A Ghoap idea for you - "I thought you were dead" but finding each other covered in blood. Hands frantically checking every inch of the other's skin. Dealer's choice as to whether they discover an injury to deal with, or whether all the blood is someone else's. Bonus points if this is how they get together.
Thank you for this! I went a bit of a different direction, but I think it covers it. And thanks for letting me know my asks were off. I got three more requests since turning them on.
No Regrets
1.9k - blood, guns, typical war content
Ghost is assumed dead. Soap knows better.
“A'm no leavin wi'out ‘im!” Soap cries out, his accent thickening as Price tries to reason with the furious Scot, “Ghost 's still out there, ya daft cunts-”
“Don’t be an idiot! It’s been four hours of radio silence since the detonation and there’s hostiles still swarming the place.” Price steps forward, grabbing Soap by the shoulder strap and dragging the man forward. “We’ve got a clean exfil and I’m not about to lose two of my best because you want to go on a suicide mission!”
“I dinnae care, cap. Marshall me, ahm not leaving til I see a body!” Soap snarls, yanking his shoulder back and rolling his neck with a few cracks. He looks to where Gaz is applying heavy pressure to the in-and-out shot one of their operatives took to the thigh. “A've got two hours 'til Nik drops. Keep yer comms on. Ahm not done ‘ere.”
Clean and clear- Soap’s callsign was more than jokes about dropping the soap in the shower. Johnny moves back towards the compound wall, his gun stays holstered to keep silent. He surveys the carnage left behind and sees the convoy of backup that would mean certain doom for him and Ghost. The headlights peeking through the mountains meant he had an hour- tops. He clocks three armored SUVs leaving through the main gates, carrying an easy payload of high-ranking cartel members, but this is no longer about stopping the enemy. Not when he’s still fuming at Price for leaving a man behind.
He drops down, his twisted knee from earlier slows him for a beat before he moves silently towards the cartel stash house. Soap’s knife slices across a throat before burying it in the chest of the other before a single shot can be wasted; the two men join the pile of bodies they’d been collecting from the bloodshed. A quick look at the corpses confirms his big bastard of a lieutenant isn’t one of them.
He slips into the side door, sticking to the shadows as he watches the hurried clean-up of shadow and cartel bodies alike. This mission had been more than a shitshow and Soap’s silent comms reminded exactly how alone he was in this. Shadows had been trigger happy, leveling a building before Ghost had confirmed he was clear. Soap didn’t believe for a second that Ghost hadn’t heard the order to take it down; that he wouldn’t do everything possible to get clear- even if it left him in the hands of the cartel.
Johnny doesn’t think about how he wouldn’t be going back into this hell if it weren’t Ghost. It was solely because Soap was loyal- he’d do the same for any of the 141. Of course he would. It wasn’t because Ghost could read his mind even when Soap was spouting out bullshit. It wasn’t the heat Johnny felt creep down his spine in the showers when Ghost came out bare chested. It certainly wasn’t because he hides his rosary on nights Ghost sits too close; he wanted God far away from the things his traitorous heart pumped through his blood.
Soap moves across the courtyard slowly, moving from cover to cover. They’d be stupid to keep Ghost above ground, not with a possible airstrike headed their way again. Ghost was too important; held too much intel to be wasted. Back to the wall, Soap listens carefully for the footsteps and chatter from inside. When the footsteps fade, Soap jimmies the door open, slipping inside and heading down the stairs. After sweeping the hallway, he finds two open doors, clearing them before heading to the last door at the end of the cellar.
“El gran fantasma desenmascarado por fin…”
Jackpot.
Soap slips his knife against the lock, unholstering his pistol when he hears the click. With a sharp kick, Soap takes in the sight of Ghost, unmasked and beaten half to hell.
“¡Qué carajos-!”
POP. POP.
The shots hit the bastard holding a knife to Ghost’s throat, one in the chest and one in the head. The movement of the man jerking back from the shots slice the knife across the lieutenant’s bare skin- not enough to bleed out, but enough for Soap to feel more dread coil in his stomach. He moves without thought, cutting through the ropes already starting to rough up Ghost’s ungloved wrists.
“Steamin’ Jesus, LT. Knew ye weren’t dead.”
“Johnny-?” Ghost’s voice is rough, smoke and heat scraping his throat from the explosion. “Get out of here. I’m a liability- “
“Negative.” Soap cuts him off, releasing the last of the binds around his ankles with quick hands, single-minded on getting Ghost out of here, “Can ye walk? We gottae move. Quick.”
Ghost stands with Soap’s shoulder under his arm. The smell of burnt flesh and blood draft upwards towards Soap’s nose as he eyes the tattered jeans and charred shirt of his superior.
Ghost shrugs off Soap’s arm with a grunt, holding his hand out for Soap’s second pistol. “Where’s the team?”
“Exfil point- safehouse.” Soap mutters, pulling a bandana from his pack and handing it to Ghost.
"You're here alone?" Ghost bites out before tying it over the bottom half of his face, flipping the safety off his gun and tilting his head towards the door. “Take lead.”
Soap moves towards the hallway again, sweeping it and thanking a god he barely believes in that his shots went unnoticed. “There’s a cover point near the east wall, if we can get back there, we might be able to make it.”
When they head up to the courtyard, Soap and Ghost move as a team, Ghost sprinting as if he hadn’t been kneecapped and sliced. Soap’s gut churns anytime he gets a glimpse of the blood marring Ghost’s neck, forcing his training to take control. Emotions get men killed.
“Price. Do ye copy?” Soap checks in over comms, watching the sky to find any evidence of their exfil on the way home without them. “This is Bravo 7-1. A've got Brave 0-7. Requesting exfil.”
When he only receives static back, he tries again. “Price! Do ye copy?”
Ghost’s back is against the wall as they watch the courtyard start to pick up activity. “How many bodies did you leave, Soap? They know- “
“Enough tae get tae ye.” Soap hisses back, both of them making a break for the far wall. “Price! How copy? This is Bravo 7-1. Need immediate exfil-!”
The words are no sooner out of his mouth than a gunshot rings out, Ghost taking down the guard closest to them and giving Soap enough time to jump up the wall. Three bullets whizz past him as his comms finally ring out with Price’s voice, “Bravo 7-1 this is 0-6. Exfil granted, get back to the safehouse. Thirty minutes.”
Soap reaches down for Ghost, his hand barely making purchase before someone gets a direct hit across Soap's shoulder, dropping Ghost back down with a grunt. “Ghost!”
To the left, a grenade explodes against the wall, debris and smoke giving them cover. Ghost and Soap both freeze for less than a beat, processing the direction of the grenade. It came from outside the wall. Gaz’s voice rings out over comms, “Get moving, sarge. Only got a few of those left.”
Ghost has enough purchase to grapple over the smoldering stucco. Soap drops down, making a run for the hills beyond the walls and back towards the safehouse. The chopper is halfway off the ground as the two men dive into the waiting doors.
"Ah keen ye weren’t dead. Ach, no one believed me, but-" Soap’s hands are trembling as he gives Ghost his mask, stopping him before the mask can cover his neck, the turbulence of the chopper ignored. “Lemme take a look a' that- “
“Soap.” Ghost pushes Soap’s hands back, affixing his mask in place and grabbing both of the shaking man’s hands, “Johnny.”
Soap’s hands won’t stop vibrating even as Ghost levels him with a hard look, “You got shot.”
Soap glances down at his shoulder, the pain coming back in a sharp wave, “Grazed me.”
Ghost doesn’t speak as he pulls Soap’s collar to the side. A graze was a nice way of putting it- more like a lucky angle that kept Soap from a shattered collarbone instead of taking out a chunk of skin and muscle.
Soap hisses when Ghost pushes him onto the seat next to him, flipping open the med kit to press gauze to the wound. The sterile fabric turns red with the sergeant’s sacrifice. “LT, what happened?”
Ghost pauses as he starts to wrap his shoulder, speaking quietly, “Got clear of the blast, barely, but took the back of a pistol to the head. Woke up underground with some bastard speaking Spanish. Learned the word for knife pretty quick.”
Soap’s eyes close, trying to get ahold of himself and think of anything but the warm hands patching him up. His lip trembles with adrenaline and something he refuses to name, “Ghost…”
“No,” Ghost rumbles, “That was bloody stupid. I was dead and gone as far as you knew.”
“I keen you weren’t- “
“No. You didn’t.” Ghost’s voice cuts through Soap’s pained desperation, “…and I didn’t either.”
Soap stops at that, looking to Price who is moving up to the cockpit, before looking back to Ghost, his voice dropping, “Ye thought I was dead?”
“Didn’t exactly get a debrief in their holding cell, did I? Last I saw was your ass getting shot at while I was being swallowed by a fireball.”
“I-“ Soap blinks several times, “Well, ahm not, am ah?”
“Me neither.” Ghost confirms, “Told you I’d never die with regrets.”
Soap’s head drops back against the chopper wall, sighing as Ghost finishes the wrapping of his shoulder before his eyes close. He pulls his lips in tight when Ghost’s hands leave his shoulder, the heat dissipating quicker than he can hope. “Aye. I remember.”
Ghost shifts, turning to face Soap, “Don’t you want to know what I’d regret?”
Soap cracks an eye open, a weak smirk on his face, unable to stop scanning the mask as if it will show the wounds underneath,
“Didnae think ye could regret anything…”
Ghost catches his chin, keeping eye contact as he lifts his mask back up to his nose. The fresh slash across the side of his neck making Johnny’s heartbeat faster with concern and heat.
“Have just the one.”
Ghost moves his hand from his chin to the back of his neck, pulling Johnny towards him to press their lips together. Johnny’s eyes widen, shocked at the first contact, before leaning into the kiss with a release of tension in his whole body. The taste of blood, whose blood was unclear, floods both their senses as Johnny parts his lips to better capture his lieutenant’s mouth. The kiss turns plush for a moment before Ghost pulls back and tugs his mask back down over his mouth.
“There. Now I can die.”
Soap didn’t lean back; mouth parted like Ghost’s lips were still against his. He stares at the man who stole his heart, sliced it open, and then kissed it clean. It takes several beats before reality slams back into Johnny, Ghost’s words sharp in his ears.
Thanks again to @morimementra for this request- anyone can send more!
Simon and Johnny move to the Scottish Highlands where the two men fight each other's separate demons in similar ways.
The shot from Makarov’s gun echoed through the tunnel. Soap limply fell to the ground with blood pouring from the side of his head. Before anyone could react, Makarov disappeared behind the tram, leaving Price and Gaz to disarm the bomb.
Ghost didn’t care if the tunnel collapsed—would have preferred it, even—if his sergeant was as dead as he looked. It took only two leaping steps before Ghost slid through the blood on his knees to Soap’s side, eyes raking over the man.
“No, no, no…” He ripped his gloves off, medic training kicking in, and reached for a pulse. It was weak, but the Scot’s heart fluttered under his fingers. The ringing in his ears muffled Price’s confirmation of the bomb being disabled, but he could hear Gaz’s shouting coming closer as he yanked his mask off to press it against the bleeding. “Call for a medevac!”
“Hold on, Soap. I’ve got you.” Ghost muttered gruffly, trying to ignore the feeling of warm blood soaking through the skull mask—blood that was never meant to stain Simon’s hands. The bullet had cut deep across the side of Johnny’s head, a thick slash of broken skin; jagged white bone could be seen through the pouring crimson blood. “You’re not going anywhere. You have to become better than me.” His free hand slid down the man’s throat, reassuring himself that there was still a pulse—still a hope.
There wasn’t.
“Johnny!”
Simon bolted straight up, his arms shooting forward and down as if still pressing down on fractured bone to stop the bleeding. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, muscles tensing in defense. When someone’s hand grabbed his wrist, Simon’s head snapped to the side. He saw the mussed mohawk of the man whose blood had stained that underground tunnel.
“Simon.” Johnny’s voice was rough, but steady. “I’m here. I’m safe.” The blue eyes looked black in the inky darkness of their bedroom, but they groggily held Simon’s gaze. Johnny’s hand moved from his wrist up to Simon’s chest, pressing against the wall of softened muscle. “Breathe.”
Simon caught his wrist, pushing it deeper against his sternum, warmth seeping into the chill of another night terror. He didn’t speak, couldn’t when he woke up like this. Johnny would always talk after a nightmare, but Simon, predictably, wouldn’t be ready to speak about his dream until morning.
“Everythin’s fine. We’re safe.” Johnny murmured, letting Simon’s thumb press against the inside of his wrist, checking for a pulse as he did every night. Johnny’s pressed down firmly, guiding him to lay back down against the pillows. The sheets were damp with Simon’s sweat, chilling the two men further than the autumn air blowing through the window. “Tell me where we're at.”
“Achintee.” Simon replied, hand settling on the side of Johnny’s head as he pulled the smaller man against his chest. He reached down, pulling the heavy quilt over them. “Two hours north of Glasgow. Two hours west of Inverness.”
“That’s right… though yer pronunciation is still shite.” Johnny murmured, fingers tracing through blonde chest hair. The scent of fear was still radiating off of Simon, and both men knew that he wouldn’t find further sleep that night. Johnny would stay up as long as he could, but exhaustion was an ever-present obstacle for him after the injury. The shot to Soap’s head had been one centimeter away from being permanently paralyzed and two millimeters from death. Simon’s hand drifted up to the jagged scar, fingers mapping the familiar reminder of what he had almost lost.
“M’fine. Go back to sleep.”
“Wheesht,” Johnny shushed him with a warm lilt in his voice. “I know yer fine, but lemme fret over ye anyway.”
Simon allowed Johnny to climb atop his chest and give his weight to ground the larger man. His arms wrapped around Simon’s neck, pulling his mohawk to rest under his chin. He didn’t move, didn’t wiggle or stroke his hair because Johnny knew his husband; knew he preferred a steady, unmoving warmth over tender caresses.
Simon’s attention drifted down from the scar, down Johnny’s spine, and he spanned his lower back with one large calloused hand. The warm breath against Simon's throat didn’t stop the images from playing behind his eyelids with every blink. Simon kept his nails short, down to the skin where he could, leaving him with something more akin to nubs than fingers. He’d never admit it, but he had only started doing it after he saw how his nails had broken the skin of Soap’s hip.
Long minutes passed, Simon felt when Johnny drifted back to sleep, body going lax, melting over him like wax pooling at the bottom of a candle. When Soap shifted in his sleep, Simon’s hand tightened for a moment before relaxing again when he didn’t wake, instead pressing his nose against the man’s hair and took a deep shaky breath.
The bloody flashes were slowly replaced by waves of calming memories; Johnny’s quiet laugh late at night, his tone-deaf humming when he was in the kitchen, and the feel of sitting in the grass together, watching the stars come out over the cliffs. Simon didn’t quite fall asleep, but his eyes were able to close with the scent of his husband safe in his arms.
Johnny hadn’t always smelled like home—not before moving to the highlands. The harsh sterile scent of hospitals had clung to him long after he was discharged. Simon had spent every moment of Johnny’s coma next to his bed—whispering promises about taking him to his homeland, promising to build them a house or buy him a castle, swearing to keep him safe from any threat that dared come near them, and to put him back piece by piece as long as he woke up.
The masked man dealt with the red tape behind Johnny’s back. He ensured Makarov’s network still believed Johnny to be dead, dealt with Price’s warning of going AWOL, pulled every string and spent every penny necessary to keep his promise. After three weeks, Simon started to believe he'd be grieving in Scotland alone, but fate gave the man another chance and Simon wouldn't waste it twice.
“I love you, Johnny. I’m so god damn sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
Johnny’s eyes squeezed shut as his brows raised. When he opened them and looked around the room, everything seemed normal. The pain radiating through his body hadn’t changed, the beeping of medical equipment was still in his ears, and he hadn’t taken communion in far too long, so he didn’t think this would be the hell he deserved. He looked back at Simon with another blink to clear his vision.
“Just double checking I’m not dead,” Johnny croaked out, an attempted smirk on his face. “How long?”
“Dunno. Few years.”
“A few years? Damn, I was out longer than I thought.”
“Johnny…”
“Ach, let the man with a hole in his head have his fun.”
Johnny’s hand raised a single inch off the bed, shaking with tremors and effort. Simon slid his own hand underneath, intertwining their fingers and holding on tighter than he should have so soon after the Scot woke up.
Johnny sighed, squeezing weakly. “I love ye too, Si.”
“How long?”
“’Bout four days.”
“You woke up three days ago.”
“Aye. Must’ve rattled somethin’ loose.”
“Johnny…”
“Las Almas,” Johnny said with a faint smile. “Saw yer face. Been stuck in my head ever since.”
“Hope it’s not the part that got shot.”
“Yer buried deeper than that.”
Then Soap was sent home, but what could home be when he was legally dead? How was he supposed to live knowing his family was grieving his feigned demise? What kind of life could he possibly live when he could barely stand or hold a fork? His eventual salvation was the first thing he saw when he woke up—Simon Riley.
A small two-bedroom cottage in the highlands, moss creeping over the stone path that led to their new home. Simon carried Johnny over the threshold, not out of a tender attempt at tradition, but because he needed time to make the house safe for Johnny. While the Scot slept, Simon would quietly work on getting the house up to snuff for his love. The handrails enabled Johnny to practice getting from his bedroom to the couch, the deck was leveled for the wheelchair Simon pushed when Johnny wanted to be outside, and every light switch in the house could be controlled by their one shared phone.
Johnny hated every change to the historical house, but he’d never begrudge Simon for it. The man was only making sure that the vows they’d taken in secret were upheld in a way a marriage certificate could never replicate. He kept his muttered curses away from where Simon could hear. He clenched his hands against the couch arm when Simon would get up for the fourth time in an hour to fuss or retrieve something. He bit back the hisses of pain when he shifted wrong, not wanting to send Simon into another hour of worry.
He couldn’t stop thinking about every wasted moment before he was shot. All the safehouses and bars where Johnny would stare at the mask and match the dips and curves to what he’d only briefly seen in Mexico. The times they’d be walking through a copse of trees, staking out sniper points with comfortable silence. The nights alone in his quarters when he prayed for God to not only forgive him, but to somehow bring Simon closer. How would things have changed if he’d only told Simon how utterly obsessed he was sooner? How would it have felt to be with Simon when he was still whole? Why hadn’t he—
“Hey. Where’d you go?”
Simon tilted Johnny’s face upwards with a finger under his chin, brown eyes crinkling with concern as he watched Johnny’s eyes focus back on the present. The summer air was thick with the sounds of bugs and wind, but the storm clouds were far enough away to give them time before rain threatened to wash out the paths. The fire burned before them, smoke curling into the sky.
“Nowhere,” Johnny muttered, pulling his head away to look into the flames. “Can’t go anywhere but here, can I?”
He could tell by the way the larger man's hand twitched that the comment stung, but Simon never pushed the issue. Neither of them knew how to heal something that wasn’t bone and blood. There was a long moment, long enough for Johnny’s thoughts to start to drift again to the background noise of crackling wood, before Simon spoke again, his voice less like gravel and more like carved marble.
“…was there somewhere you’d rather be?”
Johnny started to shake his head, to deny that Simon was anything but everything he needed, but it wasn’t the truth.
“I'd rather ye knew the answer to that already,” Johnny murmured, pulling Simon’s arm tighter around his shoulder and leaning into the broad chest radiating warmth.
Simon exhaled slowly and Johnny recognized the telltale sign of Simon trying to form an answer that matched the words in his head.
“I’d rather be watching you beat my record on the range.”
Johnny stilled, the answer wholly unexpected. Simon denied having any regrets for how things turned out. He’d pull Johnny back from whatever bitter thoughts the Scot fell into when the pain wouldn’t abate. Simon would always bring him back to what they had in front of them. This was the first time Simon admitted to a wish beyond what they’d created there, and Johnny wasn’t going to waste it.
“I'd rather be watching ye wipe off yer eyeblack and make it worse,” Johnny murmured.
“I’d rather be listening as you tore a new one into some cocky recruit,” Simon replied.
“I'd rather see Price lose his mind catching us in the same bunk.”
“I’d rather punch Gaz for staring at you in the showers.”
“I'd rather take you out to dinner on leave.”
“I’d rather be interrogated by the MacTavish clan at Christmas.”
“Christmas is overrated. I'd have dragged ye there for New Year’s and kissed ye at midnight.”
Simon chuffed, but Johnny could feel a weight slip off both of them with the admittance. They both wish this had started differently so they’d be end up with the life they took for granted.
“…I’d rather be here when we would've been old men, long retired.”
“Aye,” Johnny murmured. “... s'pose we’d've ended up here anyway.”
Simon nodded, pressing a kiss to his hair and breathing in.
