Chapter Text
Before Soap even opens his eyes, he knows he’s alone in the room. Simon’s scent is still there, lingering all around him, but it’s stale and cold, just like the bed. He scrubs his hands over his face with a tired sigh before he opens his eyes. The overhead lights have been turned off, leaving him in the soft blue glow of the lights that line the floor. Sitting up slowly, Soap winces as he presses his hand down and pain twinges up his arm. But as he looks down, he realizes someone’s taken the time to bandage his hand in soft clean gauze. Lifting the hand to his nose, Soap inhales Simon’s barely there scent as a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“Daft bastard,” he chuckles before hauling his sore body out of bed. He heads to the shower, bathes himself in that soft blue light, really taking his time and scrubbing the sweat and other dried bodily fluids off himself all while doing his best to keep his bandaged hand out of the water. He mourns the loss of Simon’s scent on his skin, but can’t deny he’s grateful to be clean.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, Soap steps from the bathroom and forces himself to turn the lights on. He’d like to pack up his things and leave before the heat ward staff barge in on him naked. As he rounds the corner, he stops and looks at the nest. Simon had taken all of his belongings but left Soap’s. He had, however, neatly folded all of Soap’s things that he hadn’t been laying on, and packed them in his duffle. Soap wandered over to the duffle and picked up his sketchbook which lay open on top of it. A page had been neatly ripped out, Simon obviously had taken care not to rip any of the surrounding pages or the spine of the book. On the next blank page was a note, placed there in surprisingly neat and delicate penmanship.
Took my prize.
~S
P.s. keep that hand clean
Soap huffs a little laugh as he sets the book down and packs up the rest of the nest. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d fallen asleep on the hoodie Simon had been wearing. He can see where a name has been printed over the left collarbone but it’s old and so faded all Soap can make out is the letter ‘S’. He considers leaving it for the staff to get back to Simon but. . . he quickly folds it and stuffs it into the duffle instead. It’s only once he’s packed everything up and he’s getting ready to leave that he realizes his own hoodie is nowhere to be found, not even amongst the things Simon packed for him.
“Bastard,” Soap chuckles, fond but a little forlorn he’ll likely never see the man again.
Two weeks later, Soap stands outside John Price’s office. He exhales loudly, reeling his excitement in and trying to appear more calm than he is. This moment, his transfer to the 141, is the culmination of all his hard work. Knowing that Price hand picked Soap out of all the men he had access to? That is a heady thing.
Soap raises his hand to knock when–
“Soap!”
He turns and looks down the hallway where Price himself is standing in full tac gear, waving him over. Soap jogs down the corridor and takes Price’s waiting hand in a firm grip.
“I’m sorry about this Sergeant, but Gaz and I are being sent out,” he nods over his shoulder to an olive skinned Kyle Garrick. Soap knows Gaz’s reputation and has met him a few times before. He likes the other alpha from what he knows, although there was a small part of him that was irritated he’d never been able to beat any of Gaz’s training scores.
“Should be a quick one,” Price is saying. “We’ll be back by tomorrow evening and can have your onboarding then. In the meantime, Ghost can show you around.”
Soap hadn’t noticed him at first, but now he sees the monolithic man standing behind Price, off in the shadows. He tries not to jump, startled he hadn’t been aware of a man that size. He’s not in tac gear, but he’s wearing dark jeans, a black hoodie, and a balaclava with a skull sewn onto the front. Ghost’s reputation is well known in the SAS. The mysterious and deadly operator that no one knows the identity of. Soap just nods once at Ghost as Price apologizes again before he and Garrick are on their way.
“Man of few words, that one,” Gaz says, slapping Soap on the shoulder as he walks by. “Bit of a creep too. But once you know him he’s alright, yeah Ghost?”
“Sod off, Garrick,” Ghost growls but goes over and gives Gaz and Price both a squeeze at the napes of their necks, huge hands covering their scent glands. The gesture is possessive and claiming.
Interesting, that.
Laswell had at least warned Soap he was walking into a pack bonded team, and to be on his best behavior. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected but–
“Keep up, Soap,” Ghost snaps as he walks past, heading in the opposite direction of Price and Gaz.
Ghost’s long legs carry him quickly away and Soap stumbles over himself to catch up. Garrick was right, Soap realizes, as Ghost gives him a monosyllabic tour of base.
“Mess,” Ghost says as they walk past the mess hall.
“Gym,” Ghost grunts as they pass the gym.
“Rec room,” Ghost remarks, with an almost bored expression.
Soap pauses at that one, looking at the sign on the door that clearly states nobody outside the 141 is allowed to enter without clear authorization.
“Have a private rec room?”
Ghost just grunts in affirmation and doesn’t stop walking, so Soap finds himself again stumbling in an effort to keep up. But just as suddenly as the tour begins, Ghost stops walking and Soap nearly plows face first into the man’s broad shoulders.
“Your room,” Ghost says, jerking his thumb to the door they’ve stopped in front of. He hands Soap a key and steps back. “Price had it set up how Laswell said you wanted it. Asked me to check if you were satisfied.”
Soap blushes. He hadn’t really had any special requests, which Laswell seemed to find odd. He’d heard other alphas on high level task forces were quite particular about their rooms, had rules about who could and couldn’t enter, had certain furniture they wanted and the like. But Soap didn’t really care. As long as he had a quiet place to call his own where he could draw and sketch comfortably, he was more than content. Truthfully he spent most of his time in the mess or rec room though. He enjoyed being social and being close with the people he served with; though outside of his family, he’d never been in a pack bond.
Muttering a lame excuse for thanks, Soap reaches forward to unlock his door and catches Ghost’s eyes tracking down towards his hands, watching his every movement as he turns the knob and opens the door. The room is just how he asked it to be, the bed is simple and pushed up against the far wall, a big writing desk with the chair he’d specified hugged the wall closest to the door, and on the other side of the room was a small loveseat.
“It’s perfect,” he says, glancing around the room and then turning sheepishly to face Ghost. “Just how I asked.”
Ghost’s eyes flit around the room before coming to land on Soap again.
“Good. Dinner’s at 1800,” is all he says before he turns on his heel and leaves.
Soap unpacks his bag and takes a shower in his en suite, a luxury he’s never had as a soldier before. Dressing himself in a hoodie and sweats he pulls from his closet at random, he lays down to take a quick nap.
Well, it’s supposed to be a quick nap, but he sleeps an hour longer than he intends and is rushing out of his room at 1900, praying the mess hasn’t closed yet. He’s relieved when he bursts through the double doors and sees a couple dozen soldiers still scattered around eating. There’s still food out too. Soap’s shoulders sag in relief as he fixes himself a plate. He considers being social and approaching a table with some people already sitting at it, but he’s a little disoriented from his nap and being surrounded by new smells so he sits by himself at a table in the corner where he can look over the room.He’s halfway through his plate of shockingly flavorless pasta when a shadow falls over him and Ghost materializes seemingly out of thin air. Soap does jump this time.
“Should put a bell on you,” he grumbles, irritated that the SAS mandates scent blockers and suppressants. If he’d been able to smell the other man, at least he wouldn’t be half so creepy.
He sets his own plate down on the table and sits across from Soap without a word. He just sits there and watches Soap eat for so long, Soap’s about to tell the man to piss off, his hackles raising slightly at being sized up so blatantly.
Ghost takes a breath and says, “You always wear clothes too big for you?”
Soap glances down, feeling his cheeks heat a little in embarrassment as he realizes he has on Simon’s hoodie.
“ ‘S comfy,” he grumbles, looking resolutely down at his food.
Ghost just chuckles and Soap sees him pick up his own fork and begin to eat. He’s quiet for a few more minutes, and Soap can't quite bring himself to look up at the other man. Soap needs to make this work, wants so badly to make this work with the 141. He’s mentally sifting around for anything polite to say when Ghost speaks again.
“Looks like your hand healed nicely, Johnny.”
Soap’s fork clatters to his plate as he looks up. There, across the table, is Simon with his mask rolled up above his nose and wearing that same imperious smirk.