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Okay, hear me out, this should be anonymous bc digital footprint and shit but whatever HEAR ME OUT!!!

Soap was sexually abused in his childhood by a close family friend, a man from the military they met in church (military part optional, it'd be more for plot convenience, but church part is important)

He's an adult now, it should be fine, he's grown taller and stronger than that man ever was, but when someone far too similar to him (or, if u want that extra step of drama, actually him) appears, all that emotional stability CRUMBLES.

HE FEELS LIKE A CHILD AGAIN, LIKE THE BOY WHO BEGGED FOR PROTECTION BUT GOT TOLD OFF BY HIS PARENTS BC "XX is a good married Christian man, he's not a fag."

I just need to see Soap spiralling and diving headfirst into depression and the panic attacks that follow a single touch from any of his colleagues EXCEPT Ghost.

Because it's always Ghost, it will always be Ghost.

If this is too chaotic lmk I got very into it

It gets worse before it gets better, for sure.

thank u so much for the lovely request <;3 u can also read it over at ao3!

rating: mature

tags: #angst #slight it gets worse before it gets better #religious trauma #religious guilt #religious themes and imagery #implied/referenced child abuse #implied/referenced past rape #getting together #comforting through the worst imaginable #they argue #they solve it right after but #anger #lots of it #starry nights and coffees #witchcraft practices mentioned and slightly done #self-harm #soap bites the skin around his nails until they bleed #pierced ghost

---

Soap has always been told that anger lives in the pits of the stomach, and when it comes up to show itself, it is a monster. It is a monster that burns up from soft intestines, burns upwards and upwards and upwards until it reaches the mouth, until it bears and grows its teeth, until it sinks its fangs into the world and controls it.

But, for him, the anger is a monster that travels fast and burns even brighter and it comes right from the tips of his fingers, up into his knuckles, and he is just like his father when he strikes first, asks later.

When the world bares its fangs at him, Soap raises his claws, and he obviously strikes first, he knows how to find exactly where it hurts every single time and he attacks precisely there. He is entirely unlike his mother, with her cold and slow anger.

So maybe it’s some sort of karmic retribution when a man walks into their meeting room and Soap reels. He has memories of the past in the forefront of his mind, because that man he has those same eyes that haunt him, that same fucking build that once towered over him, the same sharpness on his face that he so used to adore in that fucked up way he did and even the same beard that would cut and hurt. The same cross necklace smacking his chest, God is mocking him even now, at his big age. The same military standing that he used to idolise.

It all reminds him far too much of the past. A past he has striven to forget, a past he has worked tirelessly with countless therapists to overcome, a past that should not affect him like it does just then—he feels all his organs shut down.

And he thinks, over and over again, that by his big age, he should be fine and he should be completely and utterly sane—yet his fingers twitch, his jaw sets, his breathing hitches—Ghost looks at him and it’s fucking humiliating, the way he can see right through him.

He can’t stop the memories that flood his brain—he still remembers the begging, the blood, the angry screams, the pained screams, the god, the prayers, the tears, the touches, the grandmother’s protection. He is empty of everything that is good, if he remembers the past and that man so fucking vividly. How empty of him, to be so full of someone he hates.

He knows, internally and in a very faraway part of his brain, that none of it is real. Not anymore, anyways. But his body still clams up, he is still terrified, and the world still tips and eventually crashes when Price calls out into the room.

If there is a God, Soap will swallow Him whole, will make Him cry.

God has a mean and sadistic streak, and Soap almost laughs at the irony of the situation, and he would’ve and could’ve just ran away if it weren’t for the tears springing into his eyes and threatening to overflow.

He hates Him.

Perhaps he would strike first this time too, of the anger won in the end. He would have God kneeling, the fucker at the tip of his knife, the world cradling a bomb.

“This is the team we’ll be working alongside for this mission,” his voice is calm and collected and he has not noticed Soap’s inner (almost outer) panic. Soap does not blame him for it, yet he wants to. Price does not know anything about his past beyond what he needed, and he did not need to know of the predator that lives in Soap’s mind.

The man’s eyes fall on him, and he has to do everything in his power to not simply get up and walk away—or worse, pull out a gun and shoot the fucker in the face—, to ignore the pull and tug of the world wanting to tip and fall apart, even though the man has done nothing and Soap is just projecting his issues into innocent people who don’t deserve his anger.

He doesn’t even know the man. Perhaps he is a wonderful soldier, perhaps he is not even religious, just uses the cross in honour of someone else. But his brain doesn’t care about that, and he is entirely ruled by his emotions, and the man is just old enough to remind him of a married man with wandering hands and God as an excuse for wanting someone as young as Soap had been.

He feels like a sobbing child again, asking a God he doesn’t believe in to save him because no other adult would.

He feels like a bitter and angry child again, asking why neither God nor anyone ever saved him.

“I hope you will, at least, be cordial with each other,” because Price cannot ask for people to like each other, especially not people glued together with just the wishes of peace.

He continues with his talk, goes over the details of the mission, which Soap pays no attention to, which will bite him in the ass later on, he assumes, but he is seething in anger and fear and he knows Ghost’s eyes are on him—intensively, extensively—but he finds he can’t make his jaw work beyond its clenching and his stomach is so twisted that he feels he’s going to puke. His fingers are going into overdrive as he taps them against his bouncing leg. He wants to go back to his bad habits, to bite his fingers until they are raw and bloody. He’s so fucking tired of being afraid of men with just the right characteristics.

“—dismissed,” is the last word he catches from Price’s mouth, and he watches as everyone slowly gets up and leaves. Gaz hangs back to stay with him, touches Soap’s shoulder—

“Don’t touch me,” he demands, he is mean beyond what he needs to be, and he watches Gaz's excited face crumble. Of course, he didn’t notice anything, he was excited about another mission, about another opportunity to save the world of all its evil. Ghost tenses up beside him.

Price calls for him before he can even say anything. He’s eternally thankful for it. He’s sure he would’ve snapped even worse if he had remained, if he had asked. He doesn’t want to deal with questions.

He can feel Price’s eyes on him. He ignores them with a ferocity only dogs should know.

He watches them move, with a perspective that makes him feel as though he is in a body that isn’t his own, watches his own body remain stuck to his chair. He feels a presence on his side, and he almost lashes out.

“Soap,” Ghost’s voice comes with a kindness he doesn’t know how to deal with, hasn’t really heard it like that before, and if he were in any other state, he would think about it for days to come. Maybe even daydream about it. But in his current state, they just make his walls come up higher, stronger. He doesn’t deal well with kindness in the face of his fucked up past.

“What?” comes his harsh reply, instead. Ghost straightens, looms over Soap instead of leaning into his eyeline, his face settles into something harsher instead, the lines of their boundaries boldens. Soap raises a hand up to his mouth anyways, starts slowly peeling away at the skin on the tips of his fingers, right besides his pretty fucked up nails, he has not done this in years. He bleeds almost instantly.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles it around his gnawing. He can almost tell Ghost wants to slap his hand away, but he thankfully doesn’t. He allows Soap a moment of self-destruction. Soap feels like he deserves that moment, that piece of self-destruction, he held himself together quite well. Is still holding himself together… well enough.

“You look like you’re about to explode.”

“Oh, aye, Lt, wish that were the case,” he wishes he could explode. At least that would be pretty. “It’s nothin’, there’s nothin’ wrong. Just leave, aye? Sure Price is callin’ ye or somethin’.” his accent lulls out stronger. He wants to be left alone, he wants Ghost to keep pushing. He doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Doesn’t know what the fuck he wants.

“Pull yourself together,” the words lull out like a bullet and he knows Ghost doesn’t even know he’s holding a weapon, but it strikes him all the same. His jaw moves all on its own, but Ghost hasn’t stopped talking. “We need you clear and sane for the mission.” he turns on his heels, leaves the room with a slam of the door.

Belatedly, Soap wishes he hadn’t left. Wishes even more that he hadn’t acted like he did. He feels like a child again, feels entirely too much like he is turning into his father, always quick to anger and quick to snap.

“Fuck.” his voice cracks around the edges. He closes his eyes, tears spill out without his permission, and he is now entirely grateful that Ghost did not stick around. He does not want him to hear the shake of his voice, does not want him to see this part of him, so shameful and entirely ugly.

—

When the sun rises and the teams roll out, Soap is cursing all the gods alive and dead and inbetween for putting him in the same fucking team as the fucker that keeps triggering his past memories. His fingers are raw and bleeding into his gloves and he questions all that there is in the world, how dare God allow this to happen to him? What kind of God even is He?

Sure, it isn’t anyone’s fault but his own that he didn’t speak up and tell them about it or, at least, tell them to keep him far, far away from him—but who wants to admit to a past like his own, to people who supposedly admire him and his work? Not him, certainly, because he has a penchant for making life harder for himself.

His jaw is clenched and his teeth hurt from the strength of them on each other, and his hold on his gun is firmer and stronger than it ever has been before, and he knows Gaz is looking and looking at him like he’s a total foreigner in the body of Soap, with the way he remains silent through it all, with the way he gives Ghost one-worded replies whenever he needs to. There are no jokes he can tell that don’t make his heart race.

Soap really hopes he won’t ask anything, especially not where they are and not once they’re done here, because he knows his reply won’t be good, or kind, or even make sense to people who have no context.

“Soap,” he hears that man’s gravely voice, fucked through years of cigarettes burrying in his longs, and he locks up—flashes pass through his mind like he’s back there, the name is different but he’s there. “You’re clear to detonate.” and he unlocks all at once rapidly, because the mission is far more important than his triggers, and he’s nodding his head before he realizes it and he starts stepping towards the building. There’s simply something in him that knows how to fight and when and where—he knows this fight since he was very small, he carries it like a badge of honour through the ages and the years. And the fight is only outwardly when it calls for it, and it hasn’t called yet.

He doesn’t know what he’s exploding, exactly, but Price gave his orders and so did this captain, and he just knows he is and that’s all he really needs to know for the maniac inside him to feel delighted in making anything at all explode. Even though he feels he’s the one who he should explore.

He knows he’s doing something reckless when a hand belonging to that captain fucker brushes his back in a pat and a low ‘well done’ is murmured right into his ear, because the finger on the detonation finger is so very intentional and his press of it even more.

The building explodes in a beautiful symphony of sounds and colours and collapses.

The team is only far enough for minor injuries to happen, but when his comms come back to life, his ears ring and yet he can still hear his captain’s voice, Price’s harsh voice echoes in a way that is entirely too familiar.

He should feel a certain type of regret, but he only regrets not being inside the collapsed building, so maybe he should hold off on feeling things like that.

—

“What were you thinking?” is the first thing Price says to him, because as soon as he saw him, he motioned with his hands and kept his mouth firmly shut. And now they’re back on base and it is deserted except for them. Gaz and Ghost are there too, but they definitely look like they don’t want to be. Gaz shifts his weight between his feet, Ghost holds his chin high. “Do you understand that that could’ve gone entirely wrong?”

“I didn’t mean—” he did, in some way. Price taught him all about fighting the wrongs of the world, gave him ways of aiming his anger at the right people, taught him how to bare his teeth instead of just his fists—and he knows he used it in the wrong goddamn place.

“But you did it,” Price says, with a certain firmness that has Soap reeling. He steps closer to Soap, hits his chest with a finger, Soap breathes and breathes and only hears the words spoken because they’re so fucking insane. “So you’re on timeout.”

“What?” he asks, incredulous, almost laughs at the situation. “What am I, a kid?” he feels utterly unfloored, and his hands twitch at his side, and Price’s finger imprints into his chest like a burning that doesn’t feel good, at all, and he knows Price is nothing like the man in his memories, but any touch at all has him spiralling. “Ye cannae just do that.” and he can’t because it feels like he’s back home, with his parents blaming him for someone else’s wandering hands, with his parents telling him it was all his fault and that they didn’t believe his pleas for safety.

“If you behave like one, you’re gonna be treated like one. What else did you expect?” he shakes his head, taps at Soap’s chest again and his eyes settle harder when Soap slaps his hand away. “I’m your captain, Soap, don’t forget that. I can do what I please, and you’ll listen, and comply.”

“Oh, fuck right off. Ye cannae be serious!” his voice raises beyond what he wants it to, and in the ultimate not-child-like move, he leaves the common room, stomps (he’d like to believe he walked) into his own room.

The door slams behind him, and he knows he’s being entirely insane, and he knows he did something stupid and he can and will full well admit it at a later time, but his heart is beating too fast and he’s so beyond fucking scared that he doesn’t know what else to do.

He moves through the room with a nervous fluttering of steps, he turns the whole place upside down until he finds what he wants—until his hands come across silver pentagrams and old tarot cards and random crystals, and he remembers his grandmother, and he almost starts sobbing right then and there, as he clasps the necklace tight around his neck.

He misses the only person who ever understood him, the only golden thread tying him to his lineage, the only one that he bears with pride.

He feels like life is always going to be like this, terrible and haunting and burning.

He goes through the motions of his rituals, of his vigils, of the things his grandmother taught him and that he kept close to his chest. He doesn’t care if he believes its actual protection or not—he does it all the same, finds comfort in the way the sigils come to him with ease, in the overwhelming scent of burning candles, in the prayers his grandmother made, in the protection he believes he still carries from her.

He thinks he should have a hold of his emotions far better than this, but he doesn’t and he doesn’t and he doesn’t, so he just watches his hands stain the paper sigils as he places them against each other, as he burns them, as he claims them.

When there’s a knock on his door, he thinks for half a second that it could be the man, and he knows that’s ridiculous yet he thinks it all the same—but Ghost’s voice sounds out and his heart half-settles. He swallows down the panic, places down the candle and the sigil.

“Sergeant.” knock, knock, knock. A melodious little thing.

“What do ye want, Ghost?” he’s tired and he’s angry and he’s exhausted of all this fear that he masks as anger, all this anger that comes off like fear, and his voice sounds entirely like not his own at all. He just wants to scream at someone, and yet he knows none of the people he can scream at have any fault, so he holds his tongue and his anger.

But where does he put it? Where does he put the anger, so it won’t lash out? Where does he put it when he doesn’t want to set it down, because if he does he’s going to cry.

“I’m your babysitter,” he lets it hang in the air for a little. “Let me in.”

“The fuck do ye mean, my babysitter?” he opens the door, anger brimming again and again and he’d lash out, he knows he would, if it were anyone but Ghost standing there—or at least he believes that he can hold himself back from hurting Ghost. Could he even hurt him? His words aren’t worth that much.

(he left the door unlocked, just in case, and now he regrets it.)

He shrugs, waits for Soap to step to the side before he steps inside the room, because Soap does step aside, leaning against the wall as Soap stands there, arms crossed and angry, always angry these past few days.

“Don’t know,” he tilts his head, eyes focused on Soap, and he knows Ghost knows and Ghost knows he knows, and there’s no need for all these fucking riddles, but they speak through them all the same. “Price thought you might need a handler.”

“And you’re it?” it’s ridiculous that his anger doesn’t settle into the joke of the situation, doesn’t dwindle and die out.

“Who else?” Soap thinks, doesn’t come up with anyone, and he feels the distaste in his mouth, swallows it down so he doesn’t scream out. “Exactly. Now, settle down. Stand down.”

Soap shakes his head, he doesn’t know what the hell Ghost is thinking, but he cannot possibly think he can handle Soap when he’s off his handle.

He doesn’t move, not even when Ghost nods his head towards his bed, as if motioning him to sit down.

“What happened?”

“Ye know exactly what happened,” he says it slowly, like Ghost is stupid for even asking that.

“I know what happened, yeah, from my point of view. From Price’s. Even from Gaz’s,” he moves a hand through the air, and Soap almost flinches at it, at the similarity of movements—his father in the shape of God, the lingering hurt in his body. “Not yours, though. So,” like he’s just casually asking for the weather. “What happened?”

“It’s entirely none of yer business, Ghost.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Sergeant,” he tuts, looks Soap right in the eyes again. “Because we’re both here, ain’t we? So it’s my bloody problem when you fly off the handle like that.”

“I didn’t fly off the handle—”

“No? So you put your team at risk just… for the fun of it?”

“I didnae mean to put ye in danger—”

“But you did,” Soap frowns. Where the hell are they going with this? “And I know you enough to know you’d never do that without reason. So I’m asking.” because he could be doing something else, he could be digging, he could sink his teeth into Soap’s brain and come up with all the answers he needs, that he wants.

“Ye wanna know? Go lookin’ for it,” he sees the movement of Ghost’s jaw, the tensing of his shoulders. “Cause I won’t tell ye shit, Lt, cause it ain’t none of yer business, and if ye just leave me alone, I’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

“That’s not gonna fuckin’ work,” Ghost tilts his head, taps his fingers against his thigh, crosses his arms after.

Soap just brings his hands up in the air, shrugs like they’re at an impasse.

Somehow, he feels like he’s losing this argument by losing his temper, yet he cannot hold back the way anger shimmers and burns at the center of his palm.

“Leave, Ghost.”

Ghost doesn’t move and Soap closes his eyes, breathes in and out, wrings his hands together and feels the sting and burn of his torn-up skin—it doesn’t help settle his anger, at all.

“Ghost, I’m not in the mood for this shite, alright? So just leave me alone for a fucking second and we’ll return back to normal.”

“Still not possible or plausible, sergeant,” he shakes his head. “Not when I was there when you got like this. So, spill, or you’ll overflow and get yourself killed and, Johnny, I’m not gonna watch that, or even allow it to happen.”

“And why the fuck would ye care, Ghost? So what if I’m losing my damn mind?” he knows he is an animal let loose, baring its teeth at anyone who dares get too close, his anger feeds itself off of his body and feeds him anger back. “The fuck’s that gotta do with ye? Besides any professional basis, cause what you’re doin’ here ain’t fucking professional worry or some shite like that.”

“Johnny—”

“No! I’m serious here, what the fuck are ye doing here? Price sent ye? Really? Ye expect me to believe that?”

“Soap—”

“Cause I don’t, ye know? Believe that—”

“If you let me speak,” Ghost raises his voice just above Soap’s, watches him flinch and step back. Lowers his voice again. “I can tell you why I’m here.”

Soap sets his jaw. Nods.

“I’m worried about you, Johnny,” and that is a confession he wasn’t expecting. It almost makes him break. “‘Cause I saw you in that meeting room, and I know that look. I know that look and those eyes and that fear, and I’m really hoping you’ll tell me I’m seeing shit or projecting.”

“Well, ye are. Now, leave.” he points at the door, like that will entice Ghost to step out. Ghost remains against the wall, as he has for their whole interaction. “Please, Ghost, just leave.”

Ghost taps his arm, sighs, bumps his head back against the wall.

“Why are you even being stubborn?”

“Because it’s private, alright? Ye ever heard of privacy? I’m sure ye have shit ye don’t want me to know about—”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I don’t,” he shrugs. “You can ask me anythin’ you wanna.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit and ye know it.”

“Ask, then.”

“I—I don’t—that’s not the point!” he brings his hands up in the air, moves them around. “Why are ye being like this, honestly? I don’t wanna tell ye anything, and I’m not gonna, and I wish ye’d stop asking about it.”

“Then we’ll just stay here like good ol’ boys until you calm down.”

“I’m perfectly calm.”

“Didn’t know you had a thing for lying.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he throws him the finger, mildly wonders why and then does it more firmly. He turns around so he can’t look at Ghost. If he can’t see him, Ghost can’t see him back, or some other bullshit logic like that.

He’s almost vibrating out of his skin. He can feel his hands shaking. He brings one up to his mouth and he tastes iron and smells blood immediately and yet he bites at the skin anyways. His eyes burn. Oh, he really doesn’t want to cry.

He hears Ghost moving, hears the shuffling of his uniform, the strength of his steps. He feels him looming over his back for a second and holds his breath. Then hears the creaking of the bed, the coldness of his back.

“These beds don’t get any better,” he hears Ghost mutter, almost laughs, but the laugh that bubbles up in his throat turns into a sob and he tilts himself even further away from Ghost’s line of sight.

Fuck.

His shoulders tremble, his whole body does, and he clutches helplessly at his pentagram, blood mixes with iron mixes with tears.

He feels Ghost at his back again, gentle hands on his elbows, and he’s being dragged to bed and made to sit down. He curls up, draws his body down until he’s almost chest-to-knees, and he cries because he started and now he can’t fucking stop.

Ghost’s hand is on the small of his back, making soothing sorts of motions over and over again.

“This is stupid,” he mutters to himself mostly, between sobs. “This is so fucking stupid.”

“Hey,” Ghost starts but Soap doesn’t let him finish, snaps up and looks at Ghost, even though he’s crying and he looks pathetic and red and blotchy.

“No, alright? This is stupid and I’m being stupid and this whole thing shouldn’t’ve happened and I’m sorry, okay? I just—he just—” he closes his eyes tightly and waits for the words to form correctly. “He looks so much like him. But it’s not him, and I keep—fuck.” he shakes his head, looks at Ghost, almost startles at the way he’s looking back at him. Like he knows. Like he understands.

He forces his eyes and head away, stares holes into the ground as he tries to stop crying.

He hiccups and takes stuttering breaths in uneven manners, feels the crawling of fear like it is a good friend, understands that his eyes are overflowing and his mind is running far too fast.

Ghost’s hand wraps around his wrist—before Soap can fight him and snap, Ghost brings it to his chest, presses his palm tightly over his heart.

“Breathe with me, Johnny,” he murmurs, voice low and calm and he has this sort of magic way of making Soap feel better with so little. It makes him feel like he’s not too far gone to be healed. “Come on. Good boy,” Soap’s chest trembles with the slow breathing, with the way his eyes still shed tears.

“Sorry,” he says between cries and breaths. “Just—I don’t know. I don’t know how to not tell Price and have this… figure itself out.” he appreciates Ghost all the same, even between the frustration of circling around each other for months at this point.

“Don’t think Price is gonna allow you in the field anytime soon,” Ghost hums at his own words, taps Soap’s wrist and presses his fingers harder against Soap’s back. The weight is comforting. It makes breathing easier again. “You’ll get an eval soon, even.”

“They know, anyway. They cleared me back then. It’s just… an episode, or something.”

“Think they’ll clear you now, too?” Soap bites his tongue, feels the inner turmoil in his brain blare. And then he shrugs.

“Hopefully,” his voice cracks and he winces. He looks back at Ghost, sees himself reflected back in his brown eyes. Feels the squeezes of his wrist. “I need a coffee. And fresh air.”

“I think I can allow that,” but Ghost doesn’t move. His jaw grinds back and forth, like he wants to say something. Soap steals his hand back, rubs both his hands over his eyes, cleans up the tears and breathes in far too deeply.

“Just say it, Ghost. What is it?”

“I know a spot.”

“What?” he laughs a little, confused, staring up at Ghost through his hands.

“Stargazing. I know a spot for that.”

“Far?”

“No, pretty close.”

“Take me there, then, warden, don’t wanna be in this prison.”

“Only a little dramatic.” Soap shrugs, gives him a watery type of grin. Soap watches as his mask folds and unfolds, hiding his smile underneath it.

Ghost gets up, turns to Soap, and outstretches his hand. Soap takes it with glee, and allows himself to be dragged up from his bed and out of his room.

—

The world breathes its tale as Soap waits for Ghost to return with their coffees. He’s checking his fingers and the damage he has done to them, face crumpled in guilt—he had worked so hard to break the habit, and he just completely fucked up his own progress.

He supposes triggers work like that, anyways, but it doesn’t make him feel any better or less guilty or less wrong.

He supposes, too, that he was simply born wrong, that he won’t ever be forgiven for all his sins, that his birth was against the word of God and He cursed him and lodged Himself into his body to never allow happiness to course freely through it.

It’s… a tad dramatic.

He laughs at himself, shakes his head. He wishes he could rid himself of thoughts like that.

“What’s so funny?” he tilts his head back and up at Ghost, who appears suddenly, who looks utterly ridiculous with the silliest mugs in hand and that intimidating build and fucking skull mask.

“Right now? Ye are. Did ye know ye look ridiculous?”

“Thought you liked it,” he sits down next to Soap. “With all that staring you do.”

“I don’t stare,” Ghost just looks at him, and passes him his mug (this cat shaped, horrifying thing) and he looks back, and then crumbles, takes the warm mug in his cold hands. “Fine. Whatever. But ye still look ridiculous.”

Ghost laughs, this startled little noise in the back of his throat that slips without him wanting it to. Soap delights in every note of it.

Ghost sits down next to him, just a few spaces closer than usual, and Soap bumps their knees together, then remains against the warmth of Ghost’s legs. He wants to lean further against him, but his heart unsettles at the thought of it, and his mind races in just the slightest incorrect manner.

Soap isn’t an expert on silence, and this whole situation has been slowly eating him up from the inside-out, and he taps his bloody-bleeding fingers against his knee to maybe shut himself up.

It doesn’t work.

“I used to go to church,” he starts, slowly. “Thought it was so cool to be with my parents for a day of the week, where they wouldn’t argue, and they wouldn’t yell at me for some shite I probably did.”

“Doesn’t surprise me you were a troublemaker.”

“Aye, still am, ain’t I?”

“Exactly.”

“I was really good at it, which was totally a reasonable thing to want, I’m sure,” he shakes his head. “I knew the books back to front, front to back, talked to so many priests they knew me by name, by sin.” he clicks his tongue against his teeth, feels the rising of blood that overflows his mouth. “And then he showed up. This… cool military guy. I was… eight, maybe.”

Ghost’s hand finds his, presses palm into knuckles, intertwines fingers tightly. He sighs, both at the warmth that spreads through him and at what he’s about to confess.

“I thought he was so cool. And he would know everything, too. And he would be so willing to answer any and all of my questions. I used to wonder why,” he wets his lips, swallows the lump in his throat. Ghost squeezes his hand, a silent you don’t have to talk anymore. He works past the stoppage on his throat, anyway, because he wants to give Ghost some more of him. “Now, I know why, but back then it was all this wonder and admiration. All this… love, for some sort of fatherly figure that wouldn’t punish me for my questions.”

He closes his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s saying all this anymore. What will it help? Does talking have to help?

“The first time… it happened, I was nine. And he asked me to come home with him because he had something to give me,” he looks at Ghost. Ghost looks back. He can see the way his brows are furrowed. “I wish I hadn’t gone. I remember crying, I remember telling my parents, I remember their yelling, their punishment, like I made that fucker do what he did to me, like I wasn’t the victim in the situation. It kept happening and I—I don’t even remember half the times it happened, I just know they did, because I’d write it down. ‘It happened again’, in this pink diary I stole from one of my sisters.” he moves a hand through the air. “Dunno where it even is, anymore. I hope no one found it, don’t wanna traumatise them with the shite I wrote in that.”

Ghost inches closer, their arms are pressed together now, too, and he shivers. Ghost remains silent, lets Soap work through the words swirling in his brain, wanting to spill from his mouth.

“I know it wasn’t my fault, ye know? I went through intense therapy for this, back when I was 18 and threw myself at the army like it’d stop the church from following. The same thing happened then. A captain that was just a little too similar to him. That’s how they even found out anything happened, I mean, there weren’t any police reports or anything. Just… word of mouth, back then,” he shrugs. “Small towns, aye? People talk.”

“Yeah,” Ghost’s voice punches out of his throat, he looks like he’s the one suffering for Soap. Soap bumps shoulders with him, takes a sip from his coffee, warms up at the hotness of it, at the way Ghost knows his order even though he teases him for its sweetness.

“My nan was the only one that believed me,” he tugs at the pentagram hanging from his neck. “She was upset with God, with the church, even more with my parents, with her own son. I remember her turning to me, all anger and beauty, and saying ‘we’ll figure out our own religion, make up our own Gods, and they’ll protect ye correctly this time’. She found paganism, witchcraft. I didn’t… don’t believe in it, same as how I don’t believe in God, but I thought it was fun, and it would give me an excuse to be at her house for longer than I should. And her house would always smell really nice, and I could be a kid freely and without fear.”

“Is your grandma—”

“Dead. Few years back. Old age, or something. Fucked me up real good, too. The therapy sessions had to start up all over again and everything.”

He sighs, slowly lowers himself to the ground, bumps his head against the soft grass. There’s a pretty yellow flower at the corner of his view. Ghost’s head follows his movements, but he remains upright.

“I thought I was over it for good. I mean, Price looks nothing like him, but he’s a captain all the same and I like him, don’t feel any fear around him. And maybe I stupidly thought that I’d never find anyone like him ever again.”

“Not stupid.”

“I know. Just… I was naive. I was unaware of how much that fucked me up when I knew I shouldn’t be,” he tugs at Ghost’s hand. “I should’ve told Price, right?”

“Yeah. It’d be important for him to know. Could’ve prevented you almost killing your own teammates.”

“Sorry,” the apology isn’t even meant for Ghost, really, because all he did to Ghost was not talk to him, and compared to almost killing someone, he thinks that might be on the lower half of the importance list. He apologises anyways. He missed their banter. “I was just… so angry, and so tired of being afraid of everything and—and a part of me thought… that ye wouldn’t believe me, or just… tell me to suck it up, be a man,” he runs his tongue over his teeth. “Been in enough teams where that happened, y’know? The brain really fucks ye up, aye?”

Ghost is silent.

Soap would take offence to it, or maybe clam up all over again, if it weren’t for the tight hold on his hand, and the bright shine of the starry sky, and the moon is full and beautiful. It all feels like a holiness he can have and hold.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in the soft scent of coffee mingling with fresh and beautiful grass mingling with Ghost’s wood-like aroma.

He hears a lot of rustling, feels Ghost move, but he never lets go of his hand, so he only opens his eyes once the noises stop.

Ghost’s bare face overwhelms his eyes.

He blinks a couple too times.

And he is entirely over the overwhelming shame religions bring, but Ghost just looks like something holy, like something he cannot have, and he craves it, craves him, wants him entirely and selfishly to himself.

“Hi?” he watches Ghost’s face break into a smile, and he is entirely enamoured by it.

“Secret for a secret.”

“The whole team knows what ye look like—” Ghost tilts his head, and Soap looks closer. There is a glint in the silver moonlight, that catches light and has Soap sitting up and getting far too uncomfortably close to Ghost’s face. “The hell is that?”

“Can’t actually have them,” Soap brings a hand up, touches Ghost’s eyebrow and glides along it, circles the glistening piercing there. Ghost lets his eyes flutter shut.

“Ye have so many of ‘em. Does Price know?”

“Yeah. Found out by accident,” Soap’s hand tracks the path of his face, of his scars, meets his nose in all its elegant brokenness, taps at the little stud on the side of his nose, flicks his septum piercing up just to watch Ghost’s face scrunch.

And then he lets his hand drop, doesn’t dare going too far, going as far as touching the ones decorating his lips. Ghost opens his eyes again, looks at Soap.

“I think my secret is far more interesting,” Soap says, frowning just a little, just playfully enough for Ghost’s brows to raise.

“You don’t look like you actually think that.”

“Well, Ghost, ye are a very interesting man,” he tilts his head. “And I already knew my secret. So…” he mumbles, eyes trained in the way Ghost’s mouth moves, the way he darts his tongue over the piercings, the way his tongue also has a flash of jewellery in it.

Ghost squeezes his hand.

Good gods, if Ghost were the one to destroy him, he’d allow it. Follow him into broken buildings and collapsed thoughts.

“Really fucking sucks that you’re actually handsome,” he frowns at Soap’s statement, confusion written all over his pretty face. “Even worse that you’re cocky about it. How am I meant to compliment ye? Ye already know it all, it’ll feel empty.”

Ghost laughs, shakes his head. He brings Soap’s hand up and kisses his knuckles so tenderly that Soap almost falls apart.

Maybe this is when and how they break and break around each other, when and how they allow themselves to put each other back together like puzzle pieces.

“Thinking ‘bout me long enough to wanna compliment me, Johnny?”

“Oh, come on,” he rolls his eyes, pokes Ghost’s cheek to earn the unamused stare he gets. “Don’t act stupid.”

“I’m not,” Ghost tilts his head. “Just wanna hear you say it.”

“Hm,” Soap hums, sighs, lets his head fall against Ghost’s shoulder.

Ghost allows him to stay resting there for a few seconds, but then he’s tugging at Soap’s wrist and placing a hand on the back of his head.

“What?” he asks, raises his brows at Ghost, delights in the little squeeze it gets him on the back of his head.

Ghost kisses his forehead. The cold metal of his piercings send a shiver down Soap’s spine. His mouth feels dry. They are so close, even closer than usual. Ghost has never given him more than a few of his fingers, and now it feels like he’s giving him his whole fucking body.

“What are ye doin’?” he asks in a low tone. He’s afraid that his words will be the ones ruining the moment.

“Gaining courage.”

“Courage?”

“To kiss you,” Soap’s breath stutters, he’s pretty sure he even gasps. He nods, feels Ghost’s lips press against his temple.

“Okay.” he allows him to take his time, because he also needs to take his own time. To take a step back and try to figure out how this happened.

He supposes it was always coming.

Is being vulnerable a requirement for Ghost? He’ll be as goddamn vulnerable as the human body allows, if that’s the case. He’ll bare himself fully naked, mind and thoughts and body if he wants him to.

Ghost’s lips press against his eye, which automatically closes, and it feels like a kiss of devotion.

They press a kiss against his cheek, next, and Soap nuzzles into him. Feels Ghost’s smile against him.

Before Ghost has the courage to properly kiss him, Soap presses his hands against his chest. Feels his stuttering breath, the way his heart is speeding out of his chest. He places his mug down in some location that he’ll definitely forget about.

“Ghost,” he makes a face, almost like utter disgust, Soap smiles. “Simon.”

“What?”

“Can I kiss you?” he makes a face, this pouty thing that makes the rings of his snake bites jut out. Soap brings a hand up to his face, feels and watches him nuzzle his cheek against it.

And then he sighs, like he resigned himself to his fate, like his heart isn’t racing, like his ears aren’t blushing-red.

“Yes.”

And Soap kisses him.

It’s this soft and tender thing, at first—the press of lips, the slight moving of mouths, the freezing of metal against warm skin, the smell of coffee on both of their breaths, the hands of devotion.

And it evolves into this needy, passionate thing, with Ghost pulling him into his lap, pulling them impossibly closer. Soap is pretty sure he bites Ghost’s piercings, tugs on them a little, and Ghost groans.

Ghost tastes like dreams and coffee and everything Soap has ever wanted, everything he has dreamed about for nights upon nights upon nights.

His hand on his hip, the other on his hair, his own on his chest and the side of Ghost’s throat, all keep him steady-unsteady, and he realizes he is slowly forgetting the ache beyond his eyes, the old scars in his mind.

If kissing Ghost can make him replace the unpleasant emotions, even if for just a moment, then he has all the more reason to indulge.

They part to breathe, and Ghost looks at him with this adoration in his eyes that makes Soap’s life feel like it’s restarting in all the right ways.

“Wanted to do that for a while now,” Ghost huffs against him and Soap hums at his words, smiles without any kind of fear.

“Me too. A long while,” he buries his head in the crook of Ghost’s neck, breathes him in like he has never breathed anything better before in his life, and tightens his hold around him, now with both arms around his torso.

“Can’t believe it took you having a mental breakdown to happen, though.”

“I make my best decisions when I’m not doing too well.”

“Don’t think that’s too healthy.”

“I’ll work it out in the therapy sessions I’m totally due, don’t worry.”

“As long as you keep kissing me, I won’t.” Soap answers by kissing his neck, buzzing in warmth at the soft sigh that passes through Ghost’s lips.

Ghost’s hands move to his hair, to his back, bury themselves in the places they belong, soothe Soap’s mind further and further.

“Do ye wanna know something?” he asks against his neck, and then pulls away from it, so he can look him in the eyes.

“What is it?” he tilts his head, speaks in this soft tone Soap will have to get used to, because it contrasts so much to his usual one.

“I think I love ye, Simon.”

“I know I love you, Johnny,” is his easy reply, the smile on his face, the squeeze of their bodies together.

There is a world in which Soap is loved, and he is in it, and he does not have to suffer alone. Not anymore.

There is love beyond the hurt. There are hands that will hold him kindly. There are sentences that can be spoken without words. There is love, right where he can reach it—and he reaches for it, embraces it with his whole body. The rest will figure itself out slowly and surely.

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