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Simon "Ghost" Riley liked silence.
Not the kind of silence that followed orders or obeyed hierarchy. He meant the kind that came after midnight, when the barracks thinned out, when the radio chatter died, when no one wanted anything from him. That silence, he could live in.
He was living in it now, tucked in the shadows of the base’s outdoor shooting range. Ear defenders pushed back against his skull, fingers resting loosely around the grip of a disassembled pistol, Ghost relished the peace of routine.
Until she showed up again.
“Evening, Lieutenant,” chirped Corporal Ellis, stepping into his peripheral vision like an unwanted pop-up ad. “Didn’t think you were still out here.”
Ghost didn’t respond.
Not because he didn’t hear her. Not because he wasn’t capable of pleasantries. But because he knew exactly what she was doing – and he’d already run out of excuses.
“You’re always so focused,” she continued, crouching a little to match his line of sight. “I’d say it’s intimidating if it wasn’t so-” she paused, eyes flicking down to his hands, “-intriguing.”
He clicked the slide into place without looking at her.
Ellis had been subtle at first. A little too eager to volunteer for his unit, too willing to stay late and take his briefings directly. But lately, the line between professional and personal had been crossed with both boots.
And Ghost? He was too used to being unreadable. Too used to people backing off when they hit the wall he’d built around himself. Ellis was the rare kind who thought walls were flirtatious.
He finally stood and holstered the pistol.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” he asked, voice flat behind the mask.
She smiled like he’d asked her to dinner. “Not really.”
He resisted the urge to sigh. Christ.
John “Soap” MacTavish decided he was done with the date by the time the bread arrived.
He sat in the window seat of a dingy Italian restaurant in Leeds, trying not to drown in the scent of overdone garlic bread and cheap wine. The girl across from him – Fiona, maybe? Freya?– was lovely. Kind. Pretty, in a clean, polished sort of way.
She was also a complete stranger. Not just to him, but to the version of himself his mother kept selling.
“She’s a pharmacist, John. Very clever. Just bought a flat in the West End. And her father knows people at the club – good connections.”
He heard it every time he went home. His mother’s eyes soft with concern, his father’s carefully neutral. Like they all knew something was wrong with John, but if they dressed it in a pretty enough girl and a respectable dinner, it might go away.
Freya was telling a story about her neighbour’s dog. Or maybe a client’s? He wasn’t listening.
He glanced at his phone under the table, thumb already on Gaz’s contact.
Soap: You still owe me for that night in Ibiza.
Soap: Cash it in. Save me from this.
Soap: Think of something. You call. We bail.
The reply came within seconds.
Gaz: On it. 60 seconds.
He smiled. Then caught himself. Freya noticed.
“You just got really smug. Something funny?”
He shook his head. “No, just remembered something... incredibly stupid.”
His phone rang.
He answered on the first buzz. “Kyle? What’s wrong?”
Pause. He nodded solemnly. “Shite. No, yeah – tell them I’m on my way.”
He hung up and turned to Freya, regret painted across his expression like a half-finished apology. “Work. Emergency. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh,” she blinked. “You said you weren’t military anymore.”
“I’m not,” he said, already grabbing his jacket. “But they still call when they need someone who knows what end of the barrel goes bang.”
She didn’t laugh.
He was out the door a moment later, already texting Gaz again.
Soap: You’re a hero. Next round’s on me.
Gaz: You’re pathetic. When are you going to tell them?
Soap: Tell who what?
Gaz: That you're not into girls. And never will be. You're dying out there.
Soap didn’t reply right away.
Instead, he stood outside under the grey, familiar drizzle of the evening, staring up at the murky clouds like they held all the answers. He felt tired in a way sleep didn’t fix.
Eventually, he typed back:
Soap: Not today.
Back on base, Ghost trudged back to his quarters, jaw tight beneath the skull mask. He’d had to shut Ellis down again – this time, less politely.
She’d laughed it off, but something behind her eyes had changed.
He didn’t like that.
He didn’t like being forced to talk. Or explain. Or prove that his disinterest wasn’t a challenge. That it wasn’t about her, or anyone. That the armour he wore wasn’t just physical.
Inside his room, he pulled off the mask, rubbed a hand down his face, and reached for the only contact on his phone he trusted with a decent conversation.
Gaz.
He opened their message thread, already several memes deep from the week, and typed:
Ghost: Got a Corporal who won’t stop trying to get promoted by way of my belt.
Gaz: Jesus. Again?
Ghost: She doesn’t take a hint. Might have to fake my own death.
Gaz: Or…
Gaz: Fake a boyfriend.
Ghost stared at that message.
Then again.
Gaz: 👀👀👀
Gaz: Actually wait. That gives me an idea.
Ghost narrowed his eyes.
He didn’t like the tone of that at all.
~*~
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick had never considered himself a matchmaker. But watching two grown men unravel – one under the weight of relentless flirting, the other under a barrage of awkward straight dates – he figured someone had to take initiative before one of them joined a monastery and the other got slapped with an HR complaint.
His phone buzzed as he walked across base toward the rec building.
Soap: Mate.
Soap: My mum's set me up with a bloody vicar’s niece this weekend.
Soap: I swear she’s just googling “nice women in Leeds.”
Gaz smirked.
Then a second message arrived – this time from Ghost.
Ghost: Ellis cornered me in the armoury again.
Ghost: Said she was ‘available for a private debrief’.
Ghost: I need to disappear. Or fake a coma.
Gaz’s smirk grew into something bordering on evil.
Gaz: You two are making this too easy.
It took convincing.
Soap didn’t exactly jump at the chance to meet Lieutenant Bloody Riley, the guy Gaz described as ‘taller than regret and twice as charming’. And Ghost sure as hell wasn’t thrilled about being set up with Kyle’s chatty ex-uni mate who wears rugby shorts in winter and whose nickname is Soap, of all things.
Still, Gaz was persistent.
And irritating.
Which, over time, wore both men down like water on rock.
But it wasn’t until that week, when things reached a breaking point for both of them, that they finally, grudgingly, told Gaz to set it up.
Wednesday
Ghost should’ve known better than to let his guard down in the mess.
He’d been minding his business, coffee black as sin, reading intel reports like bedtime stories, when Corporal Ellis slid into the seat across from him with the confidence of someone who’d already decided the future.
“I heard you’re going to the gala,” she said, spooning yogurt with theatrical slowness.
Ghost didn’t answer. Technically, he wasn’t. Not officially.
She leaned in slightly. “Be a shame if you didn’t bring a date.”
He looked up.
Flat stare. Silence.
Most people would’ve read that as ‘back off’. Ellis read it as ‘I’m mysterious and playing hard to get’.
She smirked. “Unless you're waiting for someone special.”
The implication hung in the air like smoke. Ghost pushed his tray back and stood without a word.
But that sentence – it stuck in his head. Like a knife in bark.
Someone special.
God, he wished he had one. Just so he could wave them around like a crucifix and end this nightmare.
By the time he left the mess, his boots were already carrying him toward Gaz’s bunk.
Friday
Soap lasted fifteen minutes into the pub dinner before texting Gaz the words:
Soap: Jesus Christ, Kyle. She brought her knitting.
He was seated across from a lovely woman with bright eyes and a cardigan older than most British aircraft carriers. Soap had nothing against her. In fact, he admired her bravery – blind-dating someone clearly not interested in the conversation or the gender.
Still, she talked. And talked. And when she asked, “Do you want kids?” with hopeful eyes, Soap felt the prick of panic rise.
He needed to get out. He needed this to stop.
He needed – God help him – a boyfriend.
One his family would believe. One who would look at his mother like she was a mission brief and not break eye contact until she backed off.
Soap scrolled to Gaz’s number and finally sent the message:
Soap: Fine.
Soap: Introduce me to your spooky bastard.
Soap: I’ll be nice. Just get me out of this.
Gaz got both texts within the same hour.
One from Ghost, short and sweet:
Ghost: Set it up.
And Soap’s, panicked and pleading.
He cracked his knuckles, smiling to himself like a proud parent.
Gaz: You’re both insane. And perfect for each other.
Gaz: Tomorrow. 1600 hours. My flat. Neutral territory.
Gaz: No weapons. No growling. You’re both adults.
~*~
Gaz’s flat smelled like old coffee, gun oil, and whatever candle his last girlfriend left behind in an act of passive-aggressive decorating.
He had cleaned – sort of. Dishes were in the sink (not the couch), the floor was mostly clear, and there were three beers chilling in the fridge.
He needed both men in a good mood before the inevitable bickering began.
First to arrive: Ghost, punctual to the second, dressed like he was ready to interrogate a prisoner. Plain black hoodie, combat boots, and – of course – the mask.
“Christ,” Gaz muttered. “You know you’re indoors, right? No snipers here.”
Ghost grunted and stalked into the flat.
Second came Soap, five minutes late and clearly debating turning around the whole way up the stairs. He had his arms crossed, shoulders tight with caution, and wore jeans and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen more bar fights than concerts.
“Hey, Johnny,” Gaz greeted. “Still allergic to punctuality?”
Soap made a face. “Still allergic to fashion, mate?”
“Nice. Get it all out now,” Gaz said, holding the door open and waving him in. “You two are going to be very close soon.”
Soap stepped in – and froze.
Ghost was standing in the living room, motionless as a statue.
Soap blinked once, slowly.
“That him?”
“Yeah,” Gaz said flatly. “That’s Ghost.”
Ghost tilted his head. “You’re the one who faked an emergency to run out on a date with a dentist.”
“And you’re the one being sexually hunted across base by a woman with a death wish.”
Gaz raised his hands. “Right, great start. Glad we’re keeping it civil.”
They sat – Soap on the arm of the couch, Ghost in the farthest chair like a man refusing intimacy on principle.
The silence stretched.
Soap tapped his knee. Ghost cracked his knuckles.
Gaz sighed like a long-suffering therapist.
“Let’s cut the drama,” he said, grabbing his phone. “You’re both here because you're out of options, not because you’re dying for each other’s company.”
“I didn’t agree yet,” Ghost said sharply.
“Neither did I,” Soap added, more defensively than he intended.
Gaz smiled like he’d been waiting for that. He unlocked his phone and started scrolling.
“Right then,” he said. “Let’s recap, shall we?”
He tapped once, then read out loud with a theatrical flourish:
Soap – May 31st, 21:08: “If my ma sets me up with another girl who looks like she’s waiting for a church organ to start, I’m jumping into the Aire.”
Soap groaned, slouching back. “You kept that?”
“Oh, we’re not done.” Gaz tapped again.
Ghost – June 2nd, 00:15: “Corporal Ellis left a handwritten note on my bed. No idea how she got in. Burned it. Considered burning the bed too.”
Ghost crossed his arms tighter.
Gaz went on:
Soap – June 5th, 19:46: “Does it count as emotional trauma if my cousin told me I’d ‘make some lucky girl very happy one day’ and I nearly choked on a chip?”
Ghost – June 9th, 10:04: “She asked if I was seeing anyone. I said I was married to the mission. She laughed. Said she likes a man with commitment issues.”
Gaz lowered the phone. “Need I go on?”
The room was quiet.
Soap exhaled loudly. “Alright. Maybe we’ve got… mutually assured humiliation.”
Ghost looked at Soap. Really looked, for the first time. Assessed. He had a strong jaw, short mohawk, stupid little scar on his eyebrow like he’d picked fights as a teenager and won. He didn’t look like trouble, but he smelled like it.
Soap looked back. Ghost was all cold steel and blank expressions – unreadable. But something behind his eyes told Soap this was a man who didn’t like being seen, let alone studied.
He understood that.
“Let’s be clear,” Ghost said, voice low. “We don’t actually have to date.”
“God, no,” Soap replied, like the idea personally offended him. “Just play pretend long enough for our disasters to move on.”
Gaz grinned. “Exactly. Two events. One military gala. One weekend with Soap’s matchmaking family in bonnie Scotland. You pretend to be the boyfriend. You keep the flirts and setups at bay.”
“I’m not holding hands,” Ghost said.
“Not kissing either,” Soap added quickly.
“You might have to stand close,” Gaz offered. “Like… convincingly.”
Ghost sighed.
Soap swore under his breath.
But then, at the exact same time, they both muttered:
“Fine.”
Gaz looked way too pleased. “Brilliant. I’ll draft your origin story.”
Ghost leaned forward. “Wait. Origin story?”
“You need details,” Gaz said, already opening his Notes app. “How you met. Inside jokes. How long you’ve been together. If you break character, Ellis will smell it. And Soap’s mum? She’s gonna interrogate you like you’re marrying into royalty.”
Soap rubbed his eyes. “This is gonna be a bloody disaster.”
Ghost exhaled slowly. “But better than the alternative.”
They looked at each other again. Still wary. Still distant. But the edge of shared misery softened it.
Just a little.
~*~
Ghost didn’t plan it. He never planned things like this.
Corporal Ellis had a gift for slipping past his radar – bright smile, sharp aim, and the uncanny ability to materialize next to him whenever he had something hot in his hands. This time it was tea. Not even the good kind – the lukewarm, ration-packet kind. Still, it ended up all over his glove when she appeared like a shadow with cleavage.
“Hey, Lieutenant.” Her voice tilted at the end. “Didn’t think I’d catch you off duty.”
Ghost didn’t answer. His default silence usually worked.
Ellis took that as encouragement, as usual.
She leaned a little too close, fingers brushing his arm, smile positively predatory.
“I was thinking about that gala,” she said sweetly, practically purring now. “Would be a shame to go alone, don’t you think?”
She did that thing again – draped herself against his arm like she belonged there. Ghost stiffened. He could feel people watching. A few glances across the mess hall. Someone tried not to smirk.
His brain screamed for an ejector seat.
And then – It just came out.
“I’ve got a boyfriend.”
Ellis blinked. “...What?”
He stared back, blank-faced. Internally screaming.
“Long-term,” he added, voice as calm and cold as a knife laid flat. “We’re serious.”
Ellis paused, tilting her head like she wasn’t sure if he was joking or being cruel. Maybe both.
“Since when?”
Ghost didn’t blink. “Two years.”
There was a silence long enough for the table next to them to go quiet. Someone actually turned around to look.
Ellis stepped back a little, smile faltering.
“Oh,” she said, voice clipped. “Guess I missed that.”
“Guess you did.”
She didn’t try to touch him again. Just muttered something under her breath and left her half-eaten lunch behind.
Ghost exhaled and took a long, scalding sip of tea.
It spread faster than bad intel.
By that evening, Sergeant Porter had asked Ghost if he was bringing his bloke to the gala. Someone else left a note on the briefing whiteboard that read Riley’s finally off the market – poor bastard.
Price raised an eyebrow during debrief and said, “Didn’t know you were taken.”
Ghost grunted in response. Price just chuckled.
And Gaz? Gaz grinned like the devil himself.
Meanwhile, Soap’s week was going beautifully wrong.
He’d managed to dodge his last date setup by claiming a scheduling conflict. (“I can’t do Friday, Ma, I’ve got a tactical knife seminar.”) But it didn’t stop her.
This time it was worse.
His mum called during breakfast, and he stupidly answered while halfway through a mouthful of toast.
“John, darling, I’ve invited someone lovely for Sunday lunch. She teaches Pilates and rescues hedgehogs in her spare time-”
“I have a boyfriend!”
It exploded out of him like shrapnel. There was a beat of pure silence on the other end. Then:
“You what?!”
Soap closed his eyes. “A boyfriend. I’ve got one. We’ve… been together a while.”
His mother sounded stunned, then suspicious, then cautiously delighted. “Well, I had no idea, John.”
“You never asked,” he muttered.
“That’s not true. I always asked why you didn’t have a nice girl.”
“Exactly.”
There was a pause again.
Then came the words he should’ve known were coming.
“Well,” she said brightly, “why don’t you bring him up for family weekend? We’ve still got the guest room. Unless you’re sharing.”
Soap choked on air. “What?!”
“You can’t spring a serious relationship on your poor mother and not bring him home. Your aunts are going to want to meet him!”
“I didn’t- We’re not-”
“I’ll make a roast. You’ll see. It’ll be lovely.”
She hung up before he could protest further.
Soap stared down at his phone, then buried his face in his hands.
Gaz texted him a minute later, like he sensed it from halfway across the country:
Gaz: She invited him, didn’t she?
Soap: I hate you.
Gaz: Tell Ghost the happy news.
Soap: Oh, I’m telling him. I’m dragging him to Glasgow in chains.
Gaz: Fair warning: he told Ellis he had a boyfriend.
Soap: You’re joking.
Gaz: Nope.
Soap: This is your fault.
Gaz: This is fate, mate.
By the next morning, both men had gone from reluctant agreement to cornered participation.
Ghost because the entire base now assumed he had a long-term boyfriend.
Soap because his mother was preparing roast beef and telling the extended family about her “sweet son and his serious partner.”
They met again – back at Gaz’s flat, this time without sarcasm, just grim understanding.
Ghost stood by the window, arms folded. “You told your family?”
“They dragged it out of me,” Soap said defensively, slumping onto Gaz’s couch. “You?”
“Corporal Ellis draped herself on me like a blanket. I panicked.”
Soap groaned. “So that’s it then. We’re doing this.”
Ghost nodded. “Guess we are.”
Gaz, holding two pints and one bag of crisps, raised his glass.
“To love.”
Both men turned and glared at him.
Gaz grinned. “Fine. To mutual survival.”
~*~
The next evening found Soap and Ghost sitting in Gaz’s living room, again, like two men waiting for a bomb to go off. Which, to be fair, they kind of were.
Gaz tossed a whiteboard marker between his hands like he was enjoying himself far too much for someone technically not involved in the lie. “Right, lads. We’ve got two major fronts: the military gala and the MacTavish family weekend.”
Soap was already slumped into the sofa, face pinched. “You make it sound like a hostage negotiation.”
“Isn’t it?” Ghost muttered.
Gaz grinned. “Glad you agree. Let’s start with the basics. You’ve been together for…” He looked expectantly at them both.
Soap blinked. “What?”
Gaz rolled his eyes. “You told people you’ve been together for a while. So how long have you been fake-dating?”
Ghost grunted. “Two years.”
Soap turned to him, incredulous. “Two years?”
“That’s what I told Ellis.”
“Mate, no one’s gonna believe you’ve managed to be with anyone for two years and not murdered them in their sleep.”
Ghost looked at him evenly. “I haven’t murdered you yet.”
Gaz, entirely unfazed, scrawled ‘2 YEARS’ on his whiteboard. “Alright, anniversary in October, met in 2023, started dating after-?”
Soap scratched the back of his neck. “Pub? Mutual friend? You?”
Gaz nodded. “I was the link, remember? Uni mate of yours-” he pointed at Soap “-and on Ghost’s unit.”
Ghost finally sat up straighter. “We met at one of your barbecues.”
Gaz snapped his fingers. “Perfect. You shared a laugh over bad sausages and trauma. Very you.”
Soap made a face. “What the hell do we do with two fake years? That’s birthdays, Christmas, Valentine’s-” he waved vaguely. “I barely remember what I did two months ago.”
“You’ll wing it,” Gaz said confidently. “Just keep it simple. Shared playlists. Inside jokes. Gross nicknames.”
Ghost stared at him. “Absolutely not.”
Soap grinned suddenly, the first real one all evening. “What, you’re not a babycakes kinda guy?”
“I will end you.”
“See? That’s our dynamic already.”
Gaz chuckled. “Alright, no nicknames in public. Fine. But you’ll need some affection. Holding hands. Maybe a kiss.”
Both men turned to him in horror.
“No,” Ghost said flatly.
Soap held up both hands. “That’s advanced level shit. We’re still in the basic lies and plausible deniability phase.”
“You’ve got four days till the gala,” Gaz pointed out. “And a week and a half till Soap’s mother is carving a roast across from Simon bloody Riley at the family table. You need chemistry.”
Ghost muttered something like, “I’ve got knives with more chemistry,” and Soap snorted.
Gaz ignored them both and pointed to a new heading on the whiteboard: ‘THE COVER STORY’.
“Where do you live?”
Ghost shrugged. “My flat in Manchester.”
Soap blinked. “You have a flat?”
“Where do you think I go between missions?”
“Honestly? I assumed you slept in a coffin.”
Gaz continued without missing a beat. “So Simon’s place. But Soap visits all the time. You’ve got a drawer there.”
Ghost stared. “A drawer?”
“You’re two years deep. He’s got socks in your flat.”
Soap raised a hand. “I draw the line at toothbrushes.”
“Noted,” Gaz said, already scribbling. “What do you like about each other?”
Both men froze.
Soap cleared his throat. “I… suppose I like that he’s honest.”
Gaz raised a brow.
“Violently honest. But still.”
Ghost shifted in his seat. “He’s… persistent.”
Soap smiled wryly. “That was almost a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
Gaz looked between them with exaggerated fondness. “This is going great. ”
They spent the next hour debating things like who initiated the relationship (Soap did, after “three pints and a really shit movie”), who says “I love you” first (neither, that’s madness), and whether or not Ghost could realistically be convinced to go anywhere in public where photos might be taken (the answer was a firm no, "not in a million years").
At the end of the night, Gaz capped his marker and leaned back with the satisfied air of someone who’s set two bombs on a collision course and is just waiting for the explosion.
“Congrats,” he said. “You’re officially boyfriends now.”
Soap groaned. “I feel like I need a tactical manual for this.”
Ghost stood, stretching. “We’ll rehearse answers tomorrow. And for God’s sake, MacTavish, learn how to not look like you’re lying.”
“I was born to lie, thank you.”
“You were born loud. That’s not the same.”
Gaz waved them both toward the door. “Go home. Rest. You’ve got a gala to survive.”
“And then a Scottish mum,” Soap muttered. “God help us both.”
~*~
The military gala was, without exaggeration, Ghost’s personal hell.
Fluorescent lighting, scratchy dress uniforms, civilians trying to talk about war like it was a Netflix series – it was the kind of event he usually avoided with strategic sick days. But this time, there was no escape. Not when the colonel himself had clapped him on the shoulder with a “Bring that long-suffering boyfriend of yours – poor bastard deserves a medal.”
So Ghost showed up. In uniform. Face mostly bare, save for a black cloth mask that covered the lower half of it – less anonymity, more damage control. And right beside him, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, looking annoyingly at ease in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled, forearms smugly visible.
“Relax,” Soap muttered as they walked through the reception hall. “You look like you’re expecting sniper fire.”
“I’d prefer it,” Ghost replied.
Soap bumped his shoulder lightly. “Just remember: deep breath, public affection, soft eyes.”
“I will strangle you with your tie.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The hall was packed – brass, civilians, support units, everyone awkwardly mingling under banners and lukewarm canapés. Ghost scanned the crowd automatically, situational awareness a reflex.
And then-
“Lieutenant Riley!” came a bright voice, all too familiar.
Corporal Ellis.
Ghost stiffened. She was cutting through the crowd with the confidence of a woman who thought she had a shot. Her blonde hair was curled just enough to look ‘accidentally perfect’, and her uniform blouse was fitted to make a statement.
Soap noticed her, too. “That her?” he muttered. Ghost nodded grimly.
“Corporal,” Ghost said evenly when Ellis arrived at them.
Her eyes flicked to Soap, like an afterthought. “You must be the famous boyfriend then.”
Soap straightened, extending a hand. “John MacTavish.”
She shook it briefly. “So nice to finally meet you. Ghost – sorry, Lieutenant Riley – mentioned you last week.”
Soap glanced at Ghost, who stared straight ahead like he was enduring artillery fire.
“Did he now?” Soap asked, playing along.
“Mhm,” Ellis turned her attention back to Ghost, “I just found it interesting, is all. You never mentioned having a boyfriend before. None of us knew. I suppose you’re just… private.”
Ghost’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t speak.
“I mean, if it were me,” she went on lightly, turning back to Soap, “I might be a little put off if my partner never talked about me to anyone. Especially coworkers. Makes you wonder how important you really are, doesn’t it?”
Soap blinked once, then tilted his head.
He could see the game she was playing. This wasn’t about her being oblivious. This was about a hit – subtle, smiling sabotage.
Alright then, Soap thought grimly. You want a show?
He turned to Ghost with the most adoring expression he could muster – crinkled eyes, soft voice.
“He doesn’t talk much about anything personal,” he said to Ellis, “but that’s not because he’s not proud. He just keeps things close. He shows it in other ways.”
Ghost looked at him then, slow and unreadable.
“Like what?” Ellis asked, voice too sweet.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Soap said, turning back to her. “The way he texts to check if I’ve eaten. Or how he leaves tea on the counter when I’m on late shifts. Or how he wakes up first when I have nightmares and doesn’t say anything, just sits with me till I fall asleep again.”
Ghost hadn’t moved, but the air changed – thickened.
Soap smiled brightly, almost dangerously now. “He doesn’t talk much. But he loves loud in other ways. You just have to know how to listen.”
Ellis stood there, lips parting slightly.
“I see,” she said, a little flat now.
“Anyway,” Soap added, looping an arm casually around Ghost’s, “we were just about to find our table. Lovely chatting, Corporal.”
Ellis stepped back, blinking like she’d walked into sunlight. “Of course. Enjoy the gala.”
They walked off in step, Soap still holding onto Ghost’s arm. When they were out of earshot, Soap let go and muttered, “Was that too much?”
Ghost finally spoke, voice dry as the wine.
“Waking up during your nightmares?”
Soap grinned. “It sounded romantic.”
“You’ve thought about this more than I realized.”
“I’ve been taking notes. Weaponized affection. Very effective.”
Ghost was quiet for a moment. Then: “You didn’t have to defend me.”
Soap shrugged. “Didn’t like how she talked to you. Or about you. That was personal.”
“…Thanks.”
They drifted toward the far wall again, silence heavier now. Not awkward. Just… filled with something they didn’t want to look too closely at.
After a while, Ghost said, “She’s not going to give up easily.”
“Nope.”
“We’ll have to get better at this.”
Soap raised his glass in mock salute. “Good thing we’ve got time to practice, love.”
Ghost snorted once.
But he didn’t correct him.
~*~
Johnny had warned Ghost. Several times.
“My family is loud, mate. My mum will interrogate you like it’s MI6. And the wee ones? Hope you like sticky fingers and sugar-fuelled chaos.”
Ghost hadn’t said much in reply – just grunted and adjusted his duffel bag as they stepped out of the car onto the gravel drive of the MacTavish family home in the Scottish Highlands. The cottage was bigger than Ghost expected, smoke curling from the chimney, a dozen cars already crammed onto the patchy grass. He could hear the noise from inside before the front door even opened.
And then it did.
“Johnny!”
A small human projectile in a Spider-Man hoodie launched itself into Soap’s midsection. “Rory, for Christ’s sake-”
Another one followed. Then three more.
Ghost found himself standing next to a man rapidly being smothered by nieces and nephews while trying to keep hold of a Tupperware container full of food his mum had demanded he bring. Amid the chaos, a little girl with a green ribbon in her hair blinked up at Ghost.
“Are you the boyfriend?”
Ghost hesitated. “Supposedly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t look like a boyfriend.”
“Good.”
She nodded solemnly and held up a toy sword. “I’m knightin’ ye anyway. Uncle Johnny’s had too many bad dates.”
Before he could respond, she bopped him on the arm with the foam blade and scampered off.
Soap emerged from the dogpile, shirt rumpled and grinning. “Told you they’d eat us alive.”
Ghost shook his head. “You didn’t say it was a full invasion.”
“Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
Inside was a blur of tartan, wood panelling, and a smell that hit like a punch of nostalgia: meat pies, fresh rolls, something bubbling on the hob. Ghost kept close as Soap led them through the greetings, arm brushing against his like an anchor.
And then – her.
Mary MacTavish stood in the kitchen like a general surveying her domain. Apron dusted in flour, eyebrow already arched.
“So,” she said without preamble, “you’re Simon.”
Ghost straightened. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you own anything other than black?”
“No, ma’am.”
She stared for a long moment. Then, to Soap: “He’s got manners. That’s new.”
“Ma.”
“Does he cook?”
“Better than me,” Soap offered.
Mary’s eyes narrowed. “Do you drink tea?”
“Only if it’s strong enough to kill a man.”
Her lips twitched. “Alright. You pass. For now.”
Ghost exhaled through his nose, and Soap elbowed him gently, clearly trying not to laugh.
By the time lunch came around, Ghost had been conscripted by the younger cousins into building a fort out of sofa cushions, and Soap watched with something equal parts bewilderment and affection as the famously silent soldier calmly helped a six-year-old glue googly eyes onto a paper dragon.
“Didn’t think you liked kids,” he said later, leaning on the kitchen counter beside him.
“I don’t.”
“They like you."
“They’re honest,” Ghost said. “Don’t play games.”
Soap looked at him. “Thought that was my job.”
Ghost’s eyes crinkled just enough to show he was smiling under the mask.
Later, after the fire was lit and the older cousins brought out whisky, Soap found himself sitting on the porch swing beside Ghost, a tartan blanket over their legs more out of politeness than warmth.
The night was quiet.
Until it wasn’t.
“So,” came the slurred voice of Ewan – Soap’s cousin, already two drams past decent. “You two, huh? Never thought Johnny’d be the one takin’ it instead of givin’ it.”
Soap froze.
Ewan laughed. “I mean, no offense, just – figured if there was a gay one, he’d at least be the man in it.”
There was a beat of silence. Not long. Just enough.
Then Ghost spoke – quiet, calm, lethal.
“If I ever hear you talk about him like that again,” he said evenly, “you’ll be chewing your teeth for a month.”
Ewan paled. The whisky did not help.
“Jesus, it was just a joke-”
“It wasn’t funny,” Ghost said. “And it wasn’t a question.”
Soap felt a flush rise in his cheeks – part anger, part something else entirely.
Ewan backed off quickly after that.
Soap didn’t speak for a moment, watching the stars blink faintly overhead.
“…Thanks,” he said eventually.
Ghost just nodded. “Didn’t like the way he looked at you.”
Soap smiled. “You’re gettin’ good at this boyfriend thing.”
Ghost turned to him, serious now. “That didn’t feel fake.”
Soap looked down at his hands in his lap. “It didn’t feel fake to me either.”
They didn’t say anything else for a long while.
Just sat together, warm beneath the tartan, under the watch of a quiet, northern sky.
~*~
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
That thought came to Ghost one Friday evening, sitting in the corner booth of a local bar, the kind of place with sticky menus and a jukebox no one dared to touch unless they wanted a riot. He nursed a pint while Gaz, Soap, and a handful of others from the unit laughed over some story about a failed training sim involving a goat and a misfired flashbang.
Soap was at the centre of it all, comfortably charming, arms gesturing wildly as he recounted the tale. Ghost had never known someone who could hold a room like that. It didn’t help that Soap looked annoyingly good in the soft lighting, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the faintest flush in his cheeks from the drink.
“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” Gaz said quietly, sliding in beside Ghost with a half-smile.
“I show.”
“Not to this.” Gaz nodded toward Soap. “He’s good for you.”
Ghost’s gaze snapped to him, expression unreadable behind his mask.
Gaz just lifted his glass. “Not everything has to be war, mate.”
And maybe it didn’t.
One night turned into two. Then into weekends.
They started texting more. First, logistics – “Family dinner Sat, you in?” or “You still on for drinks w/ Gaz?”
But then:
You still up?
Tryin' a new curry recipe, want to come test it?
Ran into a lad from uni today. Said I looked happier. That’s new.
Ghost didn’t know when he started checking his phone before he went to sleep. He didn’t know when Soap’s voice became the one he expected when it buzzed.
He did know when someone noticed.
“Jesus, Ghost,” Price had muttered over a planning doc, “you’ve been glued to that phone all week. Tell Johnny he’s invited for drinks on Friday.”
Ghost hadn’t answered. Just typed:
You got any plans Friday?
And Soap had responded:
Just tryin' to keep the story straight, right?
Soap didn’t mean to keep showing up at Ghost’s place. But one visit bled into another. A casual drop-in became routine.
“You’re out of milk again,” Soap said, rummaging through the fridge.
“I drink it black,” Ghost replied from the kitchen table.
“Aye, and I drink tea, so how am I meant to survive?”
“You keep drinkin’ it like that, you won’t.”
But when Soap opened the fridge the next week, there was milk.
He didn’t say anything.
Ghost didn’t either.
Instead, Soap made them both a cup. One with sugar and milk. One like tar and gunpowder. Ghost took his mug and sat down with an almost imperceptible sigh. It was quiet. Easy.
Comfortable.
That was the word.
Soap’s younger sister visited the following Sunday.
She was taller than him, sharp as glass, and twice as nosy. Her laugh was even louder than his. She hugged Ghost like she’d known him for years and dragged them both to a family-run restaurant tucked into the side of town like a secret.
“So this is the infamous Simon. Ma told me you survived the family weekend,” she said over starters, watching them like she was piecing together a murder board. “You’re even quieter than John said. Mysterious. I like it.”
Ghost gave her a polite nod.
“He likes you,” she added in a lower voice, just for Soap.
“Who?” he blinked.
“Don’t be thick. You like him too.”
Soap drank his beer without comment.
When Ghost returned from the loo, her eyes gleamed. “I was just telling Johnny how well you two balance each other.”
“Is that right,” Ghost said slowly, glancing at Soap, who looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
The dinner ended with laughter, another hug, and her whispering something into Soap’s ear that made him go pink. Ghost didn’t ask.
But on the walk home, Soap bumped their shoulders together and said, “You passed the sister test. That’s the hard one.”
Ghost tilted his head. “Thought your mum was the hard one.”
Soap chuckled. “Nah. My sister sees everything. She’d have spotted a fake in seconds.”
Ghost didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
The silence between them was full of something unspoken, something warm.
And neither of them quite dared name it.
~*~
It wasn’t a gala this time. No stiff uniforms, no glittering medals, no overpriced champagne. Just a mixer thrown together by command for PR and morale – civilian contractors, attached medical personnel, and a rotating door of soldiers mingling over beer and lukewarm catered food.
Ghost hated it.
He was standing in a corner near the back of the open-air tent, nursing a drink he didn’t want, watching the flood of conversation move around him like he wasn’t there. That used to be the goal.
Then Johnny MacTavish arrived, wearing a rolled-up button-down and enough charm to make every person within twenty feet suddenly remember Ghost had a boyfriend.
"Johnny!" someone called near the bar. "Good to see you again-"
"Soap, right? You were at the gala-"
"You put up with him full-time?" one of the contractors said, pointing a thumb toward Ghost. "You deserve combat pay."
Soap laughed, an easy, full-chested sound that made Ghost's jaw clench in a way that had nothing to do with irritation.
It wasn’t the attention that bothered him. It was that people liked Johnny. They didn’t just tolerate him because he was attached to Ghost. They gravitated toward him. And through him, to Ghost.
More people spoke to him in the first hour than usually did in a full deployment. Ghost shot Soap a sideways glance.
"You’re ruining my image, you know."
Soap glanced up from a conversation, grinning like he knew exactly what he was doing. “What, the brooding, no-social-life, terrifying shadow man?”
Ghost deadpanned, “Exactly that.”
“Well,” Soap bumped his shoulder gently as he passed him a fresh drink, “Maybe they’ll finally stop callin’ you ‘Lurch’ behind your back.”
Ghost narrowed his eyes.
“You heard that, huh?”
“Oh aye. But don’t worry. I like you scary.”
Ghost didn’t reply. Just took the drink and let Soap’s warmth settle against him like a familiar ache.
Later, they found themselves near a set of picnic tables under low, buzzing lights. Soap sat comfortably close, his thigh brushing Ghost’s. Ghost should’ve shifted. He didn’t.
Corporal Ellis appeared like a storm cloud.
“Well, well,” she said with a sweet tone that didn’t reach her eyes. “Still playing the happy couple, huh?”
Soap tensed subtly beside Ghost. Ghost didn’t move.
Ellis sipped her drink. “Y’know, it’s funny. For a bloke in love, Ghost doesn’t talk about you much.”
Soap didn’t answer, but Ghost could feel him go still.
Ellis smiled, eyes sharp. “If I were you, I’d be worried. A man like that, never mentioning you on base? Almost like he’s trying to keep you a secret.”
Something mean curled in Ghost’s chest.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen. The lies. The rumours. The goddamn heat beneath his collar every time Soap brushed against him without thinking. He hadn’t meant to care whether people believed it or not.
But suddenly he did.
Ghost turned his head. Looked Soap square in the eye.
“You worried?” he asked, voice low.
Soap blinked, startled. “No.”
“Good.”
And then Ghost leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t rough, either. Just… certain. Warm. Anchoring. The kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve made your mind up and don’t care who’s watching.
Soap made a quiet sound of surprise against his mouth. But he didn’t pull back. His hand came up, gentle on Ghost’s jaw, steadying him.
When they broke apart, Ellis had already walked away.
Soap stayed close. “What was that for?”
Ghost’s throat was dry. “She pissed me off.”
Soap huffed a laugh, and Ghost felt it on his skin.
“Well,” he murmured, “I think she’s convinced now.”
Ghost didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.
Because something dangerous had taken root somewhere beneath his ribs. Something he wasn’t ready to name.
But when Soap didn’t move away, didn’t pretend it hadn’t just happened, Ghost thought maybe he wasn’t the only one.
~*~
The ride back from the mixer was quiet.
Soap didn’t bring up the kiss. Ghost didn’t either.
He’d meant it as a silencer. A tactic. Something decisive to shut Ellis up and drive the point home. That’s what he told himself.
But his brain wouldn’t stop replaying the way Soap’s fingers curled at his jaw, how he didn’t flinch or laugh or hesitate. How his breath had hitched for just a moment, like maybe – for a second –it hadn’t felt like part of the lie.
So, Ghost said nothing. And Soap said nothing. And the silence got loud.
The next morning, Soap sent a text like nothing had happened:
Soap: I hope you know your scary image is completely gone. My sister asked if we’d considered a spring wedding.
Ghost: Tell her we’re eloping.
Soap: Vegas or Skye?
Ghost stared at the reply longer than he should’ve, thumb hovering over the keyboard with a smirk ghosting his lips.
Ghost: Vegas. Shotgun and all.
Soap: Romantic.
The week passed in snapshots.
Soap dropped by the base to bring Gaz a book and ended up chatting with Price about whiskey like he’d been stationed there for months. Ghost watched the conversation from a distance, leaning in a doorway, arms crossed, and felt something oddly… still inside his chest.
Another night, they went for drinks with the team. Ghost didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. Everyone talked to Soap, and Soap leaned against his shoulder like they’d done it a thousand times. Like his body just knew where Ghost would be.
Rudy clapped Ghost on the back and said, “He’s good for you, hermano.”
Ghost didn’t correct him.
Soap texted more now.
It wasn’t constant, but it was consistent. Memes. Screenshots of bad Tinder profiles his friends sent him. Random photos – Ghost’s favourite was the blurry one of a dog riding in the back of a pickup, ears flapping like a parachute.
Some nights, the messages just said:
Soap: u awake?
Ghost always was.
It was a Wednesday when Soap showed up at Ghost’s flat with two takeaways and a casual, “Just to keep the story straight.”
Ghost raised an eyebrow, stepping aside to let him in. “The story?”
“If Ellis asks what we had for dinner last night, you need to say somethin’ believable.”
“You think she’s spying on us?”
“I’d be disappointed if she weren’t.”
Soap kicked off his boots like it wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Like it wasn’t dangerous how natural it was becoming.
Ghost didn’t stop him. Just handed him a fork and let him take his spot on the worn-down sofa.
They ate in silence for a bit, side by side, watching some old rerun neither of them was really paying attention to. Soap’s thigh pressed against Ghost’s again.
At one point, Soap reached over and took Ghost’s mug from the table, sipping without asking.
He made a face.
“You take your tea like you’re punishing yourself.”
“Don’t like sugar in it.”
“Aye, I noticed. You always use the chipped cup too.”
Ghost glanced at it. He hadn’t realised. “Habit.”
Soap hummed. Then, softer: “It suits you.”
They didn’t talk for a long stretch after that.
Ghost stared at the TV. Soap leaned his head back against the sofa, blinking slowly, like the weight of the day was finally pulling him down.
It was quiet. Comfortable. Too comfortable.
Ghost could feel the shift like a slow tide rising around his ribs.
The lies weren’t supposed to bring peace. They were supposed to be cover. Noise. Something to survive under.
But this – Soap’s easy presence, his casual lean, the way he reached over to steal more of Ghost’s food like it was expected – was starting to feel like something else.
It was Soap’s voice that finally broke the quiet.
“Do you ever think we’re pushin’ it?”
Ghost turned his head slightly. “Pushin’ what?”
“This,” Soap gestured between them with his fork, “the act. The time. The little details. It’s all startin’ to feel a bit too…”
“Real?”
Soap didn’t answer.
Ghost took a breath, long and even. “We’re just keepin’ the story straight.”
Soap nodded. “Right. Of course.”
He set his fork down. Picked at the label on the takeaway container. Then added, not quite looking at Ghost: “Grace texted Fiona about you. She insists on doing dinner. She said I seem different lately. Happier.”
Ghost’s throat tightened. “And you want me there?”
Soap finally looked up. Eyes soft, unsure. “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”
Ghost held his gaze. “I don’t.”
~*~
It was a quiet evening in Leeds. The kind where the rain had finally stopped after hours of tapping on windows, leaving the streets slick with silver reflections and the air smelling faintly of wet stone and old brick.
Ghost stood outside the restaurant, shoulders square, hands deep in his jacket pockets.
“Y’alright?” Johnny asked when he arrived, hood down, curls slightly damp. He had that lightness in his step again, the one Ghost had grown used to seeing over the past few weeks. The one that made his chest ache now, just a bit.
“Yeah,” Ghost muttered, nodding. “You?”
“Starving.” Soap grinned and nodded toward the door. “C’mon. Fiona’s probably already got a drink in.”
Inside, Soap’s older sister was like her younger counterpart– sharp-eyed, warm-voiced, and entirely too perceptive.
“You’re taller than I thought you’d be,” she said as soon as they sat down, passing Ghost the wine list without hesitation. “Grace already warned me you’d be quieter. I figured you’d match Johnny’s volume.”
Ghost arched a brow beneath his mask. “One of us has to be the quiet one.”
Soap snorted into his water.
They ordered, chatted, shared small anecdotes. Fiona asked about work, about Leeds and Manchester, about how Ghost took his tea, which made Soap laugh into his napkin.
And then, somewhere between the mains and dessert, she tilted her head and smiled.
“So, have you two made any plans for the holidays? I was thinking we could do something bigger next winter, all of us together. A proper trip. You should come.”
Ghost paused mid-sip. Soap’s fork stilled halfway to his mouth.
The next winter.
It was such an innocuous comment. But it landed with a kind of seismic weight neither man had expected.
Next winter meant a year from now. It meant continuation. A shared future. It meant still being in each other’s lives – still pretending, or still not pretending.
Ghost looked at Soap, who was still looking at Fiona with that polite, nodding expression – but his grip on his fork was a little tighter than it should’ve been.
Ghost’s heart did something strange. Hopeful. Hollow.
Because the worst part wasn’t imagining them still doing this a year from now.
The worst part was wanting to be.
Soap finally spoke. “Dunno yet. Depends on work, I guess.”
Fiona raised a brow. “Well, think about it. It’s just a thought. You two should get away sometime.”
She turned to Ghost with a smirk. “If you can convince this idiot to actually take time off, I’ll owe you a drink.”
Ghost smiled under the mask. “I’ll try.”
Later, walking Soap home in the damp dusk, their conversation was softer. More hesitant.
“You alright?” Soap asked after a while, glancing sideways at him.
“Yeah.”
“You went quiet after dessert.”
Ghost shrugged. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
Ghost hesitated. Then: “Next winter.”
Soap was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded, a hand slipping into his jacket pocket.
“Yeah. Me too.”
Ghost wanted to say more. Wanted to ask if Soap wanted him to be there next winter. Wanted to admit that, somewhere between the fake smiles and real cups of tea, something had shifted. Grown. Anchored itself.
But the words caught like barbed wire in his throat.
So instead, he said, “That trip sounded nice.”
Soap nodded. “It did.”
They stopped outside Soap’s flat.
The city lights were dim, the street quiet. Rain threatened again in the clouds.
Soap turned to him.
“You wanna come in?”
Ghost blinked. “Now?”
“Just for tea,” Soap added quickly. “Or… I dunno. Don’t feel like being on my own tonight.”
Ghost hesitated, but only for a breath.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Alright.”
~*~
The sun was out for once, glinting off the tarmac of the training range. Ghost had stripped down to a black t-shirt, gloves off, rifle slung, observing his squad as they ran close-quarters drills. He didn’t miss much – a twitch too slow on a corner, a misaligned step in a breach. But today, his attention kept drifting.
Gaz noticed.
He wandered over during a lull, handing Ghost a water bottle and nudging him with a grin. “You alright? You’ve been staring at air for the last ten minutes.”
“Watching perimeter coverage,” Ghost lied flatly, not looking at him.
“Right,” Gaz said, smirking. “The perimeter’s behind you.”
Ghost grunted. He took a drink, jaw tense.
Gaz let the silence stretch a little before casually throwing the grenade: “So, you and Soap. You’re really selling it now.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked toward him, guarded.
“Noticed people talk to you more now,” Gaz continued, voice light. “No one’s calling you the Grim Reaper these days. You’ve got a boyfriend now. Public perception softened.”
Ghost’s mouth twitched at that. “Don’t remind me.”
He looked down at the scuffed toe of his boot, fallen quiet.
Gaz tilted his head. “You alright, mate?”
Ghost exhaled slowly. “It’s just meant to be fake.”
That did it – that hesitation, that almost-sigh.
Gaz’s smirk faded, replaced by something softer. Understanding clicked behind his eyes like a lock falling into place.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh.”
Ghost didn’t meet his gaze.
Gaz crossed his arms. “You’ve fallen for him.”
Ghost stayed silent.
“Shit,” Gaz murmured. “You’ve properly fallen for him.”
Still nothing. But Ghost’s grip on the water bottle tightened.
And that was enough.
A few days later, Soap and Gaz were in a café, having met for lunch before Gaz had a late briefing. Soap had ordered a bacon roll and a Coke; Gaz had a salad and was judging him silently.
“I don’t trust a man who orders leaves when bacon’s an option,” Soap was saying, halfway through his roll. “You’re just asking to be disappointed.”
Gaz chuckled. “Heart health, mate. Unlike you, I enjoy not having my arteries insult me every time I breathe.”
Soap grinned. He looked relaxed, at ease. But there was a tiredness under his eyes that Gaz hadn’t missed.
“How’s Ghost?” Gaz asked, stabbing at his salad.
Soap blinked. “He’s… alright. Quiet lately.”
“Isn’t he always?”
“Aye, but it’s different quiet. Not ‘don’t talk to me’ quiet. More like…” He frowned. “Distant. Distracted. Not like him.”
Gaz hummed. “Weird how pretending to date someone can mess with your head, yeah?”
Soap narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”
Gaz dropped his fork. “C’mon, Johnny. You really gonna sit there and lie to me? After all the texting, the weekends, the ‘just keeping the story straight’ visits?”
Soap opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at his drink.
Gaz leaned in. “You’ve fallen for him.”
Soap’s throat worked. “He’s…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not supposed to be real, Kyle.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Soap was silent for a long moment. Then, finally: “Yeah. I have.”
Gaz groaned and flopped back in his chair like it physically hurt him.
“You’re both idiots.”
Soap blinked. “What?”
“You. Him. Same wavelength. Same slow descent into emotional chaos. And both too stubborn to admit it.”
Soap frowned, cautious. “Wait. He…?”
Gaz nodded firmly. “Oh, yeah. He’s well gone.”
Soap leaned back slowly, that stupid little hopeful twitch pulling at his lips.
“Shit,” he whispered.
Gaz picked up his fork again and stabbed a lettuce leaf like it had wronged him. “I swear to God, if you two don’t get your act together soon, I’m gonna fake a kidnapping so you’re stuck in a room together for three days. Full-on ‘oops, the door’s locked’ style.”
Soap laughed, hand raking through his hair. His heart thudded louder than it should’ve.
“Reckon that’s what it’ll take?”
“No,” Gaz said, smirking. “I reckon all it’ll take is one of you being brave enough to say it.”
Soap looked down at his half-eaten bacon roll.
And for the first time, he wondered what might happen if this wasn’t a lie anymore.
~*~
Soap had the whole thing rehearsed.
He’d run through it in the mirror three times. Scripted, unscripted, jokes or none. Heartfelt, calm, no dramatics. The idea was to keep it simple:
"Ghost. I know it started as a lie. But I don’t want it to be fake anymore. Not for me. I want you. Really want you."
Easy. Practiced. Like slipping back into his old rugby plays – muscle memory and a heartbeat of adrenaline.
So naturally, the second Ghost opened the front door of his flat, Soap’s mind turned into static.
Ghost looked… good. Casual. Off-duty, but still sharp around the edges. A fitted black tee, joggers, bare feet on hardwood. His mask was off, though Soap had stopped being surprised by that a while ago. Ghost didn’t hide with him anymore.
“Johnny,” Ghost said, nodding him inside.
Soap followed him in. His throat had gone dry. The words were right there – he could feel them, pressed behind his teeth like steam in a kettle. One nudge and they’d pour out.
But Ghost turned to him then, holding out a fresh mug of tea. The right colour. Just the way Soap liked it. And suddenly, it felt like too much.
Too good. Too real.
Soap smiled, took the mug, and swallowed his confession along with a sip of tea.
He didn’t say it.
Not that night.
It was nearly midnight, two days later, when his phone rang.
He almost didn’t answer – the number wasn’t saved, and he was halfway through brushing his teeth. But something in his chest twisted. That feeling. The one he got before a storm hit, or when Ghost went quiet mid-text for too long.
He picked up. “John MacTavish.”
“Mr. MacTavish,” the voice was clipped, military. “You’re listed as Lieutenant Riley’s emergency contact. We need to inform you – he was injured during an op tonight. He's stable, but currently being transferred to base med bay for treatment.”
Soap froze.
“I’m his what?”
“Emergency contact, sir.”
“I-” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Is he- he’s stable, aye?”
“Yes, sir. He sustained shrapnel wounds and minor internal trauma. We’ve managed the bleeding. He’s unconscious for now but will regain consciousness soon.”
Soap swallowed the lump in his throat. “Right. I’m coming.”
He didn’t think. He just moved.
Threw on jeans, a jacket. Left the flat with one shoe untied. The whole ride to base was a blur, just red lights and the echo of that voice – Lieutenant Riley was injured… he’s stable… you’re his emergency contact.
The security at the base recognised his name. Probably heard the stories, seen the photos. Ghost’s famous boyfriend – the one who’d shown up to the military gala with that easy smile and soft hands, the opposite of Ghost in every visible way.
The receptionist didn’t question him. Just gave him a badge and pointed toward the medical wing.
He walked fast. Too fast.
The air smelled sterile. Soap hated hospitals.
When he pushed open the door to the room, he saw him.
Ghost. Simon. Laid up in a hospital bed. His arm was wrapped, oxygen in his nose, a steady rhythm of beeps playing from the monitors.
Soap’s knees nearly gave out.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Ghost,” he muttered, crossing the room.
He stood at the side of the bed and stared. Ghost’s face looked paler without the mask, and seeing him unconscious, not sleeping, but injured, did something awful to Soap’s chest.
A nurse stepped in quietly. “Are you John?”
He nodded mutely.
“You’re on file. He listed you a few weeks ago.”
Soap swallowed. “He never told me.”
The nurse smiled kindly. “Most don’t.”
She left him alone.
Soap sat in the plastic chair beside the bed, hands folded tight. He stared at the man in front of him and tried to breathe.
When Ghost finally stirred – hours later – Soap was still there, holding vigil with a full cup of cold tea and a stomach knotted like barbed wire.
“Johnny?”
Soap shot up.
Ghost blinked up at him, groggy and sore. “You came.”
“You listed me, you utter bastard.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Didn’t think I’d need to call it in.”
Soap huffed. “You scared the fuck outta me.”
“You’re the one sitting here in jeans and one boot untied.”
Soap didn’t laugh. Not this time.
“I thought I’d lost you, Simon.”
Ghost’s expression shifted, something quiet passing through it. “But you didn’t.”
Soap stood up, paced the room. His hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting.
“I need to say something. And I need you to hear it, even if you’re on enough morphine to think I’m your nan.”
Ghost stared.
Soap turned back, eyes locked on his. “This was never real. I know that. It started as a lie. A story. A convenient excuse for both of us.”
He stepped closer.
“But I want more. I want you. Not the fake boyfriend. Not the cover. You.”
Silence.
Soap’s heart slammed against his ribs. “I love you, Simon.”
It landed between them like a live wire.
Ghost blinked, just once.
“You’re an idiot,” he said finally. His voice was rough, but steady.
Soap’s mouth twisted. “You mentioned that once or twice.”
Ghost reached out, slow, aching, and took Soap’s hand.
“I love you too.”
It knocked the breath clean out of him.
Ghost tugged him down gently. And when their lips met, it was soft. Careful. Familiar and brand new all at once. Ghost kissed like he didn’t know if he’d get another chance. Like he’d waited a long time for this.
Soap kissed him back like he was never walking away again.
Gaz found them like that, hours later.
He peeked into the room and spotted Soap curled awkwardly in the hospital chair, hand still tangled in Ghost’s, both asleep.
He grinned to himself.
“Finally,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Bloody idiots.”
And he shut the door gently behind him.