Work Text:
breathe easy
The first time Soap is shipped out on a mission alone, Ghost is a quiet ball of stress.
It’s a new, terrifying feeling and he struggles to keep himself in line. He barely leaves his assigned room, alternating between sitting bolt upright at his desk and staring blankly down at the pile of paperwork there or pacing back and forth from his bed to the door. He can’t settle, can’t quite concentrate. It’s slowly driving him insane.
He barely sleeps, either. Just stares at the ceiling for hours on end, clenching and unclenching his fist, tension rolling in his gut, waiting for the knock at the door, waiting to be told Price needs to see him, waiting to hear that something went wrong, that Soap—
Fuck.
He sits up, chest tight and palms clammy. Forces himself to take a few deep breaths, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest, on the feeling of air moving in and out of his lungs. He needs to get a fucking grip.
Soap is a capable soldier, more than capable. One of the best Ghost has ever worked with. Laswell and Price wouldn’t have sent him out by himself unless they were certain it was a one man job. They wouldn’t risk one of their strongest, most reliable men for something like that.
He’ll be fine, Ghost tells himself. He has to be.
Eventually, he falls into a fitful sleep. He feels no better for it in the morning.
On the fourth day, the knock he’s been quietly dreading finally comes.
The sound is loud and abrupt and it punches the breath right from his lungs in a ragged, panicked gasp. He inhales deeply and holds it in as he wrenches the door open with far too much force, surprising the marine waiting on the other side.
“Sir,” she almost yelps, taking an involuntary, startled step back. “Sorry, um, the captain—”
Ghost is already moving past her and striding down the hallway, the harsh thud of his boots hitting concrete muffled by the pounding thump of his heart beat as it drums in his ears. All the possibilities of Soap’s fate tumble around his head, voices fading in and out. He can already see Price’s solemn face, the telling downturn of his mouth whenever he has to pass on terrible news.
He tells himself to stop being so ridiculous, but it’s hard to drown out the rising wave of anxiety when it’s been building inside him for days.
Instead, he walks faster. He just needs to know.
Price looks up from his desk when his office door slams open to find Ghost’s frame filling it entirely. He eyes the horribly stiff posture of his shoulders and decides not to comment on his Lieutenant’s timely reappearance from the cave he seems to have made of his assigned room for the past few days.
“Soap got what we needed,” he says when Ghost stays in the doorway, almost like he can’t quite bring himself to step inside the room. “They’ve picked him up from the agreed RV point. Should be back in an hour.”
Ghost nods tightly, anxious relief swooping in his stomach. “Copy that, sir,” he says, voice gruff from lack of use. “Anything else?”
“We’re gonna need to move quick on this. I’ll need his report immediately. Make sure he comes straight to me, Ghost.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alright. Dismissed.”
Ghost spins on his heel and marches straight for the hangar doors.
It’s cold as shit outside, the pale sun doing almost nothing to warm up the chilly air, but Ghost simply leans back against the hangar wall and waits.
The clamouring in his head has quietened down, though the anxious pit in his stomach has given way to a slowly burning anticipation. He feels just as nauseous with that, too.
He watches idly as Gaz orders a group of marines through a few drills across the way, grateful for something else to focus on as the minutes tick painfully by. He makes a few mental notes of where some of the marines are lacking, eyes narrowing when he spots two of them not quite meeting the exercise requirements the moment Gaz’s attention slips elsewhere.
The Sergeant has them all running laps around the hangar when the familiar sound of an approaching helo finally reaches Ghost’s ears. He plants his feet as it descends from the overcast sky, forcing himself to stay put until it’s touched down at the very least, fingers twitching at his sides.
The need to see Soap with his own eyes, to feel him, warm and solid and alive in his arms—it surges through Ghost’s body like the greedy, untameable flames of a raging wildfire. One moment, he has the spark in his hand, under control; the next, his feet are moving.
Soap’s boots hit the dirt and Ghost is right there.
“Lt,” he says, eyes wide.
Grime and sweat shine on his skin, the tip of his nose pink from the cold, and Ghost thinks he’s never looked more beautiful. There’s a slight bruise on his jaw, but no blood. He’s not leaning heavily on one side or holding himself like there’s pain anywhere that can’t be seen on the surface either.
He’s okay. Jesus, he’s really okay.
Ghost reaches for him then, hands clutching at his hips, fingers snagging on the side straps of his chest rig, and hauls him close. He ducks his head, knocking their foreheads together. Soap tilts his head up to meet him, Ghost’s eyes falling shut in relief for the first time in days with their brows pressed tightly together.
“I’m all good, Lt.”
Ghost holds him for a moment longer, wishing he felt comfortable enough to remove his mask so he could feel Soap’s skin on his.
He opens his eyes to find Soap’s gazing right into his, intense and sweet and hot all at once. Fuck. He wants to kiss him. His fingers press harder into Soap’s sides, a harsh inhale shuddering through his lungs—and he feels Soap’s chest heave against his.
“Alright, Sergeant,” he says eventually, stepping back a fraction and attempting to ignore the way the two pilots are definitely side-eyeing them. He checks over Soap as best he can with just his eyes, clocking a few more light scrapes and bruises amongst the dirt and grime, but nothing major.
“I’m all good, Ghost,” Soap repeats, a slight furrow creasing his brow.
Ghost is being overly attentive and he’s very aware of it—especially as the marine unit with Gaz have also started glancing over now that they’ve finished running their laps.
“With me, then, Sergeant.” He leads Soap back into the hangar, immediately thankful to be away from prying eyes. “Cap wants your report right away,” Ghost tells him over his shoulder. “Do you need to see medical first?”
“You worried about me, Lt?” Soap teases lightly.
The Sergeant had been right on his heels as they turned into the corridor that leads to Price’s office—and when Ghost suddenly stops, Soap almost careens into him. He reaches out, chest tight, and grabs Soap’s arm just above the elbow, marching him off to the right.
“Ghost?” Soap nearly stumbles after him before letting himself be pulled along.
Lips pressed tightly together under his mask, Ghost takes them down a side corridor, eyes flitting over the doors on either side.
“Sir? Sir, I thought you said Price needed to—”
Ghost finds what he’s looking for—an empty storage room—and steers Soap inside. With a quiet huff, Soap pulls his arm out of Ghost’s grip as the door shuts behind them.
“C’mon, Lt,” he starts—and then stops short, watching Ghost reach up to nearly rip his mask off.
Ghost can’t even begin to guess what sort of expression is written on his face, but Soap’s shoulders drop immediately, his eyes softening in the dim light.
“Simon,” he whispers.
Something warm and urgent surges up from Ghost’s rib cage, catching in his throat. As he tries to swallow past it, he realises it’s Soap’s name, the shape of it so achingly familiar on his tongue he could almost sob.
“Johnny,” he rasps, rough and desperate.
He has no idea which one of them moves first.
Ghost steps forward and Soap meets him halfway, the distance between them closing in the blink of an eye. His hands cradle Soap’s face, Soap’s fingers curling into his sweater, the simple touch almost enough to have Ghost’s knees buckling—
—and then they’re kissing and the entire world narrows down until the only thing that could possibly matter is Soap’s face between his large palms, Soap’s soft mouth under his, and Soap’s body, solid and warm and alive, pressed tightly against Ghost’s own.
Soap’s fingers slide up over his chest to dig into his shoulders, grasping and squeezing, and Ghost just keeps kissing him—again and again. He swallows Soap’s gasp when he presses him back against one of the shelving units, sucking gently on his lower lip.
He keeps it soft, tender, trying to hold back a bit, but then Soap is tangling his hands in his hair, arching so sweetly into his chest, and Ghost doesn’t stand a chance. With a groan, he presses his thumb into the hinge of Soap’s jaw, titling his head, and licks deep into his mouth. Soap makes a choked noise, nails biting into Ghost’s scalp as he tries to drag him impossibly closer.
They kiss like that, slow and deep, for minutes, hours, Ghost doesn’t know—doesn’t care.
He just needs to feel Soap, to touch, to taste. Needs it more than he needs air.
He wants to push into Soap until there’s nothing left of himself to give, wants to drown in the heat of his mouth, his body, wants to sink right into his radiating warmth and never leave.
Fucking hell, Ghost thinks, no one ever warned him love would feel like this.
When they do finally separate to catch their breath, Ghost squeezes Soap’s hips, thumbs absentmindedly rubbing in soothing circles. Almost in response, Soap runs gentle fingers through the unruly curls on the top of his head and smooths his palms over the short, buzzed sides.
“I’m alright,” Soap murmurs softly, their lips brushing as he speaks. “I swear, baby, I’m alright.”
“I know.” Ghost shuts his eyes, overwhelmed. “I know, I just—”
Soap kisses him sweetly, letting the gentle touch linger for a moment. Then he kisses him again, never quite pulling back. The unintended tease of their lips brushing with every tiny movement is enough for Ghost to break.
So much for self restraint, he muses as he presses right back into Soap, emotion churning in his gut. Their lips slide together, something hot and desperate driving Ghost forward again. He can’t quite seem to get enough. His thumbs hook into Soap’s belt loops, his fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, finding warm skin.
Soap’s hands dig into his shoulders, pushing down, and that’s all the warning he gets before he’s grabbing for Soap’s thighs as they suddenly wrap around his middle. The ache in his chest is humming warmly now that Soap is wholly in his arms, clinging to him like he needs to feel Ghost just as much as Ghost needs him. It feels like coming up for air, like he can finally breathe easy once more.
It’s Soap who licks into his mouth this time, eager and determined with it too. Ghost squeezes at the meat of his thighs, kissing him back just as fervently. The desperation underlying their clutching hands and hungry mouths is mutual, Ghost realises. There’s no need for him to even think about being embarrassed or ashamed by the neediness that burns through his body with every flicker of tongue and gasp for breath.
They both feel it.
“Is this what it’s like when I get shipped out?” Ghost asks when they surface for air, voice rough.
Soap hums, eyes heavy lidded, thumb grazing over Ghost’s lower lip. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Never gets easier.”
“Shit,” Ghost says. He kisses him again.
“What, you really never wondered why I’m always all over you when you get back?”
“Huh. I suppose.”
“You suppose?” Soap emits a breathless huff of laughter. “Jesus, Simon, you’re the densest fucker this side of the border, you know that?”
“I missed you,” he tells him, raw and painfully earnest. “I was worried and I missed you—and I think I’m in love with you.”
Soap stares at him, eyes wide and cheeks pink; his lower lip wobbles slightly as the corners of his mouth curl upward. “You think so?” he asks quietly.
“Not sure what it’s supposed to feel like, I don’t—I haven’t—”
Soap hauls him in to crush their mouths together. “I love you too, you idiot.”
Ghost kisses him back, breathing him in, slipping a hand under Soap’s shirt to slide his palm over his bare skin. He skims his fingers over the dip of Soap’s spine, lips finding his cheek, his jaw. Soap’s thighs squeeze around his hips, his body tucked into Ghost’s, and Ghost never wants to move ever again. He wants to keep Soap here, warm and sweet in his arms, for as long as he can.
“I do,” he murmurs, mouth on the pulse point of Soap’s neck, feeling Soap’s blood pumping under his lips. “Love you, I mean.”
“Good. Glad to hear it,” Soap mumbles into his hair, hugging him close. “And as much as I would love to stay here, we should probably go and see Price. Put a stop to this blatant insubordination, eh, Lt? Almost holding me hostage.”
“Yeah, yeah. Alright, love,” Ghost says, suppressing what he knows would be a foolishly wide smile and putting some space between them.
Soap’s feet find the floor, Ghost choosing not to comment on his unsteady legs because he’s not sure he’s doing much better either. Even just a few steps between them feels like a gaping hole in his chest.
He grabs his mask and pulls it back on, both of them straightening out their rumpled clothes. He watches Soap fiddle with his gear with a fond smile, all the anxious, unsettled energy that had been plaguing him for days suddenly, and unsurprisingly, nowhere to be found.
“After you, Sergeant,” he says, gesturing to the door.
Soap grins. “Yes, sir.”