Aliens spend years laughing at humans for seeing faces in everything. Trees, coats on chairs, random shadows, the pattern on a wall. They chalk it up to an overactive imagination and a brain that desperately wants everything to have eyes.
Then humans start spotting predators, ambushes, and hidden creatures in complete darkness before any of the aliens can detect them.
Apparently, when a human says, "That shadow has a face," the correct response is no longer, "You're imagining things."
It's, "Everyone stop moving."
From then on, every expedition into the unknown includes one very confused human whose official job description is simply: See if the darkness looks like it's looking back.
re-watching the original trilogy is great because you really get a sense for how weird luke skywalker is, just how quickly he becomes that weird AND how quickly he commits to it. Like he's honestly pretty chill in a new hope, but the absolute INSTANT he figures out he can move shit with his mind he goes full send on the cryptic off-putting bullshit. Walking around in full black robes, speaking in riddles, aura farming and backflipping whenever physically possible. He's clearly annoyed when he first meets yoda in empire, but he dismisses that pretty quickly in favour of ALSO becoming an over-dramatic space wizard. The combination of his two teachers being yoda and obi-wan kenobi and him being the son of anakin and padme creates the single most intense and fundamentally kind force sensitive perfectly embodying the heart of the jedi order whilst also serving egregious amounts of cunt and being bizarre to be around. He would have THRIVED as a jedi master during the high republic. he would have been every padawan's favourite and every other master's worst nightmare
Once Simon decides he really does want to get better and not waste what's left of his life being stuck in a place he doesn't like, even if it's hard, he moves forward.
That means texting Johnny, Kyle or Price at three a.m with some random fucking thing because he felt sad and knew he should talk to someone. He doesn't know nor exactly want to talk about it, but he wants to talk.
So he sends random ass things to his friends and is delighted when they all text him back, some earlier than others (Johnny has his phone notifications on just for Simon, no Simon does not know, yes Johnny loves Simon a lot and wants to be there for him whenever Simon needs him to.) (Kyle is an insomniac, you can't change my mind.) (Price answers in the morning, a few minutes after he wakes up.)
(They're happy that Simon trusts them enough to reach out some way when he doesn't feel good.)
(Even if it's to say the most god awful jokes to ever exist.)
nothing sexier than that picture with the italian players on top of eachother after the win and the english ones going through the 5 stages of grief in the back
for the ficlet requests, ghoap where they both get injured on a mission and they're in the same hospital room and trying (maybe failing) to share the same bed
🥺👉👈
Ok this got away from me. 2k words of lighthearted sillies below (thank you for sending this, it was a fun little exercise <3)
“Fancy seein’ you here, LT.” Soap grins, planting his feet firmly on the ground and undoing the hoist line. He holds the extra harness out for Ghost to step into. Poor bastard’s got to be beyond tired. Middle of the night hoist rescue training will do that to a man—especially after just getting back from a three week long op. This is the first time Soap has seen him in nearly a month.
“Johnny.” And fuck him, he can hear the smile in his voice, see the soft crinkle of brown eyes from the harsh spotlight of the bird hovering above. “All the others up there too scared to take this one?”
This go around, it’s officers waiting on targets throughout the airfield with lower ranks doing the ‘rescuing’ from helos, and dare he say it’s going much smoother than last month when they’d done the reverse. But it’s too early (late?) for feelings of such smugness.
“Please, sir, a free chance to get my legs around ye? Everyone’s been climbin’ over each other to be the first ones done and back to bed. Practically had to beg one of the cunts to trade me.”
“Hm.” That smile’s still there.
Christ, Soap has missed him. He can’t help the easy grin, the flirting, the falling back into the natural rhythm of them.
Once the harness straps are situated over Ghost and the hoist line clipped back on, he gives the lift signal and moves their slowly ascending bodies into the safety position: his thighs snugly around Ghost's waist, just like he’d been excited for. The heels of his boots press into the back of strong calves. Secure. Hot. Perfect. Highly fucking unprofessional, but hey.
“Slept any since gettin’ back?”
Ghost shakes his head.
“Well, don’t worry your pretty head about it. We’ll have ye rescued and tucked in bed soon.”
“My hero,” Ghost deadpans.
The furthest thing from his mind is the possibility of jerking to a halt mid-air, but suddenly here they are. Jerking to a halt. The rope goes more and more taut—he can feel the tension winding up. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He flips his mic on, ready to shout up that something’s wrong, when they begin free fall. All he can think is, ‘This is it.’ There’s no way they don’t snap their necks or spines, even in full kit.
He thinks he yelps out a bloodcurdling ‘fuck,’ or maybe that’s Ghost, or maybe it’s both of them in harmony.
And then they stop with an excruciating jolt, cable twirling them in the air as the slack straightens out. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but is a simple training exercise really too much to ask for? It’s always fucking something, isn’t it?
They both groan, and Soap has definitely broken his collarbone against the harness if the agony is any indicator. They’re both going to have bruises from the straps—will probably look like they proper tied each other up and had a good time. And he hears it.
The ripping of the cord above them.
He tightens his legs around Ghost because he knows the rest is coming. Ghost knows too; slides his arms around Soap’s back and pulls his helmet clad head forward into his chest.
And all Soap can think is, ‘He’s trying to save you.’
“MacTavish, thought I told you to stop terrorising my patient,” the medic says, entering the room to check something on the computer and seeing him perched on the foot of Ghost’s bed. Again.
“Ruby, love, am I not your patient too? Besides, Ghost, am I terrorising ye?”
“Always.”
Soap rolls his eyes.
“Don’t Ruby, love, me,” she says. “Get to your own bed so my aide doesn’t have a heart attack every time he comes in to monitor you and sees an empty spot where a bastard should be.”
“Dinnae think I need to be monitored. How could I have a concussion if this knight in spooky armour broke my fall? And we were in full kit.”
Ruby groans, rubbing her temples in what appears to be a growing headache. “You know protocol as well as I do. Unless you’d like me to transfer you to Hereford County. I’m sure the wait alone would be a hundred times better than here. Not to mention them having to go through every single thing in your chart with you, including that time—”
“Alright.” He does the walk of shame across the room to his own bed, Ghost watching silently amused through the whole exchange. Ruby seems satisfied enough to step back out.
Soap settles the best he can with his arm in a sling and a bruised body. It’s fine. This is fine. It’s just that he’s been waiting weeks to pester Ghost, and here he is, here they both are, stuck in the same room after a bloody insane cock-up of a training exercise. Perfect opportunity for pestering. And like a magnet, like a planet escaped from his orbit and now suddenly returned, he wants to be as close to him as possible.
Especially after Ghost purposely took the brunt of the fall for him like that.
Some equipment inspector better be getting the chewing out of a lifetime for not thoroughly checking those lines.
“How many times was that again?” Ghost asks, referring to Soap being admonished like a child.
“Only the third.” The first time, Ruby had been much nicer about it.
Ghost makes a noise that is definitely not a laugh, because laughing hurts his cracked ribs. He watches him try to suppress it with a sick sort of satisfaction. Just got back to base only to get into a training incident, running on fuck knows how long without sleep, and Soap is amusing him. Nobody else gets the privilege of seeing him like this. So unguarded, so Simon. Gaz and Price, to an extent, but not the way Soap has him. He’s seen the differences. Never lets himself think too hard about what that might mean.
When Ghost winces from the pain, he shoots to his feet once more. Christ, he just needs something to do.
“There’s gotta be lidocaine patches in here somewhere.” He opens a random drawer.
“Already got one on, Johnny.”
He rifles through the drawer anyway.
“Why don’t ye have a kip? We’ll be here till noon, at least.” They’ve already been here an hour. Base will be serving breakfast soon.
“Been a bit much goin’ on in here to sleep.” Ghost looks at him pointedly.
"Aye, well." He shuts the drawer. Opens another one. "Sorry."
"You're not."
He’s not. But Ghost doesn’t say it in any way other than fond.
When Ruby steps in again, instead of a fourth reprimand, she simply gives him a blank stare before turning on her heel and leaving. Right then. Seems she’s reached her Soap MacTavish limit for the day. Good.
His feet take him back over to stand beside Ghost’s bed—gravitational pull and all that.
“Havenae said how the op went.”
Ghost sighs, looking like he’s resigning himself to zero rest and having no qualms about it. If Soap didn’t know any better, he’d say he missed him just as much.
“Swimmingly. Probably got flesh-eating bacteria from just how swimmingly.”
Just then, a med-team rushes in, strips the sheets off Soap’s abandoned bed, replaces them with fresh ones, and deposits some unlucky cunt in a back brace on top. Looks like they're not the only accident prone soldiers tonight.
“Uh,” he says, looking to where Ruby stands overseeing in the doorway. She silently points to Ghost’s bed, and goes to her new patient, pulling the privacy curtain as far as it will go.
Ghost scoots his legs over to the side, making room for him to sit.
He’s not a blusher but if he was…
He perches on the edge of Ghost’s cot just like how he’d been earlier, like nothing is different now and he hasn’t just been exiled from his own bed and consolidated to Lieutenant Simon Ghost Riley’s without a word of protest from anyone, including himself. Jesus Christ.
“Anyway. Ye were saying about flesh eating bacteria.”
He looks over to Ghost’s face in expectation of a quip, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his head is resting back against the pillow, eyes closed, breathing even with the rise and fall of his chest clad down to his base t-shirt layer. His balaclava is on but no trace of grease paint or dirt. Looks like he had right enough time to shower and head to the airfield after getting back from his op.
Harsh lines all smoothed out, just for Soap.
The room is comfortably cool for him, which means Ghost is probably getting cold, but they’re both sitting on top of the blanket. He opens his mouth to ask whether he wants to cover up, but thinks against it last second. Still, his lips parting and smacking shut make a wet noise that has Ghost peeking an eye open.
“Not asleep. Don’t have to be quiet, Johnny.”
Something in his chest melts at that.
“Ye almost were,” he tries to say just as softly.
“Maybe.” Blond lashes flutter shut again.
It looks—enticing. The way the tension has bled from him, the lure of sleep after a night of far too much excitement, even for him.
He decides he doesn’t need to ask. Simply stands up to tug the scratchy blanket out from under Ghost’s arse and legs, and then feels guilty when he grimaces from the friction against his bruised backside. Ghost had landed mostly on his back with Soap pulled safely in on top of him. Fucking lucky he didn’t break his spine, the absolute numpty.
Soap pulls the blanket over him and hesitates. Well. He’s already here.
Ghost, without even opening his eyes, budges over the rest of the bit he can without tumbling out. Soap has to bite his tongue so he doesn't say something stupid and lovesick, takes the offered spot, and pulls the blanket up over both their legs. Or—over Ghost’s legs and the one of his own stretched out on the bed. The other is dangling off, foot braced against the floor.
It’s a wee cot. They are not wee men.
“Finally feel like resting now, do you, Johnny?”
“Shh,” he shushes. There’s no heat in it—there’s not much of anything in it, really. He’s already gone soft and shapeless here pressed against Simon Riley.
Ghost huffs, and he can feel the resulting flinch from the action. Wishes he could take some of the pain for himself, aside from his measly broken collarbone.
“I was the one meant to be doin’ the saving, ye ken.” He lets his head fall gently against the steady shoulder beside him, careful not to nudge his ribs, and immediately goes all fuzzy and warm in the brain. The day, the weeks, finally catching up.
“Instinct I reckon, Johnny.” It’s barely a whisper, and he’s not sure his dozing brain doesn't make it up entirely, but in the next moment he swears there’s a press of lips to his hair.
Gaz is laughing at them.
They almost died, and Gaz is laughing at them.
Soap surfaces slowly, dragged up out of the best sleep he's had in weeks by the sound of badly stifled cackles near the foot of the bed. Great.
He pries one eye open. Gaz is standing there with a tray of breakfast in one hand, and his phone in the other, the absolute traitor, grinning like Christmas has come early.
"Garrick," Ghost warns like he’s willing the universe to just let the peace last a while longer.
"I haven't even said anything," Gaz manages.
"You're wheezing it loud enough."
Soap doesn't move, doesn't dare, because he knows his neck is going to ache like the devil from falling asleep at this angle. He’d wanted some of the pain and he guesses he got it. It's absolutely going to be worth it. Would have been worth it for even a few minutes snuggled up next to this man.
“I just wasn't aware this was an option. How do I not get a bedmate next time I’m in medical?” Gaz is really cracking himself up.
“Easy. Just don't piss Ruby off,” Soap mutters, nuzzling his nose against Ghost despite it all.
Like clockwork she appears.
“Don’t let him lie, Garrick. Just gave them exactly what they wanted.”
I'd truly be the worst person to stick into a timeloop because I'd really just spend the first 5 years catching up on my book tbr, the next 7 on all the movies and shows that've Been On My List for ages, and then another decade on ao3. like sure nothing may stick but my memories will and i can just go into a supermarket to get snacks and wine each day, and i have art to indulge in. like thanks for the hints on how to get out but respectfully, I am busy
Fighting enemies with Mutt is mentally exhausting. I have to be careful who I shoot any arrow at, because the idiot will immediately run in the guy’s direction to rip him a new one. And if I don’t call him back, he’ll lunge at the enemy until he gets badly hurt. Without even needing me to say anything, that beast glares at every potential threat and jumps between me and them recklessly !! And I always need to keep a close eye on him, otherwise he’ll get hit by maces or slashed until he’s at death’s door ! Honestly, during a confrontation, I fight more for my loyal hound and his self sacrificing nature than myself.
… and I realize that’s precisely how Hans feels about fighting by Henry’s side.
