The mission had gone sideways in the last ten minutes. They were clearing the last building when the explosion went off — not close enough to kill, but close enough to leave Soap bleeding from a deep gash on his thigh, crumpled behind cover with dirt in his teeth and his voice tight with pain.
Ghost had been the one to drag him out. He didn’t speak while doing it, didn’t say a damn word as he threw Soap’s arm over his shoulders, muttering “Come on, Johnny,” like a prayer.
Back at the safehouse, it’s just the two of them.
Soap’s shirt is soaked through with sweat and blood. Ghost has peeled off his mask — not the skull one, but the black balaclava beneath it — and his voice is lower, quieter.
He kneels beside Soap on the mattress. “Hold still.” He says it like a command, but there’s something raw under it. Something that says I need you to be okay. Don’t make me watch you bleed out.
Soap’s laughing through gritted teeth. “I’m fine. You look worse. Like a kicked dog.”
Ghost shakes his head, but his hands don’t tremble when he patches the wound. He’s cleaned blood off Soap before. This feels different.
Maybe because they’re alone. Maybe because Soap looks up at him with glassy eyes and says, “You stayed with me.”
Ghost’s voice is barely a whisper. “Of course I did.”
He finishes the stitching, leans back, and finally looks Soap in the eye —he sees just them, just Simon and Johnny.
“You scared the hell outta me,” Ghost mutters, almost like he hates saying it. “Don’t do that again.”
Soap doesn’t crack a joke this time. He just reaches out, fingers brushing Ghost’s wrist. “I won’t. Long as you’re there to drag me out.”
And Ghost doesn’t pull away.
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