Chapter Text
“Johnny. You should be presenting a better example for recruits.” Ghost feels ridiculous even saying the words.
“Wha’ Lt? Whatd’ya mean? I’m a great example for ‘em! Showing ‘em how to not blow their digits off ‘nd everything!” Soap sputters dramatically.
Ghost rolls his eyes, dragging a hand over his masked face, long and weary. The complaint was idiotic. And he feels even more idiotic acknowledging the order from Price at all. He doesn’t need to be here, bugging Johnny with stupid recruit complaints after the two just had a peaceful dinner in mess. Well, as peaceful as dinner can be on a military base on boring days such as today.
“We got a complaint from a recruit that you’re not displaying regulations during training, Soap. Not a good look. On you. Or me. Or Price. The whole team, really.”
“What?” Soap lets his mouth drop open.
“The hair, Sergeant. Needs a trim. You’re already pushing the line with that stupid cut you’ve got.”
“Excuse me!” Soap is flabbergasted. He looks like Ghost just took the Scot’s first-born, his dog, hell, his soul, all at once and threw them into the pits of hell in front of the man. Possibly the most offended Ghost has ever seen anyone look.
“Don’t make this a thing, Sergeant.” Ghost sighs, he stares at the ceiling in silent suffering. “Just give it a trim, yeah? It’s out of regs anyway, you’re lucky Price has more on his plate to worry about than your-“
“Ah’ know that you’re not insultin’ my war-hawk!”
“What the bloody fuck did you just call it?” Ghost asks, incredulous.
Soap’s nose wrinkles and his bottom lip juts out, just a little bit. “Doon’t make fun of the hawk, Ghost.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Soap. You just called the rat glued to your head a ‘war-hawk’, what else am I supposed to do?” Ghost is glad he’s wearing a mask because he’s sure Johnny wouldn’t appreciate the curl of his lip at the predicament.
He doesn’t know that Soap can read his eyes better than he’d like to admit.
“You’re literally laughing! Christ, Lt. you’re takin’ enjoyment in mah sufferin’! Is tha’ it? Ye can pry my-“
“Johnny.”
“Ya knoo what? ‘Rat glued to your head’, Jesus and all above, you fuckin’ Brit. Take your ‘trim’ and shove it up yer-“
“I’m still your Lieutenant, Johnny, watch it.”
Soap glares at him, but it reminds him of the way Joseph would look at him when Simon used his uncle privileges and reminded him that mothers are for listening to.
Tommy would usually remind the lad that Uncle Simon is in the Army, and if he doesn’t behave, Joey would be shipped off with the man. The pouting usually stopped promptly, to the Riley family’s amusement.
He has a feeling that tactic won’t work too well here.
“Are you sure there’s no convincin’ you that the war-hawk is mandatory to mah expertise in the field?”
“What? No.”
“But ‘ah didnae ken if i’ll be proficient without it, sir.”
“Johnny.”
“Ah, bil an yer head. I’ll look inta a trim.”
“Good man.” Ghost claps Johnny on the shoulder and stalks back to his office to take care of some paperwork with their last op that he was taking off of Price’s shoulders.
~
Soap rolls his eyes. ‘Good man’ Ghost says, like he’s a bloody dog that fetched the bloody bone for his master.
Not that Soap hasn’t thought that if Ghost so asked, he’d get on his knees and bark for the man.
But that’s irrelevant. And innapropriate. Not to mention odd. The guy is huge, alright? Can’t blame a man for thinking about it.
Soap is a simple man.
Moving past that train of thought, he grumbles to himself all the way back to his room, closing the door behind himself. He is not sulking, thank you very much.
Ghost just called it a ‘rat glue to his head’? It stings more than he’d like to admit. He’s had the hawk whenever he’s been able to have it since he was a youngin.
His older sister had shaven it while he was asleep when he was still smaller than her. Purely to spite her, he had acted like he loved it, and kept it ever since. Of course, the unideal cut had grown on him after only a few short months. When his ma brought the clippers to his room and tried to drag him to the bathroom to give him a ‘proper fixing’, he had wailed like she was threatening to cut off a limb.
Other than basic training, he’s kept it since. He shudders at the memory of being near bald.
He didn’t know that Ghost thought it was stupid. He’s always tried to keep his Lieutenant’s respect. Has his, frankly childish, hair been holding Simon’s views on him down? He’s had commanding officers sneer at it before, but Price and Ghost never seemed to mind all that much. Has he been giving the 141 a bad look? One would think the helmet covering it on missions would stop that, but…
Is he giving recruits a bad view of people they should respect?
He groans and dramatically flops into his cot, it squeaks angrily at the unceremonious weight change.
Ghost…
He had thought the two of their thoughts about the one another were, at the very least, honest. Holy fuck, has Ghost really just been annoyed by his unprofessionalism? He had thought he was endearing… lighthearted? Ghost needed to lighten up, a friend to bring him up, and Soap had thought himself to be the very helpful driving factor to do that.
Sure, Soap has had less than PG thoughts about the man. And sure, Soap has had… perfectly PG thoughts about him too.
If he’s honest with himself, the second category is the more worrying of the two.
He can excuse wanting to pound his Lieutenant into the mattress, after all, its Ghost. He can excuse the desire to drop to his knees and devour and savor the taste of every inch of his scarred skin. Right? He’s pure walking sex appeal at times.
But wanting to cuddle, sweat on their bodies and out of breath, wanting to wake up beside him and stare into those whiskey eyes. Wanting to sit beside him and talk his ear off while Ghost reads his novels that are way too wordy for Soap’s tastes. Or drown in Simon’s scent, wearing his hoodie, lying in his bed, in his room, in the very man’s arms. To kiss his face so gently and pet his hair or rub his shaking shoulders after a rough night. He knows Simon gets them, one too many intrusions of walking in on the man with shaking hands, spoon clattering in his tea in the small hours of the morning. He wants to cherish him in ways he’s clearly never been cherished.
And if that isn’t more terrifying than having a whole building’s integrity depending on a few wires in his careful fingers, he’s not sure what is. Loving Simon seems all the more delicate if he’s honest.
Not that he loves him. No, that would be possibly the worst realization to make in the history of… ever, really.
He huffs out a breath and rolls over to his stomach, the thought of suffocating himself into the pillow doesn’t sound too shabby.
Because, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. He’s in love with Simon goddamn Ghost Riley.
He tugs the strands of his godforsaken mohawk - why the hell had he openly called it his ‘war-hawk’ in front of Ghost, that’s so fucking cringe - and debates just shaving the bloody thing off right here in his room. It had been the start of this godawful realization, after all.
The curses he mutters into his pillow would make his mother faint.