost’s removed his gloves, holds Soap’s arm in his bare hands. It feels strange, soaked cold skin on soaked cold skin. Soap wonders if Ghost’s hands are rough when they’re dry. They look it—scarred, over-worked, despite protection from his gloves.

Ghost leaves, washes his hands in the kitchen sink. Soap’s dizzy. He swallows, focuses on a crooked painting in the adjoining dining room. Flowers by the ocean. He wrinkles his nose.

“Johnny,” Ghost says, and Soap looks at him. Ghost lifts a bag of gauze padding, Soap nods, looks back at the painting. It might be a print. Doesn’t look textured.

Ghost touches his shoulder, bracing, he presses down hard with the padding. Holds it there with his hand. A strangled noise stays behind Soap’s teeth. Ghost checks on the dressing and hums.

“Hold it.”

Soap closes his eyes, moves his hand to his shoulder and matches the pressure Ghost used. It hurts. Ghost starts winding the gauze, pinching tight, tight, tight. Soap lets his hand fall to his lap. Breathes in, out.  

He leans forward, dizzy. He runs into Ghost’s chest, again, groans low in his throat.

Ghost keeps wrapping and Soap loses his head in the stench of copper, the sting, and the swirling in his head. “Ghost—” he gasps. Grey has crept into his peripheral like a fog. He can’t see what Ghost’s doing, can’t tell if he’s still going. “—Stop.”

“Johnny?”

“M’ gonna pass out,” Soap slurs. Ghost grabs his shoulders, pushes him until his face is in his wet knees.

“Breathe a minute,” Ghost says.

Soap does, and it feels less worse but not nearly enough. “’S not…” he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Ghost’s hands move to his armpits and then he’s hauling Soap off the worktop and down to the floor.

Soap closes his eyes and focuses on holding his treacherous stomach, lets Ghost lay him out like a doll.

“Told you to keep your blood in,” Ghost mutters. 

“I’ve a leak,” Soap manages. Not his fault.

“Several,” Ghost agrees.

This is better. Soap breathes, keeps his eyes closed even as the grey disappears. He could sleep here. Cold, like he’s dead.

Ghost shifts, and then there’s his hand on Soap's shoulder again, moving his arm for a better angle. Soap groans, can’t help it. Wants to die from the shame.

“Shh,” Ghost hushes him, but it isn’t condescending. His thumb brushes over his shoulder, soothing. And maybe it’s fine, if Ghost thinks it’s fine. Better him than Price, seeing him like this. He feels sick.

Ghost adjusts the wrapping, ties it off. He moves away, the tap runs, and then he’s back running a wet towel down the grazes on Soap’s arm. Ghost spends longer on it than he did on the bullet, carefully washing away dirt and as much of the tunnel water as he can. It gets overwhelming the more passes Ghost makes, his grazes prickling, irritated and freshly bloodied. Ghost leaves them unwrapped, tiny cuts they are. They shouldn’t sting as much as they do.

He isn’t given a minute before Ghost is moving onto his left arm. And Soap’s not moments off of swooning now that he’s laying down, so he doesn’t have an excuse to ask for one. It just hurts.

He snaps his eyes open, bucking into the floor as something slick and cold touches his stomach. Ghost glances at him, meets his eyes, then refocuses on smearing the ointment. “Wa’s tha?” Soap asks.

“For bruising,” Ghost murmurs, and then his fingers are touching Soap’s face, brushing ointment over his forehead. It hurts too, but… in a nice way. Soap closes his eyes. “You need it on your back?”

Probably. He slid over enough sharp sticks to build a pig’s house in his escape. “Yeah.”

“You gonna faint?”

Soap grunts, rolls onto his hands and knees, trembles there, because the shaking still hasn’t stopped. And it hurts. “We’ll see.”

The towel swipes over his back first, then the cool touch of the gel comes. Ghost’s more careful than with his stomach, tracing the ointment in thin, tickling lines, avoiding where his skin’s split.

“Legs?” Ghost says.

“Knees.” They ache, the left threatening war. Soap turns and fumbles with his jeans. He misses the button twice, misses the zipper too, and what little blood he has left in his body goes to his cheeks as his hand shakes pulling it down. Ghost takes pity once they’re over his arse and helps him tug the accursed things off the rest of the way.

His knees look raw, and Soap lies down again. Breathes through the fuzzy feeling in his head—it can’t be permanent. It can’t. But it’s stuck around ever since the stim wore off. He feels like he’s going mental.

“Steady,” Ghost says, mild like Soap isn’t being a fucking pansy. He cleans his knees and sticks large square plasters down over them like Soap’s a bairn hurt on the playground. Soap bites his lip, suddenly feels exposed, shivering in his underwear while Ghost leans over him in full gear. He’s never even seen his face.

Mercifully, Ghost stands and passes Soap a dry bundle—shirt, towel, jeans. Soap exhales the air he’s held locked inside and sits up to take them. “Lucky,” he breathes.

“Can’t take everything,” Ghost mutters. He disappears, and Soap stamps down the urge to call after him. Stupid. 

The jeans fit well enough. Dry briefs were in the mix too, and Soap’s balls are too shrivelled to care that he’s wearing another man’s smalls. He’s skin-dry for the first time in hours, yet he still feels waterlogged. Heavy, in a way that’s more to do with exhaustion than anything else. But he’ll blame it on the rain.

He’s careful as he dries his toes, takes it slow and gentle. He refuses to look at what’s become of them. The stranger’s socks are thin cotton with a hole in one heel, but that’s covered easy enough by the second pair. Together they’ll do until his own dry.

The shirt he stares at for too long, his head spinning in slow circles. He has to growl get on with it, MacTavish under his breath before he can make himself move to take it.

Pulling it over his head leaves him blinking white spots out of his vision, then blinking more until the kitchen isn’t blurry. He leans heavy on the worktop and tries to catch his breath.

Ghost isn’t back, and Soap’s dizzy like he's been on the bash. He sits on the floor in the dining room where they haven’t dripped half a river, head to his knees, and tries not to feel like a dog waiting on its owner.

“Johnny?” Ghost asks.

Soap stirs. “Ahm ‘ere.” He’s lost track of time. 

Ghost crouches in front of him. He’s dry. Still wearing the mask. “Now what?” Soap says, before Ghost can say something awful—Soap’s made it this far. He’s not going to break. He can keep pushing.

Ghost hands him two white pills. And Soap would laugh if he didn’t trust Ghost down to the fibres in his weary bones. He takes them, swallows them dry. Ghost lets Soap’s question sit for a bit, leans back on his heels, giving Soap space he didn’t realise he needed.

“Come lie down, I’ll ice your arm.”

Soap doesn’t ask. Why. Where. With you. He gets up, feels the blood rush from his head, follows Ghost deep into the house. They pass three open doors. Bathroom—like a horror house with Ghost’s wet clothes hanging like spectres, and two bedrooms. Nurseries, really. The children who live here are young.

Soap grits his teeth, hooks his thoughts away before they can sink into what he saw, heard, in the city.

Drawers hang open in the master bedroom, left-behind clothes spilling over the edges onto the floor. Soap lies down, immediately makes himself think about the bullet in his arm so he doesn’t fall asleep. He’s not long for the night if he stays here, on some corrupt farmer’s cloud of a bed.

“Johnny,” Ghost murmurs, and his hands—still bare, lift his arm. Soap hisses, staves off a whine as Ghost sets his arm up under a pile of pillows. Then he leaves, and Soap thinks about the pain.

Cold brushes Soap’s skin and he startles out of the… nothing he was stuck in. Fuck.

“Ice,” Ghost says, and settles the bundle over Soap’s arm. It’s soothing, even if the rest of him shivers. Soap opens his eyes, meets Ghost’s, and Ghost looks at him, unreadable as usual.

“At least it’s a small calibre,” Ghost says. Soap thinks about the other bullet sitting innocently in his calf. He’d just about taken his kneecap out in the fall. This one hurts more. Bleeds more, too. But then, he had been more focused on his knee. He’s lucky Graves didn’t do worse. He was so woefully unprepared. Turned his back to that snake.

“Rest.” Ghost says, his eyes narrow, like he knows where Soap’s thoughts have turned.

Soap hums, closes his eyes.

The bed dips, and his breath catches as Ghost slides close, lines up at his side and drapes his arm over him. Easy, smooth. Like it's tactical. Keeping him warm, alerting them both if something changes, maybe. Soap’s brain stutters, then settles on: safe. Ghost's warm, heavy. It feels good. And Soap loses himself to nothing again.

The moment Soap opens his eyes Ghost’s head lolls to him. "Solid?" said rough, low. Ghost’s still in bed with him, heat radiating in the small gap between them. Soap shifts on impulse, wants to touch, lets his leg brush Ghost’s, just to see what will happen.

He doesn’t know what to do when Ghost allows it.

Soap breathes deep, tosses away all the feelings that are getting in the way of his brain, considers the question. He’s tired. Still angry, somehow. But he thinks he could run again. Push some more.

Ghost won't leave him for dead now. Maybe. "Aye. Feelin’… better."

“Good,” Ghost says, just as low, and it shouldn’t make him shiver, but it does, the tumbling texture of it reverberating in Soap’s chest. The praise undeserved, but wanted. Always.

Soap sits up, takes it slow. Everything aches in the way it always does after working hard with too little rest. "You sleep?" he asks.  

"No," Ghost says softly.

Soap hides from what that means and checks on his arm instead. The swelling’s gone down, the wrappings are clean on the outside, pain low. His throat’s like sand.

Ghost watches him, and then gets up and disappears, taking his warmth with him. 

Soap waits a moment, settles his foolish heart, and then he follows. It’s still dark out. When he gets to the kitchen Ghost hands him water in a pint glass. Soap huffs as he takes it, half wishes it was a real drink. Water is what he needs though, and it’s gone in minutes.

They raid what remains of the family’s food, and Soap’s head finally clears for the first time in hours. Ghost’s quiet, and Soap can’t help wondering if he’s always like this in the morning—kicks himself before he can be stupid enough to ask.

Ghost starts loading up on anything useful, and Soap excuses himself to the toilet to purge the memory of waking up next to Ghost from his sick head. He can’t afford to get his wires crossed. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Ghost swaps with him, and when he comes out he stares at Soap for a long moment. Like he knows all the things Soap’s been thinking about. Soap refuses to look away, even as it starts to burn, makes him want to duck his head and bare his throat. 

“You ready?”

He doesn’t know where they’re heading and his throat’s closed up too tight to ask, but it doesn’t matter—he trusts Ghost.