in the heat of the moment Anthology
Author: exavibus
Date: 2022-12-23T04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: misc fandom; FanFiction; Bottom Simon "Ghost" Riley; Canon-Typical Violence; Expanded Canon; Explicit Language; Explicit Sexual Content; M/M; POV Alternating; Present Tense; Rough Sex; Sexual Tension; Slow Burn; Top John "Soap" MacTavish; brutal and unprecedented misuse of vignettes; lapslock; like glacially slow; Call of Duty (Video Games); Alejandro Vargas; John "Soap" MacTavish; John Price (Call of Duty); Kate Laswell; Kyle "Gaz" Garrick; Phillip Graves (Call of Duty)
Description: against their better judgement, they get swept away. neither ghost nor soap are thinking clearly. that might not be a bad thing. Anthology containing: paper parachute about to break halt and catch fire coda: burn to ash
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Rights: Copyrights as per source stories

paper parachute by exavibus

Series: in the heat of the moment [1]
Fandoms: Call of Duty (Video Games)
AO3 Categories: M/M
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: John “Soap” MacTavish/Simon “Ghost” Riley
Characters: Alejandro Vargas, John “Soap” MacTavish, John Price (Call of Duty), Kate Laswell, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, Phillip Graves (Call of Duty), Simon “Ghost” Riley
Freeform Tags: Bottom Simon “Ghost” Riley, Canon-Typical Violence, Expanded Canon, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, POV Alternating, Present Tense, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Top John “Soap” MacTavish, brutal and unprecedented misuse of vignettes, lapslock, like glacially slow
Status: Completed
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Published: 2022-12-23
Updated: 2023-01-03
Packaged: 2023-09-01 18:16:12
Summary:

he distinctly remembers the thought ‘can’t tell about his face, but look at his arse’ going through his mind, and now it’s something like five, six years later and the man looks just as thrilled as the last time to be faced with him.
he has come to own the annoying little shit thing, and ghost will just have to deal with it, but it’s still just a wee bit mortifying.

task force 141, established 2019. ghost and soap don’t get off to the best of starts. it takes just 100 hours to change that.

1. never know when you’ll hit the ground

Author’s Note:

this is the first fic i’ve posted in 7 years and it’s not even close to finished yet may god have mercy on my soul. i wasn’t going to even post this but the reboot cod fandom seem lovely so here i go

my twt.

fic has a spotify playlist here.

Summary for the Chapter:

december 2019 through may 2020.

when he gets the call to come back, it’s got a distinct air of dodgy shit going down to it. one minute he’s in a field tent in panjshir with some mousy-looking lad from signals pressing a printed email into his hand, the next he’s getting off the helo at stirling lines to the sight of john price leaning against a land rover at the end of the tarmac.

“whatever you want, no.”

price just grins at him. “you came all the way back to say so in person?”

“didn’t know it was you i was coming back for.” he unslings his bergen and walks past price to fling it in the back seat of the car. “thought you were in eastern europe.”

“i was.” price walks around the front of the car, gets into the driver’s seat. “we’ve got these things called planes, simon. great inventions.”

he rolls his eyes, climbs into the passenger side. “you’ve got until we get to squadron to tell me what you’re up to.”

the land rover starts to move. “none of this leaves this car.” it’s a formality. price knows him. knows he doesn’t do idle chat or gossip. “my counterterrorism op took out the head of al-qatala.”

“congratulations,” he says dryly.

“thank you, thank you. not that it’ll fucking take, mind you. they’ll replace him within the month.” price’s eyes are on the road, in the shadow of the brim of his hat. “they were working in urzikstan with a rogue element of the russian army. bunch of them under a lad called barkov. now he’s gone, there’s a private ultranationalist force looking to hire barkov’s leftovers.”

“so there’s a risk of them doing it all over again.” same thing as all over the world, then. the cycle of violence that can only be stopped with more violence. he should be worried, probably, about how pedestrian it all seems to him now. “so you’re pulling me out of my op to work yours?”

price gives a little snort. “you make it sound like i’m fobbing it all off on you.”

“aren’t you?” it’s skirting the line of insubordination, but price seems amused by it. he’s got this habit of taking shines to certain lads, giving them special attention and latitude. his own position in the long line of captain price’s very special boys was a hell of a way back, but there’s still a level of warmth between them. “don’t tell me that was all of the gen.”

“the al-qatala op was joint with the CIA. i’ve got US joint special operations command willing to run a task force under me. to cut it short, simon, i want you on it.”

he is, again, unsurprised, even if he maybe should be. “how many?”

“i’ve got permission to recruit five from the Service - you know jack thorne, i’ve got him onside already.”

“his opposite number’s friends with that CIA one.” scottish woman from the SRR. he can’t remember her name for the life of him. “that’s why you asked him.”

price nods a little stiffly. “and charly too, yeah. i’ve got a few private individuals in mind, and there are a few favours i can call in with one of the contractor companies.” this is the last turn before the lines. “the americans are happy to provide if we need big-time manpower on top of the tidy little black budget.”

he turns it over in his mind. price is approaching his forties now, still a captain despite his clear capacity. marching in place because he doesn’t do things to be praised, but does them because they’re correct. this task force idea is, essentially, telling the army to go and fuck itself.

he respects the man immensely. if this was a film, he’d say something like, ‘you crazy sonovabitch, i’m in.’

“i’ll think about it.” this is not a film. he’s been awake for near-on forty hours. he aches, up his back and neck and deep into his skull. committing to chasing a beast like al-qatala for the americans is something that promises to last an entire lifetime if he’s not careful. he’s not even been commissioned for a year. “when d’you need the decision?”

“i’m wheels-up at brize norton eleven hundred tomorrow.” it’s not long past nineteen hundred now. as far as time limits go, it’s generous. “if you’re in then i want you back on that tarmac at ten.” the car rolls to a stop at the corner of the big block of barracks buildings. price’s eyes cut sidelong at him. “i wouldn’t plan on being back any time soon.”

the ominous tone doesn’t bother him. it’s more the solemn, dark air price himself has around him - as if he himself doesn’t quite like that he’s asking this.

he gets out of the land rover and retrieves his bag. “sounds like you’re trying to put me off.”

“wouldn’t dream of it, ghost. ” price gives the nickname the same sort of wry twist he usually does, like he finds the entire thing incredibly ironic. “i’ll see you, mate.”

“maybe.” he pats the side of the car, an ingrained, almost reflexive gesture to signal it to leave, and catches the fond look price casts him as he drives off.

maybe it’s not going to be such a hard decision after all.

soap trusts captain john price with his life. he owes price his life, even. but this is unfamiliar territory. for a start, when they duck into the little portakabin-type outbuilding at fort bragg shortly after he arrives, there’s a large, looming, man-shaped hooded shadow in the back stripping battle rifles and price doesn’t even blink.

“kamarov has been reasonably forthcoming, which is a miracle,” price continues saying - which means that the big lad in the back is cleared to overhear them, which then means that he’s probably in this task force 141 as well, “but he’s saying they’re having trouble pinning down al-asad’s location. for now we’re looking at following threads. laswell has the Activity trying to speed it up, but the americans’ bloody red tape is worse than ours.”

“sounds closer to intelligence work,” he hedges. it’s not that he can’t or won’t do it, but it’s not his wheelhouse. price knows that, of course, but -

“it won’t be you spearheading, soap, you can relax.” as price says it, the dark shape leaning over the rifles straightens a little. price is looking now, too, and as if he can feel their gaze the man turns.

the hood the man has on turns out to be a full-on mask, and it’s a little surreal to stand there as the man approaches them at a slow, long stride. he wants to laugh - the guy’s 6’3” at least, broad and solid under the several layers he’s wearing, but the mask is a skull, complete with painted jawbone on the balaclava under it, and he’s more like something out of a bad movie than any soldier that soap’s met in real life. but the eyes behind the mask stop him from reacting incredulously, because they’re a dark, flat brown that nonetheless seem to pierce from the shadows of the stupid fucking skull.

the patch on his arm is a union flag, and the para wings above it are SAS. now he looks, he has the blue stable belt on too, a little flash of it under one hiked edge of the dark field jacket.

“don’t know if you’ve ever met ghost,” price says casually, like this man in front of them isn’t an absolutely bizarre vision, “but i’ve poached him off A squadron. lieutenant,” and that’s delivered with a decidedly dry twist on it, like some private joke between the two of them, “this is sergeant john mactavish.”

oh, shit, no. they have met. he offers his hand and says “they call me soap,” with his best yes-i-know-it’s-a-stupid-nickname intonation, but the dim memory his brain’s supplying him with is infinitely more embarrassing. “think we did run into one another a few years ago, maybe.”

ghost - which is an even worse nickname than soap, in his opinion - doesn’t even move. the only sign of acknowledgement is the flick of his gaze over at soap’s face. “if you say so.”

his voice is a low, raspy sort of thing, and it definitely is the same man. when he’d passed selection, A and B squadrons had both been on station at the same time. the exact reason they’d spoken, he’s forgotten - it was in the gym, he remembers that much - but he’d said something stupid and the eyes above the plain black mask had been infinitely unimpressed. he’d been with andy, one of the other lads fresh into B squadron, to whom that same voice had rumbled annoying little shit, ain’t he, and then ghost had stalked off. he distinctly remembers the thought ‘can’t tell about his face, but look at his arse’ going through his mind, and now it’s something like five, six years later and the man looks just as thrilled as the last time to be faced with him.

he has come to own the annoying little shit thing, and ghost will just have to deal with it, but it’s still just a wee bit mortifying.

“ghost’ll take point on the kastovia op. he’s got a track record of solo work a mile long.” the frosty reception doesn’t seem to faze price any, who is just drifting over to look at the big screen on the wall displaying an enormous map of anonymous terrain. “you and gaz are my second line. until he leaves i want you helping him with prep.”

he looks from ghost to the pile of half-reassembled weapons on the bench at the back - that’s a lot of knives - and back again. the flat gaze fixed on him doesn’t waver even slightly. “right you are, captain.”

“good lad.”

“you’re sure you can’t lend me gaz instead? or charly?”

price doesn’t even look up from his file. “you’ll take what you’re given, mate.”

“in that case i’d rather have nobody at all.” on paper, mactavish is an excellent soldier. bit young, maybe, but a hat trick of commendations and his youngest-ever record, his second place on the readiness course. none of that accounts for how fucking annoying the kid is, of course, nor that he brings a bouncy labrador energy to everything. “he’s driving me fucking spare.”

the end of the unlit cigar jumps. “has he actually fucked anything up, or are you just whinging about him? you’re old enough to know how to get along with the other children, simon.”

that sends something sharp up his spine. he hadn’t intended for this to be a thing. he’d been aiming to just talk a bit of shit about mactavish, relieve a bit of the pressure, and watch price roll his eyes good-naturedly and go back to his requisitions or whatever he’s doing on his side of the rickety desk. now he has to defend himself. the feeling is hard to place, but it pricks like broken glass somewhere between his shoulderblades as he folds his arms, perches further back on the edge of the table. “he second-guesses everything. i can’t delegate because he fucking trots up to me going ‘are you sure, L.T., you could do this instead‘ every bloody time. i about slapped him upside the head last time.”

price laughs, the bastard. “he’s 24, simon, he’s learning. you can last another two weeks.”

“isn’t gaz the same age?”

“not the point.” finally price looks up, the ballpoint pen rapping his thumbnail in a rapid beat. “i gave you soap. i expect you to be able to work together. i don’t want you turning into some feral lone wolf.”

that chafes. he can, intellectually, see the wisdom in what price is saying. fucking hates it, definitely, but gets it. “fine.”

“play nice.”

“yes, captain.” fuck it. he needs this to be over.

price’s eyebrows scrunch together. “simon.”

he doesn’t roll his eyes, because he’s not a child, but he wants to. price is trying to make sure he hasn’t pushed too hard. not for simon‘s sake, because price knows that he can spend weeks on end at his mental limit and be fine, but for mactavish’s. he’s worried about retaliation. “i can’t promise i won’t smack him one, mind you, but i’ll try not to.”

the blue of price’s irises is flattened in the lighting of the ops room, but they soften a little as their eyes meet. “he’s a good lad. comes on a bit strong, i know, but he’ll impress you same as he impressed me.”

maybe he is too old, or price is too young, for this whole paternal thing to really move him. maybe his emotions are too locked down. but he knows he cares about price, and the kid is important to price, so he has to grit his teeth and back down the rest of the way. it doesn’t always have to be a fight, simon, he can hear in the other man’s voice, as clear in his memory as if it were just said. “i’m holding you to that.”

there is another, softer laugh. “i knew you would.”

he’s suffering. finally deployed to do something, and things in verdansk are so fucked that it’s a no-go to actually get anywhere close to the action. soap’s not made for this, the waiting and waiting - he can do it, but it’s because he can endure it, rather than he can do what some of the other boys can and just switch off the part of their brain that cares.

case in point, he’s been watching this fucking dock for four hours now and he’s about to lose his mind. he’s not patched in to most of the armistice chatter, because there are about eight different operations prepping all at once and to hear it all going would make him want to shoot himself even more, but night is starting to fall and his leg’s fallen asleep twice. he’s not got a spotter, either. he’s just alone. apart from, he supposes, the three guards in the little boathouse down there.

his orders are to recon and, once the guard has changed, assess need for further recon from the water. there’s been more and more traffic passing in the waves below his perch on the prison walls in the last few hours, so he’s going to have to - but that water is the kastovian sea in spring, so it’s going to be freezing, and it’s an even less pleasant prospect than this.

there’s a soft pip of static in his earpiece. it’ll be laswell, checking in like she has been every hour, and it feels strange to be getting excited about that, but this is his life today. can’t be helped.

“bravo 7-1,” comes the tag, but that’s definitely not laswell. “how copy?”

“solid.” one of the guards is coming outside, fumbling with his phone and lighter and cigarettes and not enough hands to hold them all. “LT, is that you?”

it has to be, unless the bottom’s fallen out of captain price’s voicebox, but ghost lets it hang for just long enough for it to feel like a stupid question. “yeah. you’re at the agreed position?”

“sittin’ right on the flat of my arse. what d’you need?”

“north sixty-five degrees west. take a look for me.” it’s the first time they’ve spoken directly in about six weeks, and he’s far from expecting a hi-how-are-you from ghost of all people, but there’s something a little strange about it. he realises, after a split-second, that it’s because it’s a little less gruff than he’s expecting. it’s the ‘for me’ that does it, like ghost expects that little bit to motivate him better.

it does, to be fair, but it’s not really ghost’s style. to say it in the first place, but also to actively try to butter him up. “i’m supposed to be eyes-on the entire time, you know,” soap says, even as he consciously untenses his shoulders, reaches for his spotter scope. “these three boys could kick off the next world war if i’m not careful.”

“if that happens, 7-1, i don’t know that what you were doing at this exact second is going to be anyone’s first priority.”

he eases back from the bipod. “you’re such a beacon of logic, LT. i’ll say you gave me the go-ahead, yeah?”

“7-1.”

“i’m looking, sir, give me a minute.” they’re sort of lucky that verdansk is flat as fuck, because from his position he can see most of the way across the city centre. the bearing is, he knows, a guess - ghost can’t know his exact position, because they can’t say that sort of thing over comms, and he’s also presumably working it out backwards - but he’s pointing in the general direction of the hospital, and he instantly sees why he’s being asked to take a look. “bit far to see exactly, but it looks like maybe four or five people. are those flares?”

“you tell me. i don’t have a visual, i’m co-ordinating.”

he checks the boathouse briefly again - the one with the cigarettes still hasn’t sorted himself out - before looking back at the hospital rooftop. the building is more than a kilometer away, so he can’t see as much as he’d like. “even under magnification it’s not great, but i count five on that hospital helipad. they’re in military clothing, but my visual’s not good enough to make out gear. they’ve set up a few flares around the perimeter of the roof. not sure who they’re trying to signal, but they’re not going anywhere in a hurry.”

there’s a beat. ghost’s habit is to take these little pauses to think before he answers anything - soap had noticed it inside of an hour, working alongside the man, and if nothing else it’s very in-keeping with the rest of his personality. considered, deliberate. “no other markers?”

“aye, nothin’ i can see. not on IR optics either.”

“copy.” another pause. “your objective?”

he turns to the rifle again, settles himself back behind it. “nothing on that front, sir. ready to move when the time comes.” and then, because he is a social creature and even big bad lieutenant ghost is better than sitting by himself for another hour, he keeps going. “i’m just waitin’ for this one to drop his phone in the water. he looks like he’s learnin’ to be human again after a ten-year coma.”

there’s another stretch of dead air. he thinks, for a second, that ghost has just dropped the channel entirely. honestly, fair enough. he’s just started to mentally prepare himself for another hour of obs when the unexpected answer comes.

“you haven’t seen yourself first thing in the morning, 7-1. i guarantee you’re worse.”

he almost laughs. as it is he can feel the smile stretching his dry lips. “think you might be right, sir, now i think about it. the captain used to rag me about it.”

“‘get all your shit in one sock’,” ghost quotes. there’s zero inflection on it, which might actually make it funnier, and isn’t gaz supposed to be there with ghost’s team? he must be looking at the lieutenant like he’s insane. but then again, he was apparently with price his whole last assignment. maybe he gets it.

“aye, that’s the one. few more fucks thrown in there for flavour.” he wets the part of his lower lip that’s threatening to crack with his tongue. “nice to see it wasn’t just me gettin’ it.”

“not me,” comes the answer, and that has - it’s not obvious , but there’s just a tiny ironic twist on it. he’s aware that he thinks of ghost as sort of a big human-shaped knife - hard, cold, sharp edges, dangerous - so the little flash of humour feels a bit surreal. hard to attach emotions to a man without a face, to be fair.

even then, he can’t quite help but chase that. “wouldn’t have pegged you as a teacher’s pet, sir.”

“not even close,” ghost answers, and it sounds like he’s about to say something else when the telltale crackle sounds.

“not to interrupt your conversation, gentlemen,” laswell says, and at least she sounds amused rather than pissed off, “but we’re working, here.”

“yes, watcher. 0-7 out.” back to no inflection. no embarrassment at getting caught, no effort to explain or apologise. ghost’s ice-cold, but higher-ups must love how obedient he is. big change from price, anyway.

ghost’s gone, so he’s left to do it himself. “sorry, watcher. starting to get a bit of the recce madness. it was me nagging him to chat with me.”

“not long left,” she reassures him, her tone the verbal equivalent of a warm pat on the arm. “keep the radio clean now. teams are starting to move.”

“yes, ma’am,” he breathes, and settles in for the last leg.

armistice was never going to last long, but it doesn’t feel good to be right about it. the staging area has a distinct air of hostility as everyone gets their shit together to run home, tails between their legs, and there are starting to be as many people standing staring at one another as trying to actually bug out.

he’s decided to let lee off, because as unsubtle as the little fucker’s been about running off for one last chat with the australian lad he might be shagging, it’s probably going to be the last chance they get in a while. he’s loading the truck by himself, though, and he’s felt eyes on him for the last fifteen minutes.

when the presence finally makes toward him, he doesn’t look up from the ratchet strap he’s tightening. “if you’re going to try and chat me up you can keep walking, mate.”

“wouldn’t dream of it.” he’s good with voices, and he knows that one well. he still doesn’t look up.

“make yourself useful, then.” an equipment hardcase is offered to him from the side, and he chucks it in. “what, then? don’t tell me you’re going to try to recruit me again.”

“that obvious?” he finally turns his head, finds the eyes behind the mask so similar to his own. “don’t look so disappointed in me, ghost.”

“thought it’d be obvious,” he echoes, “that i’m not interested.” he was, maybe a few years ago, and mace knows it. but the need-to-know list on what he’s been up to since then is very short, and even if they’d met on a special joint operation those years ago, mace is with metiko and his jackals now.

“humour me and at least take my card. the signing bonus is pretty intense.” sure enough, there’s a rectangle of black cardstock on top the next crate. mace loads it in himself. “we always need someone with your talent, your skill. it’d be an honour to serve with you again.”

he lifts the card, tucks it back into mace’s vest. “you know,” he says, holding the gaze that’s fixed on his face, “that the UK authorities reckon your ‘jackals’ are a terrorist organisation.”

“i know you don’t just blindly believe shit like that.”

he takes a deep breath. he’s genuinely not tempted, in part because he’s hyper-aware of the way mace is standing close, encouraging eye contact, pitching his voice to that warm sweet timbre. he’s never liked being manipulated. “i don’t, but even if i did want to go private, it wouldn’t be for that kind of baggage.”

he can see the way the other man’s eyes crease in a smile behind the silver mask. “can’t blame a guy for trying.”

he bites the inside of his cheek hard. if there’s one thing he never stops being sick of, it’s the kind that think they can get away with talking to him like he’s -
stop, he reminds himself. it’s not worth it. mace isn’t worth it and neither are any of the rest of them.

“suppose not,” he says instead, aware of how harsh and flinty it comes out. “i’ve got the rest of these.”

“i’ll consider myself dismissed. see you in another few years, ghost?”

he doesn’t answer, but mace knows him and doesn’t expect it. only once the man is gone does he reach for his radio. “ben, i hope your fucking radio’s on. if you’re not back here in ten i’m leaving you here.”

the sound of a radio being fumbled is distinctive. lee sounds breathless. “coming, lieutenant.”

certainly sounds like it.

it’s nice to be home, even if it’s not (hopefully) for long. there have been worse bureaucratic fuck-ups.

that’s what they’re being told it’s been, anyway. all six of them are back at stirling lines while price is in london, apparently having a go at the director special forces himself, lockdown orders be damned. thorne’s gone off to see his wife - that’d been a surprise - and neither ghost nor otter spend much time with the rest of them anyway, so he’s not expecting to see them. charly’s gone off to do her reports, and gaz had said something about beauty rest.

so soap’s alone, trying to find something to do with his time. he’s too wired to sleep, too gripped by a sense that he’s missing something. the dump of unseasonable mid-april snow has kept him from going out for a proper run, so settling for jogging to the gym it is. he’ll put on something thudding and mindless in his earphones and lift for a bit, maybe.

or… maybe not. as he comes into the functional equipment area, he immediately recognises the figure being given a wide berth by the few other late-evening gym-goers. he’d recognise just the back, broad and powerful with a sharply nipped-in waist, but there’s a low, rasping grunt as the guy pauses to steady the heavy bag, pausing for breath against it.

“you know,” he says, voice raised as he approaches to give the other man plenty of warning, “i wondered if i’d just sort of invented the memory of you being ginger, LT.”

it’s not really ginger so much as a darker red-brown - auburn? - but it’s worth it for the way ghost’s head turns and the one visible dark eye fixes him with absolute contempt. he’s got a neck gaiter on rather than the full hood-mask setup, same as that very first time they met, and there’s tension along the wide line of ghost’s shoulders as they look at each other.

the gaiter is high enough that it hides basically everything, even the shape of his cheekbones - all there is to work with is the familiar flat-brown eyes and the straight, furrowed brows. his hair is rumpled, a little scruffy-looking, sweat-damp. there’s still very little clue as to what the other man really looks like. “you’ve won a bet, i assume.”

he actually has. otter owes him twenty quid. “don’t tell the others. i want it t’be a surprise.” ghost rolls his eyes and turns back to the sandbag, and soap finds himself easing behind it like second nature, stabilising it with his forearms. “surprised to see you still up and about. you didn’t sleep on the flight.”

“never do.” he wonders if ghost isn’t boiling. he’s wearing a longsleeve, the mask tucked beneath its collar, and full joggers. the only skin showing is his eyes, his forehead and the tips of his fingers coming out from his gloves. “hard to settle sometimes.” there is, he notices, a faint scar on ghost’s right temple, disrupting his hairline just slightly. for some reason he feels like he’s seeing something deeply private, and averts his eyes.

the blows against the bag jolt up rapidly through his arms. he has to tighten his jaw to keep his teeth from clacking together. “i hear that,” he manages. “don’t know what i’d do if they’d shut the gym.”

ghost rattles off a 5-combination, ends by slamming an elbow into the midsection of the bag. “think you’re supposed to be staying further away from me, though.”

“i sat next to you on the plane, i think if we were goin’ to give each other anything the moment’s passed.” the next five strikes are even more brutal, enough to unbalance him a little. he can feel his pulse starting to pick up in sympathy, an instinctive reaction to the violence. “we might even technically be the same household, LT.”

there’s that unimpressed look again, where they can see one another round the side of the bag. “aren’t i lucky.” ghost must punch like a fucking battering ram - he throws a straight and the bag kicks back into soap’s chest. for a man who spent the entire plane journey silently, near-motionlessly reading a book it’s some one-eighty. “what?”

he’s asking because soap is having a thought that is nagging him, one of those ideas that block out the rest of your thoughts. “are you going for much longer?”

the brows furrow sharply. “might be. why?”

“d’you want to spar?” not that he wants to get battered - he doesn’t, and he has no doubt ghost could take him down in a heartbeat - but watching ghost do this is making soap want to fight, to move, and he’s always preferred a real opponent over a sandbag. it’s more fun with something that’ll hit back.

ghost stops, one hand on the side of the bag. the broad chest rises and falls in quick, deep breaths, and his intense gaze fixes dead on soap’s face. there’s a long moment of silence between the two of them, punctuated by the distant rhythmic thudding of someone on a treadmill upstairs.

“alright, yeah,” ghost says, finally, turning away to pick up his water bottle. “don’t cry when you lose.”

“bit presumptuous, LT.” he can’t help but grin, even as ghost walks past him, and follows as he pulls his gloves on. “maybe i like a bit of punishment.” the flirty twist on the words just happens without his conscious thought. he’s a little relieved when ghost just rolls his eyes.

“good for you, then, ain’t it.” the cleared area in the corner has a double-layer of mats, an abandoned pair of focus pads slung on the floor by the wall. he pulls off his facemask, stuffs it into his hoodie, and dumps that just off the side of the second mat, watches ghost’s water land on top of it. when he turns around, the man has his arms crossed, feet spread apart.

despite himself, soap’s mouth goes a little dry. christ, ghost is a big lad. he’s normally in more layers than this, which hides most of the shape of him, but as soap comes to stand in front of him the swell of the muscle is obvious in his arms, his thighs. ghost’s just tall rather than a giant, but he feels massive.

added to his air of cold competence - it feels pretty unfair that most people aren’t this hot even with their faces visible. soap wonders for a second if asking for this was maybe a mistake.

“help you, mactavish?” ghost prompts.

“one request, sir.” he takes a few steps back, just out of reach. one of ghost’s eyebrows raises. “don’t just snap me in half. i’ve got pride.”

there’s something that happens in ghost’s eyes - a microscopic twitch of his eyebrows, a sharpening of his gaze. he tilts his head, just slightly. “i can’t promise that.” there’s that subtle dry edge on his words again, too, like over the radio in kastovia.

“can’t or won’t?” he knows he’s grinning. can’t stop himself.

“whichever one saves your pride more.” and then ghost steps forward, deliberately, closes into soap’s reach. “standard rules?”

“no cock shots, no face shots, no biting?”

“if i let you get in a position to bite me i’d fucking deserve it,” ghost rumbles, lifting his chin. “at your leisure, sergeant.”

that means you first, which is essentially an invitation to get his face slammed into the mat. which, honestly, not the worst thing that could happen -
yeah, actually. he knows what he’s doing.

he slams into ghost’s chest hard, shoulder against ribcage. there’s a heavy, hard blow that thumps down into his shoulder and back immediately, a knee driving up at him from below, but he grabs and yanks down and drops sideways, sending them both crashing down.

on the floor ghost’s height advantage is out of the window, and they fall in a way that lets him wrap his legs around ghost’s thigh and hip, locking his ankles tight over ghost’s knee. it’s precarious but their rules allow for a little bit of dirty fighting - he ducks the elbow thrust at his temple and winds his arms around the shoulder, trapping the arm in a hyper-extended position. he might be on his back doing his best limpet impression, and he feels like he’s escaped death by a couple millimetres, but he’s not immediately losing.

not until ghost manages to kick sideways and flip them with a huge burst of power. it gets his left arm between his chest and the floor, and he uses the momentum to fling them sideways, which thrusts his shoulder right into soap’s chest and drives all of the air out of him.

soap doesn’t let go, because it takes more than that to eject someone with as much combat training as he has, but it dislodges him just enough from his protected position pressed along ghost’s back and side, and then that free arm is an iron bar across his throat, pressing down with the combined force of ghost’s weight and his own grip.

they’re millimetres apart from each other in the places that aren’t pressed flush together, and he can hear ghost’s harsh breathing in his ear as he presses down harder, chokes soap harder.

sad indictment of his love life that it is, this is the hottest thing that’s happened to him in years. he lasts about two, three seconds before he relaxes his arms, otherwise he’s going to strangle himself. he focuses very hard on the most unsexy things he can think of as ghost sits heavily on his thighs and does not, for a long moment, let go.

“almost,” ghost rasps, sounding faintly breathless, finally taking his weight off soap’s throat and leaning back instead. “you need to balance yourself better.”

“i’m usually better at it. not to make excuses,” he manages, panting, still trying to get his wind back, “but you’re not easy to get a grip ‘round.”

between instants, ghost rocks back onto his heels and stands. it’s strangely graceful, weightless, for someone so visibly powerful. “sounds eerily like an excuse to me, mactavish.”

he fixes his eyes on the ceiling. the adrenaline is coursing through his blood, has his heart racing. “you’re imagining things, sir.”

there’s a single, flat ha that comes out of the other man. “right. is that all you’ve got in you?”

soap breathes in and swings his legs up, kicks through in the kip-up to his feet again. how does the phrase go - fight, fuck, flee? “not even close.” he’s not considering the last one. his focus feels razor-sharp. maybe ghost is slating him for a lack of balance, but he’s not the only one who showed a weakness there. “c’mon.”

having one of those hammer-blow punches coming at him without a sandbag in the way does briefly make his brain go oh shit , but it’s not enough to shake his nerve, and he forearm-blocks it aside, ducks sidelong away from another two, gets kicked in the knee for his trouble. he swears, probably - doesn’t actually consciously say something but what comes out of his mouth is probably ‘fuck’ - feints, and pushes right inside ghost’s guard.

ghost does again what he’d done before - his movement stutters and his upper body yanks back to instinctively maintain his space, and it means he’s not as focused on his lower body. it gives soap the opening to get the front leg sweep off, and it’s hard not to feel a rush of dopamine.

less rewarding is that even as he falls, ghost uses that momentum to yank his arm out of soap’s control, and the force of it slams him to his knees. the impact rattles his teeth, but he’s got his eyes front and he goes for the control instinctively. now their positions are reversed, him on top of ghost, locking his legs one over ghost’s right shoulder and the other rammed right under his left arm. it’s not the most stable position for him but it’s worse for ghost, without a good point of leverage and with one leg caught awkwardly under himself. soap’s got both hands around his left wrist, digging his fingertips harshly into… skin.

oh. ghost’s sleeve’s been hiked up. he’s clawing bits out of a sliver of what looks like a dense, busy black-and-grey tattoo. unexpected.

they’ve both gone still, apparently silently agreeing this point is soap’s, and when he looks down there’s a knife-sharp look in the dark eyes fixed unwavering on his own. he relaxes his grip just slightly, just enough to not be in danger of drawing blood, and he can feel the thundering beat of ghost’s pulse through his skin. it feels strange to even think of ghost as being human enough to have blood, even if the narrow margin of skin beneath the mask is flushed with it.

“better.” ghost’s voice sounds even more fucked than it normally does all of a sudden. his chest rises and falls in great heaves.

“you could probably get out,” he says, because he can feel ghost’s right hand on his thigh as the warning it is, “but it’d be enough to get a blade or a bullet into you.” he tenses his leg to demonstrate, feels the grip tighten painfully. he has to go back to the unsexy thoughts for a minute, because the pain, the position, and ghost’s muted gasp and racing heart threaten to go straight to his dick. “i’ll let you up, sorry.”

as soon as he lets ghost’s wrist go the hand plants itself square on his chest and bodily shoves him off, but his pride is rescued a bit by the way ghost visibly has to collect himself before he gets up this time. “if i’d known it’d end up being rolling about on the floor, mactavish, i’d have reconsidered.”

“i do what i have to, sir,” he answers, sitting up. ghost’s going for his water, so he assumes they’re done, but he’s not pushed his sleeve back down. the only thing he can make out of the tattoo is a snarling, fanged mouth on the inside of the wrist as ghost -

- bends down for the bottle. jesus.  it’s been some time since that first meeting but ghost’s arse is still world-class. “uh huh,” the other man intones, apparently completely unaware of how fucking good he looks. god is cruel in the most creative ways.

soap has to marshal all his self-control to look away. “you’ve got, what, five inches on me? and the shortarse tactics work.” he gets to his feet, shakes his limbs out. and then, because he physically cannot shut his mouth, “you don’t like a good roll around before bed, LT?”

“keep dreaming.” it’s flat and clipped, so even if he can’t see ghost’s face he’s pretty sure he’s annoyed the man with that. it’s not hard to do, he knows from experience, and at least ghost doesn’t seem to hold onto it. “i’m off.”

“g’night, sir.” he doesn’t expect ghost to be so unguarded that he lowers his mask in a public building, but soap watches him go just in case. no luck, just the tense line of broad shoulders disappearing through the doorway.

now he’s going to hit the weights, otherwise he’s going to be too turned on to sleep.

2. push/pull

Summary for the Chapter:

28th october through 2nd november, 2022. 99 hours.

Notes for the Chapter:

i do my best to limit things to between game chapters, but sometimes you just want to rub your dirty little hands all over part of an ingame mission and get some internal monologue up in there. bear with me i cannot physically hold back from wildly indulging myself

as far as drab, nasty airbases go al-raab is on the higher end. he’d like it more if there weren’t so many fucking americans. he supposes it probably can’t be avoided if he’s leading marines.

he’s got a feeling about this, tonight. a sort of heavy pressure bearing down on them, a knot tightening low in his stomach as he supervises the marsoc boys loading onto the CH-53. if they manage to roll up zyani then they’ll have decapitated quds properly, taken a supporting pillar of AQ out from under them, but…

but nothing is ever that easy, is it?

they’ve sent him john fucking mactavish again, which isn’t soothing his nerves any. the last time he’d seen the man in person had been for five minutes in kabul last year, which had been about his quota for the next twelve months. yes, he’s come round as price said he would, because price is always right - soap is a fantastic soldier, and (thank god) much cleverer than he lets on, but every time it’s like having a fucking golden retriever come at him. he’s still not used to it.

he has the unpleasant feeling that mactavish is trying to be his friend. he can tolerate the constant flirting - it’s bravado, obviously, but mactavish is handsome, confident enough to sort of get away with it - but the attempts to make conversation, they’re bloody awful.

“ghost,” comes through his headset, and he nearly fucking recoils. speak of the devil and he raises you on the radio, apparently. “all operators aboard. you comin’, sir?”

“checks are almost done. put your fucking seatbelt on.” it doesn’t come through the radio but rather from the ramp of the helo, the answering sharp bark of laughter. he ignores it in favour of signalling to the head of the ground crew, gets the go-ahead in return. the huge rotors are already spinning up above them.

the crew chief, too, is signalling ready, so he flicks them a ‘move up’ and trots up the ramp, feels it begin to lift under his feet. he can feel the pre-scrap edginess starting to rise in him already. “alright!” he’s broadcasting to the agreed channel, but he raises his voice anyway. there are three engines around them starting to propel 15 tonnes of metal into the air, it’s fucking loud in here. “you’ve been briefed. we are approximately thirty minutes from al mazrah, and it is absolutely fucking paramount that every single man has his head on straight. we are going to be in the shit from the moment we hit the ground. i do not want any fucking about, am i understood?”

there is a chorus of very american ‘YES SIR!’s and it gives him a momentary fraction of a punishing headache. spending time with the jarheads is the opposite of his idea of a good time.

even mactavish - who has, dear fucking god, slung his helmet into the folding seat beside him - is a more appealing option, so he uses one of the dangling grab straps to pivot himself over neatly. “i’ll take you up on that seat, sergeant.”

the man grins at him. he immediately regrets it. “thought you’d never ask, sir.” mactavish picks up his helmet, sets about strapping it back onto his head where it should be. “very commanding, by the way. how many of them do you think are goin’ ‘i’ve never heard that accent before’?” mactavish’s fake-american imitation is eerie, spot-on while also being clearly artificial, and to his great shame he feels himself crack a smile at it. thank god it’s not visible.

“if they can’t understand me they’ve got zero chance with you, braveheart,” he retorts.

“that’s why they’ve put us together, sir. we can translate for each other.” mactavish actually fucking winks at him, the little prick. “like it was fate.”

“or that price doesn’t want you on point, mate, pop the brakes on.”

“or that.” that grin again. soap mactavish has got to be some sort of madman to be in such good humour in a troop chopper at one in the morning. “is that a sledgehammer? we all out of money for charges?”

he tips his head back, lets his shoulders take the weight of his helmet and the attached NVGs and battery pack. “and blast a nice hole through our HVT, yeah?”

“i’m not saying we need to be bringin’ satchel charges, but a wee bit of detcord’d be nice.”

he shuts his eyes for a moment, tries to focus on untensing his back and shoulders. it doesn’t work, not with mactavish’s knee pressed against his, especially not with the way mactavish is bouncing his leg at a rapid pace. “i’ll let you put the kit order in, then, shall i.”

“but then how’d we keep you busy, LT?” smart answer for fucking everything, this one. objectively, it’s the sign of a quick mind, someone sharp-witted and focused. but on mactavish, friendly and popular as well as fit, it’s irritating. unfair, maybe. “you alright, sir?”

he opens his eyes and without turning his head just fixes mactavish with a sidelong look. he doesn’t even have to open his mouth - the other man just gives a little cock of his head, a half-shrug, a smile in a ‘suit yourself’ gesture as eloquent as if he’d said it aloud. even his leg stops moving, and the point of contact becomes vastly less unpleasant.

he re-runs the briefing in his mind’s eye, the positions and the details of the terrain, closing his eyes again. they’re not far out.

he still has that feeling of foreboding.

the kill-or-capture mission, of course, goes tits-up. they find the missile and they then watch the flyboys blow the whole warehouse to hell, and then they’re straight on the exfil chopper. dawn is breaking by the time they’re on the flight from al-raab to incirlik, and the second they step off the ramp there’s a pair of young, blandly attractive american boys with lanyards on who might as well have the letters CIA tattooed across their foreheads waiting for them.

“which of you is simon riley?” the taller, darker-haired of them asks.

soap looks at ghost, who seems to glance skyward for a moment before he nods stiffly. “that’d be lieutenant riley.” ghost puts a particular emphasis on the british-english lef-tenant pronunciation of it. his irritation drips from every syllable. “what?”

there’s a flicker of nerves. CIA #1 can apparently tell he’s fucked up. “chief laswell sent an itinerary for you. your transport is wheels-up in an hour. the car there’ll take you to the hangar.” the man passes over a tablet computer, and ghost strips off a glove to unlock it and scroll through the screen. “she’s tied up right now, but as soon as she’s available she’ll contact you.”

and then the two of them just swan off. one of them’s got his hands in his pockets. fucking wanker.

“not a single fucking word, mactavish,” ghost pre-empts, the moment soap opens his mouth. “i’m not in the mood.”

“honestly, sir, i overheard the captain callin’ you ‘simon’ a few months ago, it’s not that much of a surprise.” it’s another of ghost’s little secrets he’s been keeping for no real reason, like the colour of his hair or that he seems to like trashy crime novels. the surname’s new, but it suits him somehow. mostly, he finds it a little funny that ghost shares his given name with a grenade designed for blasting down doors.

ghost turns his head to look at him for a long moment. there’s something of a squint in his eyes. “as you were, then.” the venom’s left his tone, all of a sudden. he goes back to the tablet.

he doesn’t move from where he’s standing, so soap reaches out to snag the strap of ghost’s plate carrier to guide him to the jeep-style car waiting further down the tarmac. he’s half-expecting to get batted away, but after a moment’s resistance ghost seems to realise his purpose and allows it, drifting after him. “where are we goin’, then?” soap asks, lifting his free hand to offer the driver of the car a wave.

“looks like mexico. exactly where they’re not sure.” ghost follows perfectly, and soap’s not sure if it’s a superior level of spatial awareness or just trust in his guidance that’s making it possible. “logistics are sending gear on to a USAF base in texas for us. by then laswell is hoping she has exact intel.”

he whistles, climbing up into the backseat of the jeep first and hauling ghost in by the elbow after him. “long flight.” the car immediately starts moving. the lad in the driver’s seat is american too, has that particular ‘i’m deliberately not listening’ faraway look on his face that so many of their servicemen have.

“fourteen hours, give or take.” of course ghost knows. “you ever get that provigil prescription?”

he pauses, feels himself actually double-take. he remembers that? the last time he mentioned it must have been… just after verdansk? more than a year ago. “doctor said no. somethin’ about how it’d be a shame for a young lad like me to ‘become chemically dependent’.”

“prick.” the way ghost says it is absent, like he’s not thinking very much about it, and it’s so normal it makes soap laugh. “you’ll have to do your best to get shuteye on the plane.”

ugh. “what’re the odds it’s got about three rickety little jump seats between eighteen thousand crates of loose spanners?”

“could be worse. they’ve got nukes here.”

he blinks, glances at the airman driving in the rearview. “is that right? do you?”

the guy tries to keep his poker face, but his mouth is tense and the smile is clear in his eyes. “yessir. around fifty B61s.”

“jesus fuck.” alright, it genuinely could be worse. could be verdansk all over again. “consider me telt, sir.”

ghost makes a noise that might actually be a laugh.

they arrive at the hangar after a few minutes of silence. it is, unfortunately, one of the shitty little long-range transport conversions that they’re being put on, but ghost heads straight up the ramp and soap follows him. there’s an airman still actively bolting the seats in, but ghost dumps his daysack and starts to strip off his other glove, and that’s a good point. they’ve been in full kit for hours. his helmet has been whacking him in the arse since he took it off and clipped it to his belt.

“let me give you a hand,” he says, instead of following the lead, because while he’s tired, ghost must be fucking shattered. shattered enough to actually let him, even if his spine does noticeably stiffen. “more straps than a fuckin’ bondage convention, jesus. how long’s it take you to get into this?”

ghost is stripping off the altimeter around his wrist, and it reveals another flash of his tattoo. this bit’s a skull with a crown on. it’s very on-brand. “this is positively dressed down, sergeant.”

he looks up from where he’s trying to figure out the release catch of the plate carrier, and he doesn’t know what makes him do it, but he says “i suppose it is, if you’re used to Paras kit,” with his best affected casual manner and feels a deep sense of satisfaction when the dark eyes widen in surprise. even better, ghost’s sharp jerk in reaction dislodges the firstspear carrier’s stupid tube catch in his hands, and the cummerbund pops loose. “sorry, sir. saw you strollin’ around in a heli mid-takeoff like it wasn’t even movin’ and it just confirmed it for me.”

ghost stares at him for a long moment. “you’re a sneaky little fuck, mactavish,” he says, finally, but the usual ghost-brand annoyance isn’t there. he sounds almost impressed.

“guilty,” he answers, grinning as he yanks the shoulder catch loose and helps ghost catch the weight of the vest as it slides down his other arm. even split between the two of them it’s fucking heavy. “surprised you haven’t slipped up and called any of us craphats.”

“keep pushing me and i’ll call you much worse.” it doesn’t have that much weight to it when ghost sounds like he might be smiling behind his mask, relaxing by degrees. “watch yourself.”

“noted, sir.” the fasteners for the drop-leg harness are much more straightforward, but if he’s momentarily distracted by the rock-solid muscle against his fingers as he unclips them, well. he’s only human. he’s just grateful ghost holds so still. “i’m just sayin’, leo hobbs in B squadron doesn’t ever fuckin’ shut up about being in 1 Para. it’s very classy of you.”

ghost actually makes a derisive little snort, reaching down to unclip his belt. the drop harness comes away with it, and he loops it through the still-linked shoulder strap of his plate carrier to keep all of the gear together. the whole assembly is almost neat as it gets shoved under one of the seats. the lad installing them is gone now - must’ve left while they were talking. he’s surprised he didn’t notice, but sometimes ghost takes up all of the air in a room like that.

“the rest of your kit, you’re on your own. i like you, sir, but i don’t know if i like you that much.” soap makes the joke because it’s second nature, not because it’s particularly true. undressing a man like ghost sounds like a pretty good time to him - the marvel movie superhero body isn’t quite ghost’s entire appeal, but it’s not not a big draw.

“good thing i’m not asking,” ghost shoots back. he does, in fact, turn his back on soap to unzip his jacket and pull it off - he’s wearing a dark longsleeve beneath it, darker still in a deep V of sweat from his collar down his back. “you alright to sort yourself out?”

“i roll a wee bit lighter than you do.” his plate carrier doesn’t have as fancy a quick-release, but he’s running on years of practice with it at this point. he has both sides open in two movements each. “where’s your hammer?”

still turned away, ghost stretches his arms above his head, fingers interlaced. at least two joints pop loudly enough for him to hear. his back is arched in the stretch in a way that is particularly distracting. “urzikstan. US government property.”

“relieved to know you’re not cartin’ it with you everywhere, in that case.” he dumps his belt and leg holster, takes ghost’s lead in stowing his kit under the seats. “when’re we wheels-up? 45 or so?”

“just about.” ghost turns, and his gaze sweeps soap up and down deliberately. “why?”

“dying for a piss, sir. that and i think i’ve got a bag of peanuts at the bottom of my bag, and once the bay lights are off there’s zero chance i’m finding them.” he grins at the minute shake of the head he gets. “always have a stash. bein’ hangry behind a big rifle’s dangerous.”

ghost rolls his eyes. “just go and piss, soap, christ’s sake. i’m not your fucking mum.”

when he comes back, ghost’s nowhere to be seen, but there’s a rather mangled half-package of trail mix sitting on the seat soap’s gear is under. it makes him smile a little harder than he expects to.

the flight’s fucking torture, because he has to spend three hours waiting out mactavish’s crash into unconsciousness before he can fish his own blister-strip of modafinil out of his trouser pocket. he swallows two of them dry and tries to ignore the warm weight leaning increasingly heavily against his right side, arm, shoulder.

when laswell’s call comes through it’s taken just enough effect to make him deeply anxious without being particularly more awake, but if she notices how jittery and monosyllabic he is she doesn’t say anything. their intel sounds decent, at least, and by the time they land in el paso and get turned toward mexico with their gear mexican special forces should have the details nailed down.

it sounds straightforward, so it definitely won’t be, but he’s got something to work with, now.

soap doesn’t wake until touchdown, physically jolted off the shoulder he’s apparently claimed as a pillow. there’s no sleep-softness about him as he sits up, scrunching his eyes shut and open a few times, just a few moments of disorientation. “christ. that time already?”

“thankfully,” he answers, and straightens out his spine. his back is fucking killing him after so long of sitting deathly still, so as not to disturb the other man’s sleep. it’s tactical, means soap will be able to handle the gear loading and run checks on their weapons with a clear head, but christ is he suffering for it. “you good to go?”

“need a bit of a run around, maybe, but i’m up.” soap stretches, arms straight up and legs right out in front of him. “how likely am i to have deep vein thrombosis?”

“if you’re asking rather than screaming you’re probably fine.”

“probably.” the grin is bright, clear even in the low red-hued light of the hold. “i don’t know. takes a lot to get me screamin’.”

lord give him fucking strength. he doesn’t even stop moments after waking up. “then die quietly, mate.” he says it as dryly as he thinks is physically possible, and that still doesn’t dent soap’s good humour. “and do it after you get the kit squared away.”

“will do, sir.” the hold lights come up in a rush of white, and it makes something stab behind his eyes just hard enough to make him wince. “you want your usual packed?”

he unlatches the safety belt, stands upright with a lurch. “the usual and the FISH gear. i’ll forward you the brief but it sounds like where we’re headed’s built-up.” his right arm’s gone numb. soap mactavish is fucking heavy. “might as well take what we came in, too.”

“right you are, LT.” soap bounces to his feet, retrieves the twin bundles of kit from under the seats. “what’s the window?”

he checks his watch. “‘til 1200 zulu. it’s near-on 7 now. 0100 local.” he waits for soap to check his own, make the adjustment. “we should arrive in country just after sunrise.”

“five hours. got it. how about you?”

he blinks. “i’ve got one of shepherd’s boys to meet. he’s sending us contractors.”

“not those constellis dickheads again.” it’s long-suffering. good lad, he thinks privately.

“shadow. graves’ lot.” he can see it doesn’t register a whole lot of recognition, and he shrugs. “they’re good. disciplined. not quite as many complete psychos as the constellis lads.”

soap looks thoughtful. “on the ground?”

“tech. mobility, artillery. there aren’t so many of them they’ve got a big ground force, but they’re all pros.”

a nod. “good to have. i’ll let you get going, LT. come find me when you’re done?”

he pauses. he’s going to crash sooner or later, but the chance of somewhere private to have a kip for such a short time, on a busy air force base, it’s low. he’s not so confident in soap that he’s about to let the man babysit him, but… “will do. no slacking.”

“wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” soap grins, passing over his jacket.

it’s texas, but it’s also fucking october at 1am in the desert, and he turns the collar of the jacket up as he crosses the tarmac. even if he didn’t know the ace-of-spaces emblem on sight, the enormous C-5 is a big tipoff in and of itself. there’s a hive of activity around and between the C-5 and the AC-130 next to it, floodlights on stands bathing the shadow engineers and techs in harsh white light as they take inventory.

a few of them glance at him as he moves through their midst, but nobody stops him. he finds his mark quickly enough. “where are you, readiness-wise?”

phillip graves is probably older than he looks. probably older than he acts, too, because he has that particular dynamic, frantic energy that he associates with americans more concerned with boardrooms and bottom lines than battlefields. he straightens from the laptop perched on a munitions crate, grinning. “ghost! good to see you, big guy. welcome to america.”

“i’m familiar.” he fights the urge to fold his arms. he can already feel himself starting to clench his jaw. “timeframe, graves.”

“six, seven hours. refuelling, ordnance loading, and i’m waiting on a couple more of my guys coming down from the midwest. we’ll follow you boys down.”

“there been confirmation yet?”

“definitely las almas,” graves says confidently, like he expects recognition. he’s bending to retrieve a large hardcase, and as he pops it open it seems to be packed with electronics. “fuerzas especiales -” the southern-american twang on the spanish grates, “- had a run-in with our HVT two hours ago as they tried to move him over the border. he’s back on their territory, or so they say.”

“they’d know,” he answers, and graves laughs.

“well, we’ve gotta go check their work. you should have the brief by now, just check your mail.” the other man pauses midway through searching the case, cocking his head. “is it just you again, big fella?”

“and my sergeant. also SAS.”

that prompts a look of interest. “he as good as you?” it could be, and probably is a few things at once. small talk makes him itch and the compliment could be to sweeten him up a little. graves could be genuinely trying to learn more. he is also very likely thinking about going around him and through soap for any dealings with the 141.

“he’s fine.” it’s not really any of graves’ business. besides, the PMCs are constantly looking for UKSF boys to headhunt, and the less he gives away about soap the less likely shadow are to come knocking with fucking business cards. “too young for you.”

graves grins, holding out the object he’s taken from his case. “okay, ghost. didn’t know you were so possessive.”

he clenches his teeth together so hard it spikes pain through his jaw. fuck off, he doesn’t say. the gadget is a laser unit, a shadow company sticker on the side. he stuffs it into his jacket pocket. “we’ll see you on the other side.”

“got it. nice to see you again, ghost!” mercifully, the other man is already turning his attention back to his computer. “let’s make this a quick trip, right, brother?”

“right,” he echoes, finally giving in to the urge to roll his eyes as he turns away.

ghost probably thinks he’s being sly. he changes before they get on the transport into something with, somehow, even more layers and straps and pockets than usual, and the loose drape of the cowl and mantle almost conceal the way his chin falls forward just slightly toward his chest before the plane even takes off.

he’s not sure what ghost’s thing about not being asleep around other people is, other than a heaping dose of paranoia, but soap spends the two-hour flight being as still and quiet as he can. it’s just the two of them, and by the time they land he’s bored stiff, but he suspects ghost’s not had any rest at all since thursday and it’s the least he can do.

for how gruff and arms’ length as ghost is, he genuinely does like the man.

when ghost straightens up in the chair beside him, minutely stretching his neck and shoulders, there’s a renewed focus in the dark eyes. how he’s managing that on two, two and a half hours of sleep in the last three days soap has no idea, but this is ghost, not a mere mortal. spending this time with him and running along after him on-mission has only made it clearer that ghost was born for this, and all the stress and other shit that goes with it.

they’re lucky that their contact is someone like alejandro vargas. immediately, he likes the special forces colonel - he’d been a little concerned about the rank, because if there’s anything he’s learned from ten years in the army it’s that senior officers are closer to politicians than soldiers, but alejandro is forthcoming and genuine and the kind of pleasant that isn’t just blowing smoke up your arse.

(easy on the eyes, too.)

it is, though, fairly funny to watch ghost visibly struggle with the friendly welcome. he’s near-silent in the car on the way to the cartel safehouse, his few questions clipped and awkward. maybe it’s those good-soldier instincts that tell him to be a good boy and take instruction, he doesn’t know. even once they’re offloading, alejandro’s vaqueros buzzing around them, he falls into step behind a commander from a different force, slots right into that structure without a single visible ripple.

it’s just as well, because this one goes sideways too. they sweep the village and then the mexican fucking army come down on them, and being chased down to, along and then off a cliff wasn’t what he’d bargained for today. he’s glad he’d opted for more lightweight gear for this, because otherwise he’d never have come back up to the surface of the water after the plunge.

they swim, wade, struggle along the river with trained professionals shooting at them the entire fucking way, and by the time he collapses sidelong into the passenger seat of the army pickup he’s freezing cold the whole way through. water is oozing out of his boots.

something bounces into his lap heavily from behind his left shoulder. it’s a familiar little white plastic tube with a snap-tab top, and when he turns his head to look at ghost the other man already has a hand under the edge of the mask-veil. there is a faint grimace visible even in just those eyes.

dextrogel is absolutely fucking awful, but ghost’s got a point. they haven’t eaten since, what, four or five this morning, and it doesn’t seem like they’re going to get much of a chance. he snaps the end off and shotguns the thing as fast as he can. it’s rough.

“you’ve worked with this shadow company before?” god bless alejandro, he doesn’t comment on the two of them choking down glucose. maybe he’s been there. “you know their leader?”

“to an extent.” the empty gel tube emerges from beneath the fall of fabric, ghost’s other hand tucking the mask neatly into his neck gaiter again. “couple of ops. they’re quality.”

“then you take the lead, ghost.” that’s surprising. alejandro’s eyes are focused on the road as he drives. “you have the experience, english is your native language, it gives us our best chance. ¿esta bien?”

“right.” more than usual, there’s a steely tone under it. that tone of command, like in the heli to al mazrah. “then soap, you’re on this.”

soap’s grateful ghost doesn’t chuck this at him too, because it’s probably close to two kilos and he doesn’t want his dick flattened - he passes it forward instead. there’s a pair of switches on the side, a toggle and a push, and a few warning stickers next to them - laser device, then. other side is a spade emblem under a castle tower. why is it that these private contractors all have such shite logos, honestly? “you’re the boss, sir,” he answers, pointing the end into the footwell and giving the switch an experimental flick. nothing visible, but he can feel something thrumming inside the casing, so it’s probably infrared. “right behind you, LT.”

following ghost’s lead feels natural. maybe it’s cultural, that they’ve had the same training and done the same drills and done their fair share of running along behind the same man, or maybe after nearly three days of sharing basically the same air nonstop they’re starting to hit a stride. but as they advance on the stable, the greenhouse, he finds he’s already about to do something when the growl orders him to do it. he’s aware of where alejandro is, certainly, but he knows where ghost is like an extension of his own body.

it’s why, when they’re pushing the compound, it makes him stop fucking dead. it’s like, suddenly, there’s a clown car of the bastards pouring out from behind the water tower when alejandro’s moved up and ghost is in the fucking open, and he sees the guy at the same moment alejandro yells “RPG!”

the grenade moves as if in slow motion, but it’s not that. it’s the cartel boy by the truck with his rifle raised dead at ghost still six, seven feet from cover, and soap’s conscious mind blanks and goes oh, fuck, ghost’s fucking dead.

the hail of 25mm fire from the heavens tears the lad to shreds split-seconds later but ghost is knocked over, onto his side, uses his legs to kick forward into his cover position and soap’s already suppressing, grunting “ghost is hit!” with that sick gut-punch feeling. the shadows have the rest of them down in a huge boom and a spray of hard brown earth kicked up by high-calibre fire in moments, but all soap knows is that the second the bullets aren’t flying at them he’s by ghost’s side, heart in his mouth.

he’s not dead after all, thank fucking god. there’s a hole punched into the webbing of ghost’s chest rig, but there’s no blood, and he leans down to offer the other man a hand. it’s hit high and to the left of the front plate, and ghost is wheezing a little as he lets soap pivot him back onto his feet. he’s never taken a proper rifle round to a plate, but even with the ESAPIs it’s supposed to be like getting hit by a sledgehammer.

“ghost, no movement detected,” graves says evenly on the comm. “what’s your status?”

ghost himself is still trying to draw a full breath, winded as he is, so he jumps in. “he’ll be alright,” and his own voice sounds a little odd, in the comparative silence of the shed burning a few dozen feet away and the dust settling. “round hit the plate.” maybe it’s the relief. the adrenaline is pumping loud in his ears, in his throat and in his chest.

“affirm,” ghost says, raspier than ever as he readjusts his gear. he clasps soap’s elbow for a moment in wordless thanks and then eases around him to stride toward the little lean-to where alejandro is crouched in cover. “good thing your aim isn’t shite like theirs.”

after all this, soap thinks, hassan had better fucking be in there.

the drive back to the FES base is quiet, tense. none of them are happy. vargas is clearly disgusted that he has to release a terrorist back into his country, soap is still visibly fuming about not being allowed to pop the bastard in the head. graves, thank god, is riding back with his own boys, because otherwise the silent anger would be a much more vocal thing, and he doesn’t need more of a headache.

for now, they wait.

when they arrive he takes parra aside, because vargas and soap are lingering by the 4x4 and having some sort of serious, emphatic conversation with a lot of gesturing, and he doesn’t have the energy to go near it. for all of parra’s apparently smart comments he’s pleasant, low-key, gives him a keycard and directions and a phone number. “make yourself at home,” he offers with a small smile. “no man here will stand in your way. call if you need help.”

he gives parra a nod, because he’s too fucking tired for anything else, and takes himself off to the barracks building he’s been directed to. the keycard does, in fact, work, and it seems like the building has been cleared for their use because the only voices he hears as he traipses through the halls are americans speaking english. the showers are split into cubicles, thank fuck, so he spends five minutes under the warm spray and finds an unoccupied room to actually get some fucking shuteye. it’s more prison cell than bedroom but the door locks from the inside and that’s all he needs. he’s setting a six-hour timer on his phone when there’s a knock.

he stops, turns his head. stays silent, because that’s the instinct he’s developed over the last few years, and the quiet stretches out for a few more seconds.

another knock. two raps again, not too high up the door. and then, very, very quietly -

“ghost? you still awake?”

the brogue is unmistakeable. he takes the few steps to the door, flips back the lock. when he opens the door, there’s his shadow again.

“awright, LT?” if it were anyone else, he’d have ignored it, but there’s a very small part of him that’s pleased to see soap. maybe it’s the infectious energy - even if he’s dead on his feet, that fatigue lifts a little to see someone he… not trusts, but can rely on well enough. the smile on soap’s face is warm, not his usual cocksure grin but something a little more palatable. in soap’s hand is one of the little golden syrup oat bars from an ORP box, which he presents with a flourish. “brought you a present.”

as he stands in the doorway, he can see two mercs from shadow standing at the end of the corridor. they’re doing a decent job of looking like they’re not watching them, but not perfect. “come in,” he says, only it comes out as more of an indistinct rumble of c’mn. he doesn’t care, just retreats into the room and sits on the bed as soap steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

“found it in my night gear and thought you might need it more,” soap explains, dropping the granola bar on the spartan side table. “also just wanted to check on you, if i’m honest.”

he looks up at soap, just spends a long moment really looking at him. not for the first time, he wonders what made the man so dead-set on doing this. he’s heard the story from price, the ‘applied four times for the service despite knowing he was too young’ thing, and it’s not that mactavish is a bad fit for the SAS, but why did he want it so much? “i’m fine,” he says eventually, and it’s clear on mactavish’s too-honest face that he doesn’t believe a word of it.

“how’s your shoulder?”

“fucking sore,” he admits, because he knows denying it is even less believeable. “you should see the bruise.”

and then mactavish says “go on, then, ghosty,” and raises an eyebrow, playful. little shite. “‘s’it that bad? impress me, sir.”

he opens his mouth without anything to actually say, because he’s just been challenged to prove he’s not just whinging, and if he says no then soap is going to base at least three-quarters of his banter on it for the foreseeable. never live it down, and all that.

so he does it. yanks his left arm out of his sleeve, ignoring the pain, and uses his right hand to hike his shirt up to his neck, expose the whole left side of his chest. “meet with your approval, sergeant?”

he can, at least, take satisfaction in the way that soap’s mouth drops open. “jesus,” he murmurs softly, and leans closer to look. it takes effort not to lean away from him. “you’re sure you’re fine? nothin’ broken?”

it’s a fair question to ask, because the deep purple centre of the impact site is barely an inch below the collarbone, ringed in a margin of white and then a broad semicircle of dark, livid bruising. it looks far worse than it is, spreading a good way down the outside of the pectoral. “doesn’t feel that way,” he says, and then becomes conscious that soap’s arm, his hand is moving. “touch it and i’ll snap your fucking finger off.”

the eyes flick back to his face from where they’ve been fixed on the bruise. the light in here is thin and harsh, fluoro bulbs, and it washes out the blue into a greyish colour. that hand drops instantly. “course not. there’s a dent in you, that’s mental.” his eyes go back to the bruise, and then they start to… wander.

“it was a proper rifle, not a pea-shooter. that’s what happens, sergeant.” soap’s had enough of a show, so he slips his arm back into his shirtsleeve and leans back on his hands. there’s still a look in soap’s eyes that hasn’t quite gone away, something he doesn’t quite like the feel of. it seems almost like interest, and it makes the back of his neck flush hot. “wouldn’t recommend it.”

“i’ll bear that in mind,” soap answers, a laugh underpinning his words. “you got meds for it?”

“basics. i’m not taking anything stronger until we know what our next move is.” soap’s brow furrows a little at that, and he sighs. “hassan’s still loose, and we’re still after missiles. i want to be sharp.”

a long moment, and soap relents. “you’re the boss,” he says, folding his arms. the t-shirt he’s got on is struggling around his biceps, stretched taut. for all the difference in their heights soap is average but solid with it, well-built, and clearly he isn’t taking that into account when he’s buying clothes.

he’s getting distracted. christ, he really is tired. “bit of sleep and i’ll be fine. fucking knackered.”

“get that down you,” mactavish jerks his head at the oat bar, “before you do. i’ll pop round in the morning and we’ll get some proper scran then, alright?”

‘the morning’ is probably longer than he wanted to wait, but it makes sense. there’ll be a cookhouse onsite. “fine.” he has to lean sideways for the granola, but he can reach, and sits back up with it held in both hands. “out with you. getting sick of the sight of you, johnny-boy.”

the offhand nickname just sort of comes out of him, and it prompts a grin from soap that makes him infinitely regret being careless. “you’ve a bit longer to hang on, i’m afraid, sir.” little fucker is delighted, makes no effort to hide it. “goodnight -”

“go,” he warns, to pre-empt anything else, and for once soap does so without further comment. he flicks the lock shut again and goes back to the bed, hauling off his mask and shoving the entire oat bar into his mouth while he unlaces his boots. drier than the fucking sahara, but it fills a hole. he’s grateful for it.

alright, fine. he’ll admit to himself that john mactavish is, perhaps, not the worst case scenario. he’s a sound lad. could do with less writing checks with his mouth that his arse can’t cash, but everyone’s got their sticking points. he’s pleasant - charming, even - and thoughtful. just the right kind of crazy for this job.

before he lies down, he extends the timer to eight hours, sets it running.

if price or laswell or shepherd need him before then, well, they know his number.

it feels pretty fucked that this is exciting.

soap gets shot at for a living. does his fair share of shooting back, to be fair, but the point is that lethal danger is normal. and yet this, stripped of all his gear and with nothing but the knife alejandro presses furtively into his hand, it’s fucking exhilarating.

they’d been about to shoot him in the face and then they didn’t.

alejandro is keeping his distance, doing a good job of looking as much part of the furniture as the real guards, and he’s doing his best to get a decent mental image of the mansion in his mind. the recce was rushed and all they really have a good idea of is that southern corner. ghost’s on about the roof, but how’s he going to -
it’s instinct, maybe, that makes him zero in on the juliet balcony as he slips through the gate. that’s the first floor sorted - second, soap corrects himself, bloody american floor numbering - and with a glance around he steps up into the raised bed, hoists himself up. even as alejandro reiterates his warning - “this is a denied area, the guards will shoot on sight,” he’s hugging the wall of the landing. it’s hard to orient himself in an unfamiliar house in an unfamiliar place, but the pool is south and he knows ghost is to the east, up in the hills. his way up is probably in his sightline. with no idea where on this floor diego might be…

he holds his breath and looks for an external wall due what he thinks could be east. he can hear, so faintly, alejandro’s steps behind him.

when he pushes open the door to the little terrace, he’s not sure they’ve gone the right way, but then he hears the barely-there intake of breath in the right ear region of the mask a split-second before the words.

“got a visual on you, johnny.”

the first time had been an accident, but saying it again, now, is definitely ghost’s idea of a joke. one that poor alejandro isn’t in on, but soap can feel himself grinning inside the mask. been a while since anyone deliberately called him that, and half the time it was absolutely supposed to be sarcastic or insulting, but ghost’s not on first-name terms with anyone.

“there’s a trellis outside you can take to the roof.”

like his body’s on autopilot, he vaults the stone wall and takes care to land quietly as possible on the terracotta tiles. the cartel boys are chatting about something below them, and he sees the trellis as he creeps forward.

“what about diego’s keycard?” he asks it as quietly as he can, barely hears it in his own ears past the thudding of his pulse. if they end up needing it, it’s going to be a fucking pain to go back for. he needs alejandro with him to watch his back, because if they get caught they’re both fucking dead. no plate carrier, no blooming near-miss bruise stark on white skin.

“your call,” ghost breathes through the comm.

ghost’s watching him, his stupid fucking brain realises belatedly, watching him right now, and in an instant the hair stands up on his arms, he gets that electric-shock zap up his spine, feels that flush of heat all over. it’s that instinct of wanting to perform well for a superior, for someone he respects, but it’s also that his adrenaline’s pumping and he’s pent-up and he’s not too proud to admit the voice does something for him. the voice and, let’s be honest, also nearly everything else. god, that fucking bruise, it was gorgeous.

welcome to mexico, mate , he thinks as he climbs the roof access ladder. your souvenir’s a fat fucking hard-on for price’s big bad faceless attack dog. have fun with that attempt at wanking.

the roof is tiled like the architect gave up halfway through, and it disorients him a little as they make it to the flat centre. he can hear voices somewhere behind the planters, more cartel boys. he can feel alejandro moving to use a different one as cover, keep from cramming them both behind the same lemon tree or whatever like a monty python sketch.

“penthouse is in the north corner,” comes the direction. he turns himself accordingly and peeps around the edge of his planter. there’s a way round, albeit potentially dodgy. he has a knife but there’s a limit to how many they can silently dispatch without alerting anyone.

there is, however, a floor-to-ceiling window, and from his angle he can see the ugly yellow and brown shirt passing behind the glass. “alejandro,” he whispers. “found diego.”

“roger that.” where alejandro is, now, he has no clue, but he’s not where he was.

“check the penthouse. i’ll cover you.”

he can imagine himself in the crosshairs of ghost’s L96, inching along behind the barbeques. if he fucks up now, there are just more eyes on him getting his brains blown out.

fun thought.

instead he rolls the bottle he pilfered earlier along the floor, and as he hears the footsteps of the cartel gunman go to investigate the rattling glass noise he makes for the tower structure. elevator shaft, right? there are cartel inside the penthouse, and going through the windows is going to make a fuckton of noise, but they can probably get at the top of the elevator and move down that way. it’ll give them cover for the approach. he can get a fucking gun in his hands.

as if reading his mind, the moment he pops up to the penthouse roof, alejandro is there. where exactly he’s come from soap has no fucking clue, but it feels good to see him. safe. the door to the elevator shaft is open, the shaft open, and he knows they’re talking to one another, but his focus is racking to the door ahead of them as alejandro slides out of the elevator doors after him.

“i need a weapon.”

“we’ll get you one.”

alejandro doesn’t even have the guy fully subdued before he pushes forward, helps put him on the ground a bit more quietly. as his hand touches the metal of the rifle, that jolt again. maybe his wires are a bit crossed, because he probably doesn’t want to fuck this gun, as glad as he is to see it.

something in the back of his head goes hang on, who said anything about actually fucking ghost? oh, no, i actually want to, don’t i, but he’s not paying much attention to it. the rest of him is preoccupied with the snake-cam, kneeling down to get to the eyepiece, and oh. oh, it was el sin nombre him- no, herself who’d had the gun in his face. he’d really been that close to getting chucked out back with the rest of the corpses.

it really, really shouldn’t make him grin.

“valeria? are you sure, hermano?”

“yes.”

he settles himself by the door as alejandro radios it in. she has nowhere to run. shadow are ready, and ghost’s rifle will be on the doors out to the rooftop. all he has to do now is not get shot in the face. he signals positions - two left side, valeria centre, two right.

he’ll take left. diego is on the left.

alejandro explodes in, and it is easy to slot in beside him and pop the waiting guards - diego salgado crumples to two rounds in the heart, hitting the floor like a sack of bricks, and soap is already running through the room toward the back exit.

the floodlights of the chopper are bright enough it’s painful to face them, but she’s stopped and raised her hands, folding to her knees as graves promises to make her, and he sets the sets of the rifle squarely on her face. gives her a taste of her own medicine. “el sin nombre.” she’s beautiful, he thinks, especially defiant like this, head held high as he drags her arms behind her back.

“me llamo valeria,” she corrects, a smile on her lips.

“hiding in plain sight.” he tightens his grip as graves hops down from the chopper with a couple of his boys, all with rifles in-hand.

“hiding?” she sounds incredulous. still so in control. “estoy en todos partes, soldado.” he only really understands that last part, soldier in a taunting sing-song, but graves seems to understand.

it’s sort of eerie, the way their vibes match.

he lets graves’ lads haul her into the chopper, because alejandro is standing there silent, staring, and she looks back to make meaningful eye contact. soap asks ‘you good’ in the very clumsy limited spanish he knows, because it seems to amuse the older man, but -

“valeria. i know her.”

oh. what the fuck?

he takes a deep breath and follows alejandro toward the chopper.

they leave the container together, the four of them, but graves catches his eye and jerks his head left. he pauses, turns, gives soap the nod.

“go, johnny. it’ll take time. i want you rested.”

his sergeant grins, as he does every time he’s called the nickname. it’s why he keeps doing it. why he wants to amuse soap is another thing entirely, something he’s not sure of. “got it, sir. catch you in a bit.”

soap saunters off with parra across the warehouse, and he goes after graves, stands aside with him in the shadow of the catwalk. the american’s expression is uncharacteristically pensive. “what’s your read?”

he doesn’t like it, personally. doesn’t like garza, doesn’t like her background. “she’s all we have.” he doesn’t like that, either. but they have to act on what they have, because what’s the alternative? a missile hitting the southern US? “she’s a snake, but she knows that her intel has to be good for her to keep breathing.”

graves’ smile is cocky, artificial. too bright and sharp. for a handsome man there’s something subtly wrong about him, his bearing. “for now. she’s also gotta know there’s only so far she can string us along.”

that’s true, too, but it’s not his call. “it’s shepherd’s say-so.” graves knows that. he’s not going to let himself be baited into posturing over the blurry chain-of-command. “you know him better than me. but he’s going to want to go for it.”

“yes he is.” graves’ drawl drags out the syllables. the affected casual air is deeply irritating. “guess we better call DC, huh?”

between calling shepherd and laswell, dragging in the laptop to take sin nombre’s intel, working out their approach, it takes hours. his watch reads 0340 or near enough by the time he trails back to the guest barracks and finds his room.

turns out he’s got a squatter.

to give him his credit, soap wakes up from where he’s been dozing, legs dangling off the side of the bed, and swings upright almost instantly. “one of those chats, was it, LT?”

“you’ll want your own bed, we’ve got about six hours before we need to be gone.” which means about four hours of sleep, if he’s lucky. he’s not going to waste time waiting for soap to take himself off to his own room - he reaches for the straps of his elbow pads and starts dumping his gear into the corner. “she’s sending us to an oil rig nearly six hundred miles away and there’s zero chance of a boat drop for three teams.”

“three? for one rig?” the voice comes up right behind him, and it raises the barbed-wire nervy feeling around his throat, the back of his neck, his spine. “is it that big?”

danger, danger, fucking danger. john mactavish is a trained killer. his body is screaming at him that this vulnerability is wrong. “no.” it takes conscious effort not to slam his elbow back when he feels tugging on the release buckles at the small of his waist. he’d hated this the first time and he hates it now. his instincts are having a very pointed argument over whether it’s an attack or -
stop it.

soap is just attempting to help, he reminds himself, and it’s not worth snarling at him for being too familiar. he forces himself to breathe in and start working on his thigh straps, because if soap tries to do those he’s going to have a fucking aneurysm. “two targets. the container ship that delivered the missile is holding half a click off. weather in the gulf’s getting worse.”

“container ship’s a smallish crew, right?” hands unfasten the cowl from where it’s tied into his rig, and then the rig itself comes loose. he pauses to lift it off himself, feels the hands start on his plate carrier. “you or graves on that one?”

“me.” when he’d first started working with soap he’d thought the kid was an idiot, but there’s a subtle sharp intelligence under the extrovert exterior. he follows barely-explained logic like this without effort, anticipates things he’s not told. it’s impressive. “you and graves with the other teams - and vargas, he’s volunteered too. the rest of the cohort are shadow. parra and the lads here are sitting tight in case it goes fanwards.” he drops the belt and ducks to take over lifting his plate carrier over his head. “i’ll run the brief with you once we’re moving. plenty of time then.”

“right.” there’s a long moment before he feels soap finally step back out of his space. it feels like the longest three or four seconds of his fucking life. “d’you want me to sort your kit? give you a wee bit of a longer lie?”

“i’ll get it myself.” having someone run around after him, organising his gear and even taking it off him, is a level of tight-knit that makes something in him viscerally uncomfortable. it doesn’t help that soap’s voice is low, soft, a consideration of the ungodly hour but when combined with his hands all over and his presence pressed close is a suggestion of something, something heavy and anxiety-inducing and clearly distinctly unintentional. “get yourself in order, yeah? if you turn up at transport in a t-shirt again i’m fucking leaving you here.”

he turns just in time to be playfully swatted in the shoulder. “alright, batman, i’ll do proper kit. but don’t think i didn’t notice you packed jeans.”

he pauses - i did, didn’t i? -and soap bursts out laughing, so he rolls his eyes. “i don’t give a shit about the jeans, mactavish, but that thing’s too fucking small for you. throw on a fucking jacket, mate, i’m begging you.”

“not orderin’ me? you must be fair shattered, sir.” the little fucker winks at him. exactly the same as the first time, he feels a powerful urge to smack soap up the side of his mohawk. or do something worse, shove him back against the wall, do something they’ll both regret - “night-night, ghost.”

soap leaves, and the moment the door’s locked he sags against it, pulling the mask off his face with a yank. only now does he feel like he can breathe - he’s been consciously focusing on keeping his breaths even the entire time he’s had that attention fixed on him, the kiloton charisma, the trespassing hands.

“fucking hell,” he breathes, and scrubs a hand through his hair.

3. cold in the marrow of my bones

Summary for the Chapter:

november 3rd. 1 hour.

Notes for the Chapter:

here it is, the alone chapter (and it is almost EXCLUSIVELY alone, i’m sorry). i tried to do a thing and i’m not sure it’s thinging, but bear with me. if you hate it, it’s only this chapter.

two more chapters planned, but we’ll see how it goes. i’ve also upped the rating for the whole work.

thank you to everyone who’s left kudos, bookmarked and especially commented. i’m shy so i find it hard to reply but please know i adore you

he’s been shot before, actually, but it’s been small-arms fire or just being winged. this, a bullet buried in his arm, it’s new. the pain is like being both inside and outside his body at the same time - burning, white-hot, so overwhelming that he can barely breathe. fuck, fuck, fuck.

soap can’t even really think straight. his thoughts are jumbled, the what the fuck knocking up against the i’m going to fucking kill him and getting spun off to the side by i’m going to die here . the only thing he has clearly fixed is that single point of focus - the church. let’s RV there.

the bullet wound is pissing blood, and he’s conscious that it’s about the only part of him that feels even slightly warm. shock, right? like he told ghost, he’s not a medic. he hasn’t even got a TQ on him. he’s taking short little gasping breaths, and he tries to consciously slow them down and listen to the shadows in the next room at the same time, but he’s not really taking in the words. all he really registers is the gunshots. if he stops, he’s dead.

“fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, and forces himself to move.

soap’s left his radio switch on. he’s not sure if it’s out of convenience or because he can’t reach for the button, but neither are ideal. he doesn’t want to get the poor lad killed, though, so he slides one side of the headphones backward to have a little more outside awareness and puts up with it.

there’s a shadow lingering in the street outside his position. doesn’t look like he’s in any hurry to move, either. light armour, carries himself like an average sort of bloke. nothing special.

“ creepin’ - ”

he’s got his own radio turned down low, but the voice is thin with pain already, and it comes through like a whimper.

“what are you seeing?” the handle of the knife is perfectly-fitted to his hand. it’s why he chose them.

“ a bloodbath. ”

same as here, then. while they were in the gulf, more shadows were streaming into the country, snakes in the fucking grass, ready to uncoil and bite them in the arse. he slips out of the window and surges forward, feeling the blade sink deep into the soft unprotected space at the side of the man’s neck and bisecting the carotid. hot red sprays violently across his hand, his sleeve, the wall. “watch your arse,” he grunts, taking the weight of the dying shadow in his arms. “you’ve got exactly zero allies down there.”

“we’re friends, no..?” oh, johnny.

he feels the atrophied little part of him that feels sympathy kick unpleasantly. he pushes the feeling aside to drag the shadow back through the window, dumping him in the corner with his waning heart still squirting blood rhythmically up the wall and along the floor. “we’re teammates. friendship’s not in the field manual, johnny.” the last friend he had joined a pan-african terrorist group, after all.

teammates is safer. the trust doesn’t need to be unconditional. you can walk away from a teammate if they fuck up - like, for example, if they flip an ally’s base from underneath you and start shooting civilians in the streets. you can plant a knife in their neck and not feel anything.

you don’t have to feel your heart in your throat, hoping they’ll survive to meet you at this fucking church.

“no more green lights, johnny. we’re on our own.”

“what about alejandro?” he can feel his pulse in his ears now, and he’s pretty sure that’s bad. but the panic is starting to ebb a bit, and that he can attribute to two things - the head torch he just found, and the fact that ghost is keeping up a dialogue with him, minding him even from wherever in the warren of las almas’ streets he is. it’s distracting him from the idea that the corpse four feet away has his internal organs hanging out.

“alejandro you can trust. but he’s in graves’ custody. if he’s even alive.” ghost is medic-trained. he wonders how much of the chat is trying to keep him focused and stave off the shutdown of shock. it’s not exactly optimistic stuff, but still. it’s working. mostly.

“alejandro es nuestro hermano. if he’s alive, he’s on our side.” it’s strange how quickly you take to people in this line of work. he met alejandro two days ago and they’re brothers. he’s spent five days by ghost’s side and having the man colleague-zone him five minutes ago was genuinely painful.

“be careful who you trust, sergeant. people you know can hurt you the most.” ghost in a nutshell, that one. guard your face, your body, your thoughts, your past. he wonders, in a strange moment of distracted clarity, if ghost is ever lonely. when the last time someone hugged him was.

he winds a length of cord around the jagged end of the metal fragment he’s just found. it’s still sharp, but it’s not going to cut him through his gloves, and that’s all he can ask. “good advice, LT,” he murmurs. “i wanna be just like you when i grow up.”

“you wanna be better than me, johnny.” the reply is immediate, like ghost didn’t even have to think about it, and soap feels a little shiver run down his back.

“got my work cut out, then.” it comes out as an uncertain sort of whisper, because he might be imagining hearing the movement but he’s sure there’s something behind the locked door. could be nothing, could also be his impending violent death. good times.

“that you do.”

the sound he hears makes him stop dead, midway up the side-street by the church, and duck into the nearest dark doorway to thumb the button on his radio. “gimme a sitrep,” he demands, because it sounds like soap has collapsed, and if nothing else the ingrained instinct to respond to orders might break through the fog.

“outside.” soap sounds winded. “gated alley.”

they’ve taken a similar route, past the dog, and he realises with a lurch soap’s just jumped off that fucking balcony. fucking madman. “stick to the edges and stay low,” he advises - well, commands, but with good intentions - and slides out of his hiding-place again.

“copy.” the pain and effort are still bleeding through on the radio.

“you may get a brag rag for this,” he says, because it’s the first thing that comes to his mind and he wants soap thinking about his voice rather than about how much it hurts to move, breathe, survive.

“a medal?”

“chest candy,” he bats back. the back door of the church is unlocked when he tries it, and the key is in the other side of door. he turns it and throws it on the floor, shoves the side table of tattered books against the door. there’s a tower, so there’ll be a way up somewhere back here. he just has to find it.

“that’s all rubbish,” soap answers, which doesn’t surprise him. apparently he hadn’t wanted the ones from the urzikstan HMG incident either, according to price. he’s starting to sound a little less distressed, which is good. great, even.

“you said you wanted a win,” he breathes, trying one of the hallway doors. no luck, empty. “congratulations, you’re a winner.”

the response is a car-crash of scots syllables that sounds like it’s probably ‘go boil your head’, accompanied by a loud scoff, and he jumps on it.

“english, mactavish.” soap thrives on banter, and teasing him a bit feels like the right thing to do. if they’re talking, joking, soap’s not spiralling.

“sorry, sir, let me translate.” stairwell up. jackpot. “‘go fuck yourself’.”

it’s so crisply enunciated and pointed it nearly makes him laugh. his answer of “much better” is through an actual smile, and it probably comes through in his voice, but he doesn’t care about that right now. if soap’s alive enough to joke with him, he can make it.

the shops are crawling with shadows, but they’re all distracted, too busy chatting amongst themselves to notice him skulking about in the dark corners. there’s one that seems almost reasonable, and it takes effort to keep quiet when the man refers to ghost as ‘that big boy with the skullface’, but soap tries to stay interior as much as he can and avoid going near them. as he slips through the back of the tailor shop, there’s another corpse, but this is one of shadow company, slumped in a halo of oxidising blood. his breath hitches as he steals closer and pulls out the knife sunk deep into the side of the man’s neck.

right through his major artery. there’s blood everywhere. no footprints or drag marks. the corpse is still warm. “ghost,” he murmurs, “you missing a knife…?”

“several.”

why wouldn’t he take them with him? this is ghost, obviously, he’s got at least five on him, but… “think i found one.” did he leave it behind deliberately? for soap?

“some of the dead shadows are my handiwork.”

it’s a gorgeous blade, wickedly sharp, balanced well as he wraps his fingers tightly around it. the blood coating the handle is tacky, sticks to his gloves, but better that than slippery. “you came through here?” it makes sense. they both left the road at about the same place. ghost saw the dog. he’s moving faster because he’s not bleeding to death. he’s not sure about ghost’s service history, because it’s locked down tighter than literally anything else in 141, but with all the improvised weapon advice ghost has been giving him it seems like this is his element.

“on my way to the church.” the church is where ghost is right now. it’s not that far away. he can see the tips of the dual towers lit against the night sky in the distance.

ghost could have waited.

“and you left me?” he tries not to sound too accusatory. he isn’t upset, he really isn’t, but if having ghost talking to him constantly on comm helps him to feel safe, more lucid, then it’d be so easy with the man by his side.

ghost can talk all he wants about how trust is dangerous, but soap trusts him. ghost’s voice on the line is all that’s keeping him pushing forward.

“i’m used to working alone.” no shit.

“so much for no man left behind,” he answers, backtracking through the store. the three in the alleyway are going to be a pain in the arse to get past, but -

“just get yourself to the church.” he hunkers down behind the shop counter, working through ghost’s instructions for the improv smoke bomb. it’ll burn thick, smoky black, probably, and he’s going to have to be sure if he runs into it where the boys are. “tryin’ to keep you alive and get you here in one piece. one of us needs to survive to tell the tale.”

maybe he can lure one away. he could slam the door, get out the side and around. if he does that he’ll need to take out the one at the street corner standing guard. “taken a shine to me, then?” soap’s not thinking much about what he’s saying, concentrating on his hands as he winds tape around his little parcel, but ribbing ghost is starting to feel natural, comfortable.

“not in the slightest,” ghost answers, and there is that little twist on his words again, the one that makes it sound like he might be smiling. for such a big, scary lad, he’s rapid with the banter. “still got a lot of ground to cover.”

ain’t that the fucking truth.

he’s been up here maybe ten minutes, and he’s feeling worse and worse about their chances as he watches the square below. the shadows are out in force, spread out to hold the town centre, and they’ve got proper hardware with them. he’s not going to give himself away just yet, but soap might not be able to make it, wounded as he is. they’ve rolled out coils of razor wire across the main ingress routes, and it looks like there’s a full squad of them just looking for trouble in the buildings below.

“LT,” comes the soft voice in his headset, low and… he can’t quite place the tone. something dark in it, promising. “about to play rough with the shadows.”

that’ll be why. soap’d be in the wrong line of work if he didn’t like a scrap, but this is something else. this is fighting back against people who’ve fucked them. he can’t say that he’s too unhappy about the idea of more of the shadows dead in the street. “i like the sound of that.”

“fashioned a trip mine.”

good lad. soap is learning fast. he’s taken to this like a fucking natural, despite the circumstances. “a man after my own heart,” he whispers, watching one of the shadows check a doorway down below.

there it is again, the tone, when soap answers “thought you’d like that,” and it’s the words that make it click. sounds like something he’d hear gasped into his ear in the dark, hands all over his skin, a mouth on his throat. a hard, fat cock buried inside him, flaying him open.

a hot flush explodes across the back of his neck, the base of his throat. now is not the time. “you thought right,” he answers, forcing his voice level.

“stay on guard and keep moving to the church.”

“aye,” he grinds out. he’s reeling, has to grab the wall for support. the smoke bomb works, that’s the good part, but he’s sluggish. hadn’t been quick enough. took a hard knock to the head as he’d tried to knife the second one, paranoid that the gunshot was going to bring shadows running to block his only way forward, and while he’s still alive he’s still seeing stars.

“feeling weak, are you?”

and then some. the bleeding has slowed, he thinks, down to a steady ooze, but that doesn’t help hypovolemic shock. “a bit shaky, sir, yeah.” his hand’s trembling. he tightens his fingers into a fist and pushes on.

“graves tried to kill us. would stand to reason if you were a little off.” graves. fuck. every time he thinks of the man there’s a sharp stab of anger in his gut. “find a stim, it’ll give you a boost.”

epi? is that alright? his basic life support training is a little fuzzy right now but he thought adrenaline could make things worse. feels like he’s got way too much coursing through him already. but ghost knows best, is looking out for him. if he finds one, he’ll use it. another hole in his body is barely going to register at this point.

the rain is pelting down, now, and he’s fucking freezing. part of that’ll be the blood loss, but he’s soaked to the skin, and that won’t be helping. “it’s pishin’ it doon out here,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

but his line’s open, of course, and - “speak english.” ghost sounds long-suffering, but it’ll be the joke again, the english/scottish disconnect.

“‘it’s raining fucking hard’,” he ‘translates’, emphasising each syllable, hitting the Gs hard. next time ghost comes out with a northernism he’s going to fucking pounce on it.

“then say so.” it’s a satisfied near-purr. arsehole, he thinks, fondly.

“i did.” the street’s flooded, but he’s as wet as he can possibly get already, and he ploughs through the puddle best as he can. it’s deep, and he’s not steady on his feet, but he’s getting there.

“rain’s good. it’ll cover your tracks.”

thank you, professor ghost. “covers theirs too.” he has to pause for breath by the steps, but there’s a shadow company equipment case over there. he wants it.

“let’s worry about you, johnny.” and that’s genuine, matter-of-fact, not just teasing him, not that he can tell. it’s hard to tell with ghost, but past the dry manner he feels like the other man isn’t much for deceit. not that he doesn’t try, it just seems to be one of the very few things he’s not good at.

“so you do like me,” soap teases. flirts. same thing.

there’s a tiny breath of laughter. something in soap’s chest actually fucking flutters. “i like you alive.”

just teammates, he thinks. aye right.

he pries open the hardcase and sees the auto-injector, and he nearly falls to his knees in relief. grabs it, checks the label, checks the orientation, and after a silent prayer that ghost knows what he’s talking about, stabs it into his thigh. the pain is bright, piercing, fucking beautiful.

“good morning mexico,” he gasps, electrified.

this is starting to be deeply unpleasant. he’s so close to home free. he’s picked out a vehicle, knows his way out, and knows that with every minute he waits he could be discovered and killed. he’s set up a tripwire in the stairway behind him but he doesn’t fancy his chances if all of the shadows in the square suddenly come at him.

he should leave.

but he doesn’t.

johnny’s still down there.

“i’m in the coffee shop,” comes the voice on his radio, right on time.

“get us a tea,” he murmurs, flicking rainwater from the scope of his rifle.

“fucking brits,” soap moans, and before he can remind him scotland’s still a part of britain he carries on. “you’re gonna owe me for this.”

“why?” now that soap’s got the extra adrenaline in him he’s perked up, but it just means the smart mouth is back with a vengeance. he sounds like he’s fucking plotting something.

“we’re fixing each other’s problems.”

“what’s my problem?” he realises, a moment too late, that this is flirting. this is the way he’d be talking to a man he’s trying to pull. same tone of voice, same little smile that he realises is on his lips. fuck.

“the mask,” comes the answer, again in that low voice. “take it off.”

jesus fucking christ.

soap has to know what he’s doing. has to know that this is toeing the line of soldier bravado. has to know how he sounds, how this is just about to cross the line from ‘haha, my mate and i are so close it’s like we’re fucking’ to something that could get them into real trouble.

he should shut this down right now. but there is that searing heat in his skin again, in the pit of his belly. take it off, soap had commanded, and he’s not confident that if ordered again he wouldn’t kneel and obey.

“show my face?” he asks instead.

“yes, sir,” johnny breathes.

“negative.”

“are you ugly?” it’s playful, unserious. it’s his way out. absolutely hideous, mate, he could say, turn the conversation back towards a joke. the mask isn’t to hide my face, it’s to keep from giving kids nightmares.

“quite the opposite,” his stupid fucking mouth says instead.

“i doubt that.” it’s still in that same promising tone. seductive.

god, he’s absolutely fucked.

with the deagle in his hand he feels shockingly safe. there wasn’t that much ammo for it in the safe but a fifty cal bullet will punch through most of the armour the shadows wear, and one of the caches of equipment had a suppressor that fits. even with that it’ll make a racket, but he’s not as vulnerable now, and he might manage a rifle soon.

he’s getting close now. more and more shadows to duck past. he’s still looking for the tunnel when ghost tells him the fucking awful joke. the only thing that redeems it is that ghost seems to actually be laughing at his own fucking awful joke.

people respond to stress differently. some shut down, and some thrive on it. for ghost, living through a violent betrayal by a well-armed paramilitary force seems as natural as breathing. not for the first time, he wants to know what the fuck ghost’s been doing his whole career.

he cuts through the abandoned bar, listening for a long moment to make sure he’s alone before he reports in. “LT. i’m at the bar.” he dares to uncrouch a little, stretch his legs. the injection site’s still stinging like a bastard but the pain is starting to ebb from his right arm. his fingers are still trembling, but he can manage that.

“you like tequila?”

it’s such a normal, unexpected question that he can’t help the little laugh. “could use one right about now.” instead he takes an empty bottle, secures it under a strap of his rig.

“i’d murder for a whisky.”

you’d murder for less than that, he doesn’t say. “y’mean scotch?” he might have to reconsider their blossoming teammate-friendship if ghost’s an irish whiskey man.

“i drink bourbon.”

no you don’t , he thinks. bourbon’s too sweet for a man like ghost. he lets out another tiny little note of laughter. “like a good ol’ boy?” drinkin’ whiskey and rye, singin’ ‘this’ll be the day that i die’.

“i love kentucky.” something about it, the faint drawl on the words, makes him shiver again. he’s not imagining it, he doesn’t think, the way ghost’s voice keeps dropping lower and softer and smokier when he bats back a reply to a teasing comment. sweeter, like the bourbon he claims to drink.

he definitely didn’t imagine the way ghost’s pulse had raced when they’d sparred.

“you’re out of your mind, LT.”

“that’s for sure.”

“ghost…”

he’s been watching a pair of shadows down in the plaza and feels himself faintly untense at hearing that voice again. “talk to me, johnny.”

“i found the tunnel.”

he sweeps his focus to the street where it emerges. “the church plaza’s on the other end of the tunnel. push through, you’re nearly here.”

he needs to start thinking about their exfil. if he goes flat-out he can make it to the church gates in thirty, forty seconds. across the plaza depends on how heavy the resistance is. with luck, the pickup he’s had his eyes on will manage the flimsy barricade it’s near, and then they’ll be moving. it seems to be just here that the shadows have dug in, at least as far as he can see from here, so if they just fucking drive they can get out of the urban centre and to vargas’ safehouse.

he wants to get somewhere he can take a look at johnny’s injuries.

if they live that long.

the door is his last obstacle to the church, so of course it’s fucking locked. he uses the last of the tape to bind off another pry tool and works it into the gap, and when the door swings open the shadow on the other side slams his rifle right into soap’s fucking face.

“- got one near the church!” the shadow is yelling, already raising the muzzle of his rifle, and soap has a single moment of clarity when he thinks i almost fucking made it, this is bullshit , and accepts this is how he dies.

and then the bullet punches clean through the shadow’s chest and he drops like a stone.

“holy hell, ” he gasps, struggling to sit up as two, three more shots ring out. more shadows hit the deck in the street. “ghost, was that you-?”

“who else? now go!” angels are real, and they carry high-cal rifles.

soap finds his feet and fucking sprints. the church is right there, but with his position given away ghost is no longer on overwatch, and he’s on his own. his right hand’s still a little clumsy, and his aim’s unsteady as he puts down the shadows in his way.

“gimme a bloody break,” he spits, ducking behind a parked car. bullets ricochet off the wall behind him. “ghost, how copy?”

“johnny, got company in the church, and they’re not here for forgiveness!” ghost’s also running. he sounds like he’s taking fire too, voice breathless and ragged. “get to the steps! i’ll be there!”

“copy, LT!” he pops the lad trying to flank him right in the neck. not his cleanest kill, but it’ll have to do. he hurdles the dying man and charges at the steps, skidding behind another car at their base. there’s movement behind the fence, and - “ghost!”

“soap!” ghost’s putting down the men spilling out of the church behind him and then he drops his rifle on its sling and fucking leaps at the gate, pushes up off the junk piled at the base and vaults clean over the top like it’s nothing. it honestly takes his breath away a little. in a heartbeat ghost’s gun’s up again, and he veers off right, so soap follows. “we need a vehicle, on me! stay sharp, they know we’re here and they know it’s us. they’ll send more.”

they already fucking have. “contact! dead ahead!”

“i see ‘em! watch the alley!” ghost’s a man on a mission. he probably has their exfil already planned, and he keeps pushing up the street. there’s a heavily-armoured shadow swinging his rifle in ghost’s direction, but -
ah fuck. the recoil of the desert eagle is a bitch to his wounded arm, but he’s abandoned the suppressor in favour of stopping power and the high-cal bullets punch through the man’s helmet. he goes down, and ghost doesn’t even flinch.

“johnny, stay close.” it’s not a private joke any more. in the space of thirty minutes it’s just become what ghost calls him, a quirk he extends to nobody else. “heads up for a vehicle we can take.”

he’d love to, but there are bullets flying at them both. the tyre pops on the van he’s taking cover behind. he has to force himself to move, to follow as ghost glances back at him, but without hesitation the other man pivots to suppress and help him move up.

“soap, pickup truck ahead, lights on -”

“see it!” there’s one more that he can see, and he empties the last of his ammunition into the fucker before he just drops the M4 entirely. no use to him without bullets. he’s not sure he’s even killed the man, just knocked him over, but he’s not going to wait to find out.

“i’ll drive, johnny, take shotgun!”

soap’s already moving for the passenger door, collapses in as ghost disposes of the unlucky previous owner. his pulse is pounding in his ears, there’s loud barks of comm chatter coming from the maybe-dead shadow’s radio, but the door slams shut and ghost is there beside him, alive, looking him in the eye.

“alright, johnny? you made it.”

“we made it, LT,” he breathes, and then the bullets hail through the rear windshield, because fuck his actual fucking life -

“hold fast,” comes the command as he swivels to return fire, and he braces himself into the seat as best he can. the truck lurches into reverse, rolls right over the two shadows like speedbumps, and then screeches to a halt again.

“that’s one way of doin’ it,” he begins, and there’s that fucking guy again, up and running toward them, gun aimed, and he shouts “get back!” an instant before he raises the pistol and puts two shots into him again, chest then face. there’s a gout of blood and matter. his arm’s starting to scream at him again.

“thanks.”

“drive,” he manages. “i’ll cover us.”

he can only fucking hope that’s the last of it.

the moment he’s able, he pulls over and kills the engine, yanks the IFAK off his back. soap doesn’t stir from where he’s fallen asleep in the far-right seat, even when he gets out.

the rain’s stopped. he’s had the heat in the truck cab up full-blast and it’s dried them off a little, but it’s cold out here. he walks around the front, unsnapping the catches over the zip of the kit as he goes, and pulls open the passenger door.

there’s a little flicker behind the eyelids, so he sets a hand on johnny’s knee, shakes it gently. “wake up, you lazy fuck.” the scot opens his eyes with a grimace, a soft groan. “move over.”

between him pushing and johnny pulling, they get him into the middle space. he climbs in after, into the unpleasantly warm vinyl seat, damp with runoff rainwater and smudged with dark blood. “where’re we…?”

“doesn’t matter. let me see your arm.” he’s pulled off his gloves already, and hauls on the latex ones from the kit. when he reaches out to take johnny’s arm, he sets the pad of his thumb just under where the bullet wound looks to be, feels the flesh hot and angry through the thin rubber. “got you good, didn’t they?”

“fuckin’ bastards.” like this, disoriented and wrung-out, the accent is stronger. it rounds off all the corners on the words, murmured soft as they are into the small space between them. “we got ‘em back, though, didn’t we…?”

he’s ripping open the alcohol pads, eyes down on what he’s doing, but when he looks up those blue eyes are squarely on him. the pupils are blown wide. it’s the adrenaline. “we’re not finished yet, johnny. hold on, this’ll sting.”

johnny just gives him a small smile, despite the audible hitch of his breath as the sterilising wipe sweeps over his wound. “springin’ alejandro?”

“hopefully.” with the blood and dirt cleaned away, it’s not pretty, but it’s not as bad as it looks. it’s a through-and-through, but it’s not hit anything too important, and the exit wound is small and reasonably neat. it’ll need surgery soonish, but they don’t have that luxury. he’s more concerned with the angry red ring around it - could be the start of infection, and the last thing he wants is sepsis. he snaps off the top of one of the tubes of sterile saline and starts irrigating the inside of the wound, gauze pad held beneath to catch the runoff. the gauze stains red-pink in his hand near-instantly. a trickle of it slides down the cuff of the glove and wets the inside of his wrist. “you got lucky, johnny. you allergic to any antibiotics?”

“don’t think so,” comes the quiet answer. when he glances up, johnny’s watching him work, his gaze on the hands wrapped around his biceps. “what’s the verdict, doctor ghost?”

he lets out a laugh at that, a single ha. “you’ll need treatment, but i can stabilise you for now.” he fishes out the blister strip of amoxicillin caps, drops it in johnny’s lap. “put those in your pocket. get one in you every eight hours.”

obediently, johnny pops one out and swallows it, putting the rest in his jeans pocket, checks his watch. “thank you,” he says, near-whispers.

he shakes his head, slicing the iodine dressing in half. “no need.”

“i mean it. simon, listen,” johnny insists. the left hand shoots forward, settles on his knee. “thank you.”

he looks up, startled, at the touch, at the use of his name, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. the expression on johnny’s face is gentle, warm, those eyes on his face again displaying a trust that feels like a gutpunch. it feels like all the oxygen leaves his body at once.

“you stayed for me. i won’t forget that.”

his hands feel unsteady as he aligns the pieces of the dressing. they’re not, but it’s something to focus on that isn’t that face, beautiful and open. “pay me back by not getting shot again,” he answers, aware that his voice has gone tight and unsteady.

“don’t think i can promise that,” with a little laugh, “but for you i can definitely try.” the hand, still on his knee, squeezes gently through the denim.

he dares take another look, even though he knows it’s a terrible fucking idea. the eye contact feels like a jolt, like the sensation of freefall. johnny looks fucking exhausted but he also looks nervous and unguarded and focused all at once. a tongue flicks out to wet dry, smiling lips.

it’s not bravado, he realises in an instant. it’s genuine attraction. johnny mactavish is actually interested in him.

he fumbles the roll of cohesive bandage.

“that’s all you can do, i suppose,” he answers eventually, getting the bandage right in his hands and starting to wind it around the dressed wound. “fuckin’ troublemaker.”

another laugh, soft and warm. “you know it, LT. can’t help myself.”

he secures the bandage with a clip, tests his work. “we should get moving,” he says, for want of something to reply with that isn’t going to dig him a deeper hole. “you good?”

that grin. tired, wan, but so characteristic. “i’m good, LT. you?”

“peachy fucking keen, johnny,” he says, opening the passenger door and shoving all the loose shit back into his kit pouch. he distinctly does not feel good - there’s something in the back of his mind that’s just going fuck, oh no, oh no, fuck over and over - but there’s shit to do and he has to push it to the back of his mind. he slides out and into the cold night again. “let’s go.”

4. last chance to lose control

Summary for the Chapter:

november 3rd through 5th.

Notes for the Chapter:

we are still probably at two chapters to go. i’ve started on chap 5 and it’s shaping up to be one EXTREMELY long ghost POV section. you’ll know why when you get to the end of this one. may be a bit longer than the as-until-now twoish days for it but, again, you’ll know why at the end
thank you once again for reading. i’m having fun and i hope you guys are too

he feels like he’s been spun upside-down and he can’t get himself upright. it’s not that he’s at his limit, but he’s so fucking disoriented already with the bullet-hole in him and the breakneck pace of the prison break. price, gaz, laswell all bursting in from the cold. god, he’s fucking tired.

one of the vaqueros is a proper combat medical officer, and ghost’s patch job has been upgraded into a properly-stitched and tightly bound professional endeavour. but they’re moving later today, he’s sure, so he’d rejected anything more than local anaesthesia. that’s not helped - he’d been wound so fucking tight that he’d nearly torn a chunk out of the bench she’d had him sit on while she was treating him. the most he’s taken for it is fucking paracetamol.

he’s fine. he’ll be fine. he could be on death’s door and seeing captain price pop up from nowhere’d get him back on his feet, but it’s also that he’s so incredibly fucking lucky that everyone around him is as competent as they are. it’d taken just three of them to break out all of alejandro’s men, and half of that had been soap and rudy behind screens and ghost effortlessly putting down more than a dozen extremely heavily-armed men.

(the economy of movement, the effortless butcher’s grace, even through the grainy mono-colour display. he’ll be remembering it for a long while.)

he’s halfway through forcing down some kind of ration-packed meat and rice in the corner, next to one of the humvees, when a head pokes round the side and there’s a short, sharp whistle. “oi. you good?” gaz still looks exactly as concerned as when ghost had first mentioned the injury in the back of the truck at the prison. “cap wants us, c’mon.”

soap shoves the last spoonful into his mouth and grabs his water, takes as big a mouthful as he can. nice to know the food is grim all over the world, and not just in the english-speaking parts. “aye. are we on?”

“maybe.” price and vargas have locked down the front of the stable, turned it into their war room, and it’s there that gaz is leading him. “think they’ve managed to get a line to shepherd.”

“to say what?” he can’t help but be incredulous. after laswell’s brief early this morning, it’s clear that shepherd is just as complicit in this shit as graves is. “ask for an apology? fucking what?”

“tell him to call off graves, is my best guess.” gaz adjusts his cap, looks almost as worn as soap feels. “don’t think he’ll go for it, mind you, but shepherd’s the whole reason 141 exists. suppose we owe him the courtesy.”

he feels himself gritting his teeth, forces himself to relax his jaw. “graves was trying to kill us, me and ghost, and he put alejandro and his men in fucking prison. on shepherd’s orders. we don’t owe him shit.”

“tried to hang laswell out to dry, too, but she’s still saying to go easy.” mid-step, gaz bumps their shoulders together gently. “you’re too close to it, mate.”

that’s true, but there’s a simmering feeling low in his gut still. “doesn’t change that he fucked us, gaz. all of us.”

gaz just raises his eyebrows, tightens his mouth, and pushes inside. the lights are down low, price and vargas bent over a tablet displaying a map together, a laptop with the 141 comms platform up on the screen on the table. “alright, cap? colonel.”

“gaz, soap. two minutes.” price nods, turns back to the tablet for a moment to annotate it, turns back to them. “hang on. soap, what was the inventory?”

he stands up a little straighter when price is in the room, he knows, carries himself a little more proudly. he straightens his back still a little further and reaches back in his memory for the numbers. “twenty-two frags, thirteen flashes and sixteen smoke, sir. couple breachin’ charges that i’m told are for sergeant major parra’s hands only.”

“rudy es codicioso,” alejandro says with a grin. “he would not share even with me.”

price is taking a note of it. “right. arms for everyone?”

“and then some.”

there’s a sound from the laptop, a rhythmic bleeping. inbound traffic. price stows the tablet in his plate carrier before he swivels the case, sits faced away from the rest of them. giving shepherd the illusion of a private conversation, he supposes.

it starts badly and gets worse. he realises halfway through the argument price and shepherd are having that there’s a looming, solid presence behind him where there wasn’t before. when he turns his head, ghost gives him a single nod, and soap returns it. when ghost arrived, he has no idea, but he’s standing almost shielding soap’s wounded side, and again he feels that faint comfort. trauma bonding, maybe, but they’ve got each other’s backs.

price slams the laptop shut, and that’s it, isn’t it? battle lines drawn. graves, then the missile, and then shepherd himself. he gives them all the nod, and then alejandro is moving, pushing open the double doors to the hive of activity beyond.

price is giving them the speech, the we-are-deniable speech that 141 have heard before, but when ghost reaches down for the bag and empties the masks over the table there’s something electric that fires up his back.

ghost team.

he watches, frozen, as ghost reaches up and hauls his mask off, and oh. fuck, okay.

he’d teased ghost about being ugly, this morning, and the denial was right. he’s not film-star gorgeous, certainly, but ghost’s handsome in a sort of scruffy way - long straight features, a number of smallish scars tracing through pale skin and disrupting the stubble along the left side of his face. another one cuts across both lips, near the corner of his mouth, and trails down to the angular, sharp jaw. when not hooded in the shadow from his mask, his lashes stand out starkly pale against the eye black smudged from brow to cheekbone.

and then, it’s hidden again, beneath the skull-print balaclava.

the last thing he needed was for ghost to be attractive without the mask on. he’s very much absolutely fucked - a few hours ago he’d convinced himself that he was too adrenaline-drunk, too impulsive to be deciding on doing something stupid like pursuing his lieutenant. and now, he’s swinging back the other way.

he pulls on his own balaclava and breathes in deeply.

get your fucking life in order, mactavish. he can almost hear it in ghost’s voice.

a week ago, he wouldn’t have done this.

a week ago was about three huge fuck-ups lighter, to be fair. he took a bullet, johnny took a bullet, hassan fucking zyani slipped through their hands twice, and the patron of task force 141 is now in the wind big-time, and now where he would have dug in and gone after his objective without hesitation he’s now scrambling through unfamiliar spaces to try and reach a crashed bird before it can go up in flames.

this is the third route he’s tried and thank fuck shadow don’t know the ins and outs of this place, otherwise someone might’ve locked this door too. it’s a motor pool maintenance building, the front shuttered with rolling doors, and there’s a single pair of shadows that don’t even manage to get their guns up before he drops them. if his bearings are right -
he charges for the door and slams the side of a fist against the door release, and the dust and smoke sucks through. he doesn’t waste time waiting for it to raise completely, only until he can crouch under it and check his corners.

if there were shadows here they’re running toward the sound of artillery, and that makes an icy chill drape over his shoulders like a wet blanket, but the crashed helo is there, rolled over on its side, and there’s movement inside. no spilled fuel yet so they might all be in luck.

“captain!” he shouts as loud as his lungs will allow him, reaching for the external emergency release for the cockpit. the canopy’s buckled, acrylic shattered, but still intact. he sees the dazed pilot first, ineffectually fumbling with his seat straps, and climbs up higher on the side of the wreckage to help.

“ghost?” price sounds winded but at least focused, and as he hoists the pilot out there’s a gloved hand that grasps the back of the seat hard. “where’s graves?”

“in a fucking tank, sounds like,” he answers. the pilot stumbles a little but is otherwise alright on his feet, and he shoves the man hard to get him moving away from the wreckage. the thing could go up any moment. “soap’s got him.”

not too far away, there’s an explosion.

price has got his own flight harness undone but the canopy’s not quite come away over him, and he reaches over to help shove the thing free. “you take a knock on the head while i wasn’t here, simon?”

he grabs price’s hand and drags him loose, hauls him upright. “maybe. you alright?”

“will be. wouldn’t want to make a habit of it.” price is limping, so he slots beneath the man’s arm and starts moving him to the maintenance garage. there’s another explosion, closer still. on the other side of that fucking wall, he’s sure of it.

the instinct he’s trying to deny kicks, hisses you’ve secured him, now accomplish your fucking objective, simon, and he forces it down again. price isn’t bleeding but he’s not completely mobile, and he and the vaquero pilot are unarmed. he’s all they have if the shadows find them.

he hands price his sidearm anyway, because there’s gunfire rattling on the other side of that wall, now, and john price with a pistol is just as deadly as most trained men with a big battle rifle.

as he hits the door switch again, there’s another blast. it means johnny or parra are still alive. hopefully both. “any ideas, captain?”

“plenty, but mostly how i’d love to throttle every last one of these buggers.” price squats heavily beside one of the fallen shadows, rips the radio pouch off his carrier. with absolute efficiency he yanks out the earpiece line and pulls the radio out of the pouch to start flicking through the channels. the chatter from the shadows is panicked, muddled, chaotic. sounds like their command structure is falling to fucking pieces. he finds himself listening for graves’ voice and coiling tighter and tighter and tighter the longer he doesn’t hear it. eventually, price looks up and begins “well -” and then there’s a noise not too far away like god slamming his fucking car door.

it’s a one-two explosion, a muted thud into an immense bang, and then the tick-tick-tick-clatter of shrapnel falling on the sheet-metal roof.

price’s brow creases under the opening of the mask. “fuck d’you suppose that was?”

“no fucking idea, sir.”

“soap to ghost,” comes the squawk from his own radio - and likely price’s too - and he feels himself stand bolt-straight unbidden to keep from sucking in a deep breath of relief. it’s bone-deep, a release of a tension he hadn’t noticed winding tight in his own core. “i’m with rudy, graves is KIA. how’s price?”

he looks at price, who raises an eyebrow, amused, as if to say go on then, how am i?  “angry,” he opts for. “lost a good cigar in the crash.” price’s eyes crease in what’s almost certainly a grin under the mask. “pilot’s okay too. out.”

price gives him the nod, and after a moment switches the cable of his microphone into the captured radio, toggles broadcast. “all shadow company personnel, this is opposition command,” he begins, his voice ice-cold, words slow and crisp. “commander phillip graves is dead, and your operation is over. lay down your weapons and proceed to the main gate of the compound with your hands up. i say again, lay down your weapons and leave. you are done, but if you obey these instructions you will not be harmed further.”

as price is talking, he’s cracking the shutter open again, flattens himself on the ground for an angle outside. the crashed helo is still smouldering some way away, but across the asphalt there’s movement. through his scope, he can see the little group of black-clad mercs just looking helplessly at one another, before slowly one releases the mag from his rifle and drops it on the ground, drops his gun. the rest of them, at length, do the same.

they were on their way to the helicopter, he realises. if he hadn’t come, they might’ve picked off price and the pilot as they limped away.

christ. no time to think about that now.

he flashes price an ‘okay’ sign, and tabs his own broadcast to the ghost team command channel as he hauls himself to his feet and grabs the powder extinguisher from the wall. “all stations, this is ghost. captain’s captured a radio and is directing all targets to surrender at main gate.” price is still speaking, probably putting the fear of god into the surviving shadows. “advise all bodies to RV there. we’ll need a lot of zip ties.”

“affirm. with pleasure, ghost,” comes vargas’ voice. he sounds absolutely thrilled. probably excited to be the one taking the POWs this time. he then rattles something off in spanish, probably a translation, and there’s an audible cheer outside from several nearby voices.

he tunes out, just rolls the shutter higher and ducks outside with the extinguisher to see to the wreckage. last thing he wants is the thing exploding and burning down their newly-retaken compound.

if taking back the vaqueros’ base was chaos, this is almost as bad. they’re scrambling for chicago, and the wheels-up is in just over an hour, and while alejandro’s men are helping as best they can they’ve also just taken more than fifty americans into custody, which is a headache he doesn’t envy them. soap’s got his own gear squared away, but he’s not seen ghost near the tarmac yet and his phone’s still off, so he’s come looking.

he’d volunteered, actually, because he’s getting to the point where he feels strange if he doesn’t know where ghost is. god help him.

the room ghost’s been using in the now-deserted guest lines is completely empty, door ajar, but there’s a back door nearby that he checks. he’s not absolutely sure why he checks it, to be fair, other than he has a feeling about it, and it’s not like instinct has led him too far astray until now.

the back door, too, is ajar to the high fence beyond it, and he stays as quiet as his body will allow as he slides through it.

ghost’s jacket and gloves are dumped on top of the rest of his gear, at his feet, and the faint stiffening of his back from the slouch against the handrail is the only sign he’s noticed he has company. the rest of him is absolutely still, and soap realises why when he sees the faint plume of smoke rising from the other side of the big body.

“wee cheeky cigarette, LT?” he asks. he doesn’t want to come closer, not if it’ll make that tension ratchet higher, so he leans against the wall instead. even from here, the mask is pulled up high enough at the back that the chain of ghost’s dogtags shows. the stubbled corner of his jaw is bare. “didn’t realise you smoked.”

there’s a long moment of silence. a thin wave of smoke washes upward. “usually don’t.” that’s all he gets for another few seconds, before ghost apparently relents, and - “tank’s running low. doing what i can to push back.”

he’s less surprised ghost is tired, because of course he is, but the fact he’s admitting it does give soap pause. the last and only other time, the man had been coming fresh off getting blatted in the chest with a rifle round. “can i help?”

“no.” that’s much quicker, that reply, and ghost knocks the cherry off his cigarette against the handrail. “unless you’ve got a hard location on hassan somewhere, kicking about.” the other hand comes up to pull the mask down, slide the hem of it under the collar of his t-shirt with a practiced flick of the finger. when ghost turns it’s his lieutenant put-together again, and he drops the cigarette-end in the ashcan on the wall. “you’ve better things to do than trail around after me, johnny.”

“do i?” he offers a wry smile, straightening up a little. “why stop now?”

there’s a long moment where the eyes behind the mask fix on him, keen, unmoving, as ghost folds his arms. he’s in short sleeves for a change, and it turns out the tattoo soap’s been getting minute glimpses of for more than a year is a piece that stretches from wrist to above elbow. he’s more interested in the liberal scattering of scars across the pale skin, from little lacerations to what looks like an old burn wrapping around one thick bicep beneath the right-side shirtsleeve.

he wonders what that bruise on ghost’s shoulder looks like right now.

“you really do go looking for trouble, don’t you?” ghost asks, his tone bone-dry.

“and you’re goin’ to teach me a lesson, are you, sir?” he has exactly zero control over how he blurts it out, but he’s fucking tired too and after a running battle against an actual tank less than an hour ago he’s not about to take responsibility. that can be his excuse later.

he hears his own heartbeat as ghost takes exactly one stride and more than halves the distance between them. his exhausted body is suddenly absolutely fucking ready to go in just that single movement, and his breath catches in his lungs.

“don’t think you’re interested in learning it, johnny,” ghost rumbles. with the new proximity soap has to tip his head up to hold the eye contact. he finds himself physically unable to look away. he finds it hard to breathe.

it comes out thin, quiet, and audibly turned-on when soap answers “you’d be surprised.” he feels his shoulders hit the wall as ghost takes another step, backs him right against the metal siding of the building. to look up at ghost this close forces him to tip his whole head back, makes him aware he’s doing it. they are a hair’s breadth apart, but they do not touch, even though he feels magnetised. “it’d be for my own good, sir.”

it feels like every single fucking molecule of his body lights up as ghost’s bare hand settles cold around his throat to restrain him. the pad of the thumb is pressed softly into his carotid, like it was laser-guided.

“listen to me, johnny,” comes the solemn murmur through fabric, against his ear, all smoke and blazing heat, “you’re not thinking straight.”

and then ghost steps back, and the rest of the world comes rushing back in like they’ve been in a vacuum. soap can’t even move and ghost is picking up his kit casually. without so much as another word, the other man vanishes along the walkway between the building and the fence, leaving soap standing frozen, breath shaking, hard in his trousers.

he sags back, and puts both palms to his neck, focuses on the phantom sensation of cold fingertips still lingering against his skin. he hasn’t felt such raw, sudden want in - fuck, ever. it feels like he just got hit by a fucking train.

jesus christ. ‘thinking straight’, ghost says. like he’s ever going to think straight again.

he cannot get a fucking angle.

the half-finished floor is littered with cover. that’s why hassan and his men have chosen it for their last stand - every glimpse he gets is a single flash of vulnerability, a single instant, and then what would he have given himself away for? one dead man and a shitload more trouble for johnny.

the line’s open again, just like earlier. yesterday, he reminds himself, even if he hasn’t slept since before then. he doesn’t know if it’s a conscious thing on johnny’s part, the two of them together on the comm again - it’s not to keep him lucid and upright, any more, but he’s still murmuring advice, giving positions when he can see one of the big armoured bastards standing alone.

this is the most dangerous position a soldier can find himself in, and his breath’s caught in his chest on johnny’s behalf. this isn’t las almas, where the enemy were alert and looking but otherwise unaware, the AQ boys know he’s in there and they know he’s stuck with them. the missile’s scuttled, but right now he doesn’t give a fuck about the missile.

he needs his sergeant to survive this. exactly what makes it need and not want, he doesn’t know, but it is a need.

he can’t see the microwave, but he can hear it sparking and rattling and interfering with the radio, and if he’s right there are just two of them left. one guard, and hassan, who he hasn’t seen a single trace of. there’s the explosion, on the line, and he can hear the muted thump of two bodies colliding, a gasp of exertion, a hissed “nighty-fuckin’-night,” in johnny’s voice, and then silence.

and then there was one -
the report of gunshots, two bursts, a thud. he can feel himself tense with what feels like every single fibre of his body, and he cannot get a fucking angle. where are they? there’s a clatter through comms, and he recognises it as a set of two impacts, but what they are? fuck knows.

shuffling. dragging.

his heart’s in his throat, a ligature wrapping around it tighter and tighter, squeezing like a TQ cutting off all blood, all oxygen. say something, he thinks, pleads. talk to me. fucking say something.

muttering in farsi. he’s watching for something, anything. a shadow moves on a wall inside, but nothing. he could repo, but the footing’s shit up here, midwestern dead-of-night frost and a light covering of sleet, and it’d take his eyes off -
fuck it, he’s doing it, he has to do it. doesn’t even flip the bipod up, just hefts the whole rifle and legs it.

“i told you your nation would see fire,” comes the muffled yell through comms, just barely distinct through static and the harsh scraping noise he imagines is soap’s kit against the unfinished floor. his pulse fucking jumps. if zyani’s on his soapbox then there’s someone to hear him. “you think you can stop me?”

he’s sure as fuck going to try -

“ghost.”  it’s tiny, agonised, through gritted teeth, but -

“soap,” he answers, instantly, feels it scrape his throat on the way out. talk to me.

“watch the window…”

he stops dead, looks over, sees the charge blast out the sheet glass. there. he needs to fucking run. he can feel the tread of his boots threatening to slip on the concrete.

“we are not attacking. we are invading.” zyani’s words are much closer to the microphone now. is he leaning over? what -
he skids to a halt and turns, puts the last of his momentum into moving toward the lip at the edge of the roof, and drops. this far away, this high, this rushed , this shot is going to be a fucking nightmare. he sees them - johnny’s just dropped backwards, zyani hauling him up to his feet - and the comm is just a low, steady, venomous stream of farsi, too indistinct for him to make out any of the words he might know. he shuts it out.

zyani’s trying to throw johnny out the fucking window. he has one chance. if he misses, there won’t be an opening for a second shot.

the wind whips around, icy, violent, and he breathes in. the inhale shakes. his heart pounds. he breathes out, and sets his finger on the trigger. for just a moment, one heartbeat, he has to relax.

johnny’s legs are unsteady as he’s backed toward the window. zyani’s face is twisted in a sneer.

he breathes in, nudges his aim higher with a minute adjustment of his shoulder, and with a final plea of don’t fucking fall, he squeezes.

the recoil kicks the AW-50 into his shoulder hard, but the bullet kicks harder. it nails zyani in the skull, drops him back, and as he falls he pulls johnny with him. he doesn’t dare to move until he sees the other man slowly ease back, up, onto his knees.

a long moment. heavy, unsteady breathing. and then - “perfect shot, LT.”

he lets out a harsh breath of relief, feels the dread drain out of him like water. “you called it, sergeant.” johnny doesn’t move, just drops his hand from his vest. shit. “all stations. hassan’s down. enemy KIA.”

“affirm,” comes price’s voice after a moment, tight with exertion. still suffering from the plate impacts, probably. “where?”

“floor forty-three. say again, floor four-three. advise, sergeant mactavish needs medical attention, i want someone fetching him now.” he’s still watching johnny, sitting on the floor now, arms on his knees, but that makes him raise his head and turn his face to the window.

“no i don’t, i’m fine. i just need a minute.”

“back of your head’s bleeding, johnny.” he watches the hand touch to the nape of the neck, come away with red smeared against the fingers. “sit tight, alright?”

“it’s just a wee cut, i -” there’s a long pause. “alright, LT.” it’s quiet, subdued, but not reluctant. “you know best.”

“you know it,” he answers softly. “good lad.”

“he really does care,” comes another voice. gaz, sounding all too fucking chipper. he can see the other sergeant on the floor above, double-timing it across the office space. “will you be nice to me if we spend a week deployed together, ghost? is that all it takes?”

“fuck off, gaz, he’s mine,” johnny answers with a thin laugh. “i’ll fight you for him. square go.”

“gentlemen, enough.” price’s voice is hard, warning, but he’s known the man long enough that he sees it coming a mile away. he rolls his eyes even before the older man says “i think you’ll find i saw him first.”

he folds up the bipod on his rifle with a faint laugh.

watching the news report feels surreal. ‘last night’, the anchor says, but it was this morning, wasn’t it? and it feels like it was literally half an hour ago. to be fair, after it’d been over gaz’d hauled him down to street level, an ambulance crew had given him and price the once-over, and then laswell had bundled them all into her van and taken them to a flat he’s fairly sure was a CIA safehouse. he’d managed to get his boots off before he passed out, but only just.

slept like the fucking dead for twelve hours, got dragged to see another fucking doctor about his arm and his gunshot bruises, and now here he is.

the photo works its way down the line, creating dark expressions on price and gaz’s faces in turn, and once it hits soap he gets why. vladimir makarov. victor zakhaev’s ‘big brother’. he passes the photo over to ghost and only realises he’s clenched his hand into a fist when he goes to fold them one atop the other on the bar counter. absolutely fucking fantastic. he watches price rotate, lean forward on his stool to gravely murmur the name to laswell, and reaches for the glass in front of him.

his hand hits air, then the coaster. he looks sideways, at the long pale fingers draped over the rim of his glass, and then up at ghost’s face. “you can’t be cutting me off already.”

“can’t i?” the response is amused, low, an aside the others aren’t meant to hear. “go easy. you got shot less than 48 hours ago.”

“thank you doctor ghost,” he answers, and when he reaches for the glass again ghost lets him take it this time. his fingers, when they brush soap’s, are cold. “believe me, i’m not forgettin’ it in a hurry.”

between the four of them, they bring laswell up to speed on makarov, give her the best chance to dig up some proper intel and not just the vague gossip and whispers about him from verdansk, and when she leaves it’s with a promise she’s going to get them something to work with.

“right,” price says decisively, draining the last of his glass. “gentlemen. you and you,” he points at soap and at ghost behind him in turn, “i want you back at credenhill. graves’ boys are being repatriated in the next couple of days. we’re best assuming they’ve still got friends in the forces. i don’t want anyone getting shanked in the kidneys in the bathroom.”

“offended you think it’d be us gettin’ shanked, sir,” he says, and price just eyes him.

“anyone, sergeant.”

“yes sir,” he answers, grinning.

price and gaz are going to stay stateside, which is fair. until they know more it’s best to cover more ground. it does mean that they’re leaving this evening, because the nearest decent-sized military airfield is two hours away and they need to take the kit with them, but for soap and ghost it’s an early-morning passenger flight from o’hare. military flights leave a military paper trail, after all.

“expense a room,” price says, dropping a card in front of him as he and gaz make to leave. it’s the same one he used to pay for the drinks. “better yet, get ghost to do it. and no duty-free.”

he only registers the ‘get ghost to do it’ comment when they’re just about out the door, gaz waving at him, because they said goodbye to just him. when he turns, the stool next to him is empty. the glass isn’t, though, still half-full.

at least now he has a good idea of where to check.

out back is just barely quieter than inside - this is the city centre on a saturday night, outside a dive bar. there’s noise from the street, from the traffic passing, from a group of blokes having a loud argument on the other side of the road as they walk along. he leaves that behind to check the alley.

he finds the hooded, black-clad figure alone, just around the corner, illuminated in blue-white by a phone screen and in red-orange by the burning cherry of a near-finished cigarette. the body is familiar - tall and solid, all predator physicality even leaning against the wall - but the face, in profile, is not. he’s seen it just once before.

ghost’s eyes flick up sidelong from his phone like a whipcrack. he exhales a thin ribbon of smoke, and the rest of him is stock-still. he’s shaved since las almas - this morning, maybe, there’s a little stubble already - and from here the scar that crosses his lips is just visible above the turned-up collar of his jacket.

“dad gave us the credit card,” soap says to break the silence. “i think we’re his favourites.”

it’s a small noise, between breaths, but he’s wise to ghost’s mannerisms now. it earns a laugh, tiny as it is. “him and gaz away?” by degrees, he seems to unfreeze - letting his gaze drop again, the careful tense blankness of his expression relaxing. he’s not comfortable, not by a long shot, but he’s not pulling the mask back on either.

“aye. you stayin’?”

“no.” another drag on the cigarette.

no. elegant in its simplicity, he supposes. but it’s not the harsh, shut-the-fuck-up sort of no, so he takes a step closer and sees the way ghost’s left hand tightens around his phone. “not even for one more drink?”

after a moment, ghost kills his screen, puts the phone into his back pocket. it is, soap realises, an excuse to turn away. it’s not a very good excuse, mind you. “you mean you want another.”

“you’ve caught me, sir,” he answers with a smile. another step forward brings them into normal human conversation range, but ghost refuses to look at him. there’s still eye black stubbornly clinging to his lids under the shadow of the hood. “still no?”

the ember of the cigarette draws right up to the filter, and the long pale fingers flick it neatly into the grungy ashtray on the ground nearby. finally, the dark eyes flick in his direction again. “i told you to go easy.”

“wasn’t an order, though, was it?” he can see ghost’s gaze sharpen at that. “ technically, we’re off-duty, off-base, out of the country. could do whatever i want.”

ghost turns. in the low light, those dark brown eyes reflect the red and blue of the neon sign above them. soap’s whole awareness narrows down to them. “and it has to be an order to make you behave, yeah?”

it’s absolutely baltic out here, but he can feel something hot prickle up the base of his spine. they’re rested - or, at least, soap is, he wouldn’t be surprised if ghost isn’t. he’s only had two fingers of whisky. most importantly there’s no fucking doomsday scenario hanging directly over their heads. this, he reckons, is probably the closest he ever gets to thinking straight.

pushing it further is, objectively, not a good idea. they work together, in the same direct chain of command, and ghost’s commissioned on top of that. there’s zero way they could explain this if they got caught. if things are awkward afterwards and it tanks the task force then price is genuinely going to kill them both.

and even now, ghost’s gaze holding his screams danger. he’s hyper-aware of the thrill that kicks up through his veins.

ghost’s got screws loose, but so does soap.

“depends if you want me to behave or not,” he answers, and takes one more step.

up this close they’re sharing air. he can hear the sharp intake of breath. and then, after a long pause, “don’t think you would, even if i did order you.” that fucking voice, dark and deep, he can’t -
fuck it, he thinks, and reaches up to yank down the hood, wrap his hand around the back of ghost’s neck.

ghost’s lips are slightly parted under his, unmoving as he presses the first kiss to them, but there’s a hand that clutches hard at his jacket, at the waist, and he takes it as an invitation to try again. this one is better, so much better, a lean down to better bridge the gap in their heights and a flick of tongue that makes him shiver. he wants, he wants so fucking badly.

he curls his fingers into the front of ghost’s coat, uses it to push him back against the wall, and there’s a low keen as he drags the lower lip between his teeth, tugs. that’s a do that again noise if he’s ever heard one, and he bites harder. his brain’s rapidly starting to short-circuit, a hand on his waist and one on his hip dragging him closer, impossibly closer, and soap feels dazed and stupid as he gasps in breaths between rougher, harder kisses, trading nips and licks and pressing their bodies tight together.

now he’s started he never wants to stop. even if he did want to, the gasp, the faint moan as he slots his thigh between ghost’s would have a fucking vicegrip on him. jesus christ. he presses harder, drops his mouth to the pale throat so he can feel the sound against his lips.

for someone so imposing, so closed-off and cryptic, ghost fucking surrenders to the mouth on his pulse point with an enthusiasm that is startling, beautiful. a hand slides up soap’s back, tangles fingers in the back of his hair, urges him on - he obliges, and on nothing but instinct and an adrenaline high, bites down hard. he wants that submission, wants everything he can possibly take. aggression and desire in equal measure.

“johnny,” comes the gasp, ragged, fierce. ghost is panting, pushing his hips forward, already hard and getting harder. “don’t fucking tease me.” he’s getting off on being treated rough. god, he’s fucking perfect.

soap pulls back just enough to meet the dark eyes, can’t control his wild grin. “you know,” he says, “we are under orders to get a hotel room.”

“now you want to do what you’re told,” ghost growls, and soap laughs.

“think you’ll find i just need the right incentive, sir,” he shoots back, and finds himself dragged up to meet a bruising kiss.

5. you terrible thing, you

Summary for the Chapter:

november 5th, 2200.

Notes for the Chapter:

this is near-on five thousand words of just outright porn and i cannot, in good conscience, apologise for it. i’d been expecting it to take longer but i wrote it in basically one sitting as if possessed
one more chapter to go.

this is the worst idea he’s ever had, and yet he’s well over the point of no return now. an unstoppable force, running away with all of the good sense in his mind.

not that his mind’s much involved. they managed it here, just, and the clerk at the hyatt’s desk absolutely knows they’re up to something based on the way she was looking at them, but the second the cardkey’s out of the door there’s a hand around his belt-loops yanking him inside and he’s up against the wall again.

the zip of his jacket meets a violent end, tugged down so hard it breaks, and immediately there are hands inside it, spreading over his chest, his sides, sliding under the hem of the hoodie. the back of his head hits the wall hard. his entire limbic system is lit up - anxiety and desperate, intoxicating want pulling him a thousand different ways.

the room’s still dark. unknown territory.

“receptionist lassie definitely thinks one of us is payin’ for this,” johnny practically giggles, pressing close. his touch is so fucking greedy, roving everywhere, demanding and claiming. “how much are you chargin’ me?”

the thought makes him laugh a little, but with his blood up so high it shivers out on the exhale, sounds strange and dazed. “what am i, rough trade?” he’d put the mask back on for the cab ride - thank you, post-covid world, for making it seem normal - and he’s starting to feel suffocated by it. not that he can’t breathe, but he wants that mouth back on his, wants -
a hand grabs his arse hard, yanks his hips forward, and he gasps, curls his fingers tight into the back of johnny’s jacket. “aren’t you?” the other hand finds his skin, spreads over his hip. the thumbnail presses along the raised line of the scar there. “seem to be havin’ enough fun with it. or is that a sidearm, there, LT?”

the playful rank nickname jars a little, makes the half-smothered responsible officer part of his brain cringe. christ, this is ‘taking sexual advantage of a subordinate’ to the letter. old liz is probably spinning in her grave.

“how about you find out?” his mouth says instead of anything sensible. jesus fucking christ. sounds like something johnny’d say.

the man in question just grins, hauling him even closer, and his breath hitches loudly as it presses his erection against the zip of his jeans against johnny’s hip. “all for me? you shouldn’t have. christmas is next month.” and then the little fucker rocks them together a little harder, rolls his weight forward.

he shivers. “shut the fuck up and do something about it,” he gasps.

the lust is dizzying, makes him sluggish and stupid as he’s manhandled toward the bed. he could, should resist, shouldn’t be giving in to the desire to just be devoured. he’s got tomorrow to think of, every day after -
he doesn’t fuck people he knows. it’s a hard rule. if people can’t connect simon riley to ghost, then the risk is minimal - if they can’t work back from an acquaintance or whatever to someone that resembles a real person, then there’s no real vulnerability. he can fade into a normal crowd without batting an eyelid, but to show his face to johnny and gaz and vargas’ lads, that had been a fucking cliff-dive worse than the one outside las almas.

picking up blokes that don’t know who he is, who’ll never know who he is, that’s fine. he can get what he wants from them and all they’ll have at the end is a decent story for the next time they get hammered. pulled this big lad and he wanted me to fuck him dirty, wasn’t interested in anything else. they don’t then have a chance to use the pressure point against him.

he breaks the surface of his own thoughts like coming up for air from the water, because his back hits the mattress and johnny slides neatly between his thighs, leans down, pushes the mask just high enough to kiss him hard enough that he tastes blood.

“you’re so fucking gorgeous,” johnny whispers against his jaw, nips his throat. he laughs at the way that makes his hips jerk up. one of those rough hands is shoving the hem of his top up, exposing skin to a warm, insistent touch sliding across his stomach. “god, fucking look at you.”

it makes the apprehension spike high in his blood again, that instinctive rejection at being investigated, but there’s also something that curls liquid and hot at the base of his spine. “if you’re just here to look…” his hands are defensive, he realises suddenly, one on johnny’s elbow and one on his thigh. but the blood’s rushing loud in his ears and the touch on his skin feels fucking good and he can feel hot pressure between his legs, pressed right against his arse through layers of fabric, and it’s making that dark urge in his lizard brain chant fuck me, fuck me.

“i’m not. believe me.”

the yank up of everything on his upper body - jacket hem, hoodie, undershirt - is abrupt, but he lifts his arms to allow it with minimal complaint from his bruised shoulder. it dislodges the mask, too, and that he grabs before it’s swept away in the tide of discarded clothing. he holds it tightly in one clenched fist beside his head and turns his face away as johnny leans down.

it’s dark, dark dark behind the blackout curtains, but the contrast between the ugly bruise and his skin is probably still stark, and he can imagine that’s what’s attracting the attention - a hot mouth fastening onto his collarbone, trailing bites along the span of his pectoral, a lick down. for something so ordinary it feels transgressive, sexualising something that was close to doing him real harm. he rocks his hips to chase more stimulation, to his own cock in the front of his jeans, to johnny’s pressed against the back. he’s never felt so fucking stifled while also half-naked.

“you’re eager,” comes the whisper, breathless. “you want it that badly?”

fuck me, that base instinct begs. “might not if you take much longer.”

“thought you were supposed to be the patient one,” johnny chuckles, kissing higher up his neck. it feels fucking fantastic, and he can’t help but reach with his free hand and grab the back of the fucking mohawk again. it’s just long enough for a proper grip, a good hard yank, and it’s absolute fucking bliss when it just makes johnny hiss and bite him right under the jaw. “thought you were supposed to be the good boy of the two of us.”

‘good boy’ in that voice does strange things to his conscious thought, makes it blur hazy and vague for a moment, because it’s absolutely supposed to be mocking but god, maybe it’s true. being led astray by the mouthy bad boy, messed up, debased. “harder,” he gasps instead of articulating any of that, “fucking give it to me, johnny, c’mon,” and it works like a fucking charm, because a hand presses hard between them right against his cock and squeezes as teeth sink into the top of his traps and probably draw blood.

the noise that comes out of him is fucking embarrassing, a strangled sort of whine, but he can’t even care. he feels overwhelmingly hot, desperate.

“you want me to fuck you, right?” oh, it’s so fucking dangerous, that voice - raspy, smirking delight right by his ear. “you do, don’t you? hold you down and just wreck you.”

yes, yes, fucking yes. “no,” he gasps, but still opens his mouth to the rough kiss that descends on it. “you don’t stand a fucking chance of doing it properly.”

the hand on the front of his jeans is popping the button, pulling down the zip. “no? you’re awful eager to have a shite time, then.” for an instant his entire world narrows to the hand slipping inside his boxers, hot skin against skin, and then the pleasure rushes into the rest of his body like a backdraft. “bet you like it real rough. on your knees, from behind.”

he does. it’s his fucking favourite. “ johnny,” he pants, because the hand round his shaft is stroking slow, squeezed tight enough to be just short of painful. “shut the fuck up.” he doesn’t mean that. the voice filling up his head leaves no room for anything else, cuts him free of his thoughts, and to give himself over to the desire is so easy.

the hand withdraws and then so does johnny, and the pained intake of breath makes his stomach drop - wait, no, don’t go, what’s wrong - and he realises after a moment that it’s that the tit’s just gone to whip off his shirt and tweaked his stitches.

“if you’ve ripped them you’re taking yourself to the emergency room,” he intones, gravely, sounding more collected than he feels. his heart’s hammering in his chest. there’s something fluttering in his temples, behind his eyes. the lust-drunk feeling is messing with him.

“don’t you get a wee sewin’ kit in these rooms usually?” it’s a joke, clearly, but johnny is climbing off him nonetheless, reaching for the bedside lamp. “you could redo them for me.”

the light clicks on and it feels like his heart stops. johnny is flushed, rumpled, looks an absolute fucking mess sitting on the edge of the bed, and yet he’s the most stunning creature imaginable. his torso’s littered with blue-purple marks, temporary medals from the encounter with hassan zyani yesterday, and the stitched wound on his arm is stained brown from the surgical disinfection, and yet the urge to reach for him is near-irresistible.

he doesn’t, because he’s instinctively hidden his face in his arm and can’t quite bring himself to stop, but he wants to. “alright?”

“think so.” johnny stands, turns. he’s breathing hard, a hungry look in his eyes despite the smile curling his lips. the path of his gaze across exposed skin is almost tangible. and then, he reaches down for his belt and undoes it one-handed, fucking showing off. “you shy all of a sudden, simon?”

he feels the jolt race through his body, bites down on the inside of his arm thrown across his face. “what were you expecting, a lap dance?” he’s spread out on the bed, his trousers shoved down far enough that he feels the heat of his erection pressed up along the line of his hip, and to be looked at like this makes him shiver. it feels fucking obscene. “c’mere.”

johnny doesn’t. he fishes his wallet out of his back pocket instead, unfolds it to retrieve three little rectangles and drops them on the bed. “clothes.”

it’s a single word but it’s unmistakeably a command, and the heat rolls through him again. he can feel a wet smear on his skin where his cock leaks against his stomach. fucking hell. alright. he unfurls the arm from across his face, lets go of the mask, sits up and reaches down to push everything the rest of the way off. his boots thud off the side of the bed heavily, and jeans and underwear and socks get kicked off after them.

the bed dips behind him heavily, but the warm weight that flattens against his back isn’t setting off the deep-ingrained alarms any more. those are silenced under the raging intensity of the part of him that is begging yes, please, want this so much, and he feels himself squirm as one hand skates across his chest and the other comes across his body to slide a palm along the side of his neck. he can’t help but arch under the attention, breathing lurching out in shaky bursts.

“you’re so fuckin’ hot,” comes the murmur against his ear. “fucking beautiful. ” a pinch of his nipple, a low laugh as it makes him gasp. “don’t know if i’ve got much foreplay left in me, simon, you’re so…”

it’s so strange to hear his name like this, dizzying, makes his head swim. it’s too intimate, too much, but his body’s not interested in what’s happening in his brain. his thighs spread further apart on pure instinct. “fucking do it, then,” he pants, and when the hands on him rake blunt nails across his skin a shaky moan comes out of him too. “‘f’you come before i do i’m going to kill you.”

johnny laughs behind him, wicked and bright. “do my best then,” he says, and then his hand wraps rough around the back of his neck and shoves him forward.

he goes with it, falls heavily onto his elbows, and there are already hands on his hips dragging them back. he’s exposed, disoriented, can’t fucking think straight, but there’s a palm sliding down the back of one of his thighs and another pushing up his side, and it should be a threat but it just makes his pulse jump higher.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” johnny murmurs, and drops a kiss on the small of his back. “pretty as a fuckin’ picture, look at you. you shouldn’t be allowed to wear clothes.” the hand on his thigh slides up again, the thumb dragging up the inside, and when it reaches his arse it squeezes. he can feel it spread him a little more, bites down on the sound that threatens to escape, but he chokes on it when he feels teeth sink into the muscle.

bar the primal, imperative need to survive, he’s never wanted anything this much in his fucking life.

“johnny,” he manages, dropping his head to his forearms to try to centre himself. “please.”

and then that mouth shifts, and a tongue drags itself from the back of his balls right up to his hole, and it feels like something physically snaps inside his chest. he convulses, as if an electric current fires through his body.

“i’ve got you, si, ‘s’alright.” johnny has no fucking idea what he’s doing to him. he’s got absolutely no clue what every hoarse whisper does to his self-control, every touch consuming his senses, how the single knuckle rubbed against him lights every last nerve ending in his body on fire.

the touches withdraw for a moment and he tries to collect himself, face in the crook of his elbows. spreads his thighs apart a little wider to stabilise himself. the electro-static feeling has wound around the base of his spine, sparking and fizzing at every single sound in the room, and the weight of his cock hanging untouched between his legs is starting to hurt in a sweet sort of aching way. there’s a rip of paper or something similar, and then when the touch returns to his hole it’s cool, slick, wet.

“tell me what you want,” johnny murmurs. “let me give it to you.”

fucking hell.

“just fuck me,” he shudders. “don’t take your time. everything you said, rough, hard -”

there’s a soft curse from behind him, a sharp intake of breath. another hand kneads at his arse, warm, demanding, while the tip of one blunt finger presses inside.

he’s wound so tight and yet it feels like he dissolves as it presses up into him, the molten hot sensation of being absolutely desperate for it. “don’t need a lot to take more.” he sounds totally fucking untethered to his own ears. “more, more -”

“bossy,” johnny teases, his free hand sliding around his hip to wrap around his dick again, pumping slowly in time with the finger moving in and out of him, squeezing, twisting his wrist right at the apex of each stroke. it feels fucking heavenly, slick and hot, has the room spinning. “you really are so fuckin’ pretty like this, god. you open up so nicely, so easily, such a good boy.”

he draws a breath to answer but the next push in is more, another finger, and he can’t help but flinch a little, clench, and he hears johnny swear again under his breath. “please,” he says again, knows it comes out like a whine.

“i mean it,” johnny murmurs, “fuckin’ beautiful, so greedy for anything i can give you. your fuckin’ body, simon, holy shit.” he takes his right hand back for a moment, and it must be for the lube again because his fingers push still-cool slick into simon’s body. “you’re shaking.”

he is. there’s a tremor racing through his thighs already, through his arms. it’s so much, so good, and somehow the apprehension, anxiety, is just amplifying all of it. the fingers inside him twist, flex, test the limits of his body, and when the tip of a third pushes just inside to stretch his rim he lets out a sharp cry into his arm.

johnny stops dead. “you alri-”

“keep going,” he demands, and bites the inside of his own arm. “the whole thing, give me the whole thing,” and this is turning into begging, but johnny obliges, kisses the back of his shoulder and pushes more cold slick into his body, makes it feel like it’s leaking out with every move out. it feels wet, messy, filthy. when johnny flexes his fingers, pushed all the way in, all he can hear is his own breathing and his heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears.

“you sure you’re alright?” johnny asks it softly, another few kisses trailing down his back. “simon, if you need a minute -”

simon doesn’t. he needs more. he’s going to short-circuit if he doesn’t get it. “don’t you fucking dare,” he answers, and there’s a low chuckle at that.

“noted,” comes the answer, and after another few long moments of curling and flexing inside the fingers withdraw. “come down a wee bit for me, si, there’s a good lad.” something - an elbow? - nudges at the base of his spine, pushes down, and he obliges. the head of his cock nudges wetly against the sheets.

there’s another rip of packaging. he lifts his head just enough to see behind him, watches johnny roll on the condom, squeeze the second sachet of lube into his hand. “really?” there’s excess running in a rivulet down toward his balls already.

“really,” johnny laughs, strokes himself slowly and leans back in. a finger drags the droplet back up his skin and pushes it back inside. he jerks. “ready?”

so ready. he just nods, three, four times, spreads his thighs a little further to rock himself against the bed again. “now.”

there’s a blunt heat that nudges up against his hole, pressing up and across in a wet slide once, twice, teasing, but before he can draw breath to complain it pushes inside, and simon moans so loud he surprises himself.

it feels fucking fantastic, ecstasy and relief intertwined, and he’s hyper-aware of his own heartbeat as johnny pulls him back by the hip to take him all the way. he’s burning up, face feverishly hot against his forearm, and when he speaks his voice is creaky, taut. “c’mon,” he urges, clenching experimentally and hearing johnny gasp softly behind him. “what was that big talk about wreckin’ me? holding me down and fucking me rough?”

“give me a fuckin’ second, jesus.” johnny’s first thrust is slow, deliberate. “you don’t know what you look like, simon, holy shit.”

he shifts so he can turn his head, look back over his shoulder with his temple pressed against his folded arms, and he can just see johnny out of the corner of his eye. “told you, i want more than for you to just look at me.”

johnny laughs, head bowed, and runs the pad of his thumb around where simon’s rim is stretched around him. he grins when it makes him shudder. “i know, but you take it so fuckin’ well. you really want more?”

“yes,” he pants, breathing faltering as johnny rolls his hips slowly again and then pulls almost all the way out. “fuck me like you mean it, johnny, do it.”

“since you ask so nicely, darlin’,” johnny says sweetly, and then slams his hips forward.

he fucking shouts, a sharp fuck into the sheets, and before he can fully breathe back in johnny snaps out and in again, hard, and starts up a vicious pace. the grip on his hip is painful, bruising, nails digging into his skin, yanking him back to meet every punishing thrust with a loud slap of skin against skin. he’s so fucking dizzy with it already, it’s so good, so electrifyingly intense that all the pleasure makes his head swim.

johnny’s other hand is everywhere, his thigh, his hip, his back, harshly dragging his nails across skin, probably marking him like crazy. he wants it, wants to be fucking covered in marks, have his blood spilled. “i fuckin’ knew you’d be crazy in bed,” johnny pants, voice rough with effort, and simon moans unbidden.

“thought a lot about it, did y-you?”

it’s thoughtless, just something his dumb fucking brain comes up with when all the sense has literally been fucked out of him, but johnny leans right forward over him and grabs his elbows, yanks his arms behind his back and pulls him upright. the shift in angle sparks bright, impossible pleasure deep in his core, and he arches.

“you have no fucking idea. months,” johnny rasps against his ear, fingers brutally tight around simon’s upper arms, thrusting up into him hard. “you really don’t get it, do you, how hot you are?”

it feels like he’s on fire. he wants more, more, more. “tell me,” he gasps, and if he angles his hips just right johnny’s thrusts press hard past his prostate, and it makes the screaming strain of the muscle in his back and arms melt away into insignificance at the fucking bliss of it. “johnny -”

the mismatch in their sizes is nothing like this. he’s being forced back at an angle that forces the penetration so deep it’s like getting fucking knifed. “every single fuckin’ time i see you behind a rifle, or with a knife in your hand,” and he fucking bites down on simon’s shoulder, hard, and that is another spike of pleasure lancing right through him, “or just in your PT sweats, or takin’ off your gear,” another bite, a little softer, at the side of his neck, and that makes simon cry out all over again, “i wanna mess you up, i wanna fuckin’ ruin you, simon, i want your fat fuckin’ cock, i swear to god -”

holy fucking shit. “filthy fuckin’ mouth on you,” he gasps, desperately, hands clenching into fists. he’s so close to wrenching his arm back, because he needs to touch himself, he’s going to lose it if he doesn’t come right now. “fuck, fuck,” and then at the very instant he hits his limit he’s yanked back further.

“sit on it,” comes the order, harsh and throaty. hauls simon all the way back, the hands that were wrapped around his biceps moving to slide around his body. one spreads across his abs, fever-hot, and the other wraps around his length and starts pumping slowly. “move.”

he looks down the length of his body, sees the swollen tip of his cock slide through johnny’s fist, and he obeys without even so much as a thought. he’s a little unsteady at first, but he can rock his hips and force the head of johnny’s cock to rub right against that one spot, an arm thrown backwards around johnny’s waist for balance and his head thrown back in pleasure, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, and it’s so fucking good he can barely breathe. “i can feel you in my fucking throat,” he pants, “you’re so fucking deep,” and then johnny moves his hand to grasp the front of simon’s neck instead, and for an instant his instincts tell him that this is it, that this stupid fucking idea has killed him.

the adrenaline spike goes straight to his cock.

his temples are tight with the pleasure and pressure, his senses overwhelmed, his heart pounding dangerously fast, and he comes so hard he sees white behind his tightly closed eyelids, body jerking, contracting hard around johnny inside him.

johnny is still holding his throat but now he’s using it as leverage to snap his hips up into simon’s still-tense body, whispering “fuckin’ beautiful,” into his ear, still nailing his prostate and forcing him to jerk and gasp. the aftershocks of simon’s orgasm are still rippling through him when johnny comes, muffling a moan into the back of simon’s shoulder, and after a moment they both still but for their harsh breathing.

“let me up,” he manages after he catches his breath, and as the hands unpeel from his body he pitches forward. he feels open, wet along the inside of his thighs, but he ignores it in favour of kneeling and letting his head drop forward. it’s the most he can motivate himself to move. he’s trembling still, just a little. there’s come on his stomach, his thighs, the sheets.

“you alright?” johnny shifts to sit on the edge of the bed, watching him. he looks tired but exhilarated, eyes bright even with sweat beading in the dips of his collarbones, dampening his hair.

he nods yes, once, and johnny arches in a stretch and stands, taking off the condom.

“back in a sec,” he says, and strolls naked to the bathroom. the light clicks on, and the door swings mostly shut after him.

coming down from the high he’s a little sore, bruised and grazed and abused, but the pain is the same sort of burn as from a tough workout, haloed in a sort of well-earned pleasure as he slides off the side of the bed and pads toward the mirror. there are harsh red marks across his throat, his shoulders, his hips and waist clawed to pieces. there are fingerprints starting to show on his arms. the bite over the top of his shoulder has been bleeding.

his wrung-out body gives him one last flush of arousal at the sight.

the toilet flushes, and after a moment johnny emerges with a flannel in his hand, offers it to him with their gazes meeting in the mirror. “here,” he murmurs, and watches the washcloth’s journey across skin. “y’sure you’re alright?”

“don’t flatter yourself,” he manages. his voice is absolutely fucked, hoarse and thin. “takes more than that to bother me, johnny.”

slowly, their eyes still locked in the reflection of the mirror, johnny slides half-behind him, draws a hand up the side of his thigh right to the small of his waist. grasps there, leaves fresh red nailmarks. “well, shit. guess i need to try harder.” it’s teasing, delivered with a faint laugh. “don’t suppose you fancy sharing the bed.”

“no,” he admits, but it doesn’t seem to bother johnny any. a kiss presses soft against the back of his shoulderblade. “couch’ll fold out, i’ll have that.”

“right.” the hands on his body coax him to turn, and he catches a flash of an indulgent smile before he’s dragged down for another kiss. there’s residual heat in it, the way johnny licks into his mouth nothing short of filthy, but there’s something else too that makes him sigh and surrender to it. “‘f’you want the shower first, it’s yours.”

when he’s let go, he sways a little, has to collect himself to nod and go to retrieve his clothes. he straightens them out as johnny whips the top sheet off the bed, picks the mask up and puts it on top of his pile to take everything to the bathroom aware that he’s being respectfully ignored. it does a lot to calm the discomfort surging up from deep in his stomach. to be given too much attention right now, his blood cooling, it’d make him want to jump out the fucking window.

they barely fucking know each other, he knows that so well, so it’s a surprise to be… understood.

he locks the bathroom door behind himself, spends longer than he means under the hottest spray he can stand, and when he comes back out the room’s dark. there’s a shape in the bed, curled still, and the sofa’s unfolded.

he climbs under the blanket, feeling his face hot against the pillow.

it doesn’t take long to doze off.

6. shot through the dark

Summary for the Chapter:

november 8th and december 16th.

the regimental medical officer is fucking horrified when he sees soap’s arm. he listens to the story with a rapt sort of terror on his face and, once he’s done, asks gravely if he’s being fucked with.

“no, sir,” soap says, and can’t help but laugh. “it’s not going to have to come off, is it?”

captain evans does not want to take it off, even if he looks like he’s seriously considering it for a few moments. instead he takes the stitches out and redoes them, writes him a prescription for some more antibiotics, and tells him to stop doing whatever the fuck he’s been doing for the last couple of days. think gentle physio, mactavish, he gets scolded, and then kicked out on his arse.

to be fair, he’s hopefully not going to be getting shot at now he’s back at stirling lines. nothing’s out of the question, he supposes, but there’s no mission he desperately has to finish. he wasn’t really thinking about keeping his stitches nice when hassan was about to kill thirty thousand people.

he probably shouldn’t have had borderline-violent sex on the injury either, to be fairer, but at the time it had felt about as important as the missile had.

he hasn’t seen ghost since they got back two days ago. he’s wondering if he should be concerned about it. there have been a few messages, dry questions about events back in las almas, so he knows ghost is probably elbow deep in after-action reports and paperwork, but he’s not sure there isn’t anything off about it.

soap doesn’t want to push it, is the thing. he’s already gotten closer than he thinks ghost meant to let him get. the boundaries are a mile high and covered in razor wire, and yet he got to cross them for a few hours without getting cut to pieces. he’d like to cross them again, sure, but not with a battering ram.

he’ll give it another few days, and then maybe see if anyone from A squadron knows where ghost’s quarters are. until then, he keeps himself busy, makes himself useful, spends a shit-ton of money ordering himself new plate carriers because his crye’s about to give up and the LBX one got absolutely shredded in chicago.

(he buys a shellback, because gaz talks about his shellback banshee like it’s his own child. he’d been considering a firstspear one too, but it turns out they’re absurdly fucking expensive, even if he knows from having ghost’s in his hands that they’re good shit.)

it ends up being late on in the evening when he succumbs to the cabin fever and goes to the gym again. he’s fine to use his lower body, apparently, and his left arm, so he warms up and then spaces out on the incline leg press, right arm propped over his chest, left hand scrolling his phone.

it means that when he starts and notices there’s a figure standing less than six feet away watching him, he’s not sure how long it’s been. this is the downside of someone registering safe in your brain - they can use that against you, sneak up on you and startle the fuck out of you at inopportune moments, even if the most sinister thing they’re doing is waiting for you to be done on the machines.

he fumbles his earbuds out.

“moved in, have you?” ghost asks. he’s wearing a black disposable mask today, one of the three-dimensional two-piece ones. soap zeroes in on it so much only because it means his neck is exposed, the fair skin still faintly marked. he can see the very, very edge of the purple bitemark he left where neck meets shoulder. “if you’re watching netflix on there, i’m going to kick your arse.”

it’s a threat but it is, he thinks, a light-hearted one, so he shows ghost his phone screen. “worse. twitter.”

“christ. changed my mind, carry on.”

he sits up anyway, sets his feet on the floor. “on your way out?” looks like it, his collar ringed darker-damp, a hoodie in one big hand. ghost’s sleeves are rolled back today. “let me walk you back?” he’s not sure what makes him ask, other than the fact two days has felt like fucking forever.

he doesn’t miss the way ghost stiffens for a moment, but what the other man actually says is “alright, then,” and he springs up. nearly knocks himself out on the footplate, but he gets there. they start out of the gym - for november it’s positively warm, and soap doesn’t bother pulling his sweatshirt back on, slings it over his shoulder instead. “how’s your arm?”

“alright. doesn’t bother me if i don’t throw it about. i’ve had worse.”

ghost’s eyes flick sidelong at him. “really.”

okay, maybe not in terms of accompanying experiences, but - “aye. this one,” he taps his chin, feels the dip under his fingertip even in that brief instant of contact. “it was right through t’the bone at the time.”

there’s a moment’s silence as they walk down the path. “how?”

he wishes, not for the first time, that it was a better story. “kicked in the face playin’ football. he had the stupid astroturf studs on his boots, the edges on those things are fuckin’ sharp.”

ghost snorts beside him, shakes his head. “trust you.”

“it was deliberate, if that helps, i didn’t just run face-first at his feet.” he shrugs. “most of mine are stupid wee things like that. well, not wee, i think they were worried my face might be permanently fucked for a bit, but you know what i mean.”

“mmm.” ghost pulls the hoodie on, and soap tries not to be too obvious as he watches the sleeves get hiked up to the elbows. “where’s the one on your wrist from?”

he blinks, raises his left arm to look at the scar in question. it’s less on his wrist and more along his forearm, but - “this one?” he can see why there’s curiosity. it’s jagged, the edges neat together but curved in an erratic set of arcs. “broken glass. mosul. looks worse than it was.”

the hood is flipped up, casts shadows over ghost’s eyes as they turn down the path for the barracks buildings. “you fall over?”

“i’d argue i was pushed,” he answers, and it earns one of ghost’s tiny little laughs. “i can’t believe this. you think i’m incompetent.”

“i think you’ve got a knack for getting hurt,” ghost shoots back, and he can’t say it’s an unfair thing to think, not the amount of times he’s taken punishment while ghost’s known him. “you cursed, johnny, or just really unlucky?”

“if you think about it,” soap says, “i’m lucky that none of them have been that serious.”

ghost jerks his head sideways, leads the way up the path to the A squadron lines. “don’t talk shit.”

he laughs, extends his stride a little to keep up. “i’m not allowed to be optimistic?”

“you’re not allowed to talk shit,” ghost says again, his tone dry. he unlocks the door, holds it open. “shudder to think about what you’re going to say about the one on your arm.”

“think i’m goin’ to say i’m very happy he didn’t shoot me in the face,” soap counters. he doesn’t miss the way ghost rolls his eyes as he walks past and up the stairs. “alright then, mr solemn warrior, how about you?”

“how about me?” ghost takes the stairs two at a time, the long-legged bastard, and he has to jog to catch up.

“you’ve got plenty, and i’m sure you’re not holdin’ on to how all of them could’ve killed you.” he’s seen them, seen nearly all of them. knows that there’s a long, straight one up ghost’s left hip, knows that there’s a raised exit-wound star on the back of his thigh, that there are dozens more all across his body. they’re probably wounds with capital-h History, though, on top of being jealously-guarded secrets, so he instead taps his knuckle against the back of ghost’s left hand, sees the brows knit together as ghost turns to face him. “that one near your elbow, you did that fallin’ off somethin’ too, i bet you.”

it’s hard to see, slashed across the nose of the grinning world war two-era bomb as it is, but there’s a ridge that makes it just visible, a slight disruption in the lines. he gets a good look at it as ghost unlocks his quarters and opens the door, steps inside.

and then ghost stands, watching him, from the other side of the threshold for a moment.

“you coming in or not?” ghost asks, and there’s a subtle challenge in it. he could say no and it might not move ghost’s needle at all, but soap knows instantly he doesn’t want to. that this is ghost inviting him into his space. there’s something light, buoyant in his chest at the thought.

“don’t mind if i do,” he says, and steps into the room. the desk looks like a fucking bomb’s gone off on it, paperwork stacked and strewn the full length of it under the bulb of a lamp, but the rest of the room is as immaculate as he’d expect. “have you even stopped to eat, or has it just been work, sleep, cardio?”

“i had breakfast,” ghost answers, stepping out of his trainers, shucking the hoodie off and throwing it at his desk chair. “it was on a fence, by the way. chain-link job.”

he’s confused for a moment before he makes the connection. the scar. “either that fuckin’ thing’s the very first tattoo you got or you were bitin’ it off fences as a grown man. i’m not sure what’s worse.” the eyes turn on him, that look in them, and it makes him laugh. “it’s definitely one of those, isn’t it?”

there’s a long moment of real suspense as ghost sits down on the edge of the bed. “it was the start of it, yeah,” he admits at length, glancing at the tattoo, and rolls his eyes again at soap’s triumphant bark of laughter. “most of it’s from when i was a lot younger.”

“i can tell,” he teases, wandering over. “all the skulls and that. it’s very on-brand, if nothin’ else.”

“fuck off,” ghost says without venom. “you don’t get to have an opinion.” his eyes are on soap’s right forearm, his excalibur, but there’s a sort of light in them as they flick back up to his face, a gleam. playful. there’s that fucking flutter again, deep in his ribcage.

“i like your skulls, promise.” without thinking consciously about it his feet have brought him right in front of ghost, well within his personal space, and he’s not really sure what they’re doing right now. the banter hasn’t suffered from the boiling-over of the sexual tension, not that he can tell, but being alone with ghost, in private, is making that electric feeling fire up and down his spine again.

he hasn’t stopped being attracted to the man. hasn’t stopped wanting to be near him, know him. every deeper glimpse that he gets reels him in further, and it’s not novelty that’s driving him - it’s like gravity, a rightness, and the way the thought crystallises in his head feels like a heart attack.

“let me see it properly,” he says, instead of any of that.

he holds out his right hand, palm-up, and ghost looks from it to his face for a moment. it’s not nervous, the way he puts the back of his hand into soap’s, but it’s wary, uncertain. he lets soap extend his arm, hold the tattooed forearm up to the light from the desk, turn it gently. he only flinches by a fraction when soap touches a finger to the axe-wielding skeleton at the bicep, near the inside of his elbow.

“i like this fella a lot,” soap says, trailing his fingertip down the shaft of the axe. there’s a faint red blotch on the skin beneath the ink - not a scar, but maybe a bruise, a scrape. the skin is warm, smooth, almost soft. strange words to use about anything of ghost’s, but it’s true. “he looks like he’d be fun at parties.”

ghost scoffs, turns his face away. his free hand unhooks the elastic of his face mask and tosses it on the bed. “brings his own pool cue.”

“exactly,” he grins. he can only see ghost’s face in profile, but there’s a very, very slight smile on the lips. “he can crack open all the bevvies with the other end. that thing’s like a swiss army knife. should start callin’ him vic.”

that makes ghost laugh, ducking his head a little further to try and hide it, and he can’t help but reach out to set his hand gently against ghost’s jaw to turn the face back toward him.

the smile drops away instantly. ghost lets him do it, but his lips part, and his eyes don’t face front until there’s been a long moment where neither of them say anything. when they do, there’s that uncertainty again. it’s not an expression that really suits ghost, looking like he’s waiting for something terrible to happen, but -
he’s really, genuinely stunning, isn’t he? simon riley, that is. the man underneath the ghost, all ferocious intelligence and grace under pressure. dark, shrewd eyes that meet his own, reflecting the warm light from the desk lamp, their gaze steady.

soap takes one tiny step closer. lifts his knee to the mattress.

“johnny,” simon says, very quietly. it’s something almost like a warning. consider very carefully what you’re about to do, he isn’t saying, but it’s implied. i’m not a toy.

thing is, he doesn’t want to consider it. the pull is completely impossible to resist. magnets don’t get to consider their actions either, it’s just how the world works. so he lifts his other knee, climbs into simon’s lap, and kisses him.

it’s not hard, not rough - rather slow, careful, a kiss that starts light and with escape routes, that has if you want to stop me, stop me poured into every brush of their lips. he’s not playing.

instead, simon’s hand, the one that isn’t still in soap’s, slides up the outside of his thigh to his hip to balance him, to adjust their weights to fit soap better in his lap. his breath comes out in a quiet sigh. his eyes close.

soap pushes a hand back into his hair and deepens the kiss. “i want this,” he whispers, against the lips that part so beautifully for him. “i want you, i mean it.”

“god help you, johnny,” comes the answer, shaky and soft. “i can’t imagine why.”

“- so we left in a hurry with the absolute basics. i don’t want us rocking up and having to beg farah for supplies, it’ll be fucking embarrassing.”

“i’ve got you, mate.” it’s not often gaz asks for favours, and it’s not like he grudges it. sometimes, you get scrambled without everything you need, and that’s just how it is. “everything’s in lockup, yeah?”

“yeah - shit, no, actually, my spare carrier’s in my room.” a sigh on the other end of the line, a lull while they both think. “and there’s nobody who can let you into the building, is there?”

there isn’t, because the rest of gaz’s squadron are on deployment, but there’s a way around it. “you’re a medium, right? roughly?”

there a pause. “yes…?”

“borrow soap’s, he got the same one a few weeks ago. can’t guarantee he doesn’t have it laid out like a complete nutter, but it’ll feel about right.” it’s starting to be the case that the 141 all have some important piece of kit in common. people are going to start thinking they’re sponsored.

gaz makes a considering noise. “if he’ll let me, that’d work. do you want me to message him and ask, or -”

“no need.” he crosses the room, opens the wardrobe, aware of the eyes on his back. “i’ll get everything dropped off for you landing. you said twelve hundred?”

“yeah. thanks, ghost. owe you one.”

“forget it. see you in a bit.” he hangs up, chucks his phone into his thigh pocket. “gaz needs a shot of your plate carrier. thinks he left his in the states.”

“ i haven’t even had a proper shot of it. can’t believe you’re loanin’ out my things already.” it’s light-hearted, a put-on complaint. “alright. you’re runnin’ it through?”

“few other things too. i’ll need to get to it.” he hauls the carrier out of the wardrobe, turns around. “you planning to get dressed any time today?”

not that he’s especially complaining. johnny isn’t even out of bed yet, rumpled, grinning, gorgeous lying there naked under the sheet. his throat, his shoulders, are covered in bitemarks, rosy against the tanned skin. he’s fucking beautiful. “maybe. rugby’s on tonight.” he scrolls a little further on his phone, still sprawled right the way across the mattress. “you see the thing about the aquarium explodin’?”

“mmm. hotel’ll be doing a lot of fish dinners for the next few days.”

“you’ve got a gift for seein’ the silver linings, si.” the phone is tossed aside as johnny props himself up on an elbow. “c’mere.”

he drops the plate carrier and obliges, leaning back over the bed, allows the hand to reach up for the back of his neck and pull him further down. the kiss leaves him breathless, slow and sweet and melting, and makes the stomach-butterflies happen again. still. after more than a month.

he needs to get his head checked.

“when’ll you be back? about twoish?” johnny asks after he finally lets him up for air.

“think so,” he answers. “why?”

the hand on the back of the neck drops to his cheek. the warm, calloused pad of the thumb brushes just beneath his eye. “just like to know. as much as i’d love to stay in bed ‘til then, think it’d be pushin’ it.”

“lazy fuck,” he murmurs, giving johnny a shove as he straightens up. “behave yourself ‘til i get back.”

“yes sir,” comes the playful reply as he picks up the carrier again, takes it toward the door, stops to put his mask on. “drive safe. don’t want to hear you were going over the RAF lads like speedbumps too.”

“depends if they get out of the way or not.” he slips out of the room as quietly as he can. “back soon, johnny.”

“later, simon.” it’s warm, lovely, affectionate, and as he shuts the door behind him he draws in a breath to steady the way it hitches. he’s still not used to it. maybe he won’t ever be.

doesn’t mean simon wouldn’t like to keep hearing it.

Notes for the Chapter:

there we go, the final chapter of paper parachute! thank you to everyone for coming with me. this is genuinely the first long thing i’ve finished in over ten years and it’s been a lovely experience.

title credits for the work are as follows:
work title, chapter 1 - paper parachute, ninet tayeb
chapter 2 - push, starbenders
chapter 3 - flip, glass animals
chapter 4 - hysteria, muse
chapter 5 - terrible thing, AG
chapter 6 - heart attack, editors
a special thanks to everyone who has kudosed, bookmarked and commented - extra special shoutout to users king_of_limbs and vranya, your comments have really helped keep me going forward.

i plan to keep writing for the fandom and have a few smaller works planned. if you like, check out my twitter. best wishes for 2023 to everyone. ♥

about to break by exavibus

Series: in the heat of the moment [2]
Fandoms: Call of Duty (Video Games)
AO3 Categories: M/M
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: John “Soap” MacTavish/Simon “Ghost” Riley
Characters: John “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley
Freeform Tags: Anal Sex, Bottom Simon “Ghost” Riley, Come Eating, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Bondage, Lowercase, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Milking, Top John “Soap” MacTavish
Status: Completed
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Published: 2023-01-07
Updated: 2023-01-07
Packaged: 2023-09-01 18:16:18
Summary:

“you like it,” soap quotes, grinning as he sees the eyes roll.
“i tolerate it on the condition you fuck me proper,” simon corrects. “which isn’t happening.”
he laughs, shifts forward on the bed again. “you haven’t asked me nicely yet.”

soap takes his time.

about to break

Author’s Note:

takes place in the continuity of my story paper parachute, but can be read as a standalone.

content warnings: brief mentions of violence (in the context of torture and autoassasinophilia), drugs, unserious references to male pregnancy. :D we have fun here

he’s surprised at how little things have changed.

of course there’s the obvious - maybe they’re not going out going out with labels and everything, but soap’s at the point where he considers himself to have a boyfriend, with all the perks and drawbacks that comes with. one he works with, which could be some very dodgy territory if the shit hits the fan, but -
this job, you can’t think like that. you can’t play it safe or let the risk of getting hurt put you off from something you really want or need. you can’t not take the plunge and then regret it until some fucking russian merc pops you in the skull from half a mile away.

what is it price had called it? nihilistic optimism or something. he’d then called him a fucking nutjob and told him to run the CQB course again, but you hold on to the nuggets of price’s wisdom wherever they may fall.

so, yeah. he’s going to take the opportunity. he’s going to keep taking it for as long as simon’s going to let him. because right now, as it is, this is maybe one of the best ideas he’s ever had. both in the abstract, as in ‘sharing his time and space and energy with simon riley, SAS lieutenant, internationally feared and renowned bad man amongst bad men’, and this.

there’s a soft sigh under him, starting to tinge at the edges with impatience.

“johnny,” comes the low rasp, the words dripping fake sweetness, “if you don’t move it, i’m going to snap your fucking neck.”

“i’d like to see you try,” soap answers, offering his own overly-honeyed smile. “if you managed like that, i’d probably deserve it.”

like that is a beautiful picture, wrists tied with red paracord, bound naked to the frame of the bed. in the low light of the bedside lamp all the contours of the musculature in the arms, the chest, the fucking abs is highlighted, shadows thrown across the mattress and pale scar-traced skin lit gold and just starting to glisten with exertion, pearly-white smeared across his stomach still wet and sticky. from the wrists bound above his head to the broad shoulders to the narrow waist, the thighs spread wide, simon is fucking art.

the rope is for exactly this reason - it’s not bondage so much as it’s to remind simon not to just decide, fuck it, my show now. he’s not tied tightly or even securely, the tail of the slipknot within reach, but he’s tolerating it for now.

the piercing dark gaze glitters up at him from the masked face, a clear challenge in them. “you do deserve it.”

maybe he does. “thought i was doing you a favour. didn’t you want to get off?” he slides his palms up to feel the hard abdominal muscles shift under them. there’s a satisfying twitch under his hands as simon’s core tightens and his body remembers it’s still split open. “can still stop, y’know.” and then, because he’s feeling particularly mischievous, he does just that. takes his hands away, eases out from between the spread legs, and sits back on his heels.

you get trained to resist torture in this line of work. physical, mental, psychological. you learn to close off what’s happening outside and to inhabit pain, discomfort, stress. you have to be able to deny a short-term relief for the sake of an objective. soap wonders if that’s what simon’s doing, even if the scenarios are different. there aren’t many torturers, he supposes, who would break out the toys and make you feel good for as long as they can.

he’s so fucking gorgeous like this, flushed, frustrated, aroused. his breathing’s steady, even, but his body’s starting to betray him. the base of the plug inside him twitches a little and the thick, heavy cock laid against his stomach does the same in sympathy. his eyes are still on soap, half-lidded, hazy, expressive despite the rest of his features being hidden under the mask.

(‘keep it on,’ soap had purred into his ear as he’d slid into the room after him.

‘make up your fucking mind, i swear to god,’ had been the long-suffering reply.

he likes to see simon’s face, but sometimes there’s a little less of a filter with it on.)

“you want me to beg,” simon mutters, and soap can’t help but grin.

“i want you to ask nicely, ” he corrects. “or maybe just to not threaten to kill me.”

the answer is an immediate “you like it,” and he can’t really deny that. he likes the realisation that if simon wanted to, he could, could do it without any effort. “don’t act like this is charity, johnny.”

“oh, it isn’t, believe me.” not like he could disagree. he’s nearly as hard and wanting as simon is, naked on his knees between the thighs of one of the most attractive people he can think of. “but it doesn’t look like you were satisfied with just the one.” he reaches down to press two fingertips to the flat base of the plug and exerts a little pressure on it, watches the way simon’s entire body tenses. “if you want another, i can give you another.”

he can phrase it as giving, a one-sided want, but he could do this for fucking hours just for his own satisfaction. torture simon with pleasure, with anticipation, with his own need.

he shifts his grip, tugs on the plug now, watches the way the silicone emerges slick and wet to the widest point and then pushes it right back in again. the way simon’s body just gives is fucking filthy, so absolutely greedy for it, and he catches himself letting out a dreamy little sigh to see it.

simon hasn’t answered because his gaze has taken on a faraway look, the way he looks when he’s chasing some abstract train of thought, so he reaches out with his other hand to wrap his fingers around the base of the erection and leans down.

that gets his attention, a sharp gasp as the flushed head of his cock hits soap’s tongue. “fuck,” simon whispers, arching. his wrists flex against the paracord, starting to chafe pink.

god, he’s so fucking beautiful. “stay with me,” soap murmurs between little flicks of his tongue against the slit, trying to suppress his grin at the shivers coursing through the man beneath him. “what d’you want, darlin’?”

“more,” comes the answer, breathy. it always is - intensity, overwhelming force and violence, that’s what simon likes. he likes to hurt, to bleed, to walk away covered in bruises and bites and feel the ache afterwards.

it’s hot as fuck, to be fair, but sometimes soap likes to take his time.

“i know that,” he says, nipping simon’s hip with his teeth, savouring the way it makes his whole pelvis hitch up, “but if you had to pick one thing, one thing you want from me tonight. what’d it be?”

he knows it’s a big question, knows it might take a while through the haze, and returns to lapping softly at the crown of simon’s cock, teasing it to wetness again. he’s pushing it, this sort of stimulation not long after the first orgasm, but he’s starting to learn how far he can go, where too much becomes perfect. playing rough isn’t the only way to achieve that intense high.

the entire bed creaks as the cord pulls taut. there’s something else, a strangled whine in simon’s voice that gets lost in it, and soap pulls away to look up at him. “say again?”

simon’s chest heaves as he tries to centre himself around the touch. “come inside me,” he repeats, barely voicing the words at all, and soap feels a dizzying wave of heat at that.

“you sure?” he slides his hand up the shaft, squeezes just a little to see the fluid beading from the tip, and when simon lifts his head deliberately he glances up. “what.”

“you had your cock literally down my throat the other day. mine was just in your mouth.” it’s coldly matter-of-fact, a genuine what the fuck are you on about look in the dark eyes. “do you think you’re going to get me pregnant or what?”

he fucking laughs, can’t help it, turns his face against simon’s thigh. “jesus fucking christ. no.” it’s not safety he’s worried about, not with the amount of fucking blood samples they take every time he gets a physical, but… it feels transgressive, almost. a kind of claim he hasn’t earned on simon’s body. “didn’t think you’d want to. had it done to me once and it wasn’t for me.”

there’s a mumble in response, quiet but very distinctly “‘m’built different, johnny,” and he laughs again, fucking giggles at it.

“yes you are,” he says into the crease of simon’s hip, licking at the sweat-damp skin. “swear to god, si, you’re goin’ to be the death of me.”

“hope not.” simon lets out another one of those lovely sighs that betray his pleasure so honestly, shivery and sweet. “it’d take too long to teach someone else.”

he’d argue he didn’t take much teaching, that even that first time they collided they just fucking got one another, but maybe that’s the point. it’s hard to find someone that just aligns with you, where things just fall into place.

“you wouldn’t let anyone else bully you like i do,” he says instead, and that earns a soft ha from simon, even as he slides his free hand down the inside of one pale thigh.

“shouldn’t let you bully me.” but he does, doesn’t he? lies pretty and pliant under the attention, even if his hips jerk forward at the touch.

“you like it,” soap quotes, grinning as he sees the eyes roll.

“i tolerate it on the condition you fuck me proper,” simon corrects, even if his voice trembles when soap gives his shaft another slow stroke. “which isn’t happening.”

he laughs, shifts forward on the bed again. “you haven’t asked me nicely yet.”

that earns a groan, bone-deep. “changed my mind. get out.” he can’t see simon’s face but soap can take an educated guess at the flush on his cheeks, the against-better-judgement smile on his lips. it’s audible in his voice. “see you tomorrow.”

“take my toys and go home, then?” he drops the hand petting at simon’s thigh to the base of the plug, grinning as he tugs at it just slightly and earns a gasped fuck. “guess if that’s what you want -”

“no,” simon breathes, rolling his hips forward again. “ christ. no. hang on.”

soap keeps his fingertip on the edge of the toy, makes sure simon can feel it. “i’m waitin’.”

a slow, halting intake of air. “want you to fuck me, johnny,” simon says after a moment, squirming, cock twitching in soap’s fist. “want you to make me come again, fill me up proper. please.”

oh, he’s fucking perfect. the words in his rough voice, the idea, the sight of him flushing all along his collarbones and down his chest, they do things to soap’s insides he really hasn’t felt much since before he joined the service. simon riley is such an exact match to every single idle fantasy soap can remember having, comes in the package of someone who deserves so much respect and awe and trust, it’s fucking intoxicating.

sure, he’s also a complete headcase, and that’s its own challenge, but only a little more than the special forces average. if the ghost wasn’t such a terrifying man this intimacy wouldn’t have half the kick it does. it wouldn’t be such a huge thing, every single time, that soap’s allowed to come so close without being burned.

how could he say no?

you can’t play it safe. you have to take what you want.

“of course i will,” he purrs, and uses both hands to roughly yank simon into his lap. immediately the strong thighs wind around his hips, drag him close, and they make matching needy noises when their combined efforts press soap’s erection against simon’s ass. “bit impatient, are we?”

“pot, kettle,” simon grinds out. the new arrangement has dragged him into a stress position, arms taut above his head and his back arched, but soap’s done far worse to him. “get this fucking thing out of me, i want you -”

it’s not asked nicely, but it is delivered with a distinct edge of desperation, and he’s not going to say no heartlessly.

he is, however, going to be a cunt about it, because having the ghost at his mercy is a power high all in itself. he hooks two fingers behind the base of the plug and pulls the whole thing out in a oner.

it’s not small, either. simon jerks, curses, yanks at the ropes. he’s so gorgeously responsive, the lines of sinew standing out in his thighs and hips as he strains, hole fluttering around nothing as his body tries to process the sudden lack of intrusion. “you fucking prick,” he accuses, gasping, panting.

“guilty,” soap says, feeling not very guilty at all, actually. he’s already tossed the plug aside to the towel abandoned off the side of the bed and is reaching for the bottle of lube, ignoring the condom beside it. “you did ask.”

“we’ll see when i do the same to you,” simon threatens. it is, soap is sure, mostly empty. they don’t switch that often. “fucking brat.”

“to do the same, si, you’d have to be topping.” he doesn’t bother with much more than a cursory stroke with a slicked-up palm - the plug had had plenty, had been holding in plenty, and he’d spent more than long enough working up to the plug in the first place. “you love cock too much for that.”

simon doesn’t get a chance to protest, because soap presses in right as he takes the breath to do it, and it rushes out as a deep groan instead. his back arches even deeper, beautifully, head tipping back to expose the lines of his throat disappearing off under the mask. he feels fucking incredible - he always does, to be fair, the insane muscle tone and all, but already an orgasm deep there’s a level of heat and closeness inside him that is fucking heavenly. already soap can feel the slightly swollen shape just inside, grinds his hips up into it.

“maybe i do,” simon breathes instead, shaky. his pulse thuds through his skin. “johnny, i need it, c’mon.”

he slides his hands to simon’s stomach, admires just how small his waist looks when he’s spread out like this, savours the texture of the scars under his palms as he slides them to the hips. “you’ll live,” he teases, rocks forward slow. just this, already, he feels so hot and good and like all he ever wants to do for the rest of his life is fuck simon riley slow and filthy, drink in every little twitch of his body and every sound out of him. he did MDMA exactly once, like ten years ago, and he thinks this is probably what sex on it would be like.

“i fucking hate you.” around soap’s waist, simon’s thighs flex a little, try to drag him closer. “more, johnny, please.”

he’s not going to move his hips further, because if he thrusts too hard it’s going to be too much, is going to throw simon into that frenzied overstimulated state where he can’t settle afterward, but he takes pity and pushes a hand up to simon’s chest. “you think you deserve it?”

the breath audibly hitches when he grabs a full handful of simon’s pectoral, gropes at the muscle, pinches the nipple between his thumb and the side of his finger. “yes.” god, his fucking tits are fantastic.

“i don’t know.” he tugs the nipple a little, just far enough that he knows it’s starting to be painful. simon’s wires are a little crossed, he knows that intimately - his own too, though maybe not quite to the same extent - and a little pain with his pleasure makes simon’s insides clench deliciously. “your mouth says one thing, and the rest of you says something else.” can he reach like this? maybe. he gives it a shot, leans down, and thanks god for simon’s ridiculous body when he gets the flat of his tongue against the other nipple.

it earns a moan, a little buck of simon’s hips. he relaxes his deathgrip on soap’s waist to let him get down further, enough to suck it into his mouth, and that just makes him moan even more loudly. he’d love to just go for it, see exactly how loud he can make simon sing for him, but there are people in the building who will definitely hear, and as much as he’d love that too it’ll create awkward questions. soap himself’s already had a decidedly astute look off price after he’d shown up to drills with the world’s darkest, most vicious lovebite on his neck. he’s not looking to get them into any shit.

simon, though, doesn’t generally wear clothes that expose anything but his hands and sometimes forearms, so he’s a perfect canvas. the pale shade of his skin shows bruises stark and lovely for days, a good few scattered across him even now - throat, shoulders, chest, a couple on the insides of his thighs. soap bites down into the giving bulk of one pectoral, grins as it makes simon flinch and clench and gasp again, pinches hard again to punctuate the rock of his hips.

“too much?” he asks, lifting his mouth from the skin, and sees simon’s wrists jerk up against the bonds.

“exactly right,” simon manages after a moment, a shudder as he tries to rock his hips back for more. “god, johnny, there. there.”

he can feel it. the angle of their bodies, the arch of simon’s spine, it’s pressing him right against the swell of simon’s prostate on the downstroke. he makes sure to push hard on the next few thrusts, watches the way it makes simon turn his face into his arm to keep from shouting. his head’s starting to spin with it, the dizzying closeness, the pleasure. “i’ve got you, shhh,” soap murmurs, hooking an arm around simon’s waist to pull him back more onto his lap. the other hand he presses under the base of simon’s cock, pushes it dripping milky-white against the overheated skin. it makes the tug happen low in his core, the need, the urgency. “more?”

“yes.” it comes out like a sob, and another fat droplet of fluid rolls out against simon’s abs. he’s an absolute fucking mess, sweating and sticky and flushing all over now, a faint tremor in his limbs. he’s fucking gorgeous. “close. there, there, there.”

simon doesn’t need to beg - making him come is all that soap can think, the only thing he wants. he’s being a little rougher than he’d planned but simon is so greedy, so open and wanting and so desperate for it that he can’t deny him any longer.

he wants him so much, wants everything. every tiny noise and gasp and shudder, every twitch and stretch. “you’re doin’ so well,” he pants, almost every fibre of his being focused on maintaining his pace, his angle, keeping the thrusts slow and deep and literally milking the pleasure from simon on every stroke. “so beautiful, si, look at you. shakin’ and leakin’ and whinin’ for it. you gonna come for me?”

it makes something boil over in simon, clearly, because one of his hands twists harshly against the cord and yanks the knot free. he rips the mask off and folds both arms over his face instead, clawing marks into his own skin. “can’t fucking breathe,” he gasps, voice strained. “d-don’t stop, don’t y-you fucking dare stop -”

something clenches tightly in soap’s chest at it, the sight, the words, the way simon’s still chasing each thrust with his hips, the way his lips are parted on the desperate sounds falling from his mouth. he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. he couldn’t say no, not to this.

it doesn’t take much longer, two, three more thrusts, and simon’s arching harshly, a gorgeous shivery moan that cracks midway through, his entire body tensing, his cock spurting under soap’s palm, and the wave that rolls through him is too much to stand against, it’s just too fucking good inside him.

soap’s entire mind goes blank. it feels like getting hit by a fucking truck at the moment of his orgasm, like his brain gets pulled out through his balls. he might actually black out for a moment. it takes a long few moments to feel like his brain’s rebooted, to catch his breath, and then he realises simon’s still shaking. carefully, he adjusts their positions to relieve the strain of the position. “you good?” his voice creaks midway through the word ‘good’.

there’s no answer, but there are still minute shocks firing through simon’s body, his breathing still shallow and harsh. he still pulses inside, soft heat, but a little of the tension drains out of him by degrees. his breathing, slowly, begins to even out.

“jesus fucking christ,” simon manages after a moment, voice unsteady, muffled into the crook of his arm. “think that’s what getting shot in the head feels like.” as he says it, his body clenches, his cock twitches. it’s a simultaneously arousing and horrifying thing to realise simon is turned on by the thought.

it’s a dark fucking thing for soap to realise in turn that, maybe a little, so is he. “only a wee bit less messy,” he answers, splaying a hand across the lowest part of simon’s belly. the muscles of his core are still spasming lightly. “you want to see?”

the arm over simon’s face shifts to uncover his eyes, dazed and glassy. then, slowly, he reaches for soap’s phone on the nightstand, passes it down wordlessly.

he unlocks the phone, flicks into the camera app and onto video, sets it rolling as he leans back. he pulls out torturously slowly, bites his lip as the thin trickle of come and lube rolls down to simon’s tailbone once the head of his cock pops loose. simon’s hole stays open, wet, twitching, and soap hooks his thumb into it to pull it a little wider. more come leaks out. his come.

he tosses the phone aside and leans down to get his mouth on it, because he can’t fucking resist, licks inside to make simon groan and arch again. it’s almost like eating out a woman like this, soft and hot and so wet, but it’s got that layer of obscenity to it. the pulse beating against his lips, his tongue, is wild and unsteady. a hand slides into the back of his hair and drags nails against his scalp, makes a tingle fire up his spine.

soap licks out as much of the come as his tongue can reach, as deep as it will possibly fit into simon’s body, and drags his mouth up to suck softly on simon’s balls once he’s done. “got distracted,” he murmurs, reaches for the discarded phone and passes it back. “you’re awful photogenic, si.”

he shifts to lick up the rest of the mess as simon watches the video, the hand still in his hair. one last drop of semen oozes from simon’s tip, and he swallows that too. “fucking hell,” comes the sigh, low, dark, utterly wrecked. “next time, you’re the one who comes twice.”

“inside you both times?” soap asks, grinning. “you like it that much?” he wants, so badly, to make a breeding joke, but his head’s complete mince right now. he’s lucky he can string a sentence together. might not be able to get you pregnant but i could still try, maybe.

“don’t you?” the grip on his hair tightens and simon drags him up roughly to kiss him. the pleasure-drunk, warm, loose feeling is amplified twice over by the hungry way simon licks into the kiss, tastes every filthy place soap’s mouth has been. “fill me so full i’ll be leaking for hours.”

the thought makes a flush of heat flare all over, under his skin. “like the sound of that,” soap admits, dragging simon’s lower lip between his teeth.

they stay like that for what feels like ages, making out, catching their breath, reconnecting to their own bodies. only once simon’s breathing has completely evened out does soap pull back a little to press a soft peck to simon’s cheek.

“how’re you feelin’? alright?”

“absolutely fucking shattered,” simon sighs, finally relaxing a little as soap pushes him back against the pillows. there’s still a flush high on the angular cheekbones. “don’t think i could get up if i wanted to.”

“alright, princess, point taken.” he grins as one big hand swats him on the thigh on his way off the bed. “am i stayin’ or goin’?”

there’s a moment of hesitation. simon seems to seriously consider the wall above his desk. “stay,” he says finally, quietly. it’s not unusual, but after the really intense encounters he usually prefers to be by himself, and it makes sense. two big lads in a single bed is difficult logistically without factoring in anything else. “‘s’cold.”

“so that’s how it is, is it?” he laughs, bending to grab his underwear on his way to the little bathroom. “sex toy and hot water bottle, that’s all i am.”

“a hot water bottle wouldn’t answer back,” comes the response through the open door. “feel like my blood pressure’s fucking skyrocketed the last few months.”

soap snorts. “told you, you like it really.”

he washes up, pisses, uses simon’s mouthwash, and when he comes back the bedside lamp’s off. there’s two phone screens lit up, though, and when he manoeuvres himself into the available space he can see simon’s sending the video to himself, deleting it from soap’s storage. “managing your digital footprint, si?”

“mmm.” both of the phones get tossed aside onto the nightstand, and a thick arm wraps around his waist. “not that i think you’ll be showing all the lads at breakfast, but…”

but it’s a level of trust they’re not at yet, and he understands that. this sort of thing, he’s pretty sure, is something simon hasn’t so much as gone near for a decade or more. he wouldn’t let anyone but soap tie him down, take what he’s given. even this, spending the night together, it’s a special allowance he gives nobody else. “naw. don’t need it, anyway. get to see it in real life often enough, i don’t need souvenirs.” soap laughs as simon buries his face in his neck, lifts a hand to pet the short hair at the base of his skull. “you’re in control.”

“don’t think i am,” comes the quiet response, sighed against his skin. “runs the fuck away with me sometimes. come back to my senses and there you are.”

soap shuts his eyes, keeps stroking. “bad thing?”

“no.” there’s no hesitation, this time, and there’s that harsh clench in soap’s chest again, like someone reaches right into his fucking ribcage and clutches his heart in their fist. it’s dizzying, brutal, exhilarating. “good thing. want you there.”

“then that’s all i need,” he answers, turning his head a little to drop a kiss on simon’s hair. he can feel the flutter of eyelashes against his neck, can’t help but smile as he lies back on the pillows again. “tell me if you change your mind.”

“doubt it,” simon whispers. “but alright.”

“alright,” soap echoes, grinning into the dark.

halt and catch fire by exavibus

Series: in the heat of the moment [3]
Fandoms: Call of Duty (Video Games)
AO3 Categories: M/M
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: John “Soap” MacTavish/Simon “Ghost” Riley
Characters: Gary “Roach” Sanderson, John “Soap” MacTavish, John Price (Call of Duty), Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, Simon “Ghost” Riley
Freeform Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Feelings Realization, Love Confessions, Lowercase, Mission Fic, POV Alternating, Present Tense, Torture, hurt/comfort but for hardened soldiers
Status: Completed
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Published: 2023-01-22
Updated: 2023-02-11
Packaged: 2023-09-01 18:16:22
Summary:

HALT AND CATCH FIRE: a computing instruction that forces the machine to lock up and crash, sometimes sustaining damage in the process.

eight months after chicago, the 141 take an assignment to neutralise an al-qatala base in the united republic of adal.

the recon is supposed to be simple, but ghost is captured.

1. then the black sky came down

Summary for the Chapter:

they’re doing this as a favour.

it’s three in the fucking morning and not a single person in this room is anything less than pissed off that they’re here. top ten briefings of his career, honestly, just below the one he’d gone to with the undiagnosed wrist fracture and the one he’d had to excuse himself from to go and throw up after the bout of food poisoning.

truly, soap is blessed.

the impromptu wake-up-alarm trill of two identical work phones doing their nuts in stereo had been a new one, though, both discarded across the room where it had started to genuinely feel like the regimental sergeant major might burst, kool aid man-style, through the wall and demand to know what the fuck was going on, and he’s still a little stressed. he’s fairly sure he looks like he’s been dragged backwards through a bush on the way to ops.

(“you’ve got your shirt on inside-out,” gaz had said helpfully when they’d arrived.)

he grimaces his way through another sip of the coffee from the pot in the middle of the conference table - even with sugar it’s like drinking diesel -  and drops his pen on his open notebook. “i’m followin’ up to there,” he says, aware that someone kicks him lightly in the ankle under the table as he does it, “but there’s that much of a tickin’ clock on it? this is one russian MP we’re on about?”

he loves price, he really does, and he does sort of regret being the reason for the visible wave of oh for fuck’s sake-level annoyance that crosses his captain’s face, but they’re all tired and he can’t help having questions. “it’s one russian MP with an unknown level of finance, political power, and classified access. you know what the situation’s like right now.”

charly johnstone from the SRR, god love her, has somehow been drafted in - he’s not seen much of her since the kastovia assignment, but she looks even more sleep-deprived than price does, and she’s got a laptop and a stack of folders about four inches thick in front of her. “the intel we’ve had through,” she says, scrubbing a hand through the back of her short hair, “suggests that the asset’s leaks are coming bigger and faster as time goes on. without knowing who it is, we can’t be sure what he’s been telling them.”

price nods, props two fingers against his temple. “so yes, the ticking clock is because if it’s someone on a foreign affairs committee, someone with the right background, every single transmission is a target on not just our interests but potentially russian opposition too. there are still people trying to resist the ultras in politics.”

which makes price’s FSB contact asking them for help make more sense. it clicks into place for soap finally, and across the table he can see gaz’s brows draw together in the same realisation. “so we go to the end of the chain and follow it back, and since the end of that chain’s in the URA -”

“it’s us or it’s the SIS or CIA in about five months’ time, once it’s all gone cold,” price confirms with a sigh. “unless your beau from london’s looking to do you a favour, ghost.”

“it’s not nice to lead a fella on like that, captain,” comes the dry response from soap’s right-hand side. he chances a sidelong glance, sees little in the brown eyes but a bland deadpan, feels a little jolt when they flick briefly at him before they return to price. “besides, you say that like i’ve got his number.”

“he’s got yours,” price shoots back, amused, but shrugs. “so it’s like i said. i’ve told kamarov we’ll be enroute within eight hours, so you’ve got that long to get sorted. laswell’s already on her way, she’ll meet us in urzikstan. i’ve pulled a few other lads from their assignments there too.”

“she’ll be on the field?” gaz asks, doing his furrowed brow thing again with more intensity now. “the CIA are on it, then.”

“not officially,” charly says, wincing her way through her own mug of coffee. “but when you phrase things as part of the task force operation, then you get a wee bit of latitude.”

price flicks through a few pages on his tablet, bringing up a document he’d skipped past earlier in the briefing. “it’s the jordanian GID that have given us our location. kate’s got a relationship with their director.”

“katie’s got a relationship with near-on everyone out that way,” charly pipes up, a wry smile on her face. “more popular than we are for sure, even if it’s with the ol’ fingernail factory.”

soap opens his mouth, about to ask i’m sorry, with the what now, before he decides that actually maybe he’d prefer not to hear the story. “full rollout then, sir?”

“exactly. pack your gladrags.” stifling a yawn, price stands. “once the brief’s ironed out i’ll get it sent, but for now i expect you ready to load by ten hundred. ghost, i want you to hang about, but the rest of you are dismissed.”

the chairs scrape back from the table in unison, a nasty sound of tube steel on thin office carpet. gaz gives him a little nod - see you in a bit - and trots out, but soap rounds the table to pick up charly’s manila brick for her while she scoops up her laptop.

“wee chat, cap, or am i to start on ghost’s packin’ for him too?” he asks.

price is pouring himself another cup of caffeinated sludge, stirring a package of sweetener into it with the blunt end of his biro. “shouldn’t take long. you volunteering?” it’s playful, good-humoured, but there’s a veiled threat nonetheless. get gone immediately or get stuck with organising for price too.

“i would, sir, but honestly now i get these in my hands i think i’ve got my work cut out just helpin’ charly. i’m so sorry.” soap feigns strain in his arms, his back.

price snorts. “don’t quit your day job.” now fuck off, there’s a good lad, is the unspoken prompt - he’s standing in that caged-tiger way he gets when he’s about to really start plotting deaths, and as relaxed as the last other member of 141 seems sitting at the table still soap’s not looking to stick around.

he leaves behind charly, pulling the door shut behind him with one heel.

“you comin’ with us, charls? verdansk take two?” soap asks. the ops building is a bit spooky at the best of times, and in the middle of the night it’s doubly-so, deathly quiet and lit in flat fluoro. he doesn’t know how far he’s walking her - it could be to the second floor, it could be right the way across the base to the SRR admin centre - and he finds it hard not to chat at the best of times.

for her part, charly snorts. “aye right. we cannae a’ be james bond, soap.”

her accent’s normally not that strong at all, but she always seems to become several notches more scottish when she speaks to him. he likes it, likes the little bit of solidarity. it’s second nature to tone down the way he speaks, to the point where his mum accuses him of sounding more and more english every time he phones her, and it’s nice to let it go a bit. “it’s no’ exactly double-o business, charly. same shootin’ at the same AQ fuckers as always.”

she holds the doors at the end of the hall open for him. “and some of us are here doin’ paperwork and training people, rather than gallivantin’.” she raises an eyebrow at him, grinning, and leads the way towards the stairs. “or are we more family huntin’ trip? dad and auntie and the three weans?”

“dinnae,” he warns her, as sternly as he can manage, climbing the staircase after her. “my actual family do my heid in enough, d’you think i need that at work too?” it hadn’t been something that had bothered him before he’d started sleeping with the de facto older brother of 141, but now it feels weird. “it’s selections about now, aye? the fan dance and a’ that?”

she laughs. “last week, poor wee bastards. it was twenty-nine degrees with no wind. took out a whole third of the pool.”

he still remembers that first week, the absolute fucking hell of it - winter selections, too, running up a 900-metre hill twice in minus temperatures - and loudly sucks in air around clenched teeth. “any of yours survive?”

“think it’s about ten. we’ll see how many there are come test week, they’ve still got the long drag to do.” charly unlocks one of the doors in the featureless corridor with the access card hanging from the lanyard around her neck, lets them both into a shoebox-small office with three desks all pushed around the walls under a poky little window. she dumps the laptop and charger loudly onto one of them. “thank you, gallant hero, your quest is complete.”

“fuckin’ yaldi,” soap grins, depositing the folders into her open arms. “not to love you and leave you, charls, but the faster i get my shit sorted the faster i can go back to sleepin’.”

“rub it in, you wee fucker, this is me for the forseeable.” she shoots him a playful middle finger, laughing. “i hope you have a shite time.”

he ducks around the door as if to take cover from the finger. “jealousy’s a disease, charly!”

she swears at him again, giggling and shooing him, and he’s smiling as he heads back for the stairway. it drops when his phone buzzes in his pocket - his personal phone, alerting him of a message from gaz. when he opens it, there’s a photo of his locker in the armoury, door open, and zero other explanation, but they’ve done this before. he saves it, edits the picture, sends it back with items highlighted, and gets a thumbs up emoji in return.

it’d taken a bit for the 141 to hit its stride, constantly split and chopped and changed as they are, but after the hassan zyani debacle they feel strong. just as tight-knit, if not more, than any service troop that spend every waking moment together. he can spend weeks not seeing one or the other of them and not feel awkward or uncertain about coming back together again. it’s trust. it’s nice.

he finds himself drifting into another message thread on autopilot as he leaves the ops building into the warm night air. it’s all short messages, varying degrees of terse and functional - are you busy? where are you? be there in 30 and answers to those - and it feels strange to be typing something into the box that isn’t in the same vein.

who’s this bloke from london? should i be jealous?

soap pauses, looks at it for a few long seconds, backspaces the second sentence. thinks about it a bit more and deletes the whole thing. it’s not that he doesn’t still want to know, but asking isn’t going to be welcome. knows it’s going to come off possessive or insecure or even proprietary, which he doesn’t want.

the message he actually sends is i know you left your tablets in my drawer. i’ll bring them, which is probably still a little too much, but he’s willing to overstep by that. means less scrambling, less ‘i didn’t want to say anything, but-’ and more of a sign that he’s noticed and it’s not a big deal.

the reply comes much more quickly than he expects. either simon and price are done, or he’s openly texting in a briefing in front of his commanding officer. soap knows which he finds more likely.

Thanks. that’s it, a single word, but soap has long since made his peace with the fact he’s seeing the driest texter in the western hemisphere. the fact it even gets a reply is more than he was counting on.

he’d better drop back by his room before he does anything else. he doesn’t want to forget.

the box is surreptitiously slipped into his trouser pocket as he boards the helo, but it’s close-quarters and he’s not about to check when gaz is sitting playing some video game three feet across from him. the flight to brize norton is the usual hour or so, and he can wait.

the tiny plane is just the four of them, all in a line on one side, but price immediately tips his hat forward over his face and goes to sleep, arms folded, while gaz does the same about half an hour in. and then it’s just them, johnny his guard against any drowsy prying eyes, so he shuts his book, reaches in and takes the box out.

TWO to be taken in the MORNING with food, the label reads. he’s just about going to manage two of the three. as quietly as he can, he pushes the capsules through the foil and pops them under the edge of the mask, swallows it dry. hasn’t killed him yet and he’s been on them for years.

he can feel the eyes on his hands as he does it, glances sideways. says nothing, because he doesn’t need to - there’s no expectation on him to explain himself, which still feels surreal. most people would want to talk about it, but johnny’s not most people.

instead, a hand slides over to his knee, wraps warm around where it becomes the inside of his thigh, and squeezes gently. affectionate, reassuring. safe, almost, as much as he hates to turn the word over in his mind.

he barely feels like himself these days. ostensibly that’s supposed to be what the pills are for.

he puts the box back into his pocket, opens the book again, and sets the back of his hand against the back of johnny’s. his skin is so warm, so familiar, and despite the part of his brain that hates how this whole thing makes him so stupid chanting you’re going to get caught, you’re going to get fucking caught in the back of his head, it’s…

it’s sort of nice. it’s touch just for the sake of touch, which still feels completely fucking alien after all this time, and his body is still struggling to categorise it. not fucking, not violence, so what?

he doesn’t know.

the sun’s just set by the time they offload. laswell is waiting for them when they arrive, already looking a bit worn despite the sunglasses covering her eyes. there’s a pair of humvees parked up beside the tarmac, and she’s leaning against one beside a woman in a headscarf who watches them like she expects them to start kicking off at any moment.

laswell opens her arms, though, and price gives her a quick hug. “gentlemen,” she says, past price’s shoulder, to her credit only slightly muffled. “we need to stop meeting like this.”

“that’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” gaz says, smiling.

soap, for his part, is watching the three men who come out from behind one of the other cars and start hauling out the loaded gear. one of them’s a shortish lad in civvies with a distinctly american look to him, but the other two are in MTP uniform, union flags on their arm patches. could be the extra SAS boys price mentioned.

one of them stops mid-stride as he looks at them. tall lad, perhaps taller even than s- ghost, he reminds himself - wearing a shemagh around the lower half of his face, mouse-brown hair damp with sweat. he seems to recover after a moment, but soap watches him for another long moment before there’s an unfamiliar voice.

“all very heartwarming,” the other woman says, her accent a strange hybrid of cut-glass english and something more middle-eastern, her near-black eyes flicking across each of them in turn, “but we have a job to do.”

“task force 141,” laswell says, one of her brows raising behind her aviators, “this is major qadira badri. jordanian GID.”

badri has a haughty sort of hardarse air to her, her arms folded. soap supposes you probably need to be a bit of a hardarse to be a woman in an arab intelligence force. she looks to be in her lateish thirties, pretty in a sort of cold, joyless way, a lock of dark hair escaping the corner of the hijab. “a pleasure.” it doesn’t sound much like one. “the site we’ve identified is three hours’ drive from here. our sources report al-qatala have established a sophisticated SIGINT base in an old soviet-era bunker in the northeast. aerial surveillance is limited, obviously, but there’s a lot of traffic in and out. we suspect they may be conducting specialist training for the larger camp in the mountains further to the west.”

a bunker explains why they can’t just throw a few reaper drones at the thing. “how big’s it likely to be?” he asks her, feeling himself tense as she turns her attention to him.

“we haven’t been able to perform full reconnaissance,” she says, rather clipped. “that is rather the point of you all being here.”

“i’m sure we can manage,” price intervenes, raising a palm. it seems to mollify badri a little. “there’s a forward operations base nearby?”

“there’s a farmhouse,” laswell answers, a wry tone to her voice. “when was the last time you slept in a bunk bed, john?”

gaz snorts loudly.

price just grins. “keeping us humble, are you?”

“if we make good time,” badri says, sounding very beyond all the camaraderie, “i would like to have the surroundings scouted tonight. the light is against us.”

“by all means,” price says easily, but there’s that edge deep in his voice that soap recognises as the beginning of a Problem. badri’s clearly used to having her way, and if she keeps trying to steamroll them she and price are going to butt heads big-time. “lead the way, then, major.”

badri gets into the driver’s seat of the lead vehicle without any further words. price shoots them a look, an i’ll handle it sort of furrow of his brow as he gets into the same one with laswell and the probably-CIA lad.

one of the british lads jumps in to drive the second humvee, and soap’s halfway through climbing into the back when he spots the other one, the one with his face covered, stop on his way into the front passenger seat to tap ghost on the arm.

it’s surreal to watch someone actually enthusiastically approach him, he thinks, and stranger still to watch the wordless little exchange - shemagh lad does some sort of double limp-wrist thing, ghost flips him a middle-finger and then gently punches him in the arm, and then shemagh lad winks and scampers up into the front seat.

“i think they’re communicatin’,” he stage-whispers to gaz, next to him, who lets out a pfft of laughter and plonks down into the seat next to him.

“roach thinks he’s fucking funny,” ghost says, loudly ripping open one of his trouser pockets, slumping sideways into the seat on soap’s other side. “sergeant for the same troop as me.”

air troop, A squadron, soap’s brain supplies immediately. he’s not obsessed or anything. “‘roach’?”

ghost’s produced a pack of gum from his pocket, and as he passes two sticks over the dark eyes flick at him, amused. “problem, soap?”

“none at all, ghost,” he shoots back, popping one stick into his mouth and passing the other to gaz. “so you do have friends. you’ve been lyin’ to us all this time.”

“you can also fuck off,” comes the answer, a knee nudging sideways against his, and he can’t help but smile. “no fucking respect off the enlisted men any more, i swear.”

“you love it really, sir,” soap says, nudging back. their arms press together, a kiss of warm skin to skin, and it sends something tingling up the back of his neck. still, every time, always.

there’s a soft little laugh from under the mask.

there are only maybe four hours of good darkness left by the time they get to the safehouse, but laswell and badri and price call him over from where he’s helping the other lads drag camo net over the trucks and equipment crates, and laswell’s little stooge is busily testing comms equipment over in the corner, so he can guess what’s going to happen next.

“i’d just like to have eyes on it,” price says, chewing the end of his unlit cigar thoughtfully, “before we start coming up with concrete plans. a good look at the night-time guard patrols, we recce the place from distance during the day, and then once we’ve got darkness again i reckon we send you in. gaz too, maybe. he’s not half bad at quiet.”

he thinks about it, eyes on the opened map. gaz on the inside with him puts price and johnny on the outside as their eyes, unless - “you pulled roach and crane for what? fallback? security?”

“standby. if we have to hit the place proper, they’re here.”

makes sense. it’s probably how he’d organise it, too. “let me take roach with tonight, then. best someone on the outside has a decent idea of the up-close, and his memory’s solid.”

price’s eyes flick to laswell, who lifts her chin just slightly. “think we can manage that. get organised, then, asap.”

“got it,” he answers, and leaves the close little farmhouse again. the night air’s starting to cool off now, a welcome relief, and as he approaches the crates a familiar warm presence slides up against his side.

“you’re goin’ already?” johnny’s voice is soft, pitched just for them, a sort of privacy amongst the bustle of securing the building and surroundings. “quick shufty or…?”

“just a look,” he confirms, equally quiet. there’s a strange sort of intimacy in it, even if it’s completely professional, johnny lifting the net for him to let him get at his gear while they discuss the mission.

it’s all such unknown territory to him, he doesn’t know what to think. doesn’t know how to feel about it, other than have a vague suspicion that this isn’t what he’s supposed to allow or want or need. isn’t supposed to feel that anticipatory tingle down his back at the warm touch on his arm.

“just you?”

they’re not doing anything untoward, so why does it feel like he’s being fucking watched like this? “i’m taking roach,” he answers, watches the wry little grin find the handsome features. “don’t you start.”

“you that worried about bein’ alone with me? thought i was your sergeant, sir.” every time johnny puts that edge on sir, the teasing little lilt to it, it makes his breath come shallow. for something that is supposed to be an expression of respect it’s the complete opposite, makes something in him want to demand what johnny owes him. shove him up against a wall or even this fucking stack of crates, lay claim on him for fucking everyone to see.

this thing of theirs makes him fucking stupid, messes with his judgement, completely runs away with his self-control, but he can’t stop wanting it.

“bloody right you’re mine,” he murmurs, only just loud enough for it to reach from his mouth to where johnny stands, and to his bone-deep satisfaction the grin falters to something a little surprised, intrigued, heated. “but you’ll be on sniper detail. you’ll have to settle for watching me instead.”

“with pleasure,” comes the purr. they’re drifting closer, closer, too close. johnny seems to realise at the same moment, because he takes a deliberate step back, and the spell breaks a little. “you want me to go get him for you, then?”

what he really wants is to drag johnny round the corner and kiss him until both of their knees buckle, but that’s less practical than what johnny’s proposing. “please,” he answers, strapping on his belt and drop holster, trying to focus on the task at hand. “i’ll see you when i get back.”

“of course,” johnny says easily, a warm little smile, and then he leaves. it feels like the ambient temperature drops a couple of degrees without him there.

focus, he reminds himself.

he’s near-enough dressed when he feels the movement on his periphery, a tall shadow passing between the low light of the staging area and where his eyes are focused on the front of his vest. he turns his head.

two open hands, palms inward, flicked inward. evening.

“you about ready to go?”

a nod, even as roach glances over his shoulder. it’s just them, really, everyone else busy with security set-up and bringing the relevant supplies indoors, but it might still be a little too public. too many unfamiliar people.

he takes the helmet as it’s held out to him, holds it while the keffiyeh’s exchanged for a proper balaclava, passes it back. goes through his last-minute checks as roach gets himself right - map, gps, camera all accounted for. he’s only just turned the ignition of the battered old ATV when he feels roach climb on behind him, and there’s no point in wasting time. off they go.

the quad is less rickety than it looks, and it manages the two of them the eight miles to the crest of the ridge just fine, but he’s fucking stiff by the time they conceal it amongst the scrub and has to take a moment to stretch. the juddering of the wheels across the ground has left a buzzing feeling through his lower body, his hands.

“reminds me of cowboy films,” comes the very quiet voice from behind him. mid-pitched, creaky from disuse, the faintest of geordie accents. familiar. “when they get off the horse and they’re all bandy-legged.”

“you watch too much TV, mate.” there’s a wind up here, a cold edge on it, so he zips the collar of his jacket up a little higher and hunkers down to creep toward the ridgeline. “bring that spotter scope.”

he settles onto the ground as he gets a good view, shifts a particularly prominent rock that jabs up into his ribs, and takes the scope as it’s passed across. there’s a scrape of stone as roach plonks down beside him, a pair of binoculars in his hand already. “they didn’t bother to hide it, did they?”

they did not. the ugly concrete structure looks amateurishly plonked down in the dip between the ridges, bright floodlights around the yawning mouth of the tunnel into the mountains pointed at the gravel road snaking away into the dark. he selects the night optics, calibrates them down a few notches before he puts the eyepiece of the scope to his face. “you ever been in one of these things?”

“seen a few in afghanistan,” roach answers absently. “never really been far into one. antennas look unattended, that’s them off on the other side of the valley. big signals dishes too.”

“might be an idea to rig them up with charges before we hit the place proper.” two guard towers, but it looks like only one is actually manned right now. the other, the lights are on, but there’s no movement inside at all. “they’re fucking horrible. rabbit warrens.”

“rabbits with AKs.”

“there’ll be fucking dozens of them in there too, i bet you.” there certainly aren’t many of them out front, but it’s also half two in the morning. they’re clearly not expecting visitors. “i’m going to swing around the north side. keep an eye out.”

“yes sir.” roach takes the spotter scope from him, switches to using it himself. “almost like having you back proper, you bossing me about like this.”

“don’t be fucking cheeky,” he shoots back, sliding a little way down the slope to start moving around the edge of the trough end. “jealous of the glamourous lifestyle, sanderson?”

“if it’s anything like what we had this morning, fuck no. got physically pulled off the patrol truck to come here, me and jamie both.” for someone almost physically incapable of speaking around unfamiliar people, roach is almost chatty. not confident or outgoing, certainly, but the raspy quality of his voice is loosening a little even through the radio. “you like it? the task force thing?”

if he didn’t, if he wasn’t sure this was the best use of him, he wouldn’t still be here. he’d have caught the flight back home from chicago and gone straight to the RSM to be deployed back to his squadron. he’d nearly done it anyway, in the throes of his crisis about what he’d done, what they’d done, how he couldn’t trust himself in the 141 any more, but - “‘the devil will find work for idle hands to do’,” he quotes instead. “keeps me busy.”

“what are they like? the others?”

“you know price.”

“i’ve met him, but it’s not like he ever ran us. just know he’s a training officer for a good reason.”

price is a training officer because it’s how he scouts talent for his own ops. he’s one of the best the regiment’s ever had and the boys that catch his eye are the ones that live up to his own skills. he doesn’t point out that price must’ve asked for roach and crane personally, if they got pulled off active active duty, but roach isn’t stupid, he’ll have thought of that already. “best CO i’ve ever had,” he says instead, climbing over a rocky outcropping. “wouldn’t ever ask you to do something he wouldn’t do himself. sound man, born leader.”

“high praise off you, that is. keep low, that lad in the watch tower’s turned this way.”

he pauses, turns his scope in that direction - the guard isn’t looking at him, more just aimlessly shuffling about, so he carries on at a slower pace. “you asked.”

“aye, but that’s the nicest thing i’ve ever heard you say about anyone.”

you’re going soft, basically. “you’ve barely seen me since ‘19, roach. do one.”

“you know the thing about dad going to the corner shop for milk and just never coming back? that’s us, lieutenant. we’ve been waiting on you coming back with the milk for three years.”

he snorts. “hate to tell you, but your mum and i just didn’t work out. we tried.” he double-checks the tower again, lengthens his stride now he’s out of its field of view. he’ll be just about above the bunker, now, and their external security isn’t impressing him so far. that’s not necessarily a good thing. “i doubt that they’re running this place on a skeleton staff. wonder how heavily they’re fortified inside.”

“think demoing the antennas would draw them out a bit?”

“put them all on full alert, too.” he takes a few pictures of the concrete yard from above, can feel himself chewing the inside of his cheek. he’ll need to run it all by price. maybe it’s a better idea to say fuck being quiet and just hit the place full-on from the beginning. he doesn’t like the vibe of this place. “you might see some action yet, roach.”

“canny,” comes the ironic reply. “can always rely on it being exciting with you, lieutenant.”

“what did i say about being cheeky?” he’s still got the other side to surveil, but his instincts are telling him that this job is bad news. “keep your eyes open. i’m moving.”

for the second night in a row, soap is awakened before sunrise, because he’s done something to offend god and the universe, though he’s not sure what. it’s the roar of a petrol engine that does it, the sound of something loudly falling over, and he’s on his feet before he’s even fully conscious. he has to catch the doorframe to keep from banging into it, but then he’s running through their makeshift ops room to get outside.

in the thin twilight, next to a rolled quad, there’s the A squadron sergeant - roach - over on all fours, covered in dust and grime and a long stream of blood rolling down his sleeve, and soap surges forward to him before his brain registers something that makes his blood freeze.

two of them went out.

“roach!” he bends to the lad and hauls him upright. roach is panic-breathing, chest shuddering in great gasps, and as they come face-to-face his face is paper-white, eyes wide, pupils blown wide. behind them, there’s the sound of more people scrambling. soap hears price call his name, but he’s already demanding “what happened?” with a sick feeling surging up from inside him.

“they’ve…” it sounds like it takes superhuman effort to force the words out, winded, wheezing, shaking. “they’ve got him.”

it’s like the world falls away. there’s no sound but roach’s gasps and his own heartbeat. “what?” disbelief, shock. impossible fear. he feels all of them, he feels everything, and yet nothing at all.

“they’ve got ghost.”

2. no bolt, nor brick

Summary for the Chapter:

capture on both sides of the fence.

Notes for the Chapter:

cw for prisoner violence, mention of execution, imagined character death, and implications of torture.

they’re dead fucking set on keeping him alive. he knows it because they’ve all got sidearms and yet every time they lose control of him they refuse to fucking use them. there’s blood soaking through the fabric of his mask, rivulets of sweat carrying it into his eye, but he thrashes the heel of his boot into the ribs of the one trying to bend over him hard and twists as viciously as he can. his shoulder fucking screams at him, almost definitely dislocated, but he can worry about it later, when there aren’t five of them trying to sit on him, pin him down.

the one he’s just kicked spits on him, unleashes a torrent of arabic cursing, but just reels back holding his ribs.

there’s a knee pressing down on the side of his neck, and he can’t breathe. he still writhes as violently as the restraint allows until another of them manages to properly immobilise his legs, and only when the dark edges start creeping in does he stop.

what feels like fabric wraps tight around his wrists tight enough to bite into the skin. another harsh band of pressure fits around his upper arms to force them toward each other behind his back, enough to send another dizzying spike of pain through his shoulder, and he can’t help but loudly choke on the gasp he tries to haul in against the rough concrete. around his ankles, what feels like rope or cord, winding three, four, five times around and winding between his feet.

his arabic’s not the best. he knows enough to know they’re calling him every name they can think of, and that one of them says the words “there” and “truck” and that’s about it. just those two words is enough to bring the dread crashing hard into the dead centre of his chest, even as they start dragging him across the ground by his trussed arms.

secondary location is the worst-case scenario, but he’s been lucky so far -
the corridors become the open sky and he can see the beginnings of dawn breaking, the thin blue-dark turning to grey beyond the halogen floods, and there’s the sound of an old engine firing up behind him that makes his fucking skin crawl.

focus, he reminds himself. he’s been making it so fucking difficult for them to control him that they’ve restrained him into his gear. all he needs to do is hold on until they get him where they’re taking him and then the cavalry will know where to find him.

he breathes in deeply, tries to steady the way the adrenaline and pain and too-tight bindings are all making him take shaky panic-gasps. hold on, hold on. fuck.

when they try to lift him into the back of the truck, he kicks both feet at one of their faces, barks a sharp laugh when it sends the man tumbling to the ground. gets backhanded in the face for his trouble, feels it knock his mask squint. “get fucked,” he grunts, even as they shove him in between them and climb in after them. “fucking pathetic.”

the man who gets in after him stamps hard on his leg, and spits again.

“i have good news and bad news,” laswell begins as she dumps the tablet onto the table, her hair starting to fall loose from her bun. she looks rough, but all of them do. sleepless, stressed. “his GPS locator is still on. based on the way it’s moving we can assume he’s managed to retain it somehow.”

she’s not talking like she thinks simon’s dead, and he trusts her judgement, but it’s not what he’d call a great revelation. soap wants to say something, ask what makes that good news, but his voice has died in his throat.

he feels fucking useless. can’t do anything but just wait to be told.

“bad news,” she continues, a pause to meet price’s eyes for a moment, “is that they’re moving him.”

“where?” gaz has been here the whole time while laswell and price have been conferring, right at soap’s side, and he’s grateful for the grounding presence. his voice is clear, steady, his tone deadly serious.

“they call the camp the circle of fire, translated from arabic,” says the youngish CIA lad who’s been behind laswell since they arrived. “but the AQ fighters in the region shorten it to just ‘circle’, dayirat. it’s where all of the local recruits are trained.”

laswell nods. “it’s around two hundred klicks from here, toward the western coast. for a little over a year they’ve been operating with minimal surveillance capability over the area. all the agency has is images when they were beginning setup.”

price’s expression darkens. “when the iranians started funding them.”

zyani and ghorbrani are long-dead and still they’re fucking laughing at them. “he’s definitely there, then?” soap can’t help but ask. he winces at how tight, how strained his voice is. there’s a gentle touch on his back that he knows is gaz, and it helps a little. “if you don’t have intel on the place, how d’you know?”

laswell and her analyst both look over at major badri, who has been standing silently watching them this entire time. “the GID,” the analyst lad says quietly, “have HUMINT resources in that part of the country.”

“i’m not authorised to share more,” badri says, her tone flinty. “even that much is outwith mission parameters.”

price’s head snaps around to face her. “mission parameters,” he practically growls, “are out of the fucking window, major.” the anger drips cold from his voice, eyes hard, hand curling into a fist where it sits on the table. “this is my second-in-command you’re talking about.”

she’s unmoved. she doesn’t even fucking blink, and soap can feel the fury rise sharp in his own chest. “the information,” she enunciates very clearly, slowly, like they’re children, “is classified.”

price whips round fully and he’s about to surge at her, into her face, when gaz rushes round and restrains him a hand on his shoulder, a soft cap, ease off into his ear. he’s still clearly fucking livid, but he stays where he is. “you -”

“john,” laswell snaps, and in unison they all look at her. “enough.”

before anyone else can kick off, the analyst clears his throat quietly. “from here, these road conditions, it’s a three-hour drive. he’ll arrive within the next thirty minutes, but when they process him they’ll almost certainly find the locator, and from there we won’t know if they move him.”

“meanwhile,” badri says coldly, “they will work on dismantling the operation here, and it will disappear into the wind within twenty-four hours.”

“with respect, major, that’s not our fucking priority any more.” it comes out of soap with far more venom than he thought he was capable of. he’d pulled the rosary ring off the chain of his dogtags earlier and has been spinning it near-violently with his thumb around his index finger since they were called in. he can feel the metal biting into his skin as he clenches his fist. “you found them before, you can find them again. if we don’t go after ghost then he could d-” and his voice fucking falters, drops right out from under him as he tries to say ‘die’.

her eyes are black, impossibly dark as they meet his, and for the first time they waver. her gaze drops from his eyes to his face to his hands.

“it is still my priority,” she says after a long moment, looking from him to price to gaz. “but you are not under my command.” it still has a cold finality to it, but at least she admits she can’t stop them.

“then we’re going,” price barks. “we do it blind if we have to.”

“flores,” laswell says, a glance at the analyst, “you too.”

“yes ma’am,” he - flores - answers, turning to start packing equipment into a hardcase. no hesitation, just duty. something about it makes soap feel better.

maybe it’s that confirmation that they’re going to fucking do something about it. he feels so unbalanced, undone, like he’s being pulled in a million directions at once and each one takes him further from something important.

he’s never been good at standing by when there’s something to be done.

“you lot,” comes price’s sharp command, and all four of the rest of them stand bolt-straight on instinct. “saddle up and prepare to move. one hour, full gear.”

“won’t even take that, cap,” gaz murmurs, even as the two from A squadron turn and head out immediately. “soap?”

he sways a little, turns. “yeah. comin’.”

they dump him in a room almost like a cell, completely bare but for a covered drain in the corner and a steel ring set into the floor. the building’s been hastily thrown up in cinderblock, unfinished concrete, but there is an al-qatala flag on the wall that his eyes settle on as they chuck him on the floor, pin his arms to change the improvised cloth bindings to metal cuffs that are too tight around his wrists.

he’s seen rooms like this before. been in them before. they’re not designed to hold prisoners for very long.

they’re designed for executions.

when they get off him, back well off to watch him struggle upright on his knees, his wrists are chained to the o-ring bolted into the floor. his immediate instinct is to test the movement, ignoring the hot agony that jolts through his shoulder. they’ve put his hands behind him so he can’t strangle himself with it, haven’t they? they want the satisfaction of doing it themselves.

one of them is holding a knife, his knife, and still flinches back when he lunges forward like a dog on a tether. young lad, from the eyes above the scarf tied about his face. nervous.

two of the older ones press back in again. an arm winds around his throat in a sleeper hold, manages to squeeze tight enough that he can’t bite the cunt right through the mask, and another hand yanks the fastenings of his plate carrier open until it falls in pieces to the floor.

the knife isn’t for him, he realises. it’s for his clothes. the sound of the blade through fabric is quiet, the blade edge viciously sharp, and the rags too fall to the concrete.

the mask is the last thing they take from him. the one holding him in the headlock yanks it off as they let go of him, and then he’s left kneeling in just his ID tags and boots, the edges of the heels biting into the bare skin at the top of his hamstrings.

one of them laughs, a dry, derisive sound, and says what his limited arabic unfortunately clearly recognises as “so he’s a pervert.” he keeps his eyes on the young one, now gathering the scraps of his gear into a pile, and tries not to give any indication that he understands. “the body of an animal, look at him.”

he doesn’t keep a rolling inventory, but he knows there are bitemarks on his throat, his shoulders, his thighs. the way he got them is obvious enough. he can feel the goosebumps prickling across his skin at the scrutiny, the cold, the sense that there’s someone coming up behind him.

there’s the sound of the door opening, and a harsh demand that might be “what are you doing, standing around?” two pairs of boots hurriedly retreat, and another man walks into his line of sight.

this one is unmasked. mid thirties, maybe, a few days’ beard growth, blandly handsome. doesn’t look like he sleeps enough. or at all. he carries a tripod and a video camera, and sets them up at leisure. angles the camera just so, double-checks the viewfinder before coming to stand in front of him, links his hands behind his back.

“you’re british,” the man says, in english. tenor voice, heavy accent. his eyes stay fixed on his face and go no lower. “what are you doing in this country?”

this country. not ‘ours’. “i can’t answer that question.”

the man squats down, his expression mild. “you do not have very long, you know.”

he stays silent as the hand reaches out for his tags, yanks them roughly enough that the chain snaps before it can pull him forward too far. he watches the man read them.

“you do not believe in god, lieutenant riley?” it’s practically conversational. “did you never believe, or is it your life as a soldier that has taken that away?”

he holds the gaze. life as a soldier, as the man says, has taken a lot of things from him, but no. he’s never believed in god.

he says nothing.

they will kill him. al-qatala are at least a little less dramatic about it than others, no hacking off heads for the camera, but there will be a single bullet and that’s going to be it. lights out, end of story. nothing but a heap of meat after that. maybe the 141 will find him like that in a few hours and they will have to weigh up if it’s worth taking his body home. price knowing there’s no point, gaz and johnny probably horrified.

god, johnny will be fucking crushed.

there’s something that lances through his chest at that, alien.

fear?

no, he decides, can’t be. why would he be afraid now?

the man tosses the ID tags into the corner and stands. “i will be back shortly,” he says, and then switches into arabic again to say they have to ‘get rid of’ something before he leaves. he feels the presence rush close and then a hand fisting in his hair, dragging him to the side, more hands yanking his legs from under him.

instinctively, he kicks , and feels the sharp sting of something slice him. the frame of a rifle appears to ram up under his chin, pressing down on his neck, crushing his airway closed as the man at his feet slices his bootlaces in two sharp slashes, scatters the pieces across the floor. there’s a slash up the side of his calf, shallow, but bleeding freely, and the man with the knife wipes his hand on the floor and spits. “unclean bitch,” he snarls, scrambling to his feet. same knife but different man. the young lad must have left with the other one.

a sharp blow thuds into his side, knocking him forward, free from the vicegrip of the rifle. blood smears up the side of his hand. something else collides with the back of his head and sets his ears ringing. the pain on all sides makes him gasp, and there’s the hand in his hair again to yank his head up, back.

“this dog likes it,” says the other man, words dripping disgust. he doesn’t catch the next part, but it’s delivered in much the same tone as a hand wraps around his jaw. ‘do you think-’ something, maybe.

the one with the knife laughs, an ugly hollow sound. “no. never.” he starts to come closer, slowly, the look in his eyes vicious.

he fixes his gaze on the ceiling and tries to slow his breathing. they’re not going to kill him yet, but clearly these two want to make him wish he was dead. but he can endure this. he can push his mind outside his body and let the dissociation fall over him like a blanket of static.

the blade of the knife touches his exposed throat, but he doesn’t feel it.

he can’t fucking focus. he’ll try to fix one thing in his mind and then something else will come charging in, knock it all fucking sideways, on and on in a spiral down, down, fucking down. he’s been trying to drill the shitty low-res photographs that price has got hold of into his brain the entire ride over but he feels sick, restless, useless.

soap has never been good at sitting still at the best of times. by the time the humvee judders to the stop he’s about to shake out of his fucking skin.

he about knocks roach sanderson over to get out of the thing. poor lad hasn’t made a fucking sound since he’d given his report via crane, on the verge of a panic attack, and he especially seems twitchy around soap. as much as he’d love to give in to the petty, awful part of him that blames roach, though - he seems to be taking the whole thing almost as badly.

the morning sky is a barren, pallid blue, the sun climbing higher, and soap grimaces.

“soap.” it’s a grounded, firm thing, the way price addresses him. no room for anything else but to listen. he’s achingly fucking grateful for it. “you and me, right now, that rise. bring that HK.”

he turns for it and gaz is already passing it out into his hands. they exchange nods, and he shoulders the big marksman rifle to trot after price, already striding away up the hill. “with you, sir.”

“you’d better be.” price sounds no less livid for the hours it’s taken them to get here, his back stiff and straight. “i want you with your head screwed on, soap.”

“yes, sir.” what’s the expression? the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak? or maybe it’s his spirit that’s the problem. “what’s the plan?”

“punch a hole right through the bloody middle if we have to. we’ll see.”

the intel is incredibly fucking threadbare, but soap’s memory for things like numbers is at least functioning under his ongoing mental breakdown. there are, the GID source estimates, as many as a hundred and fifty men in this camp at a time. there are five of them.

and yet, if price thinks they can do it, they probably can. “when?”

they’ve reached the crest of the slope, a few stumpy shrubs scattered across the dry ground, and price hunkers down. he’s got his own rifle strapped, and sets about unfolding the bipod and hunkering down behind it. “ASAP. as much as i’d like to wait til midday prayers i’m not leaving it that long.”

usually that prospect would make soap feel a little uneasy. he’s been on other assignments when that’s exactly what they’d do, and it’s always felt like something underhanded. today, though, an ugly part of him says he’d do anything if it made it more likely they’d get simon out alive. fucking anything.

he sets down beside price, stabilises his gun, flicks off the covers on the scope with a sharp aggression that he’s too wired to avoid. down below them is the so-called circle of fire.

he fucking hates it even at a glance. a jumble of tents and semi-permanent masonry buildings, absolutely fucking horrible sightlines, exposed approaches. there’s activity everywhere he looks as he sweeps his view across the camp.

“like flies on shite,” he mutters. probably not the full one-fifty here today, if the number of bunk tents in disrepair is any indication, but still plenty enough.

“too right,” price breathes in response. “chances are he’ll be in one of the proper structures. look for me.”

he knows what he’s looking for. near an artery but not too close to the edge, something without windows, probably not more than a single floor. he checks his rangefinder, double-checks. “eleven o’clock, five-fifty metres. small cinderblock, blue door.”

there’s a moment of silence as price follows the line of sight. “that the only one jumping out at you?”

no, but he’s got a feeling about it. “slightly larger brick buildin’ at five-fifteen due west of it, sir, but the foot traffic round the front seems too heavy.” and if it were him, none of the others are any good for capture. too many escape routes, and if simon were given the chance he’d be out of there already. maybe he is. isn’t that a nice thought, the ghost just drifting out of their mortal bonds - but no.

the place’d be chaos if he’d escaped, soap knows. dead in the narrow walkways between the tents. blood up the canvas and across the dust.

price reaches for his radio toggle. “gaz, target is the cinderblock single-storey toward the eastern corner of the camp. estimate fifty metres from the perimeter. approach is fucking nasty, be advised. long sightlines.”

“moving in two, cap,” comes the reply. “you not coming?”

“soap and i will repo to cover.”

soap clenches his jaw to keep from saying anything, but he knows his body tenses anyway. he knows price sees it, too, catches the sharp gaze sliding sidelong at him.

price opens his mouth, and then there’s another voice on the comm. “captain, if i may,” and for how meek laswell’s boy is in person, he’s got a knack for the radio, clear and even. “i can spot for one of you, and the other can insert. the more guns the better, right?”

they look at each other, and price raises an eyebrow in question.

soap tries not to react, but inwardly he’s on his knees begging. if he’s stuck this far away he’s going to be fucking useless. his short bursts of focus are going to become split-seconds, out of his mind wondering what the insertion team are seeing, if there’s some awful thing nobody is telling him.

“very well, mr flores,” price decides after a long moment, and soap is already easing away from the rifle, something simmering low in his stomach. “RV with me up here. soap, back down and take point.”

“yes sir,” he murmurs, scraping his knees in his haste to get to his feet. “on it.”

“john,” price says, deliberately, something steely under his tone. “don’t do anything stupid.”

he pauses. “sir?”

the captain doesn’t turn, but the line of his shoulders tenses up a little. “i know you and simon are close these days.” he sighs, quiet, grim. that word, that use of ‘close’, it means more than he’s saying, and it’s obvious both of them know it. “don’t get yourself killed over it. nor him.”

soap feels like he’s just been caught. one hundred fucking per cent busted. he wonders how long price has known.

he doesn’t know what to say to that, though, so he doesn’t say anything. just heads down the slope back toward the truck, and when he’s close enough gaz underhands him his helmet and trots over with the other two.

“c’mon, then, pointman,” gaz says with a bleak little smile. “show us the way.”

his chest fucking hurts with how hard his heart is beating within it. “yeah. full send, lads.”

3. come to tear your kingdom down

Summary for the Chapter:

rescued but not saved.

Notes for the Chapter:

some more content warnings! same as last chapter but also a very throwaway reference to offscreen SA. relatively-non-graphic vomiting and dental trauma make their debut appearances
some inspiration taken from the cod mobile ghost comics but my interpretation of Ghost’s Whole Deal differs from that comic fairly substantially

there are specks, tiny pinpricks, scattered across the ceiling in oxidised brown. constellations of past lives. he wonders how many people worth of blood and grey matter he’s looking at.

he’s seen kill rooms. this isn’t bad as far as they go. he’s seen cold red light in subterranean basements, slicks of blood reflecting black on the tile. the face of the man he’d been assigned to rescue staring up, morbid shock, eyes wide, and his body three feet away.

that man had been a humanitarian worker before he was a corpse. captured for trying to do good, made an example of.

that had been nearly ten years ago, now, but things like that are never fully buried. those ghosts are restless, prone to rising from their graves on the worst days or at a particularly visceral sound, smell.

they’d sent him because they’d thought he had the best chance of accomplishing, but at the time he’d wondered if it was a fucked-up sort of chance at redemption for being the one in the chains those five years before. for being nineteen and terrified and too unimportant to really bother with but unable to do anything but sit and wait for whatever came for him.

RTI training emphasises things that’ll keep you alive. the grey man philosophy, one of the SERE instructors had called it - don’t be so difficult that you’re a nuisance, too much trouble to allow to keep breathing, but don’t be so pliant that you seem weak. it’s been a long fucking time since then and yet it rattles round in his head like the marble in a spray-can. pity it’s absolutely fucking useless, too. they’ve already set up the camera. al-qatala aren’t going to sit cutting their video together from more than 24 hours of footage.

they’ve got plenty already. he’s been lying here since they left - how long ago was that? maybe half an hour ago? the new wounds have stopped bleeding, the bile-vomit has mostly run down the corner drain. the spit and spunk and blood have dried on his skin.

his body, his head, they fucking ache, and yet he knows if he moves it’ll be worse. he does it anyway, because it’s not exactly as if trying not to damage anything further is going to be a concern for much longer. at least his dislocated shoulder and arm are numbed from the weight of his body pressed on them - won’t be for much longer, once the blood rushes in, but he can tolerate hauling himself upright by the chain that fixes him to the floor, gets a leg under himself to arrange himself in a seated slump.

the blood on the floor sticks to his bare, soiled skin, and he thinks again of hands reaching up from grave-dirt to pull him down. not long now, he thinks, and grits his teeth at the flood of white-hot pain firing off as his nerves wake up.

something gives in the back of his mouth, and he spits the crown out onto the floor with a mouthful of bitter clotted blood, watches the red slide off the silver. there that goes, then.

god, he’s fucking tired.

never used to be a problem when all he got was shit sleep, hours snatched between training or studying or working, keeping everything spinning aloft, all of the balls in the air, but -
he doesn’t like to think too hard about it, because it makes something sick and scratchy start up low in his gut, but… sometimes, now, he sleeps well, even if he objectively shouldn’t. shouldn’t because there’s not even an inch of space to move, or his feet poke out of the bottom of the sheets or there’s an arm awkwardly jammed against his side or hair in his face or any other one of the dozens and dozens of annoyances. but all of those come with a warm body, a slow strong heartbeat, a chest that rises and falls in deep sighs like the rhythm of waves on a shore. it is easy to sink into dreamless rest when another body wraps around yours like a shield of divine blood and bone.

there’s a lump in his throat the size of a fucking fist all of a sudden.

the door clicks open behind him, but he doesn’t bother turning. it’d take more energy than he has to spare, to trace the arc afforded to him by the chain.

“lieutenant… riley, wasn’t it?” comes the voice of the man from earlier, the english-speaker. “shall we talk?”

“no.” his throat is raw, in what feels like ribbons on the inside, and his voice is near-destroyed. he spits more blood on the concrete. he wonders if drops of it will escape hosing down, if someone else will come along and see the iron-inked stars he’s made the same as the ones on the ceiling.

“then i will talk.” it’s pleasant, calm. there’s a rustle of fabric. “you are a true warrior, i see this from the scars you carry. no doubt you feel you must resist until the end.”

he says nothing, but the phantom sensation down his spine is like tiny fragments of broken glass piercing his fucking skin, the worst sort of scrutiny. he hates to be seen, like this most of all. wants to snap back that there’s nothing noble about carrying wounds, that every scar staples you back number and tighter and less than you used to be.

the man thinks he’s on to something, though. “sometimes, though, those who would call themselves your masters are weak, are they not? petty. corrupt -”

that’s about where he stops listening, because this isn’t going to change anything. engaging won’t spare his life, it’s just going to be a highlight in the supercut of his own snuff film. a couple of sentences in whatever article a no-name journo writes about it.

it’s not his dignity he’s thinking about, or patriotism, because god knows he hasn’t had any of either of those for a long time, but it’s the other lads. price, and gaz, and roach and the boys from his old troop, but johnny most of all. he won’t betray them, he won’t let them down, he won’t deny them at the final crow of the rooster.

he breathes in, straightens his spine, interrupts the man mid-sentence. “you’re wasting your time, you know.”

footsteps approach him slowly, boots on the concrete, and the hand that lifts his jaw is almost gentle. the man gazes down at him with his usual blank expression, but there’s something almost like pity in his tired eyes.

“it is a shame, lieutenant,” the man says. “turn-”

an explosion.

both of them jerk sharply upright. it’s fucking agony to do it, takes the breath from him, but the AQ man is already stalking across the room, reaching for his sidearm. “what was that?” is the demand, shouted harshly in arabic, and with the door swung open it looks like the guard posted outside are also scrambling. “sitrep!”

the door doesn’t swing shut. he can see only a corner of the corridor outside but he can hear, he can hear shouting and the report of a high-calibre rifle, and right before an alarm begins to blare, bursts of gunfire.

from deep within, a feeling cuts sharply upwards like the blade of a knife.

hope.

he reaches inward for the last vestiges of control, masters himself against the pain, and gathers his legs under him again. he needs to be ready to run.

there’s no time. they blast in because there’s no way they’re going to have time to cut through without being seen, and the noise is just going to bring the fuckers running. he hurdles the wreckage at a full run, gaz and crane and roach right behind him, and he can hear the calm tone in his ear calling bearings and ranges like it’s another day on the range.

“group of five approaching entry point north, two o’clock.” flores must be ex-services. he spots like a military man. “targets armed. four hundred ten metres.”

soap slides along the wall of the tent, feels who he thinks is roach fit in behind him. he holds up a hand to count. three, two, one, go.

the one in the front of the pack rears back when he sees them.

“send it.”

one of them at the back doesn’t have a head any more. the thunderclap of the sniper shot comes a split-second later, the same instant that soap’s finger tightens on the trigger of his rifle. he puts down one, two. roach gets the others.

“three isolated stragglers approaching southwest, eight-o’clock.” a siren starts wailing from somewhere across the camp. he angles his mind against it as best as he can. he can hear gaz and crane over on the other side of the tent putting down the newly-called targets. he has to orient himself, call up that image of the camp from the vantage point, draw a line from his position to that blue door.

“on me,” he grunts, and sprints. move fast, his body screams at him. get him out alive.

the men here are mostly recruits. young, uncertain, men who have never faced an enemy fireteam before, and they freeze when faced with the barrel of a gun. they cut through two, five, seven of them on the push in, and the loud crack of price’s rifle punctuates the constant murmur of positions and ranges that flores is feeding to the comm.

they hit the cinderblock building, and as they swing around the corner he stops dead.

the boy - and he is a boy, a teenager - squats against the wall of the building with his hands up, shaking.

gaz barks something in what must be arabic, and the boy stammers something and fucking bolts, hands still up, dashing behind another low building across the dirt road. “heads up, young lad moving near our position, unarmed,” gaz says, and soap glances at him as he starts to move again.

“what’d he say?”

“he’s in there.” gaz carefully swings out to get an angle around the corner. “clear.”

the blue door is open, the darkness inside looming thick and perilous, but he pushes in and checks his corners, murmurs the “clear,” and creeps down the hall, can barely hear anything for his heart pounding loud in his ears, and -
a wretched, gasping cough from beyond an open doorway. “it’s clear,” comes the rasp, heavy with effort. “blue.”

he doesn’t even think about it, just rushes forward toward the threshold, and -
oh, his heart fucking breaks.

“simon,” he breathes, letting his rifle fall on its sling, skidding across the concrete in his haste to get down in front of him. naked, bruised, drenched in sweat and grime, blood in his hairline and smudged all across his body. battered and near-broken, eyes glassy as they meet his own. “simon, we’ve got you, we’ve got you.” he knows it’s too much, to fit his hands either side of simon’s face to cradle it, but soap can’t stop himself. a nasty cut in the lower lip, bruises blooming up his cheek and temple, to say nothing of the wound that must hide in his hair. “can you move?”

there’s a burst of fire from not far away, the entrance to the building, and it brings him snapping back to reality. roach has the bolt cutters, comes forward with his eyes down to snap through the chain, and gaz is easing down into a crouch on simon’s other side.

“yeah,” the answer is near-forced out, an already-rough voice torn to shreds. there’s a sharp intake of breath as soap fits his shoulder under one arm, a flinch. “not that one, johnny, it’s fucked.” the shoulder, he realises now, is awkward and square, the contours under the skin and muscle wrong somehow.

“alright,” he says, steadying simon as gaz gets under the other side, hefts them both upright. “actual, this is 7-1, we have him, he’s alive. how’s it lookin’?”

“7-1,” price answers, “you have a vehicle approximately twenty metres southwest of your position by the track. south exit is not locked down.”

fucking yes. “copy,” he grunts, and pushes back up to the exit. “crane, i want you watching our back. roach, on me, we clear the way.”

“approximately five to eight hostiles between you and the car,” flores says. “another three from the north.”

his focus is so achingly sharp that it feels like he could take out hundreds of them, never mind ten. every movement around him, he feels.

in the shadow of one of the tents, there’s a flicker, the very slightest disruption in its shape on the ground. he signals roach. he’s so close to just fucking shooting them through the fucking canvas, but there are non-combatants here. he needs to be sure.

the two AQ fighters don’t even have time to fully pop out. they crumple before they can properly raise their weapons, and soap actually hops over one of them on the way to the car. it’s a shitty little jeep-type thing that looks like it barely starts, but it looks clear and when roach turns the key in the ignition it both comes to life and doesn’t explode, so they’re winning twice.

he helps gaz heft simon into the back, tucks himself along the injured side to protect it. crane is the last to hop up, while roach is already turning the car to point the right way down the track. “we’re movin’!”

“RV by that creek up the road,” price commands, sounding like he’s running. “go!”

a burst of fire whistles past, but gaz whips an answering one back, and then the engine is roaring and they’re going . the green-grey canvas and dusty brick blurs past. “copy, sir, see you there,” he grunts into the radio, and then he’s reaching for the straps of his carrier, dumping pouches as he goes.

he yanks off his neck gaiter first and then his field jacket. “not much, but it’s what i’ve got,” he murmurs, “and i know it doesn’t fuckin’ fit you, don’t even start.”

those brown eyes look from his hands to his face and then through him for a few long moments, before the focus visibly snaps back into them. the gaiter is pulled on abruptly as a mask, hides the bruised and bloody mouth, and simon’s good arm holds the jacket across his chest.

“your arm, is it -”

“shoulder’s out,” comes the quiet, hoarse answer.

“cap knows how,” gaz says on simon’s other side. “anything else?”

a wet cough, one that makes soap’s chest tighten in sympathy. “scrapes. fine.”

monosyllables are a sign that things are not fine, as is the way that simon’s gaze is going hazy again. he’s still, so still, like an awful statue, and soap can’t do anything about it. he’d offer touch but he can see the stiff way simon’s holding himself to keep from touching either him or gaz, and he knows it wouldn’t help right now.

nobody says anything else.

the creek is a little higher up the hills, probably five miles out, a flat area between the mountainside and the dirt road with a little stream cutting vertically down the slope and running through a pvc pipe under the track. roach pulls over, kills the engine, and then there’s a big hand too-tight on his knee, rough, painful.

“let me out.” it’s sharp-edged, raw, and soap is thinking oh, shit, but he’s obeying without question anyway - getting out, steadying simon as he lurches down off the car while yanking the neck gaiter off again, trying to catch him as he crumples toward the dirt and throws up more frothy mucus than actual liquid.

he reaches down, but simon’s gathered himself up enough to stumble toward the water. he can feel gaz coming to stand next to him, is aware of roach getting out, and all three of them watch their lieutenant catch water in his palm and swish it around his mouth, spit it on the ground, scrub more across his face and neck and chest one-handed.

soap had honestly hoped that getting to him this quickly would mean they hadn’t had the chance to do much to him. now, he can tell that’s not the case.

god love him, crane is actually paying attention to the road, because he announces “incoming,” and by the time all of them have actually got weapons in their hands the humvee has come around the corner, flores at the wheel.

it’s barely stopped when the back swings open and price practically pounces out, strides over the space in purposeful great steps and completely ignores them in favour of beelining straight to simon. there’s a roll of fabric in one hand, olive drab, but then gaz is tugging soap’s elbow and he tears his eyes away.

“we should give them a minute,” gaz murmurs, and soap wants to refuse but he knows it’s what’s best. doesn’t fucking like it, that’s for sure, but -

“yeah,” he concedes, and grabs his plate carrier from the back of the jeep, lets gaz lead him to the humvee.

visibility in the back is poor, and he’s grateful for that when he hears the abrupt, wordless shout in simon’s voice that rings off the hillside, because even without being able to see it he winces so hard it makes his hands ball into fists.

roach, next to him, hangs his head silently, so he reaches sideways to pat the other man’s knee gently, just once.

“he’s tough,” he near-whispers. he doesn’t know if it’s for roach or for himself. “‘s’alright.”

roach nods minutely.

it feels like forever, but it’s probably less than two minutes before price reappears and carefully pushes simon up into the vehicle. the fabric bundle was a set of light waterproofs, goretex that scuffs noisily against itself, and soap’s neck gaiter is back in place. there’s a little less blood dried into the hair now, darker with the water, and the line of simon’s shoulders is correct again, rounded in their hunch. he shifts to make space beside him, enough that they don’t have to touch.

“full speed, gentlemen,” price says, his tone flat, and shuts the door, heads for the front. he’s barely sat down before flores, still in the driver’s seat, puts the truck into gear.

he looks, sidelong, at the hands folded tightly in simon’s lap, at the steel cuffs still biting angrily into the skin, and he feels a hot flush of anger ripple through him. “if you want,” he says as quietly as he can manage to be and still be heard above the road noise, “i’ve got wire to shim those with.”

there’s a dazed look in the dark eyes that doesn’t quite fall away when they lift, follow his hand unclasping the paracord bracelet from his arm and retrieving the flat strip of metal wound inside the clasp, but before he can finish unbending it and hand it over -
hesitantly, simon’s left hand is offered to him, fingers curled in on the palm to hide the worst of the shake. he takes it as gently as he’s able, sees the abrasions and cuts and feels the pain like it’s his own. he wants, so badly, to press his lips over every bloody scrape, but instead he cradles the wrist with the lightest touch he can manage, rests the back of his fingers against the pulse just to feel it against his skin.

“i’ve got you,” he murmurs, and sets about working the shim into the mechanism of the cuffs.

i won’t let you go, he thinks unbidden, and the realisation makes him bite his lip so hard he tastes blood.

he knows that he’s told at least twice what they’re doing before they arrive, but he’s not sure if he forgot or if he never really heard it in the first place. he still feels fucking sick when the truck rolls to a stop, but he manages it down without falling and his gear, all his things, are still in the box where he left them, and he doesn’t give a shit if laswell and the jordanian woman are right there, he strips and wipes down again and gets into his own fucking clothes.

he wants to bathe properly, but that has to wait. stand under water that’s too-hot, something that will scald away the outer layer of his skin and actually leave him fucking clean, not -

“simon,” comes the low voice from behind him, as he pulls on the tshirt. he doesn’t turn around.

“what?”

“you’re having a laugh if you think i’m letting you out there again.” price comes closer and then physically inserts himself into the space between him and the gear crate. “you sit tight here and you run co-ord and then we get you home. understood?”

when he met price, he knew only that the man had been given full access to his file. the proper one, the fully unredacted one, and he’d respected that price treated him like anyone else. another officer might have softballed him - oh, he’s already been through hell, no need to be hard on him. another still - history of capture, probably a basket case, let’s get him the fuck out of the intake.

maybe he’d thought about it, he doesn’t know. he’s never asked.

“don’t,” he says, and watches price’s brows furrow under his hat. “don’t do that.”

he’s not sure what he means by ‘that’. don’t be worried, don’t try to protect me, don’t fucking coddle me? all of the above?

don’t make that an order, maybe.

price is silent for a moment, studies him with his arms folded. “i can’t put you out there behind a weapon, simon, it’s not right. you’re barely on your feet as it is.”

it’s a weak excuse, he doesn’t say. price knows it. he’s accomplished missions on worse, so what is it? “captain,” he says, as evenly as his voice will allow, his overwrought heart beating fight-or-flight in his chest, “either i go with you or i go myself, but i’m going.”

the blue-grey eyes close briefly as price sighs. “i trust you. you know i do. but you lie to me about these things, simon, and i don’t want it to get you killed.”

the silence in the wake of the words is abrupt, profound, and through the adrenaline-numbness he feels a pang of regret.

he does lie. he’s never been good at it so he usually sticks to keeping his mouth shut instead, but honesty is harder still than both of those things and he cannot fucking bear the scrutiny, normally, least of all now. he fucking hates this, this urge to give in, and fights it tooth and fucking nail.

“you know me,” he says after a long moment, quiet, hates the fucking weakness of his voice. “i have to keep moving. if i stop now -” and then he runs out of words, mid-sentence, and stops.

“yeah.” the look on price’s face is unhappy, concerned, all the things that make him itch and cringe and want to shut it all out, but he unfolds his arms. “fine, if you promise me to see your psych when we get back.”

he isn’t honest with the psychiatrist either. that’s even harder. “alright.”

“but listen to me, simon.”

something about the way it’s said makes his gut clench. “what?”

“be careful. not just for your own sake.” price finally eases back, stops using the physical proximity to force the eye contact. “soap’s not taking it well. the boy cares about you.”

he automatically looks over at the man in question across the staging area, has no idea why he’s so acutely aware of exactly where to find him, and feels an awful wave of nausea again at the way johnny is jerkily sorting his kit, fixing the pouches on his carrier with stiff fingers, yanking on his gloves.

does he? still? or is whatever awful spell had fallen over him broken now?

does stockholm syndrome pass?

“yeah,” he answers, through a tight throat. “got it.”

4. still bear your brand

Summary for the Chapter:

like looking in a mirror.

they’re going in less than half an hour and he doesn’t have time for this, but it won’t wait. he bursts into the bunkroom and tries not to look like he’s losing it too badly.

he tries to keep his voice down. “excuse us,” he says to flores, sitting on one of the cots with a laptop, and the man takes one look at him and walks straight out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

it’s dark in here, two electric lanterns and only a sliver of the evening sunlight outside, and soap thinks of the second time he met the ghost - a dark shape looming at the back a dark room. only now, it’s not a sight that unsettles him - instead, it makes him feel a pang of sympathy, regret.

“price says you’re insistin’ on comin’ with us,” he begins. “you’re sure?”

simon turns slowly, almost reluctantly. “we’re not doing this right now,” he says quietly. his voice is still hoarse, terrible. the bruise on his temple has spread to the edge of his cheekbone, disappearing under the microfibre of soap’s neck gaiter. “price has okayed it. it’s not up to you.”

the words are flat, matter-of-fact, in simon’s Lieutenant Ghost tone of command, and he can feel something in him try to back down in the face of them. it isn’t up to him, he’s right, but -
but no, actually, fuck that. “and?” those dark eyes widen slightly, and he steps forward. “i didn’t say a fuckin’ thing about if you were allowed.”

“then you stormed in for what?” he forgets, sometimes, exactly how much taller simon is, until they’re face-to-face and those eyes look down at him so much, the sheer imposing bulk of him looming especially in full kit. he should probably be intimidated. he thinks that’s probably the point of it.

“because i’m worried about you, you fuckin’ numpty,” soap answers, coming closer still. “listen, i get it, you want the control back in your hands, but -”

“but nothing,” simon hisses. he’s getting more and more tense, the line of his back and shoulders stiffer and stiffer. soap fucking hates to be doing this, stressing him, but it’s this or walk away, and… and that’s not really an option right now. “i said not now, and i fucking meant it.”

“then when?” he demands, and there’s a long moment of dead silence.

simon’s gaze drops to the space between them, seems to fix on one of the patches on soap’s vest. never is probably the answer he’d prefer, and he seems to be struggling to phrase something that isn’t that.

god, soap doesn’t have the heart for this. “listen,” he says again, more quietly this time, hears himself sigh. “i’m not sayin’ you can’t handle it. i want to hear you tell me you can handle it, awright?” he wants to be convinced, to believe it, because he knows simon is one of the toughest fucking people he’s ever met, but this is a lot.

“i can.” all of the sharpness has gone out of his tone. “it’s las almas again, johnny. if you don’t push through then you fall to bits. yeah?”

he can feel himself chewing on his lip, can feel the horrible torn uncertainty low in his gut. it’s not that he doesn’t get it, because he does - when you stop running, that’s when it all crashes down on you, and sometimes compartmentalising is just something you have to do. “yeah,” he echoes, after a moment. “don’t get me wrong, i don’t like it, but… i trust you, alright?”

the breath that comes out of simon shakes, long and loud. his eyes flick back up, searching, flicking restlessly over soap’s face. “‘s’all i ask for,” he says, his voice small. it doesn’t suit him. “we finish what we came to do.”

“do me a favour,” soap blurts, not quite able to hold himself back, and reaches inside the collar of his shirt.

simon watches him, completely still, as he pulls his ID tags off and slides the rosary ring off the chain. there’s a strange look in his eyes as he looks down at it, offered to him in soap’s gloved palm, and he makes no move to take it. “what do you want me to do with that?” there’s something in his voice, his gaze, that makes him sure simon recognises what it is. a hard edge, a distrust.

“it’s mine,” he says, turning the silver band in his palm with his thumb. “and it’s important to me, and i want you to hold on to it. look after it.”

slowly, very slowly, an ungloved pale hand picks up the ring. knuckles scuffed, fingertips bruised, palm dressed with gauze. it doesn’t shake any more, not now. he watches simon slip the tip of his index finger into it, turn it with the pad of his thumb, trace the simple circular nubs around the outside and the tiny cut cross. what’s going on in his head, soap doesn’t know. if he asked, he knows he wouldn’t get an answer.

so he doesn’t, just waits. watches.

with a deft flick of his fingers, simon palms the ring, and slips it into the pocket on his sleeve. his gaze is cast down, but it’s softer somehow. is he imagining that?

“i want it back,” he says, pushes a little teasing lilt into it. if he makes a joke of it it’s less heavy. “you make more than i do, i’m no’ subsidising your accessories.”

that breaks some of the tension - there’s a very faint ha from behind the mask, the brown eyes flicking up to look at his face briefly. there, there’s that spark he’s used to, surfacing through the fatigue and stress and pain.

it’s insane, that a single-syllable half-laugh can make him feel warm like this, hopeful, longing, everything jumbled together in a tangle of affection, of -

“don’t count on it. don’t think i don’t know you pinched my jumper.”

love. because that’s what it is, isn’t it?

an obsession, a desire, a need for the absolute best for this man who has gone through hell and keeps standing in spite of it. god, he would do anything for simon riley, he knows it. he’d do it without hesitation or regret.

“i’ll see you in court, then.” he doesn’t dare to touch, not after what simon’s been through, but he wants to, he wants to so badly. soap pours all of his care into his voice, his gaze instead.“sorry, i’ll let you finish. we’re goin’ in a minute as it is.”

a little nod. “save me a seat.”

soap can’t help the grin. “always, LT.”

he doesn’t know if it’s the talk with price or with johnny that’s done it - maybe both - but he’s found his focus. he has to keep it together for just a few more hours, that’s all, and then he can crash.

not that it’s easy. he’ll feel a sharp rush of pain up through his leg or a bitter taste in his mouth and the worst of the memories will jolt in again on a wave of nausea, dragging him a hundred miles in the space of a heartbeat, brings all his thoughts screeching sharply to a halt. he can clamp down on them, ground himself, but it’s like holding a knife by the blade and feeling it cut and cut and cut the longer you squeeze it tight.

you’ve done this before, he reminds himself, and tries to be convinced by it. it doesn’t work, not really. when he’d done it before he came out the other side not especially bothered if he lived much longer, and now it feels almost like the opposite.

the boy cares about you.

squeeze the blade tighter, feel the blood run. no time for anything else right now.

“blow it,” he croaks into his mic, and breathes in sharply.

the charges go off simultaneously, here and up at the comms array and at the access hatch on the other side of the bunker, wired perfectly, and as he turns to angle into the opening he admires the neat hole blown through the thick steel.

“nice one, soap,” gaz says over the comm, faintly breathless. he and price will be booking it down the hillside to the main yard already.

“i’m available for bonfire night and kids’ parties too,” comes the answer, playful. “if you’ve got some five-year-olds you want the shit scared out of. movin’ interior.”

“here too,” he murmurs. it’s on him to communicate, to stay present, because he’s got roach with him again, and they probably both feel like shit right now. he’d been the one to tell roach to run, to get back to camp, but leaving someone behind isn’t easy. what had happened afterwards won’t have helped.

he takes the stairs down into its concrete bowels in rapid steps, roach right behind him. the tight corridor that joins the stairwell is lit in flashing red, papers strewn across the floor.

they’ve split into two-man teams because the bunker operation is in shambles already. when they’d caught him they’d realised an enemy force were onto them. with the attack on the training camp it’s probably thrown them into more of a panic. the sole reason that they might not have gotten around to destroying all of their contact equipment for the state duma deputy bankrolling them is that they’ve had no reason to assume that’s what this is about.

there are lines painted on the floor, faded with decades of time, but one of them is fresher, and he signals roach to follow. “stay close.”

“with you, lieutenant,” comes the quiet reply. “you hear that?”

he does. it sounds like a single gunshot, as though it bounces off a hundred walls. “any contact?” he asks his comm.

“nothin’ so far,” johnny replies. the line is fuzzy, whether through EM interference or the dozens of feet of concrete between them he doesn’t know. “you?”

“maybe. moving northeast, toward the back of the complex. be -” the next shots are two feet behind him and he feels his entire fucking body go rigid, ducks and turns - there is a single dead man at the end of the corridor behind them, roach poised behind his rifle glancing back over his shoulder.

“i’ve got it, sir.”

he forces himself to breathe evenly, even as he can hear johnny querying the aborted transmission. “good man,” he manages. get it fucking together, he reprimands internally, bites the inside of his cheek hard. there’s a cut on the inside, probably from the broken crown, and the sharpness of the pain narrows his focus. “contact made. looks like they’re not organised.”

johnny says something and then “say again,” and the interference is getting worse. shit.

“0-7 to all stations, comms are struggling, how copy?” as they progress down the corridor, the shoebox rooms on both sides are in disarray, ransacked. a chair overturned, and -
another of the distant bangs. slightly, just slightly louder. the cold red light flicks along the hall in long sweeps. he bites down harder.

“0-7, this is actual, we’re hearing you, but you’re faint.” laswell is clearly trying to make her words as crisp and clear as possible, fuzzy but still decipherable. “7-1 is moving parallel, be advised.”

“once you link up push back toward the main entrance and see if you can’t pinch the stragglers in the middle of you and us,” comes price’s voice, clearest of all. “if you have to drop contact then you have to. be careful.”

he can try.

it feels like there aren’t many of them left. the few stragglers that pop out seem unprepared to face resistance, crumpling to a squeeze of the trigger, and there’s a numb feeling that rises when he steps over the body of a man he drops across the width of the corridor.

he grabs that feeling tight, holds it white-knuckled, and hears that single bang for a third time. louder still.

“lieutenant,” roach murmurs, sounding deeply unsettled. “i don’t think that’s crane and mactavish.”

it isn’t. he can’t put his finger on exactly what it is that could be happening until they’re clearing what turns out to be a tiny bathroom that he hears it.

the scream.

he turns to roach, who looks back at him wide-eyed, and they both start fucking running. the line on the floor runs the entire way along the corridor with them, opens into a room lit white rather than strobing red, lined with half-dismantled monitor banks and -
it’s not lit red, but there’s plenty of it. a glossy, perfect mirror spreading along the metal floor, reflecting the fluorescent strip light like a lake under an alien sun, four bodies at the water’s edge.

they’re all women. slight, scrawny, veiled, like the one kneeling trembling on the floor in front of the man standing there. the pistol that had been in his hand hit the floor the moment they burst in and has skidded across the floor. middle-aged, bearded, smug and hideous, raising both hands like a trump card.

behind him, the woman sobs “help me,” in arabic, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. her hands are bloody, her wrists red-raw. her eyes scream terror, wet and unseeing, fixed on the floor.

“i am unarmed,” the man says in heavily-accented english. “i surrender.”

he looks from the man to the desks behind him, the bag and folded laptop there, to the woman, to the gun on the floor a foot away. the dead women, executed, loose ends. he should say something. give an order, but roach is already slowly easing forward to put himself between the man and woman.

he picks up the weapon, because they can’t be sure she’s not with them. AQ have radicalised women before. but not this one, he knows as she meets his eyes and flinches.

she reminds him of -

“information,” he says, the harshness of his own voice a surprise. “you ran this place?”

“yes,” the man answers, sounding fucking proud of himself. “i set it up. i can tell you exactly how.”

“we need records.”

“i have those.” a gesture at the laptop. it’s old. they probably don’t need this scumbag, just his computer. what is going to happen? they hand him to the jordanians, and he enjoys their ‘hospitality’ for a while? or will he be turned loose, used as an asset?

he realises that his finger has slipped inside the trigger guard of the pistol only when he feels his thumb nudge the safety, pure instinct. it’d be so easy to raise it and pop the fucker in the face, end it there. roach wouldn’t say anything. it’s happened before in the service, he’s seen the aftermath of it, he knows the SAS close ranks. take care of their own. he could do it right now.

he looks at the sneering face and sees his own fucking father.

“ghost?”

he lets the pistol fall back to his side from where it’s been half-raised, and turns his head to see johnny mactavish, and behind him jamie crane, framed in the doorway. they both look fucking horrified.

“says he’s the one in charge.” he can hear his own voice shake, the same way his hands shake, his whole body fucking trembles in rage. he hasn’t taken his finger off the trigger. “caught him in the middle of tying up loose ends.”

“i don’t know what happened to them,” the man says easily, like it’s a fucking joke.

“ghost,” johnny says, very slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid that a wrong word will make him snap. he’s not far off. “give me that.”

he looks back at johnny again and watches the flicker in that expression, the instant of fear that passes across the handsome features, but the pale eyes are rock-steady. he’d deserve it, he wants to say, he deserves far fucking worse than this, but he can’t. his voice won’t obey him, not to do something so reprehensible as dragging johnny down to his level.

i’m not crazy, he wants to say too, but that he’s not sure he believes.

so he doesn’t say anything. ejects the chambered round, dumps the mag on the floor - the sobbing woman flinches at the noise, which hits him with another harsh pang of empathy - and holds the pistol out by the slide. “i don’t want to fucking look at him. roach and i will push back forward, link up with zero-six, so you and the lance-corporal sit tight here. yeah?”

the sensation that comes with that searching gaze fixed on him - it’s visceral shame, something he doesn’t think he’s felt in years. those blue eyes have zeroed in on the worst weakness inside him and he won’t get away with brushing it off this time. maybe johnny won’t go to price - he should, really, but he probably won’t, not with his heart - but it’s going to be painful nonetheless. a worse pain than this, worse than a knife in his flesh, worse than all of it.

“yes, sir,” johnny says, quiet, taking the gun. “be careful.”

he thinks he’d probably rather get shot right now. “and you, sergeant.”

it feels awful, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

they extract the AQ handler and the surviving woman once the facility’s clear, and when they’re waiting for price to finish his call with laswell and badri soap corners roach and crane behind the truck. he swears them both to absolute fucking secrecy and sees in their eyes a conviction of loyalty that makes something in his chest hurt a little.

“lieutenant’s a good man,” crane says, even if he can’t quite make eye contact. “he’s going through it. we wouldn’t do that to him.”

“never,” roach stammers, much to soap’s surprise. “he’d have our backs.”

“aye, he would,” he answers, and shares a little nod with them before he lets them go.

he’s sure price knows something happened, because he gives all of them a distinctly appraising look, but he says nothing, just tosses a few canteens of water at them as they all sit waiting in the dust under one of the floodlights.

they wait until a jeep pulls up on the dirt road. the driver’s an unfamiliar man, but in the passenger seat is major badri, who jumps out and strides over to the kneeling al-qatala man, standing over him as she speaks to him.

“i like her better when she’s pointed at them,” crane says, and they all watch as she hauls him upright and kicks him sharply in the ankle to get him moving towards the car.

“probably thinks the same about us,” gaz mutters, passing the water over.

“she’s the one who works at the fingernail factory,” simon says, his voice quiet but one they all go painfully quiet for. “all the enhanced interrogation manuals, the jordanians basically wrote them. somewhere between spies and secret police.”

there’s a beat. “you say ‘spies’ like it’s a dirty word, sir.” soap pipes up if only just to fill the silence, even if he feels like this might be treading a dangerous line. “rivalry or jealousy?”

“i’ve had the SIS asking me if i’m interested since before i joined the regiment, johnny, i’m not jealous.” it sounds absent-minded - has to be, because it’s actual personal information being volunteered without any real reason, doesn’t seem like a joke, and soap can see gaz’s eyes widen on simon’s other side. simon’s watching badri coax the woman over to the car, soap realises, absolutely absorbed in watching her talking to the captive, urging her with hands on her shoulders, carefully helping her into the front passenger seat. “just don’t fucking like ‘em.”

“can’t imagine you as a secret agent,” he teases as gently as he can. “‘tinker, tailor, soldier, ghost’?”

gaz groans good-naturedly. “christ, soap, the rest of us have to hear your crap jokes as well.” shifts the focus off what simon has said, eases some of the tension. “you -”

a long, sharp whistle cuts him off. price, over by the truck. time to go.

they did it, didn’t they? then why, soap wonders as they all silently file over and pile in, do they all seem so fucking defeated?

well, no. he knows why. he isn’t doing it deliberately but he’s drawn to simon’s side like a magnet, sits next to him in the back of the transport and realises he’s trying to seek contact like roots growing toward water, his arm falling lax into the space between them just to take space right next to simon’s, and -
he chews his lip, tries not to fidget, doesn’t raise his eyes higher than the knee next to him, but uses the movement of the truck to slide just slightly closer, until their elbows touch.

soap thinks he’s fucked up when he feels the sharp whipcrack of tension go through simon’s entire body. of course he has, shit, it’s -

- and then he relaxes, slowly, and lets out a long and slightly shaky breath.

maybe the wound isn’t too deep after all.

wishful thinking, maybe, but he can indulge himself this once.

5. but to live like that is hardest

Summary for the Chapter:

being home doesn’t make it over.

Notes for the Chapter:

estimated penultimate chapter! thank you to everyone who has read so far, we are GETTING THERE
cw for uses of minor homophobic slurs by queer individuals quoting others and the mentioned-implied situations that go with that conversation. throwaway non-graphic mention of hypothetical suicide.

nobody will leave him alone, and it’s starting to get fucking annoying. from safehouse to the urzik airbase, through the six-hour flight, from plane to car to credenhill, there’s someone watching him the entire fucking time, and he’s not sure if it’s that they think they’re doing him a favour or that they’ve all fucking coordinated this, but by the time they pull in in front of the lines he’s running on maybe four hours’ sleep in the last three days and he feels like he might throw himself out of a window just to get away from the well-meaning suffocation.

“i’ll walk you,” price says when he abruptly excuses himself to his bed.

he wants to kick off, but he’s too fucking tired, too fucking numb for all of it, and he just silently turns to make for the right building.

“don’t bother about the paperwork.” price looks nearly as exhausted as he feels. “gaz and soap between them can manage. you’ll have to give a debrief account, but that’s easily rubber-stamped.”

“right,” he answers on autopilot. his own voice sounds faraway.

“it can wait. you’re crashing.”

he knows, objectively, that it’s true. the fatigue is pressing down on him like a crushing weight, and he’s only fought it off so long because of the scratching paranoiac feeling that comes with being supervised. “so you’ve come to tuck me in?” he lets himself into the building with more force than he really needs to, shoves the door roughly. don’t act like a fucking child, something ugly in the back of his mind snaps, but something less vicious surfaces, too.

he’s not your enemy.

of course, it’s hard to believe that, especially when he can tell the other man is just waiting until they have full privacy to say something, so he makes the trip up the stairs brisk, lets himself into his quarters and dumps his bergen, goes to open the window. he doesn’t switch on the light.

price shuts the door behind them.

“i want you to call your psych in the morning,” he begins sternly, “and to report to the RMO.”

“are you going to confiscate my shoelaces?” it snaps out venomous, and he regrets it the second he says it, but he channels the negativity into yanking off his boots and throwing them into the corner. the mask gets chucked at the wall above his desk and lands with a flat thud.

“is you topping yourself something i need to be worried about, simon?” john price has the patience of a fucking saint, he really does. hardly delicate, but he doesn’t want delicate right now.

he can feel the strange, disconnected feeling coming back. like there’s a layer of static between the two points of his brain and his nerve endings. it feels like he sways where he sits on the bed. “no.”

“then no.” there’s a long pause as price just looks at him. “you and soap. you’re sleeping with him.”

nausea. the anxiety swells from deep within his core. you lie to me. “yes.”

“christ, simon. since last year?”

he nods. he can feel his fingers curling into the sheets on his bed without his input. he could try to defend himself, but he won’t. he can’t. he had known when he’d let johnny kiss him, drag him up to that hotel room, push him into the bed, that he’d been wrong to do it, and he should have stopped it. and then he’d kept doing it, instead.

there’s always been that tendril of infectious weakness reaching up from the core of him, and he’s cut it off before it could spread before. but not this time.

“i’ll need to speak to him about it, decide what to do,” price mutters, even as he steps forward. “you don’t make things easy for yourself, do you?”

he shakes his head, looks down at the floor, and when the hand finds his shoulder he doesn’t flinch. sees it more than feels it, follows the line of it up price’s arm, shoulder, to his face.

the expression is hard to read, but it’s not angry, somehow. not disappointed or disgusted.

just sad, maybe.

“you’d seemed happier,” price says very quietly. “i’d hoped i was wrong about why.” as much as the 141 give him shit for acting like their father, in this moment he feels more like a brother. an older brother looking on helplessly at choices made, mistakes carved deep. trying to figure out how to fix it.

he knows that helplessness himself, feels even sicker at the memory.

it feels like his throat is being squeezed shut from the outside, the cold hands of guilt wrapped around it. “i’m sorry, john.” it comes out as a whisper, thin. it sounds faraway somehow. “i won’t ask you to forgive me.”

the hand on his shoulder squeezes gently. “you need to forgive yourself, simon.”

it’s like a knife into his chest, something that lets all of the air out of his lungs, skewers his heart. what do you even say to something like that? he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t fucking deserve to. but his voice won’t work to say it.

“i know you want me to go,” price says, gently, carefully, “but will you be alright if i do?”

“i just want to sleep,” he manages, strangled.

“alright. i’ll check on you. tomorrow.”

please don’t, he doesn’t say.

price lets himself out, the latch clicking down as the door is pulled shut behind him, and the ensuing quiet is even worse. he should put on music, something to stave off having to hear his fucking thoughts barging into the front of his mind, but as he pitches sideways to lie down he feels something bite into his arm under his weight. he rolls onto his back to rip the pocket open, retrieve the silver band.

as he looks at it he feels even fucking worse. a token of faith, misplaced in several ways.

he’s seen the ‘RC’ engraved on johnny’s tags, he’s seen the ring slid around the chain before, but he doesn’t know that it had ever really occurred to him that johnny might actually be religious. maybe he isn’t, maybe it’s just a holdover from when he was younger and it’s simply something that gives him comfort, but it’s a strange thing to imagine. someone in this line of work who still has that sort of abstract belief. higher powers, the innate goodness of men.

he can feel his lips move in a silent echo - it’s important to me.

sliding the ring over his pinky finger, he watches the metal settle snug against his skin. no matter his disconnection from the meaning of the cross carved into the silver, there’s a poisonous sort of reverence deep in his chest at the idea of the ring’s owner. he had thought it in the kill room, hadn’t he? his idea of the divine is the touch of a warm, real hand over his heart, gentle breath on his neck, the sanctuary of arms wrapped around his body.

you’d seemed happier, price had said.

he rolls over to face the wall, turns his back on the pale light from the window leaking under the blinds, and doesn’t even bother crawling under the sheets. he just hauls the second pillow out from under himself and balls it tight in his arms, against his chest. curls his fingers into the pillowcase until it makes the bruised nailbeds hurt.

his hands are always cold, but he imagines the ring slightly warmer around his finger. a tether to earth, through the distant numb feeling spreading through his limbs. an amulet, to keep him safe against his own fucking brain.

he screws his eyes shut and sighs.

he’d sent the text almost the minute they’d finished the debrief meeting - how are things? can i do anything? - but he hasn’t had an answer yet, nearly twenty-four hours later. it’s not that it’s surprising, or even that he doesn’t understand, but the nerves wear on him anyway.

in his after-action paperwork, he doesn’t mention that moment in the bunker command centre. he doesn’t mention it to price, either, when he gets taken into an empty room in the ops building and asked pointedly about exactly what’s been happening between them.

(“it was my idea, sir. i pushed for it.”

“he should have turned you down. you know that. he’s an officer.”

“not to be cheeky or anything, captain, but i’m glad he didn’t.”)

he and gaz have spent hours on the write-ups, and he needs to get off-base, so soap changes and goes for a run. he takes the road out of the village with the distinct thought that he doesn’t want to go past the cemetery, and tries to push it out of his head with the music pumping through his earphones.

he’s almost managed it on his way back, until he sees the figure stepping down from the bus from hereford across from the main base entrance.

there’s something wrong about seeing the tall frame so closed-off, round-shouldered. he thinks about lengthening his stride to catch up and can’t make the decision - is it overstepping? is he not trying hard enough? - but then the head turns to him and -
and the decision’s made for him, because simon stops where he stands, hands in his jacket pockets, and waits.

his pulse kicks higher and he accelerates.

“fancy seein’ you here,” soap pants as he draws up, comes to a stop. “you went into town?”

“had an appointment,” comes the answer, raspy. above the dark face mask, the brown eyes are exhausted, dark circles showing through the pale skin beneath them. the bruises are at their worst now, livid black and blue. the one across the temple looks a little swollen.

he looks fucking terrible, if soap is honest. and he’s not making eye contact.

“on your way back in?” there’s a little nod. “have you eaten anythin’ today?”

the hesitation is answer enough, but to his surprise simon actually responds with words. “i’ve been busy.” it’s quiet, tense. “haven’t had an appetite. think i’ve missed dinner, anyway.”

“i’ve got a stash in my room,” he offers without thinking. he shouldn’t, should be trying to maintain a ‘professional relationship’ until things are sorted but -

“… alright.” oh.

they walk back in silence. soap’s heart feels like it barely slows down.

it’s only once he’s closed his door behind him that he says anything, and it’s with his back turned, leaning down to open the desk drawer where he keeps his sweets. “what was the appointment?”

there’s a long pause, a rustle of fabric. when he turns, simon is sitting on the bed and has his eyes down on his jacket in his hands, focusing on folding it neatly in half. “doctor.”

he can read between the lines. the only thing he wouldn’t see a regiment doctor for would be -
he offers the packaged brownie. “go alright?”

“fucking dreadful. thanks.” when simon takes the wrapped package, there’s a new wound on his hand that hadn’t been there before, a split in the knuckles, fresher than the other wounds. he can only hope that it was a wall on the other end.

the other hand, though, as simon pulls down his mask and peels the plastic off the brownie - the flash of silver draws his eye and soap recognises the ring, feels a flush of almost proprietary satisfaction to see it worn. “i know you’re probably talked out,” he begins, “but if you want -”

“i don’t,” comes the flat answer around a mouthful of confectionery. he hasn’t shaved for a few days, soap notes, but the grime from the assignment’s gone. too tired to concentrate on it, maybe, or just apathetic.

“walked into that, didn’t i?” he comes over, sits carefully on the bed next to simon, watches him for a moment. “nobody expects you to just magically be fine. you were so close to sh-”

“i know.” the eyes are focused on some point far away, somewhere beyond his hands as he breaks what’s left of the brownie into two. “i don’t have to be fine. just fine enough.”

he can’t help the scoff that comes out of him, the disbelieving noise, and it gets simon to look at him finally. “fuck that for a laugh, simon. you want to put it in a box and never touch it again, fine, if that’s what works for you, but rushin’ yourself’s not going to do you any good. you were spun so fuckin’ backwards you were about to do somethin’ you’d have hated yourself for.”

there’s a sort of surprise in that gaze, scarred lips parting slightly on something simon isn’t saying, but it softens after a moment. “yeah.” his voice takes on a resigned air. “if i’m out i’m not doing anyone any good,” he counters, quietly, pops one of the pieces of brownie into his mouth. “if i even get the chance. did you tell price?”

“what? why the fuck would i-”

“i mean about us.”

oh. “no. he guessed.”

“thought so -”

“doesn’t matter,” soap interrupts. “he gave me the third degree earlier. asked me if you’d seduced me.” simon visibly winces, eyeline dropping toward the floor, and he rushes through the rest of it. “you didn’t. he said he’d take a look at the regs but he doesn’t think it needs to be written up.”

a pause. “you’re serious.”

“gave me the ‘jesus christ, soap, can’t you control yourself’ talk for near-on a half-hour, mind you, but aye. you know how he is.” some of the tension in simon’s frame visibly drains away. “i ever tell you about the time i punched the redcap?”

the dark eyes flick over at him, more focused now. “what?”

“punched him right in the pus and locked him in his car. was absolutely fuckin’ rat-arsed at the time, but he deserved it.” soap offers a grin. “my cousin kevin’s in 23 reserve, think i said before. he was down, we had a few drinks in town, when we came back officer dickhead pulled us up on bein’ pished and then he decided he’d throw in callin’ us a pair of ‘fuckin’ poofs’ as well, so.”

“so you punched a military policeman, knocked him out and locked him in a car.”

“i still remember price coming to me goin’ ‘john, you can’t just punch people’, and i’m pretty sure i said ‘i didn’t punch a person, i punched a cunt’.”

simon snorts, finishing the brownie. the faraway look has faded. he looks more present, now, more alert. maybe, soap hopes, very slightly less stressed.

“didn’t get written up for it, so i’m assumin’ it was a case of price goin’, ‘d’you want people to know why you got punched? ‘cause we can let them know’.”

there’s a moment, still. the tension isn’t gone, but it’s thinned.

and then, very quietly, simon says “i punched the last person who called me a poof as well, so i can’t judge.” from anyone else it’d be a light reply, but from him, even now, it’s a surprising tip of the hand, a piece of information volunteered when they’re always so closely guarded. it makes that skip-a-beat sensation happen in soap’s chest.

“must’ve been brave if he was squarin’ up to you.”

“no. he wasn’t.” oh. that was the absolute wrong thing to say, soap realises, because there’s a sort of strain in simon’s voice like a guitar string tightened to near-breaking point. “i was fourteen. he was a lot older. had all the power.”

the unspoken words are obvious, loud in their absence.

it was his dad, wasn’t it?

“oh, simon,” soap says as softly as he can, and all of his self-control evaporates. he slides sideways on the bed, loops his arm around the broad shoulders, curls his hand against the nape of the neck to coax the solid weight to rest against his side.

the arm that comes up around the back of his waist is tentative, but simon’s temple comes to rest heavy against his shoulder. “he’s dead now. i don’t care.”

“if you don’t, that’s alright, but y’know it’s also alright if you do, right?” he rests his elbow on simon’s shoulder to pet his hair instead, sliding his fingers through the short, choppy strands. it’s a little damp, feels like the shampoo hasn’t been rinsed out properly, but he feels the slight shiver through the body next to him and keeps doing it. “you’re from fuckin’ manchester, anyway, isn’t it queer people the entire way down?”

that earns a tiny laugh, two breaths, and the arm around his waist tightens. “don’t you fucking start.”

he turns his head, smiles against the unruly hair. “aye, fine. ruin my fun.” he can feel simon turn his face a little more into his shoulder, turns his body into it to turn it into a full embrace. there’s another jerky hesitation, but he wraps his hand around simon’s wrist, tugs it gently, and feels the other man allow himself to be pulled forward.

he might be a big, powerful man, but he fits himself so carefully into soap’s arms, almost timid in it. he’s nervous, isn’t he? unsure. like he thinks soap’s one and only desire right now isn’t to hold him close.

soap leaves him an escape route, but pulls that warm body to his chest, presses a kiss to the bruised temple as gently as he can. “you might not feel like it,” he says quietly, murmurs it against skin, “but you’re strong, simon, you’re fuckin’ tough as all hell, and it’s not just you. we’re all behind you.”

there’s a muffled little hum against his shoulder. it sounds noncommittal, not quite believing. simon’s other arm is curled between them, his hand against soap’s chest, somewhere between defensive and pressing flat over soap’s heart. conflicted, as he so often is. it breaks his fucking heart sometimes, it really does.

it’s the hand he’s wearing the ring on. he doesn’t know why he’s so aware of that. he especially doesn’t know why it brings something so possessive rushing to the surface, his own charm worn in such an everyday way.

and then, his mouth keeps fucking going, because it always does, especially around simon. “i’m behind you. you’re no’ gettin’ rid of me that easy. spent the entire time fuckin’ terrified we weren’t gettin’ you back, and -”

don’t say it

“never bein’ able to -”

don’t fucking do it, soap, don’t

“tell you i love you.”

jesus fuckin’ wept. you’re going to terrify the man.

simon goes absolutely still. he stops breathing for a long few seconds.

and then, slowly, his fingers tighten in the front of soap’s tshirt. he doesn’t shrug out of the arms wrapped around him, doesn’t push away, doesn’t shrink in on himself. a long, shaky breath shudders out of him into the tiny space between them.

“i do, you know.” soap murmurs. “i love you.”

repeating it, in that simpler context, is the most potent hit of endorphins he might have ever felt. he’s been pushing it out of his head with work since he’d had the realisation but in the moments where he’s had breathing room he’s thought of barely anything else, and god only knows he’s bad at keeping his thoughts to himself. it’s a relief to say it, a powerful rush to say it and know that if he’d overstepped simon would be leaving, would already be gone.

instead, he’s still here. trembling, just slightly, still hiding his face, still holding onto him tightly. curled warm in his arms, safe, real.

his, he dares to hope.

he settles his hand, reassuring, back on the back of simon’s neck. he doesn’t expect an answer, wouldn’t at the best of times and especially not now. “just want to make sure you know that.”

“i do,” comes the very small answer. “god only knows why, but i know.” there’s something in it that’s as close to overwhelmed as soap has ever heard him. there is the slightest tremor in it, beautiful, strained. “you shouldn’t, johnny, you know that.”

“don’t tell me how i should feel, alright?” he keeps his voice quiet, strokes simon’s hair again. “told you, si. cannae get rid of me that easy.”

“so you’re saying we should start calling you glue instead,” simon mumbles into the base of soap’s neck, and he can’t help it, he fucking cracks up.

“fuck off,” he laughs, and feels the smile against his skin.

6. truth or dare, euphoria or despair

Summary for the Chapter:

look up, look ahead.

he wakes warm and quiet, dreamless sleep fading into the half-light of the early morning. no panic, no pain, no shrieking adrenaline commanding run, run, run.

his eyelids are heavy and there’s a crick in his neck, but there’s also an arm slung around his waist and an ankle hooked lazily around his own, and it doesn’t make him feel like he’s suffocating, because this is safe, isn’t it? he’s safe.

he’s still tired. the fatigue hits him brutal in these low periods. he’s slept on and off since maybe eight last night, drifting off in johnny’s bed while he finished off his paperwork, and he could definitely shut his eyes and go for another half-day at least, but no. as much as he’d rather crawl through broken glass for a few miles than go back to dr shah again, he needs to get up.

when johnny had climbed into the bed next to him he’d woken briefly, long enough to let himself be wound into a solid embrace, bury himself in the warmth of skin and soft-worn cotton. now he regrets not thinking about his exit, because while he’s on the outside edge of the bed he’s locked in place and if he twists to get his eyes on what he’s doing he’s going to wake johnny up.

he doesn’t want to do that, not with the other man breathing slow and deep, face relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted. it wouldn’t be fair on him.

it’s not dignified, the way he tentatively lifts the arm around his body and shimmies backwards, but it does the job. slowly, he works his way loose, manages to get his legs under him, and then he’s on his knees by the bedside extracting his arm from between the pillow and johnny’s neck. it hurts, all of the minor wounds rearing their ugly heads again, but he can take it.

it’s just his luck that he’s still there, kneeling, when those eyes blink open blearily. they’re unfocused for a long moment, a little furrow between the dark brows as johnny’s brain struggles to catch up with his waking body.

“simon?” throaty from sleep, his voice is just as gorgeous as the rest of him. it always is. his accent is stronger in these first moments, too, takes all the edges off his words. “what’re you doin’?”

“trying not to wake you up,” he admits. “didn’t work as well as i hoped.”

“‘s’cold. c’mere.”

he would love to obey, he would, but instead he stands. like this he can feel the awkward kink in his spine from sleeping squeezed into such a small bed with another person, but he feels marginally more alert to get upright. “sorry, johnny,” he murmurs, and he means it. “can’t stay.”

“i know,” comes the mumble, half-into the pillow, “but y’could let me down easy ‘t’least.”

johnny’s a grown man, almost thirty, and he’s fucking pouting, and it’s ridiculous. he has to avert his eyes to keep from letting the laugh bubble up, fond and raw, looks for his boots instead. “if i turn up in the same clothes as yesterday the shrink’ll flip. i’ll let you explain to price that i got sectioned for not being able to look after myself, yeah?”

there’s a pause, one that feels fucking awkward to start with. of all the things he’s ever felt, the discomfort of silent disgust-revulsion-judgement when people learn things about him, it’s one of the worst sensations, a visceral nausea. but there’s something that sits up at the back of his mind as he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots to put them on, something that says he says he loves you in a tiny weak voice. he knows you better than most and he still says he loves you.

it doesn’t make the abject hollow in his gut vanish, but it lifts a little.

“honestly, i’d like to see a hospital that could hold you,” comes the light answer from behind him. he can feel the movement, knows what to expect before it happens, and the anticipation raises a tingle along the back of his neck before johnny even touches him. when it comes, the arm that wraps around his midsection is easy, loose, and he can feel the warm weight of the body pressing up against his back. he can feel the exact point of his shoulder where johnny settles his cheek. “the 141’d be there to exfil you. all of us on the lam together.”

johnny puts his whole body into the embrace, lazy but somehow so all-encompassing, and it occupies his senses so fully that the nauseous pit in his stomach gets almost completely pushed out in favour of warm, safe, wonderful.

“you’re a bad fucking influence,” he says, eyes on his hands tying his laces. it comes out less dry than he intends, softer around the edges, the affection leaking out in a way he can’t control, and it brings another crashing wave of fatigue on him again.

he’d realised, yesterday, and then admitted - with more difficulty than he thinks he’s ever had with any one sentence in his life - that he’d been afraid.

not of death, not of anything that they could do to him, but of the consequence. of what might become of johnny. of him being hurt, wounded, alone. of maybe never getting to see him again.

he doesn’t know what being in love is like, but he’s starting to feel that it might be a bit like this.

he doesn’t know that he’s really equipped to deal with all of it.

the arm around his waist tightens a little, and he feels the cheek against the back of his shoulder replaced by a chin. the next words are closer to his ear, half-laughed. “you love it really, si. where’d you be without me to lead you astray?”

“owing price about five fewer massive fucking favours,” he answers. he’s finished with his boots, should get up and leave, but it’s an even harder prospect now. “in my own bed, with enough time to get properly showered and changed.”

“awright, point taken.” the arm unwinds, and johnny shoves him lightly as he gets to his feet. “fuck off, then.” it’s teasing, said with a laugh, but there is such an aching gentleness beneath it that he turns to look at the other man and feels his breath stolen.

john mactavish is a beautiful creature, all tanned skin and cheshire grin and clear blue eyes gazing up at him, but what makes him so magnetic more than anything is the openness, the absolute trust in his bearing, his body language. someone who has taken a wounded animal into his own bed to try to nurse it back to health, even though he knows what a thankless and futile task it might be. there is nothing but sincerity in that gaze, soft at the edges.

he leans down, drawn like a moth to a naked flame, and feels two hands delicately cup his face as their lips meet in a kiss. no, he isn’t burned, but the tangible yank inside his chest is a pain in itself, like his heart lurches against the inside of his ribcage. it’s a bright, terrible, ecstatic sort of feeling.

he feels himself exhale, shakily, against johnny’s mouth.

“let me know,” johnny whispers, still with his palms either side of his jaw, “when you’re back. if you want me to come keep you company or anythin’. no pressure.”

“yeah.” he straightens. the touch falls gently away, but he can still feel it, the rough warm palms against his skin. “maybe. see how i feel.” depends on how drained he is. if he has the energy for words. maybe he wouldn’t mind a repeat of last night, curled in bed with a protective figure watching over him.

“whatever you want.”

he should go, should tear himself away from where he feels rooted to the spot. he clenches a fist to spur himself on with his nails biting into his palms, pain to cut through the trance, but it reminds him that still, around his pinky, is -

“i should give you this back,” he says, slips off the ring. his finger feels strange where it’s been sitting, a sort of tingle. cold. “did its job, i think.”

johnny’s lips part slightly as he looks at the metal band, but he makes no move to take it, just stays draped in the blankets with one leg tucked under himself. “you should hold on to it for now,” he says after a moment, those eyes flicking up to meet his gaze. there’s something searching in them, something that sees him. “if it helps.”

there’s an unspoken sort of question behind the statement, one that threatens to get complicated if said aloud. is that why you’re wearing it? does it help? how? why?

he looks down at it and slips it back onto his finger, turns the cross engraving to align with his palm. it’s probably some kind of blasphemy, a non-believer wearing something like this, but he can’t bring himself to care if it doesn’t bother johnny. “alright,” he murmurs. “a bit longer.”

his jacket sits folded on the floor, his cloth facemask atop it, and he bends for them, puts both on. by the time he’s finished, johnny’s slid out of the bed and made it, and they drift toward the door together.

“see you later, maybe,” he says, quiet, as he steps into the hall. “behave yourself.”

that earns a grin, a touch that slides down from his shoulder to his arm to briefly tangle their fingers together in a squeeze. “nae danger,” johnny shoots back. “look after yourself, simon.”

he pulls the door shut with a faint laugh, and as much as he’d like to linger he shouldn’t be seen here, should get on with his morning. he sets off down the corridor at a brisk pace, puts his hands into his pockets. curls his fingers into his palm to feel the silver ring against his skin again, against the pad of his thumb.

it’s not 3am this time, thank god. same conference table, same horrific coffee, but it’s the middle of a late-july afternoon, a blue sky stretching cloudless and bright outside the window.

it’s been just over a week since they got back, and all four of them sit around the table. today is the first day simon has been back on light duties, and while there are still lingering faint marks on his face and arms the hollow look is beginning to fade from his eyes. it’s not going to fully go away, soap knows, because it was there even before, but it’s a step back toward normal. or, well, whatever passes for normal for simon riley.

they’ve been holding off on the final after-action meeting until now, because officially they couldn’t have wound it up without the typed report currently sitting under price’s elbow, but it also means that they’re getting debriefed in more detail than usual. he hasn’t ever gotten follow-up like this, and it’s… a pleasant surprise, actually.

“turns out isayev sits on the state duma committee for defence,” price is saying, gesturing vaguely at the slide projected over his shoulder. “he was arrested yesterday morning. according to kamarov they’ve already found so much classified material on his personal devices that there’s a good chance he’s never seeing the world outside prison again.”

“good bloody riddance,” gaz mutters.

“if he’s been working with others the FSB’ll find them. or so kamarov says.” there’s a faint quirk of price’s lips as he says it, maybe. “laswell’s lot are thrilled, obviously. all that and they didn’t have to lift a finger.”

“what about the AQ camp?” soap asks. “are they going to do anythin’ about it?”

there’s a moment, as price looks at him, that reminds him of being a kid asking his mum what must have been awkward questions. “reports are that they’ve rolled the camp up almost entirely,” price says after a terse pause. “nothing yet about where they’ve gone.”

it was always going to be a risk, he knows, but there’s a part of him that feels guilt for a moment. it’s a big operation to have vanished into thin air, and they made that happen. they kicked the hornets’ nest and there are, eventually, going to be consequences.

he glances over at simon across the table, who is looking down at the file open in front of him, leafing through the writeups, and is heartened by the way the dark eyes flick up to meet his without outward tension or stress. if simon doesn’t care that the rescue set back intelligence operations in the region, then that’s all that matters, and it doesn’t seem like he does.

“probably not many other places they could run,” gaz muses. “hard to escape surveillance in that part of the world.”

“that’s the assumption, anyway.” price knocks back a good swig of his coffee, and somehow doesn’t make a face at the burnt-bitterness of it. “matter of time. out of our hands until then, anyway.”

that surprises him. “no followup?”

“not for now, anyway.” price is eyeing soap, particularly, with a strange sort of look. “just as well, anyway. i want to get the 141 organised again. tightened up. bring in a few more lads, maybe - running the bare minimum works fine until we end up out somewhere with limited outside backup.”

he’s been wondering about that, honestly. the two boys from A squadron had come back with them, rather than going back to their deployment. every time he’s seen price since they got back, he’s had folders in his hands or just come back from watching the selection intake. “makes sense,” he says, because price is still looking at him.

“and i’m not sure when, but we’ll be down a man for a while. if soap agrees to sit officer development training.”

soap blinks. feels his brows scrunch together. “eh?”

“after hassan, i recommended you for it. i’ve had the go-ahead to file the PODP paperwork for you if you want it.”

there’s a low huff of almost-laughter across the table. “you’ll be a pod person too, johnny. fair warning, it’s a load of wank.”

gaz just grins. “i’d pay to see him try and do a film studies module.”

he’d asked about it, what feels like ages ago, and he’d never thought any more about it. he can feel the too-hot flush of surprise, shock, slightly bashful pride - even after everything, price thinks he’s good enough.

“i… yes, i want it.”

“he’s going to be a nightmare as a lieutenant,” gaz teases.

“he’s bad enough as a sergeant,” simon replies, the bastard.

price laughs. “if you’re done bullying him, gents, that’ll be all. standby until further notice, but otherwise i want you all at the readiness course prepped to run first thing 0700. understood?”

“yes sir,” they answer in unison.

“dismissed.”

the three of them leave together, walking three-abreast down the corridor towards the ops building exit. “thought i was in shit for somethin’ when he kept lookin’ at me like that,” soap confesses, giddy. “you know how he gets, all ‘these are the facts and i’m not mentionin’ that i’m very disappointed in you, son, but you can definitely feel it’.”

“you say that like he’s ever had anything to be disappointed in me for,” gaz counters, nudging him with an elbow. “keep your issues to yourself, mate.”

“awright, come to me when you get your commission offer,” soap says, holding the door open for both of them. he doesn’t like the mischievous look in gaz’s eyes.

sure enough, the moment they’re all outside and away from anyone who might overhear - “mine doesn’t need to be rushed through to get me off the hook, mr i’m-shagging-my-lieutenant.”

he nearly stops dead. he’s fucking shocked that simon doesn’t outwardly react. “steamin’ jesus, gaz, what the fuck -”

“soap, you flirt with him constantly, you’re not subtle.” a pause. “neither are you, sir, no offence.”

“none taken,” simon answers, perfectly evenly.

soap opens his mouth, finds he can’t think of anything to say to defend himself, and closes it again. well, fuck. “enjoy it while you can, gaz. i’m gettin’ you back.”

“on the CQB course? you’ll have to catch me first, mate,” and then he fucking swans off across the grass toward the gym, leaving soap standing there open-mouthed.

“wee shite,” he breathes, shaking his head.

“he does beat you every single time,” simon observes. when soap turns to look at him there is a spark in the dark eyes, the telltale air of a smile even with his face covered. “better get practicing, johnny.”

he laughs. “suppose i’d better. you comin’?”

a pause, that gaze flicking him up and down. it’s hot out, and he feels warmer still.

“alright. let’s see what you can do.”

soap grins, claps simon on the arm, feels warm skin under his hand where the shirtsleeve ends. “bet you i can still beat you.”

simon rolls his eyes, and soap just laughs again.

Notes for the Chapter:

that’s the end of halt and catch fire! thank you for sticking with me to the end, i appreciate it so much. i hope you had a good time, or, at least, as good a time as you can with a narrative like this lmao
chapter title credits are as follows:
chap 1: exits, foals
chap 2: talons, bloc party
chap 3: seven devils, florence + the machine
chap 4: lethal, cloudeater
chap 5: free to live in colour, pixey
chap 6: karma climb, editors
additional shoutout to florence + the machine’s ‘no light, no light’, which is honestly the theme song for this entire piece, particularly the latter half.

there was about a thousand words of nsfw i decided to scrap in interests of pacing and trying to avoid the ‘magical trauma-healing dick’ trope that i’m going to rework into its own piece, so please be on the lookout for that! it’ll round out this little continuity i have going, and then the other ideas i have should be shorter one-shots. pls anticipate
come talk to me on twitter if you like!

coda: burn to ash by exavibus

Series: in the heat of the moment [4]
Fandoms: Call of Duty (Video Games)
AO3 Categories: M/M
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: John “Soap” MacTavish/Simon “Ghost” Riley
Characters: John “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley
Freeform Tags: Anal Sex, Bottom Simon “Ghost” Riley, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Masochism, Lowercase, POV Simon “Ghost” Riley, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Present Tense, Service Top, Top John “Soap” MacTavish
Status: Completed
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Published: 2023-02-28
Updated: 2023-02-28
Packaged: 2023-09-01 18:16:26
Summary:

home safe. too safe. he can’t handle that.

ghost finds it hard to ask for what he needs, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try.

coda: burn to ash

Author’s Note:

final part of my work ‘in the heat of the moment’, but can be read as a standalone with the context that ghost was briefly captured during their most recent mission and both parties are still a little delicate from it.

cw for mentioned unhealthy coping mechanisms for trauma and mental health, light s/m play, mention of breeding kink (again), and two grown men being violently emotionally constipated

it’s one of these things, this fragile sort of unspoken understanding, a regard based on an extrapolation that nobody has actually spoken aloud, and at this point can he? can he say something about it? will it fix itself, or cause problems?

situational assessment: the al-qatala comms bunker was over three weeks ago. johnny has been nothing short of understanding, sensitive, thoughtful ever since. he shows no outward frustration at the fact his invitations to talk about it have been turned down. he is as free with his affection as he ever was, does not seem disgusted by the prospect of waking up next to goods even further damaged than they were before.

complicating factors: above thoughtful nature means johnny is taking care to be particularly mindful of boundaries. maybe he lacks an explicit understanding of those hours of captivity, but he has pretty much guessed that there may have been aspects to it that might make things fraught. he is, and for all the months of their relationship has been, the one who physically initiates. almost every single time. and now, nothing.

further considerations: johnny has only been guessing. he hasn’t asked, and to be fair to him it is maybe because he knows extensive discussion is unwelcome.

but, the thing is, the thing that would be written under the ‘outcomes’ heading in this imaginary field report in bold, underlined a few times: engaged party is losing his fucking mind. lt ‘ghost’ reports being pent-up, jittery, frustrated. gagging for it. red biro circle ringed around the handwritten words fucking desperate.

it’s true that he wasn’t up for anything for the first while, hadn’t even liked the idea of being touched unless it was the careful, gentle wrap of arms around his body, but old habits die hard, and his process has always leaned hard on distracting himself while his mind wraps things nice and tight in layers of distance and crams them somewhere out of the way. work, study, exercise, those he has freely admitted to the psych, and as coping mechanisms go they’re not the worst. it’s the sex, the need to get out of his head and slip under the current of animal instinct - that, he doesn’t admit to. knows it’d just prompt concern, or worse, restrictions.

he doesn’t especially want to admit it to johnny, either, because ‘fuck me like you’re some stranger i met in a bar’ probably won’t play well.

he might be home safe, but too safe. he can’t handle that. and of course it’s too hard to work up the nerve to ask for what he needs, so at some point he will have to just do it.

maybe he’s too in his head about the whole thing. it’s a warm night, the last embers of summer scorching the sky sunset-red. the walk through credenhill wood was spur-of-the-moment, a way to wind down from a mentally exhausting day of demo testing, and he hasn’t said much. johnny’s filled a lot of the silence, meandering through topics from last night’s football to the last time he was in glasgow to gigs he’s been to and so on, not minding when he gets only short answers or affirmative little hums to show he’s being listened to, but the lulls are comfortable too.

they both show their IDs to come back into the base, and this is where they should part, head to their own respective buildings to their own respective rooms and behave themselves.

“thanks for comin’ with me,” johnny says, a smile on his lips. “can’t believe i’ve been stationed here eight years and that’s the first time i’ve been along there. i’ll see you tomorrow?”

he should say ‘yes’. “come back with me,” he says instead.

there’s no sign of surprise, anything like that - just a widening of the smile, the corners of the eyes creasing. “if you want,” johnny says, his voice soft. he says if you want but he means i’d like that, the unspoken just as loud as what he gives voice. it obviously doesn’t quite go both ways, as johnny does not seem to understand that he isn’t being invited back to watch some mind-numbing direct-to-streaming film and fall asleep, but he can’t be blamed too much. that’s been the pattern for weeks.

the squadron are still on deployment, and the halls of the building are distinctly quiet, but habit keeps them both silent as they enter the barracks building, climb the stairs, slip inside the door marked with just a number, no name.

after all, even if he feels a closer tie to his given name with every time he hears it from johnny’s lips, it’s still not something he wants advertised.

he flings his abandoned workout gear, still lying on the bed, into his laundry bag, and when he turns around johnny has stepped out of his shoes and is stretching with his back turned. the perfectly-cut lines of muscle down his upstretched arms, his back, are fucking gorgeous. the deep groove of his spine shows through the clingy fabric of the t-shirt.

he can see the blue irises reflected in the mirror on the wall. they’re watching him. he turns to get rid of his own shoes without the temptation to be drawn in.

by the time he’s done, johnny has plopped himself on the bed, weight back on his hands, knees apart. to face him, sat like that, makes the simmering heat in the back of his consciousness leap up into flame, but he stays where he stands, because johnny is speaking. “d’you want to finish the one we were watchin’ the other day?”

he should answer, should behave like a proper human being, but there’s only so far his self-control will stretch before it snaps, and the step forward he takes is where it breaks. another step has him standing over the other man, blocking out the light, casting a shadow over johnny’s face, and then he drops to his knees.

his palms find johnny’s thighs as if laser-guided, spreading across the soft fabric of the dark sweats, and he watches them slide slowly up with the soft sound of skin against cotton. his own breathing sounds so fucking loud in his ears, and the moment where he doesn’t dare to look up stretches out for what feels like an infinite time.

johnny’s thighs spread a little further apart, deliberate.

he raises his eyes with conscious effort.

“simon,” johnny breathes. one of his hands lifts, carefully, is deliberate and gentle with the way the fingers unhook the elastic of the mask behind one ear. “you alright?”

yes, he should say. or no. or something, anything. but those eyes leave no room for anything else in his head. instead he drags his hands back down, thumbs pressing into the solid flesh of inner thighs, and drags himself just a little closer.

the hand doesn’t leave the side of his face, spreads warm across his bared cheek, fingers sliding across the side of his neck, and he can feel himself leaning into it, turning his head so that the side of johnny’s thumb presses across the corner of his mouth, and he can hear the sharp intake of breath. “you want -”

“yeah.” that response, at least, is automatic. he wants, so badly that it feels like his hands might shake. he feels half-starved now that he’s had a taste, parted lips dragging against rough warm skin.

the pad of johnny’s thumb brushes along his lower lip, meanders along the scar there. that bright gaze is feverish, suddenly, fixed on him sharp and intent. “you’re sure?”

he opens his mouth. without hesitation, the thumb invades, kisses his tongue, drags against the edges of his teeth, and draws a wet line down his lip, his chin, under his jaw. the hand is wrapping around the side of his neck before he can finally force his voice to work, and the “please,” sounds like it’s punched out of him.

he doesn’t need to say more, because johnny might not completely understand him but he tries, and he trusts, and that’s enough. “alright,” comes the murmur, just as warm as his hand. “whatever you want, simon.”

what he wants is to be touched, so he reaches for johnny’s other hand with one of his own, drags it forward, only lets go when the other man takes the instruction and shifts a little further forward to get his balance. his other hand he pushes up, until it grazes the hot growing hardness in the front of the sweats. the shape of it fits perfectly against the cradle of his palm, and fingers curl into his hair at his temple and the nape of his neck.

what he wants is more. it’s everything, if he tells the truth, anything at these hands. he looks up and the expression on johnny’s face is disarming, terrifying. adoring.

this is his lover, and he is rapt.

“you’re thinkin’ too hard, simon,” comes the gentle correction. a fingertip taps lightly at his temple. “tell me what you want.”

mouthing against johnny’s erection through fabric gives him an excuse to duck the answer, but he knows the question is sincere. it’s not say-it-aloud power tripping, a demand to stroke the ego. he lets his cheek drag against the hot cotton. “all the marks are gone,” he says, aware his voice has already dropped pitch, volume, that it creaks low in his throat. “want you to put them back. all over my neck, my hips.”

the fingers in his hair tighten, and the wave of shivers rips down his spine like clockwork. “decorate those pretty thighs,” johnny breathes, and the look in his eyes has gone dark and hazy, the desire in them clear. his second-favourite look on johnny, right under vibrant, mischievous laughter. he’s starting to cant his hips just slightly against the hand on his cock. “how?”

“would’ve thought you’d understand the mechanics of it,” he answers without thinking about it, the teasing second nature. “you get amnesia all of a sudden?”

“smartarse,” johnny grins. a little of the heaviness of the atmosphere lifts. he can almost breathe again. “you know what i mean.”

“do i?” he manages it exactly as long as it takes for johnny to drag him up on his knees to kiss him, a laugh against his lips, and then he folds. “i don’t care. just touch me.”

the steel-blue eyes drop to the narrow gap between their bodies, flick back up. “d’you want t’ride me, maybe? not too tired?”

he could have been dead on his fucking feet and the suggestion would have shot him through like a live wire. “yeah,” he answers, too-quickly, the desperation showing. “like the sound of that.”

“c’mere, then.”

he doesn’t need to be told twice. he rises to his feet, watches the heated gaze slide up his body and then down again to follow his hands to the button of his trousers. as he draws down the zip, johnny reaches up to hook his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, push them and the trousers down his hips and thighs. it’s natural to step out of them, let the arm that wraps around his waist reel him in and down into the embrace.

“god, si, you’re so gorgeous,” johnny whispers, dragging him into his lap. “fuckin’ ridiculous, i hope you know. you get on your knees and barely fuckin’ touch me, and…” he trails off in favour of wrapping hands around either side of his hips and pressing him down, where he can feel the hard, hot need pressing up between his thighs.

he rocks against it slowly, lets johnny’s clothed cock nudge up behind his balls. he could honestly get off like this, can feel the way his nerves fire off overenthusiastic, an exquisite sort of pins-and-needles sensation that drags down the back of his neck, his shoulders, down his back and arms. for all of johnny’s complaints, he’s almost as turned on. “you say it like it’s a bad thing,” he manages, hears the growl starting in his voice already. “whole point of a toy is being able to switch it on and play with it whenever.”

he expects to be bitten, but to be bitten quite so hard is a surprise, one that makes him gasp, buck a little in johnny’s lap. the hands on his hips are on his arse now, blunt nails scraping his skin harshly. it’s good, has him pressing forward into the solid chest.

“that right?” the words are murmured right against his ear, dark, promising. “if that’s all you need, simon, i can go.”

his breath comes unsteady as one of johnny’s hands leaves off grasping handfuls of his arse and wraps hot around his cock instead, just this side of painfully tight. “you wouldn’t,” he answers, letting his head fall forward, burying his face in the crook of johnny’s neck. he can feel the pulse thundering through the other man’s veins. “you can’t keep your fucking hands off me.”

“you wouldn’t want me to,” johnny counters, nipping him again - the side of his neck this time, a sharp kiss of pain. “i know exactly what you like.”

johnny knows his body just as intimately as he knows it himself, it’s true, but even if the sex was fucking awful he’d probably feel the same. the feeling that floods through him at every touch, the oxygen-starved headrush that comes with every time they fuck, it’s more addictive than anything else he can imagine. “so give me what i like, johnny,” he breathes, rocking down against that still-clothed erection again, back up into that lazily-stroking hand. “you know where the lube is, fucking use it.”

the laugh is low, husky. “fuckin’ bossy bastard,” johnny says, even as he wraps one stabilising arm around simon’s waist and reaches to blindly yank the nightstand drawer open with the other. “no fuckin’ patience.”

“waited for weeks,” he manages, adjusting the way his arms drap around johnny’s shoulders to press closer still. it keeps them balanced, sure, but he wants every last inch of overheated body against his own. he pushes his fingers up into the back of the mohawk, damp with sweat, feels their heartbeats at counterpoint to each other through his chest. “fucking fed up of it now.”

the wet sound of lubricant being squeezed from the bottle makes a molten-hot feeling roll liquid down his spine in anticipation. there’s another little laugh against his ear. “no’ gonnae lie, thought the other night you were about to bend me over your desk, simon.”

simon remembers. he’d been thinking about it. he’d only held back by reminding himself he’d had a shit day and he’d probably end up taking it out on johnny if he’d initiated. he’d seem like he wasn’t ready for sex, sure, but worse is the idea of hurting the other man in a way he didn’t want. losing control in a way johnny hasn’t signed up for.

“another time,” he says instead, and feels the shiver through johnny’s body. he can feel the smile, where lips graze his temple. “if you’re a good boy.”

a low sound, a little shaky, and a kiss presses over the corner of his jaw. “that right, sir?”

he draws breath to complain - don’t you ‘sir’ me, you little fucking shit - but then the cool, silky-slick touch slides down along the line of his tailbone and against his hole, and he gasps so sharply he almost chokes.

where before he could go months without sex, weeks without so much as thinking about touching himself, he’s fucking ruined now. this is the longest he’s gone without in more than nine months, and he wants so badly that he shoves his hips back for more before a single thought has the chance to cross his stupid, blank fucking mind. his hand curls into a fist in the back of johnny’s hair, yanking without his conscious input, and johnny lets him. just follows it through his neck and his back, and finally their eyes meet again, the blue gaze under thick dark lashes, pupils dilated heavily. his lips are curved in a smirk.

he’s so fucking breathtakingly beautiful like this, cocky and confident but pliant, too, like he’d let simon do anything to him, anything at all. it’s almost impossibly difficult to hold his gaze, there’s so much trust and -
and open devotion, he admits to himself. it’s an uncomfortable thought, still, makes something low in his gut kick at the idea of anyone having feelings for him, but it doesn’t damp down the desire searing through his every nerve ending.

“more?” it’s so fucking smug, but he can’t string enough words together to tell him off right now. his world is spinning and he’s barely been touched.

“more,” he breathes instead, and drops his hand from johnny’s hair to the back of his neck to pull him close again, into a kiss so urgent it’s clumsy, open-mouthed and panting. “fuck me.”

the sharp intake of breath steals the air right out of his lungs, teeth sinking into his lower lip. “jesus christ. c’mere.” the touch again, slick and wet, pressing inside him slowly. “easy, darlin’.”

he fucking hates pet names and yet every breathless utterance of darling against his ear or neck or shoulder or thigh, it makes something in him feel like it melts. maybe it’s the association, some kind of pavlovian conditioning - that word in that voice always comes with pleasure, pure bliss, and now is no different. his body is as desperate for it as his fried mind is, instinctively rocking back, and he curls the hand not clinging to johnny’s neck to dear life into the soft fabric of the t-shirt.

“you’re burnin’ up, si,” comes the whisper, soft and adoring. “so hot.”

“it’s summer, you knob,” he replies without thinking. it comes out unsteady, near-sighed as the finger sinks into him.

that prompts a laugh. “but you’re always so cold until i start touchin’ you. i love it, y’know, bein’ able to feel how much you want it.”

“strokes your ego, does it?” another finger, a short sweet sting of pain that soothes away with the pleasure of it spreading him open. he shudders, demands another kiss, and only realises he’s closed his eyes when they fly open at the brief pressure against his prostate. it makes a softly-gasped ha rise from his throat, muffled against johnny’s lips.

“among other things.” it’s mischievous, playful, would make him laugh if he wasn’t so preoccupied. “love the fuckin’ noises you make too, simon, you’re so fuckin’ perfect.” god, johnny’s gotten so good at this, at taking him apart bit by bit. he’s not the most vocal man, he knows, but johnny has a knack for getting the sounds to slip out of him, gasps of oh and fuck and yes, ah, god, more, and there are maybe four or five other people in this entire building. maybe he can make a little more noise. just a little.

he doesn’t need extensive prep, they both know that, but johnny is taking his time. it’s torture, the slow trickle of heated pleasure running slow down his spine, good but not perfect, not the way it feels to have that thick cock buried inside him or even to be pressing into johnny, feeling him squirm and flutter. he’s never been so fucking consumed with lust for someone else like this, so obsessed with having and possessing and being possessed, but he can’t get enough. it makes his fucking head spin.

his body adjusts quickly, but by then he’s already breathing hard and fast, a whine deep in his chest every few gasps of air he takes, because he’s rocking against the bulge of johnny’s cock beneath him with every move he makes and he’s fucking desperate. “johnny, please,” he manages, aware that his voice is already absolutely fucked. “want you.”

“‘m’yours,” comes the half-laughed answer, even as the fingers slowly pull out of him. “let me up?”

he doesn’t want to, and he almost says so, but the separation will only be temporary. he slides off the edge of the bed to allow johnny to get his bottoms off, finally, and after a moment’s consideration pulls off his sweatshirt and tee. to invite hands on his skin, maybe teeth in his neck. he wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted the bruises replaced.

he likes sex to hurt at least a little, likes to be fucked rough and brutal, but more than anything the marks left behind are the best part. johnny likes to scratch up his back, his sides, leave fingerprints on his wrists and hips, bitemarks on his throat and thighs, and it should probably make him feel like a fucking whore. instead, he feels owned, like johnny’s signed his fucking name in blood right across his skin, and it’s addictive.

it should make him want to run, but it doesn’t.

johnny yanks him down again the moment he’s kicked off the sweatpants and his underwear, shuffles back a little on the bed to let simon better straddle him, and then reaches for the lube again. “go slowly,” he warns softly, breath hitching as he slicks himself. “don’t hurt yourself, simon.”

“let me worry about that,” he murmurs, impatient. “now.” he puts a hand down and back, feels the overheated length familiar against his fingertips, and guides it against his hole. the first press only just catches the rim, slips up between the halves of his arse in a filthy slide, and both of them gasp in unison, but simon isn’t to be distracted, not now, not with what he needs so close, so he rises a little on his knees, and -
he groans, louder than he means to. god, yes. his body cleaves to johnny’s like it’s the only thing it’s been made for, and the solid arms wind tight around his waist and hip to drag him down even further. he muffles the next moan into johnny’s shoulder, shuts his eyes, tries to remember to breathe.

the heat in his core is a blazing fire now, licking along his body and limbs, within and without. he can feel the thrum of his blood, thick with adrenaline, beating in his throat and chest, along every point where his arms drape around johnny’s neck, where his thighs bracket johnny’s hips. he can hear it in his ears, alongside the sound of their joined breathing.

“i’ve got you, darlin’,” johnny whispers. “anything y’want. show me.”

it doesn’t, objectively, make a lot of sense, but he knows what johnny means, and he rolls his hips forward nice and slow to feel that delicious fucking pressure inside. “told you i want you to mark me up, johnny.” it comes out shaky, rasping. “do as you’re told.”

“yes sir,” comes the answer, as johnny harshly scrapes his nails down the underside of simon’s thigh, grips hard along the top of his hipbone. “you feel so fuckin’ good, god.”

it’s mutual. he’s having to concentrate to keep moving because it’s not the best angle ever but he feels so full, feels the stretch every time he bears down to meet the short thrusts upward. they fit together so perfectly. “m-more,” he gasps, biting his lip hard. he doesn’t want to fuck anyone else, not now, not ever. that should fucking terrify him and instead it sends a flood of heat up the back of his neck, wrapping like a vicegrip around his throat. “like you fucking mean it.”

almost immediately a sharp, bright pain blooms over his shoulder as teeth sink into it hard. it tears a ragged cry out of him, forces him to jerk his hips down, twin spikes of impossibly pure pleasure that tear through his body. “love seein’ you like this,” johnny pants into his ear. “all let loose, so -” he interrupts himself to bite more softly along the side of simon’s throat, scrapes of teeth chased by soft, hot licks along the abused skin. “want you so fuckin’ much, si, jesus christ.”

it feels like johnny’s hands are everywhere, intense, electric as they scratch and pinch and push rough across his skin. his control is deserting him, because no sooner than the words already yours cross his mind, they fall out of his mouth in a desperate moan. he can’t even be that embarrassed, because one of those hands slides between them and wraps tight around his cock. he gasps johnny’s name in a voice that borders on a whine, and his steady rhythm is fucked at this point. he’s rocking back and forth on pure instinct, fucking himself slow and deep and desperate, face buried in johnny’s shoulder.

“i know, darlin’.” the hand leaves him for just a second, long enough for johnny to spit into his palm and bring it back, his strokes torturously slow, fluid twists of his wrist at the apex to drag his hand back down. if simon forces himself to open his eyes, he can see it, the wet head of his cock flushed red under johnny’s fist. it’s too much to keep looking at, sensory overload. “so fuckin’ beautiful, c’mon, let me see you -”

“too much,” he just about manages to say, voice threatening to desert him entirely. the pleasure is white-hot, now, consuming. he’s going to come soon and it’s going to overwhelm him, he knows, more than he can handle right now, and the post-orgasm hollow is going to be fucking awful, but he can’t stop. doesn’t want to stop, because this is worth it, this closeness, this intimacy, it’s worth it to be burned like this. “d-don’t stop, don’t fucking stop, i need -”

johnny bites him again, just under the jaw, takes advantage of the way he instinctively bares his throat to lick a stripe up his adam’s apple. “i’ve got you,” he says again, sounds fucking wrecked for it. the hand not jerking simon off is clasped tight around his hip instead, fingertips pressing hard into his skin. “show me. want t’hear you, want to fuckin’ feel you, you feel so fuckin’ perfect when you come. all the wee twitches and contractions, like your body’s gone haywire.”

he’s probably flushed from his face right to his cock, the way he feels so hot, the arousal so strong it’s almost narcotic. he can’t pretend it does nothing for him because he can feel the way his body clenches involuntarily around the prick deep inside him, feels the way a fat spurt of precome rolls out of him into johnny’s fist. he can’t get the breath into his lungs to speak properly, so he gets a hand onto the back of johnny’s neck again instead, drags his nails urgently down the exposed skin.

“gonna make you come and keep you here,” the hand is speeding up, now, faster and steadier than simon’s own faltering rhythm. “keep you grindin’ down in my lap ‘til i fill you up, aye? that what you want?”

yes, yes, yes. johnny could fucking destroy him and it’d be worth it, at this point. “please.”

“c’mon, then, love,” comes the command. “give it to me, come for me -”

the noise he makes would be fucking loud if it wasn’t against johnny’s shoulder, a groan that comes from the depths of his chest, and the high of the orgasm is sharp and ecstatic, igniting the deepest part of his core and making it impossible to feel anything but johnny and something at the base of his skull that chants i love you, i love you and refuses to fucking stop.

it’s so intense it brings tears pricking at the inner corners of his eyes, and he realises after a moment that johnny’s hips are still grinding up, still sending sparks of pleasure through his overwrought nerves. it’s so fucking good. he and johnny are both fucking filthy, come smeared across his stomach and johnny’s hand and t-shirt, but he presses close, kisses open-mouthed at the top of johnny’s cheekbone.

“come inside me,” he demands, breathless, shivering. his cock drags wet against soft cotton. “fuck me, johnny, weren’t you going to fill me up -”

“cannae just let me be good t’you, can you?” it’s half-laughed, even though johnny’s panting for breath makes it guttural and harsh. “fine.”

he can’t help but gasp at the arm that winds tight around the small of his waist, the other hand spreading wet and sticky across his arse. when the hold yanks him down to meet a short, sharp thrust, all the air leaves his lungs in a rush. “fuck-!”

johnny shows him mercy. instead of pounding up into him, he pulls them together, starts to rock them together at a lazy pace. “won’t take long,” comes the murmur, punctuated by a soft nip of his neck. “swear to god, the sounds you make when you come, they’re fuckin’ deadly, simon, you’re perfect -”

“please,” he begs again, dizzy with it.

the answer is another bite at his throat, a nuzzle beneath his jaw. “can’t say no to you,” johnny says, and it hits him like a sledgehammer to the chest.

he just barely manages to keep from gasping it into the air between them. i love you. the motion is growing more urgent, johnny’s breathing coming faster by the second, and instead he takes the other man’s face in both hands and kisses him hard. pours what he can’t say aloud into it, and watches johnny come with his eyes open.

it’s fucking beautiful, the hazy look in those blown-wide eyes, the flush on the tanned skin, the plaintive sound he makes into simon’s mouth. as he pulls away a string of saliva breaks, lands on johnny’s lower lip, parted as he fights to even out his breathing, spills onto his chin. he’s dazed, messed-up, reverent.

“fucking hell,” johnny says, shakily, a half-moaned tone to his voice. he still twitches where he’s buried inside, cock still probably lazily drooling come into simon’s insides, and the thought of it prompts another tight clench deep in his body. “simon -”

“don’t- fuck, don’t pull out yet,” he gasps, leaning down to lick the stray spit from johnny’s lip and chin, kisses him again. “you’re not done.”

the laugh is throaty, hoarse. “no’ satisfied ‘til i give you every last drop?” slowly, he lets go of the vicegrip he has on simon, drags his palms down his skin. they’re both sweating. he feels fucking filthy. “can’t believe a big boy like you is so desperate to be bred, si.”

they both swear as it happens again, another wave of involuntary contraction. he can’t fucking take it, being so fucking turned on by everything that comes out of that ridiculous mouth. “don’t,” he warns, even as he feels a hand slide down to his stomach.

“fine, fine,” johnny says, but his fingers spread, slow, his palm pressing over the flat of simon’s abdominals, right where the end of his cock must sit inside. it’s obvious that he’s still thinking about it, a hungry look in his eyes. “you alright?”

he isn’t, really, because the intensity of coming has quickly given way to the usual emptiness, the drop. but johnny knows him enough by now, knows that it’s his normal. “will be,” he murmurs. “give me a bit.”

there’s a look that crosses that gaze, intent. “you goin’ t’kick off if i move you now?”

this, he supposes, is a level of trust far below putting his life in johnny’s hands, but it feels more significant somehow. “no,” he says after a long pause. “move me how?”

warm hands slide down his thighs and under them, and without another word he finds himself lifted, a gasp from the change of angle inside him. it feels strange to be manhandled quite like this, surreal. he probably shouldn’t be surprised johnny can do it, but -
his back hits the mattress, and he’s achingly empty and his body, his hindbrain are so fucking confused. but johnny slides between his legs again and drapes his body over him and just kisses him, slow and soft and gentle, hands on his face, into his hair. the warm weight of him is protective, almost, and the tiny laugh into the millimetres between them is - he doesn’t know what it is, really. fond. sweet. happy?

“just focus on me,” comes the low rumble, right against his mouth. “i’ve got you.”

“so you keep telling me,” he sighs, letting his eyes slip shut. johnny is so warm, so alive, and he finds himself squeezing his thighs around the narrow waist to try to steal some of it for himself. he thinks of ashes in a fireplace trying to hold on to their heat, clinging to their last embers, same way he clings to johnny, arms looped loosely around the back of his neck. “i believe you, you know.”

“aye, i know, but i like sayin’ it anyway.” it’s murmured against his neck, lips grazing his pulse.

“you like the sound of your own voice too much.” there’s a laugh when he says it, and he can feel himself smile a little at the sound. “don’t think there’s anything on earth that could shut you up for long.”

“if you try to gag me, i’m no’ responsible for what happens.”

it makes him laugh, the faux-serious tone of johnny’s voice, and he can feel the grin against his throat. there’s a hand petting gently through the hair at the base of his skull, a warm palm bleeding heat against the side of his neck, and the edge of the void is creeping back.

he does not deserve this man, he knows, but johnny wants him anyway. says he wants all of him, and he isn’t lying when he says he believes johnny. it’s not that johnny is pure, or innocent, or even righteously good - no, he’s a man with a killer instinct, who can be quick to anger and reckless with himself and others. but he is virtuous, brave and kind and sincere, even in the face of the things he has seen as a soldier, and if he says simon has him then that’s the truth. he doesn’t understand it, might never understand it, but it’s the truth.

neither does he understand why that thought is what makes the words finally fall out of him.

“i love you.”

the mouth against his throat stills. the hand in his hair slips to wrap around the back of his neck. the body against his lifts and presses higher to bring them mouth-to-mouth, and he winds his arms a little tighter to pull johnny closer into the kiss.

it steals his breath all over again. the moment stretches on, perfect, unbroken for as long as he can keep that mouth on his, as long as johnny will let him take and take and take.

when they break apart for air, he can’t quite help the shaky laugh, and opens his eyes to johnny’s slightly perplexed expression.

“apart from that,” he says, watches the furrow between the dark brows deepen. he lets the pause dangle for just a little longer, and then takes pity. “that did a good job of shutting you up.”

“you fuckin’ prick,” johnny guffaws, leaning down to kiss him again. “fuck off.”

“‘s’my room. you fuck off.” he drags a hand up the groove of johnny’s spine, pushes it up into the back of his damp hair, makes it clear he doesn’t intend to let go.

“nae chance.” there’s still a laugh in it, warm, inviting. and then, much softer, near-whispered, “love you too.”

the breath shivers into his lungs. the hollow is gone, a too-full sensation in his chest to replace it, his heart fluttering. he’s a grown fucking man, it’s ridiculous, but this is where his life has led him, apparently. palpitations over words he’s heard more than once, twice, however many times.

“soppy git,” he says, breathless, and gets bitten for his trouble.

Notes for the Chapter:

69k (nice) words later, here it is, the end of the series! thank you for coming with me and reading ALL OF THAT. i have a few oneshots planned, it’s just a matter of getting through writing them, so look out for them! i love you guys. be well.

join me on twitter to view my mental breakdowns while writing sex scenes in real time

Table of Contents

- paper parachute

- Title Page
- 1. never know when you'll hit the ground
- 2. push/pull
- 3. cold in the marrow of my bones
- 4. last chance to lose control
- 5. you terrible thing, you
- 6. shot through the dark

- about to break

- halt and catch fire

- Title Page
- 1. then the black sky came down
- 2. no bolt, nor brick
- 3. come to tear your kingdom down
- 4. still bear your brand
- 5. but to live like that is hardest
- 6. truth or dare, euphoria or despair

- coda: burn to ash