Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wanna know what pirates do with traitors?

They kill them.

And we’re not talking just any run-of-the-mill beheading like the kind those royal fuckers entertain themselves with these days, oh no.

You damn well cleave that lily-livered bastard to the brisket, put him on a pedestal, and display him for all the world to see.

It’s a warning, a threat, and an effective one at that, for sure, but Soap is fairly certain that in his case; it would be the easy way out.

Farah seems to agree. She stares at him like he’s grown three extra heads and continues cleaning the glass in her hand in slow meticulous circles, hip resting against the rickety bar as she thoroughly ignores both the brawl to her right and Soap’s spread arms.

“Seriously?” He pouts and drops them when it becomes evident it shall garner him nothing whatsoever. “No hug? It’s been years.”

“Are you insane,” she says, which honestly doesn’t sound like a question at all, an impression gaining even more credibility when she cuts Soap off before he can think up a reply.

“Right. You’re stupid. My bad, I forgot.”

The glass hits the bar firmly and gets nudged a little to the side before she grabs another without stopping her incredulous staring. One of the brawlers hits the floor with a worrying crunch.

Soap drops into a barstool, rolling his eyes. “You’re being dramatic. It’s fine, I’m fine here.”

That’s a lie.

Soap is not fine here but to be fair, he’s not really fine or safe anywhere right now. That’s what happens when you have no less than three dangerous people looking for you.

And that isn’t even taking into account that at least two of them would bathe in your blood as a little post-mortem treat.

The third one… well.

Soap looks away from Farah before he can see the annoyance on her face soften into pity.

For a moment, it’s quiet between them save for drunken murmuring, and the broken groans from the guy on the floor, who’s apparently not a goner after all––yet.

Dust floats lazily in the beams coming through the window behind Farah. The light hits the bar, illuminating all the nicks and knobs from various and rather unfortunate encounters with sharp objects through time.

Before he can help himself, Soap’s eyes flit to his right, searching for a particular wide dent, but it’s been six years, and the wood is even more messed up than he is by now, which is truly saying something. It’s the pirate’s life, he supposes; sometimes you just can’t see what’s happening right in front of you––at least not until it’s too late.

Familiar resentment twists agonizingly in his gut until the physical ache of it settles as an echo in his teeth. It’s his very own siren’s song; it works better than any alcohol, but it also rips his heart to ribbons.

A glass settles in front of him, a lot less aggressively this time, and Soap looks up to find Farah’s face carefully blank. At least it’s better than the fucking pity.

As a, somewhat, wise man, he picks it up and eyes the suspiciously golden hue.

More knots, more regrets.

“Whiskey?” He asks, one eyebrow raised and pretty fucking proud of how steady his voice comes out. The alternative is rolling up into a ball and cry his heart out on the floor, so he’s gonna give himself the credit of not doing that, thanks.

Farah sighs. “I know why you’re here.”

“Oh?”

“It’s the fifth of January, Soap.”

Instead of answering, he simply smiles at her and sips a bit of whiskey. It’s very good and most importantly not bourbon.

Farah rolls her eyes at his antics, but her mouth twitches into wry fondness.

“You’re incorrigible. What if you got caught?”

“Happy birthday,” Soap simply says, waggling his eyebrows. “Bad idea giving me your good stuff.”

He raises the glass. “Now I might just sneak out of my hiding hole next year as well.”

Farah scoffs.

“Didn’t know you had a way of telling the days, wherever it is you go. With the people on your ass, I genuinely thought you’d be in China by now.”

“A master never reveals his secrets,” Soap simply says and throws the remaining whiskey back.

It burns delightfully––terribly––all the way down and for just a moment, he’s pretty sure he sees dark eyes considering him through lowered lashes, so pale they go white in the sun.

And this is why he doesn’t drink anymore.

The night Soap fucked up his life he drowned himself in about three bottles of rum on a shitty little island somewhere no one would find him. He’s certain he saw Calypso at some point, lurking in the waters. Watching him.

With the things in his possession at the time, that part probably wasn’t a hallucination, but he’d taken all the measures he could and, in the end, Calypso apparently deemed him pathetic enough to leave alone. Not much she can do on land, anyway.

Now, what had definitely been a hallucination was the arms holding him tight when he finally knocked out on the beach. So had the warm body curling around him and the whispered promises against his skin. Soap had that, six years ago. And he threw it away. Now those arms will most likely choke him to death should they ever get close enough.

With more knots in his gut and his shredded heart beating a staggered rhythm (stubborn fucker that one), Soap carefully puts down the empty glass.

“But no. Not going to China. If I do happen to get caught…” he trails off, attention drawn to a sudden commotion by the door.

A pair of English soldiers enter with two raggedy kids in tow, bound like a pair of pigs for slaughter.

“If you get caught, you’re dead,” Farah supplies, helpful as always, but even she sounds distracted.

The soldiers brutishly tug the kids along with no regard for their pained protests.

Soap frowns. It’s a pair of girls from the looks of it, though it’s admittedly a bit hard to tell with how grimy they are. One of them is crying; small punched-out sobs blubbering past her lips. Farah knocks a fist against the bar to garner his attention.

“Which is why you should drop whatever ridiculous ideas that thick skull of yours is cooking up right now. Soap.”

But he’s already on his feet, throwing a cheeky wink and a wave over his shoulder before he ducks his head and melts into the shadows.

The soldiers have settled by a table just a few steps from the door. Honestly, they always make Soap’s job much easier than it should be.

The kids hover just behind them, dressed in nothing but dirty sacks of dubious origin and iron shackles, dark hair grubby and chopped short in all the wrong places. They’re probably around, what? Fifteen? Sixteen? Girls far too young to be at the mercy of a pair of knobs not even watching their backs in a pirate bar, the fucking idiots, that’s for sure.

The soldiers are talking loudly to each other, clearly with the intent of letting the entire bar hear. The girl who’s not crying is watching them with such an amount of potent disgust it’s downright impressive.

“What do you mean, Mocking Jay?”

Some runt of a street-rat has easily been roped into the soldiers’ charades. His eyes are hazy and unfocused, but he makes an attentive audience.

“Listen,” one of them snorts, “we got a plan, yeah? The higher-ups are cooking something major as we speak. It’s a baaad time to be a filthy, fucking pirate –“

A glass shatters against the wall, just above the soldier’s head.

“Watch ya fuckin’ tone! Do you not know where ya are?!”

That’s a good point actually. In all honesty they got it coming, and Soap has never been pretentious enough to call himself a man of good morals, but the hit he delivers to the back of the soldiers’ heads with the pommel of his sword feels especially satisfying this time.

He could’ve shot them. They’re on Dead Man’s Land after all; no rules apply here except the ones made by those who hit the hardest, but from the looks of it, any loud noises and grueling ends would only serve to scare the girls even more. Not something Soap’s interested in, if he wants to get them out of here with as little fanfare as possible. Which he does.

As it stands, the girl that’s not crying merely gasps in surprise when Soap exits the shadows and does his thing. The soldiers grunt and sag unconsciously into their chairs. Even better, one of them faceplants into his rum before he continues the journey to the floor; an altogether unappealing sight, if Soap ever did see one.

It goes deadly silent around them.

“Well,” Soap claps his hands together, turning on a heel to beam down at the girls.

They stare back at him like he just aimed a canon at the moon.

“There you go. You’re free, yay! Although, we should probably get those chains off of you first. Then a change of locations, maybe, and some new clothes –“

A shrill voice from the entrance cuts him off. “Hey! What the fuck do you think –“

Bang!

The third English soldier Soap hadn’t seen (aye, shut yer puss) falls to the floor even less attractively than his colleague, though Soap considers this fair. Farah did just shoot him in the head and that is rarely a pretty way to go.

Predictably, it makes the girls scream a little, not too much, but loud enough that it alerts the guards outside, and then several of those blue-coated fucktards strut in, demanding to know what is going on.

They clock it pretty quickly, he’ll give them that.With Soap’s face on a hundred wanted posters scattered throughout the Caribbean and three unconscious soldiers on the floor, anything less would’ve been fucking embarrassing.

Anyway, long story short, the soldiers start blasting, the pirates answer in kind as they are wont to do, and then Farah’s in the back, screaming at him across the mayhem to haul ass.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Soap grumbles and snatches the girls by their waists.

They’re thin enough that he can hoist them on a shoulder each and keep them tethered, despite the fuss they kick up about it.

“Bastard!” One of them screeches and almost elbows his nut in.

“Would you calm down,” he hisses, barreling towards Farah and the relative safety of the streets just beyond, all while trying to avoid stray fists and bullets. “I’m trying to help you!”

Instead of acquiescing, sharp nails dig into the skin of his flank. It hurts like hell, swear to God, but Soap once walked across an entire island with a gunshot wound in his shoulder and that sort of event puts a perspective on pain.

“Let us go you bastard fucking pirate!”

The scream travels directly into his poor ear and makes him stumble so bad he accidentally knocks one man into another with a well-placed shoulder between the shoulder blades. The collateral damage of their escape immediately gets into it; fists flying, curses given - the whole shebang.

Before Soap can get led anymore astray, he speeds up.

Flying past Farah, he skids into the maze of piss-stinking alleys beyond.

Never let it be said he doesn’t give it his all.

“Jesus Christ,” Soap heaves, completely out of breath as he comes to a stop approximately ten minutes’ hard run from Farah’s bar. “That didn’t go as expected.”

They’re outside town, in the jungle with only the moon as a source of light. It’s almost full, so it isn’t bad per se, but Soap’s eyes are definitely gonna have to readjust.

He takes a moment to catch his breath before he bends a knee to let the girls slip down.

“Alright, there we go. You’re alright.”

Somewhere around the exit of town both of them went quiet, and the nails retracted from his skin. If not for their harsh breaths whenever he accidentally jostled them a little, Soap might have been worried they fainted from the shock of it all. Now, they slip off quietly, feet crunching the dry leaves in the undergrowth. It resounds like a gunshot in the night-silent jungle, where only birds and the occasional rustle fill the empty spaces between words, but they’re definitely the only people for miles, so the lack of stealth can be forgiven.

Freed from limbs and nails, Soap turns around with a smile. However, it slips off his face again instantly, unseated by a sudden wave of rage as he finally gets a good look at them.

“Shit,” he mutters, “they really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

A twin pair of grey eyes glare back up at him, one shiny with tears. Hollow cheeks speak of several days without proper food, and their skin really is absolutely covered in shit. Not to speak of the clear cut of their collarbones. It’s terrible and nauseating, all of it, and Soap makes a silent vow to help them – no matter what.

They’re almost identical. The bridge of their noses have the same little bump and, beneath the dirt, their hair looks to be the same shade of color. Actually, the only marginal difference between them is the height and the bruises on their faces.

The one crying is at least three centimeters taller than her partner. She’s also got one of the meanest, black eyes Soap has ever seen. Coupled with the cuts littering their skin, they could almost pass as pirates.

Out of nowhere the crying one lunges towards the ground and before Soap has any chance to react, she rises with a fairly large stick in her trembling hands.

“Pirate,” she sneers. “What do you want?”

Almost pass as pirates, being the magic word here.

Soap raises his hands in a show of easy surrender.

“Nothin’ bad, I can promise you that. Just thought it curious how a pair of non-pirates found themselves at the mercy of English soldiers on Dead Man’s Land of all places.” He keeps his voice low, and a gentle smile plastered on his face.

Stick Girl waves her weapon at him.

“Wh-why wouldn’t we be pirates? We could be pirates!”

“Yeah,” the other girl agrees, voice trembling. “You don’t know. Or we could be royal.”

Oh boy. Soap presses his lips together to keep a laugh down. He’s madly impressed with them both; they look ready to skewer him with a stick, and he wouldn’t put it past them to succeed. But they’re also swaying on their feet, and terror is burning behind their eyes. This isn’t a game.

“Well. First of all, no pirate would call another pirate filthy. That’s just insulting yourself, lass. Also,” Soap continues, “you don’t got the air.”

“The air,” Stick Girl repeats skeptically. “That’s so pretentious.”

“There’s no saying he know what that means,” the other girl chimes in.

They’re so mean.

This time Soap doesn’t manage to stop an amused huff from escaping. “Yet you know for certain I’m a pirate.”

“Of course you’re a pirate! Look at you, you’ve got –“ Stick Girl’s voice ebbs out as her face falls in realization.

Eventually she looks away, mouth set in a grim line.

To give credit where credit is due, Soap supposes he does have the pirate look down to a T. Been told so on more than one occasion, too, but these days, pirates come in all shapes and sizes, and while everybody with a boat can call themselves a pirate, it’s become much more evident who the real monsters are.

Soap’s wearing a (somewhat) white shirt, which he swiped off some drunk yesterday, after his own got liberated from his body in much the same manner. It’s tucked into a belt at his waist, black trousers, black boots. To sum up; all the latest in pirate fashion because he’s a classy lad.

He cuts his hair into a mohawk - with quite the care, he might add! Do you know how hard it is to keep a nice appearance on the run? - And his body is littered with tattoos. He’s also decked out in weapons. His trusty gun at his hip, the knives tucked into each their boot (a gift, but he doesn’t use those at the moment) his sword, and the hunting knife.

The point being that, yes, he looks very much like a pirate.

Anyone could steal an outfit though.

“And you’re not royals either,” he says, in case they were still thinking of trying for that one. “You’re slouching. Never seen a fine lady slouch before.”

“Maybe we’re sloppy fine ladies,” Stick Girl points out feebly.

“You weren’t faced with the drunk, filthy fuckers at Farah’s bar either. You’re poor civilians. And I bet you got a family missing you somewhere. I honestly just want to help you get back home.”

The girl not threatening him (at least not actively) scoffs. “Right. And why would a pirate help us?”

She says the word ‘pirate’ like it’s a disease.

Grinning, Soap lowers his arms from their show of surrender to instead clasp them behind his back. “I’m the sweetest pirate around, lass. Let’s just say I got a bleedin’ heart.”

“Never heard of that before. All you pirates do is murder and steal.”

“Most pirates, aye.”

“So, you’ve never murdered anyone, or stolen anything before?”

Sighing, Soap tips back on his heels.

“Of course I have. I’m a bastard pirate, never disagreed wit you on that one, but I’m not a monster. I only kill people who point a gun at me. Or a sword. Or,” he adds, tilting his head. “If they’re in my way. But I don’t kill kids.”

Stick Girl rolls her eyes at him – what a darling - but slowly lowers her weapon.

“You’re weird.”

“And charming,” Soap agrees. “Now that we’ve got an agreement –“

“We haven’t said yes –“

“- mind telling me your names?”

They consider him warily for a moment or two, eyes straying back to his gun and blades, but eventually Stick Girl relents.

“Azure Cromwell,” she mutters and tips her head. “This is my little sister, Belle.”

Belle just glares as Soap bows at the waist with ridiculous flourish. “Nice to meet you. I’m John.”

They blink at him in hilarious synchronization.

“John?” Azure says. “Just John?”

When you’re on the run, you stick as close to the truth as possible. It says ‘Soap, dead or alive’ on the wanted posters, and most of the pirates on his ass don’t know him by any other moniker. Also, in villages such as the one these girls are most likely from, Soap knows for a fact that there isn’t a lot of posters. Mostly because the residents won’t have the goodwill to help out the king’s men. Instead, those places deal in names, and his is usually a hot topic for debate.

“Don’t you have a last name?” Belle sounds like this has never happened to her before, another point in the unofficial definitely not pirates column.

How they ended up here is nothing short of a mystery.

“Just John,” he confirms. “Rule number one if you want to survive the world of pirates; don’t ask too many questions,” he himself has never obeyed that rule a day in his life, but the girls don’t need to know that, “you’ll learn plenty by simply listening. Now.”

Soap rubs his hands together with wicked little grin. “Let’s go steal a dinghy.”

So, Azure and Belle are a year apart, and while they do certainly look alike, Soap slowly starts noticing several differences between them. Under the grime, Azure’s hair is lighter in color than her sister’s, while Belle’s eyes carry flecks of blue in them.

They’re also nothing alike personality wise.

Azure kicks off like a drunkard given a barrel of rum at the mention of thievery. No joke; she’s genuinely excited, while Belle keeps mumbling about the indecency of liberating personal belongings from unsuspecting civilians.

One can conclude the ‘stealing a dinghy’ thing has struck a nerve with her, but Azure talks Soap’s case with rapid-fire passion and in the end, Belle does seem more interested in going home than staying behind based on honorable intentions.

“Where is home, anyway?” Soap asks, ducking under a low hanging branch, then lifts it as he lets the girls pass him. The moon remains their only source of light, which means they have to tread carefully to avoid falling. Azure and Belle aren’t heavy, far from it, but Soap tries to keep the unwilling transportation of strangers down to once a month, max.

“Tortuga,” Belle grumbles. Her surly answer must mean she’s familiar with a map of the Caribbean and so is aware of the considerable distance between Dead Man’s Land and their family.

Soap hums, considering. That is indeed a long way, far longer than a dinghy will make it. Not that he hasn’t been counting on ditching it for something bigger at some point, but he’d hoped to steal a larger vessel from somewhere else than Dead Man’s Land.

His face is infamous between pirates and navy alike, especially here, and he has absolutely no interest in upping anyone’s incitement to free his head from his body.

There’s nothing for it, though.

They finally clear the jungle, and as they step onto the beach, he holds out a hand, signaling for the girls to stop. Soap considers the flickering lights of the harbor just further down the beach.

“We’re gonna have to steal something larger than a dinghy,” he admits.

Belle groans, but at least she doesn’t offer any moral complaints this time.

“You ever sailed before?” Soap looks from one to the other.

For once, they’re not glaring back at him; actually, they suddenly seem much more interested in their bare feet (he’ll have to find them shoes at some point).

And we’ll… that doesn’t bode well. It won’t be the first time Soap’s managed a sloop mostly by himself, but it won’t be a fun ride, especially not with the way the clouds are gathering on the horizon, smelling like storm.

Pursing his lips, he nods. “Right.”

“Last time I tried to steer a ship, this happened,” Azure says, voice meek as she gestures between herself and Belle.

Soap blinks. “Oh.”

Azure digs her toes into the sand, frown pulling her brows together until she looks like a bothered little grandma. “We uh… well, I want to be a pirate and a pirate needs a ship. I just… I was only gonna borrow it for a while, but apparently I stole a navy ship.”

Before Soap can react with anything beyond an interested little sound in response at her guts, and sheer bad luck, Belle scoffs and offers her sister the stinky eye.

“I told you it was a bad idea. No crybaby could ever become a pirate. But you never listen to me.”

Soap clicks his tongue. “Hey. I’m a pirate and I cry all the time.”

Ever the gracious company, Belle gives him a slow once-over, doubt written into the tight set of her lips. “Sure you do.”

Okay. Okay, no. Soap’s not going to argue with a teenager, he really isn’t… but Azure looks contrite as fuck, face all scrunched up and there are – yup, those are definitely tears. Also, the crying thing is actually sort of a sore point for him; Soap’s not just a crier, he’s also a firm believer in letting your emotions run wild. Has it gotten him hurt more times than not? Obviously. Did it lead him to meet the love of his life? Most fucking definitely.

It doesn’t matter that he then proceeded to break said love’s heart by betraying his trust in the worst way imaginable, or that Soap has been a shell of himself ever since for the exact same reasons – being emotions - because if not, he would never have felt a love like that in the first place.

So, he raises an eyebrow.

”Yesterday I cried because I ran into a tree running from some soldiers.”

It’s true, and it hurt like a fucking bitch, but Belle is still looking at him like he’s lying, so with a sigh he bends down and points at the bruise still tender, smack dap on his forehead.

“Second rule of pirate life,” he says, grinning at their dumbstruck expressions, “always look at where you’re going.”

They find a sloop, they steal it. Then they get shot at.

“Stupid fuckin’ tadgers with their stupid fuckin’ canons,” Soap snarls, diving forward as one half of the mast comes down from a well-aimed shot (it’s pure luck, those English fucks can’t hit for shit).

At least the girls are safe - albeit screaming – in the hull.

The mast clips the edge of the ship with a worrying crack, but when no water starts running in and the girls stay below deck, Soap diagnoses the situation as fine, stands up and takes out at least three soldiers with his gun before they can shoot at him again.

All in all, not the worst escape he’s executed.

They ditch the ruined mast as soon as Soap is done being annoyed, and while the progress does speed up without the added weight dragging after them, it was the larger sail that died in the crossfire. The smaller one is still intact, though, and the wind is good, so they’ll probably manage with Soap at the wheel.

Probably.

Perhaps sensing his irritated mood, the girls wait an entire hour before they talk to him again. The tone is even much more polite than what he’s gotten from them so far.

He feels, rather than sees, Belle sidle up beside him - a quiet presence of nervous energy that reminds him a bit of his younger self. Though he was more like Azure when it comes down to it; wild and ready to conquer the world despite the tragic lack of skill set to do so.

But Belle gets sharp and focused like he does, and she’s clearly dreadfully interested in the steering techniques of the ship, so when she eventually pipes up, asking about some of the mechanics, Soap indulges her with a few tricks.

“How long have you been a pirate?” Azure asks from his right, after Belle has reluctantly handed him back the wheel.

She’s sitting on the deck, looking a little green. The sea might be calm right now, but Soap remembers his own first days on a ship. Wasn’t a pretty sight.

Running a thoughtful hand through his hair, he narrows his eyes against the rising sun. Those storm clouds are only getting thicker, but the golden hue above their dark mass is enchanting.

“Don’t know,” he confesses, “been so long. I haven’t kept count of the days.”

Once he did - but that was back when...

Back when.

Swallowing something sad, he shakes his mind off those thoughts.

“I’m probably, like, thirty-two or something?” He tilts his head. “Thirty-three?”

“Is that a question?” Belle asks dryly.

Soap scoffs. “What about you guys? Can’t be a day over fifteen.”

Azure’s smile is sly. “Wrong. I’m eighteen, Belle is sixteen.”

“Damn,” he whistles. “I know a few ladies and gentlemen who’ll envy your complexions in just a few years.”

“Remember we’re poor,” Belle says solemnly, but Soap shakes his head and leans against the wheel.

“Doesn’t matter. Beauty doesn’t know class, and quite a few of the noble dickbags look like grandparents at the spry age of twenty.”

“You curse a lot.”

“I'm a pirate. Which means you shouldn’t do it. I can’t deliver you back to your mum and have you sound like the filthiest scourge of the sea.”

Now they’re back to staring at him.

“… You’re really super weird, John.”

The faint sound of the girls’ snoring can barely be heard as the wind picks up.

Soap keeps a sharp eye on the pitch-dark horizon on their left, considering the scarce number of opportunities they have on hand.

It’s morning, aye - though it might as well be early evening, with how dark it’s gotten. At least the girls are finally asleep behind him. They refused to go below deck when he asked them to do so earlier, claiming they had to make sure he doesn’t sink them.

Soap glances right. They’re still fairly close to Cuba and, frankly, anything looks better than the promise of a storm mixed with the open sea.

In a sloop.

“Except that’s the Haunt’s last known location,” he mumbles to himself, expertly ignoring the sharp twinge of hurt.

At some point, he knows he’ll have to stop running. His legs are sore, metaphorically, but also very much physically because he does really run a lot in the most literal of senses. That’s how he survives. Escaping and escaping and escaping – and all from his own doing.

Pulling down the neck of his shirt, he fingers the green stone hanging in a cord around his neck. It’s meant to protect him from witches and their pesky little location spells. So far, it’s done a marvelous job, but these things need charging, which means he occasionally has to take it off.

With his own personal brand of good luck that time is just about now. Roach had handed it to him with a grim expression, but hadn’t offered any explanation beyond the basic, “moon equals energy, energy equals invisibility,” which was so out of character for him Soap had half a mind to check his temperature.

Not that the situation at the time had called for a lot of smiling and hugging, but Roach is the kind of guy who outshines the sun itself, even ass first in the line of gunfire.

Soap closes his eyes against another wave of homeless grief.

“God fuckin’ dammit,” he whispers to the stars, to the sea, and to the winds. “I miss you so much.”

The wind howls and it smells like salt, like rot, and a little lost. Just like him.

Johnny.

His eyes fly open. “Si –“

A cannonball zips past his face and then plunges into the water with a mighty splash.

Soap whips around, heart in his throat, and scans the immediate surroundings with a mounting sense of dreadful annoyance.

“Please don’t let it be them,” he grumbles, craning his neck backwards. “Please don’t.”

Finally he discovers something black, hulking and stupidly oversized. His gut bottoms out, and he barks a curse, spinning the wheel for all its worth.

Those fucking witches.

Another cannonball flies past him, and this time it takes a healthy chunk of the railings with it. The noise wakes the girls who flails at the sudden lurch when Soap has their remaining sail catch the whipping winds.

“What’s going on?”

Blam!

Another cannonball demands their bow strip before the boat can turn all the way around. Azure yelps a sound of surprise, and Belle tries to stagger to her feet.

“Stay down!” Soap yells over the canon fire tailing them and the brewing storm.

They’re way too close if they’re still shooting at them, but he’s not gonna look. Timing is everything in these kinds of situations.

“We’re being hunted.”

Azure has to scream to be heard. “By whom?!"

“An addled dog called Graves,” Soap answers, ducking just in time for a bullet to clip his bicep, because of course they’re close enough for guns now as well. It manages to rip open his skin, but the sharp pain only serves to annoy him even further. “The Shadow Pirates. Ever heard of them?”

“The Shadows?” Belle repeats, flabbergasted. “They’re infamous! They’re real fucking dangerous, John - wait.“

She cuts herself off.

”Wait a second, John! You’re taking us directly into the storm!”

Smart girl.

Soap grins with wicked delight. “Sure am.”

“But that’s insane!”

“We can’t outrun their vessel. It might look big and clunky, but that lass is fast as hell. They won’t follow us into the storm.” He throws a look over his shoulder and loses a breath of relief when he sees Grave’s ship turn around just before the point of no return.

Already Soap can feel how the wind has caught them. There’s no chance of escaping it now, and he’ll need to focus on keeping them upright, so he offers no more than his middle finger to Graves, before gripping the wheel tightly.

“Hold on,” he grits out, just as the storm swallows them alive.

The rain is harsh against the skin, a thousand tiny pinpricks of icy-cold pain hammering down on them with the wind. At least there’s no lightening, though Soap is convinced more than once that they’ll end up down on the seabed anyway.

The girls obey his command of holding onto each other and the railing, even when Belle has to bend over to throw up.

Poor kids had to go and find Soap of all people for their first ever experience with sailing. This is definitely gonna leave a scar. Then again, a scar means you survived.

It seems to go on forever. The ship rocks, the sea invites itself on board, and it’s fucking freezing. Also, the bullet that grazed him might have caught a larger piece of his arm than initially anticipated, because it’s hurting like a bitch. Frankly, it’s only thanks to years of feeling like shit while having to keep running for his life that lets Soap guide them through the nightmare in the end.

That and the island they crash into.

It comes as a major surprise considering Soap is flying blind with all the water in his eyes. One moment they’re fighting for their lives at sea, the next he smacks into the wheel from the force of their sudden stop, robbing him of air. Azure and Belle haven’t got enough of a hold on the railing to stay where they are, and so he watches as they tumble down the deck in a mess of limbs and outraged cries.

On his own ass, Soap waits with bated breath until he hears a disgruntled, “fucking ow,” followed by, “don’t curse!”

Certain they’re both okay, he falls back, throwing his good arm across his eyes.

“Christ Almighty.”

The storm settles just before the sun goes down and reveals a quaint little island in front of them.

It’s charming in the sense that it seems immediately harmless and has lots of fruit. The best outcome possible, if Soap does say so himself, apart from the fact that it seems to be deserted, of course, which further means no available help is within reach.

Once again, he’s handled worse - an old song by now, and one of his favorites - so it’s only a matter of time before he figures something out.

“Eat,” he tells Belle, handing her a few bananas he picked up from a quick forage through the local jungle.

She eyes it with mild contempt. Keeping in mind she’s been throwing up all day, Soap is more than willing to force feed her, but eventually she seems to deem herself hungry enough to accept the offer.

Azure is already eating her fill of fruit. She’s got a decent pair of sea-legs on her, and Soap is genuinely surprised that she hasn’t thrown up even once. This immediate unfairness had made Belle pipe up mid-vomit after their abrupt grounding, to which Soap had to assure her that people are just built differently when it comes to the sea.

“Doesn’t make you any less capable. You just need more time.”

“I hate throwing up.”

“Aye, me too.”

All in all, not too bad.

They are a little fucked though.

Soap settles down between the girls with a groan, tightening the strands of shirt he’s wrapped around his wound. It really is deeper than he thought, nowhere near fatal, but it puts his sword hand out of commission, which isn’t good.

Azure looks at the bloodstained cloth with a frown. “Will you be okay?”

“Oh no, not at all. I’ll probably die,” Soap says solemnly, closing his eyes and leaning back against the railing.

The joke earns him a pinch in the leg.

“I’m fine,” he promises. “Just a rift.”

“Just a rift, he says.” Azure scoffs.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s an idiot.”

You’re an idiot, Johnny.

Soap opens his eyes again on a sigh. It’s officially been too long since he’s slept. The voices are back.

By his side, Azure shuffles, eventually settling down in front of him, eyes wide and curious.

“So,” she begins, and Soap chuckles.

“Lay it on me.”.

“You said we were being hunted?” He nods, and Azure tilts her head. “Does that mean there’s a bounty on our heads? Because we fled from those English soldiers?”

Soap points a finger at himself.

”On you? No. Me? Yeah. I got three. I’m sorry to say you were most likely just some kind of pissing contest to those asses. They’ve already forgotten what you look like, promise –“

“Three?” Belle cuts him off, half a banana forgotten in her hand as she stares at him, dumbfounded.

With a smug grin, he raises three fingers. “Aye.”

“How’s that even possible?”

“Well,” he tilts his head back and forth.

“The Shadows and I go way back. Worked with Graves for bit before the bitch double crossed me and left me for dead. Basically, I paid him back, and it pissed him off.”

Soap shrugs. “The English? That's just your usual tale of piracy. I kill, I steal, and worst of all? I disrespect the king. Earns you a beheading.”

“Is that why the Shadows found us?” Azure asks. “Do they…” she looks a little nauseous. “Are they working together?”

Impressed, Soap nods. “Ten points to you. Aye, the Shadows were probably around, so the English must have paid them to follow us. The hypocrisy from both parts is staggering. Also, they have a witch.”

Due to survival reasons, Soap makes sure to keep a tab on three important vessels at all time, as much as he’s capable.

The Shadows, Shepherd’s vessel, also known as the General, and the Haunt. There are more out there looking for him, but anything less than one of those three won’t manage to catch him. He’s unsure about the Watcher, but only because he’s pretty sure Laswell would never lose him of sight, and she hasn’t hauled his ass back to get punished yet.

Belle looks like she’s swallowed a cannonball. “A witch.”

“Two of those actually,” Soap sighs, “it’s a mess. Those locater spells are a nightmare to avoid.”

Having been fiddling with a mango for some time in contemplative silence, Azure finally looks up at him with determination setting her face in grim lines.

“I’m gonna be a pirate like you.”

It makes Soap laugh so hard he chokes on his own saliva and makes a flock of birds flee a tree with a terrible screeching.

“I’m flattered, lass,” he says, when he’s done dying. “Truly. But you might want something a little less exciting than my life.”

Azure grins; wide and wild and free, and Soap recognizes something in the hope shining through her eyes.

His heart sinks.

“Nope. I want it all.”

Exploring the island is as good a pastime as any while they figure out what to do, and after a few days of fruit and nothing else, Soap works out a schedule.

“One of us will have to stay back and watch out for passing ships. Belle, this is for you.”

He frees his gun from its holster and hands it over to an incredulous Belle, who accepts it with ginger care.

“It’s not a bomb,” he tells her and then does a quick run-through of the mechanics.

“If you see a ship,” he continues, pointing to the edge of the jungle. “You run in there and fire into the sky. Then you find a place to hide.”

“Because we don’t know if the ship contains good guys or bad guys,” Belle guesses, still looking at the gun with mild contempt verging on genuine hysteria.

Soap squeezes her shoulder. “Exactly. Don’t shoot if their flag’s got a skull. Or a British one. Actually,” he frowns. “Only merchant ships for us, aye?”

“Obviously.”

They have to get some meat if they want to preserve energy, so Soap grabs Azure and his hunting knife and sets off towards the jungle. The last few nights he’s heard some very distinctive grumbling, and when they’re twenty steps into the undergrowth, he starts picking up signs of at least one predator.

Azure remains blissfully unaware to all of this, chattering away as they search for prey, but she falls quiet when they happen upon a lone, white-tailed deer.

“You make it look so easy,” Azure tells him, as they make their way back to the ship, the deer slung over Soap’s shoulders.

No shots have sounded, and he can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing yet. With the way his busted arm is throbbing, right now it probably isn’t the worst thing to happen – you never know if you’ll have to fight your saviors.

He hums. “What?”

“This whole pirate thing,” she says, flapping her hands at him. “You’re not afraid of anything, even though you’ve got an army of dangerous people on your tail. You can hunt. Plus, I bet you’re a good fighter.”

“I am an excellent fighter,” Soap agrees, “and humble,” this earns him a snort.

“But I’m not unafraid. I don’t think anyone is.”

Azure frowns. “Then what are you afraid of?”

Ah yes.

The question for the ages, and Soap’s brought it upon himself - he hesitates, unsure of what to say.

With the storm gone, the humidity has just about exploded, but this is not the reason for his suddenly clammy hands.

Something must have shown on his face because Azure speaks up again.

“Is it – does it have something to do with the other guys who are hunting you?”

Surprised, and no small amount of wary, Soap stops walking and whips around to pin her with a narrow-eyed stare.

She immediately backs up, hands raised in surrender. “God you’re scary like that.”

She blinks rapidly. “I just noticed how you didn’t elaborate on them. You don’t talk... sorry. It’s none of my business. My bad.”

Confronted with the way her face has paled, and how she can’t seem to look him in the eye anymore, regret arrives as an instant wave of cool bile on the back of Soap’s tongue.

“No,” he mumbles, and starts walking again. “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry for scaring you. I just… didn’t expect it, is all.”

Azure doesn’t offer an answer and for a while they walk through the jungle in silence. Only the humming of insects and the chattering birds in the overgrowth can be heard. The deer’s soft fur tickles Soap’s cheek.

“I can’t tell you who it is,” he eventually says which clearly startles Azure because she jumps a little.

“For your own safety. Out of all of them, he’s the one that’s most likely to find me.”

And most likely to make my death as long and excruciating as humanly possible, Soap doesn’t add.

“I suppose that’s fair,” Azure says, voice barely a whisper. “Can I ask what you did?”

A flash of shining red. Rain falling quietly all around him as dark eyes silently curse him with brokenhearted fury and betrayal.

The pit in Soap’s gut expands and contracts, almost like it wants to make sure it still has the space for it.

Ridiculous, really. It always will. Soap will never be whole again.

“Stole the right treasure from the wrong pirate,” he says, aware that he might sound a bit too rough to come off as unbothered.

“You don’t wanna know,” he mumbles and speeds up.

Azure stops asking questions.

“Deer is so fucking delicious,” Belle declares, mouth full and a look of pure bliss on her face. “Damn.”

Soap nudges the glowing embers back into the fire.

“Chew, or you’ll just throw it up again.”

Azure snickers. It earns her a slap across the forehead with a piece of deer which further escalates the situation into an exchange of insults so morbid and sharp Soap decides to never, ever mess with a teenager again.

“Tell us a story,” Belle pleads when the moon has risen half-full and fat. “A pirate story.”

She leans closer, flames dancing across her face filled with eager curiosity. “I bet you have some good ones.”

Oh, Soap has the best kind of stories; in fact he prides himself on them.

“Which one do you want?” He asks, swatting at a bug lured in by the promise of skin and fire.

“It’s gotta be one we haven’t heard before.”

“Hm, well. Anyone ever told you about the Cuban mermaid who lured three ships’ worth of crew into the sea with nothing but a secret?”

“One mermaid?”

“Aye.”

“What’s the secret?”

Soap smiles and settles back. “Let me tell you –“

Three stories deep he’s made the girls laugh, cry, and yell obscenities at him. The stories never fail, and he’s good at telling them. When he was a kid, his mom would say he had a siren’s voice, one which wrapped its warmth around you and kept you hooked. Someone else once told him much the same thing, though the sentiment was a lot less innocent and rather directed at the sounds he made when drowning in pleasure.

He’s just avoided a mango in the face from an offended Belle (don’t ask) when Azure looks at him says, “what about the Ghost?”

The world comes to a halt so sudden Soap is almost sure his heart stops along with it. It drops like an anker in his gut––chain rattling and shredding him up inside out.

“The Ghost,” he repeats. His voice is too frail, too bothered. He swallows. “What about ‘im?”

The waves lick across the beach only to get swallowed up by the ocean, and he thinks he might just see sails with skulls painted on them, somewhere out there, on the sharp edge of the horizon.

When he blinks the vision is gone again.

Azure groans in frustration, throwing her hands in the air as she thankfully seems to remain unaware of just how the mood has plummeted.

“Stories, obviously! They’re my favorite.”

“Why?” He asks, mostly because his brain is slugging on like a turtle. Slower than a turtle, actually. It's motionless.

“Uh. Because he’s only just the most infamous pirate of our age?” Azure frowns at him.

Beside her, Belle nods her assent. Though she looks mildly irritated, as she sighs.

“Az, come on. You already know all the stories.”

“But I’m not a pirate, and I’m sure John has loads mom doesn’t know about.”

“I don’t, really,” Soap cuts in. The smile on his face feels pained, a watery imitation of what he intended for it to be. But it’s all he can manage with his aching heart, and hopefully the shadows will cover most of the cracks. “Why don’t you tell me some? I would - I would love to hear it.”

He asks as a distraction. He asks to punish himself. He wants to know because the empty space inside of him is growing larger and larger by each day.

And, unsuspectingly, Azure obeys his cry for punishment with gusto.

She jumps to her feet, face settling into something that’s (probably) supposed to be mean.

“The Caribbean’s most dangerous scourge is known by many names,” she begins ominously. Her voice has dropped low, into notes of soft thunder, and it rolls down Soap’s skin like calloused fingertips; searching for the softest part of him to pierce.

“Pirate King. The Sailing Death. Davy Jones’ most Coveted. Curator of Riches and Hearts.”

She pauses on a grimace. “Literally, or so the tale goes.”

Wrong, Soap thinks. With each name his own, stolen heart skips a beat.

Unaffected, Azure continues with sparkling eyes.

“Yet of all names and titles, one rings out across the seas; carried by the army of specters left in his wake.”

”It’s one everybody knows. One which every parent happily applies when warning their child, should they be foolish enough to misbehave.”

Her lips part in a toothy smile and she turns to Soap.

“Better eat your food, John – or the Ghost will come and take ya.”

That night, Soap dreams of rubies. He feels the weight of them in his hands, where each sharp point dig into his flesh.

He dreams of the sea and a dinghy, and a skull’s empty eyes as they stare up at him from under the forward thwart. An endless sound of mourning whistles past its teeth.

He dreams of Calypso watching him from the water - abandoning him despite his pleas to get taken away.

Johnny.

He weeps on that island, sand and vomit on his tongue. He drinks and tries to forget.

Then he takes his revenge.

Johnny.

“John? John! Are––are you okay?”

Soap slowly opens his eyes to a star covered sky glaring down at him. A small hand is wrapped around his shoulders.

It’s truly a testament to how exhausted he must be that someone touching him didn’t rip him out of sleep to shove a gun in their face, but when he turns, Azure is looking at him with worried eyes, so he files this away as a good thing.

“Yeah,” he croaks, voice sleep rough. “’M good. Why?”

They’re laying fairly close. Since they can’t sleep on the ship lest a pirate crew gets a little too curious and decides to come check it out for loot, Soap has appointed himself the girls’ shelter against the jungle.

This means Azure and Belle can usually be found curled around each other behind his back in the warm sand, but Azure has pulled herself out of her sister’s grip to edge closer.

“You were talking in your sleep,” she says, but slowly. Like she thinks she isn’t supposed to. “And you sounded really sad.”

“Oh,” he mutters. “I’m okay. Sorry for waking you. Sometimes pirate life equals nightmares.”

It doesn’t take away the worry with which she regards him, but after another critical onceover, she jerks a nod and settles back down.

Soap turns around again, checking his gun before giving the jungle a cursory glance.

“John?” Azure whispers. It’s so quiet the waves almost take it with them back into the sea.

“Mh?”

A pause.

Then, even quieter; “who’s Simon?”

Soap’s teeth dig into his lower lip to kill a wounded sound. A sense of dread settles down his spine, and he wraps his hand tight around the gun.

He has to swallow twice before he can answer.

“That’s what I was saying?”

“Yeah.”

Well, fuck him.

His eyes find the moon. It looks to be only a few weeks, maybe less, from full, and maybe it’s the pull of it, or simply the bone-deep exhaustion that makes him divulge his most kept secret.

Or, maybe, he’s been looking to tell a stranger about all of it. He’s unsure if the girls still count as such, but at least they’re not pirates or soldiers. They’re young women, mostly girls still, who look at the world with all it has to offer and think; I’m gonna make something beautiful for myself.

And Soap can’t quite remember that feeling anymore.

“Simon’s the love of my life,” he whispers.

Another long silence stretches between them. It goes on until Soap is convinced Azure hasn’t heard a word of what he just said.

He’a just about to close his eyes, when she speaks up again.

“What happened?”

Soap takes a deep breath. It’s sad and small and hurts worse than a knife to the gut.

“Broke his heart.”

He grabs the stone around his neck with his free hand, wondering how much juice it’s got left. Not once, during the last five years of running away, has Soap stayed this long in one spot. It’s making him restless, worried.

He can only hope they’re too far away for even a ghost to catch up with them.

After that night, the days pass by in a blur.

A pirate ship Soap recognizes as trouble sails by, they eat more fruit, more deer, and drink more water from the stream in the jungle. The wound on his arm doesn’t hurt too bad anymore. It’s gonna leave quite the gnarly scar, but eh. It’ll fit right in.

At night, he sleeps with one eye open and the gun ready at his side if the jaguar that’s apparently housing the forest decides to come out and put an end to its sudden competition.

This is only one out of many reasons to get off the island as fast as possible, but when the third pirate ship sails by, Soap has to admit they a) need more deer and b) that he can’t leave one of the girls alone as lookout anymore, lest they mistake a ship as friendly, or the jaguar pays them a visit in his absence.

So, they all go into the jungle.

“Okay, listen up. Don’t run if we come across the jag. You stay with me.”

“Yes, cap’n.”

Soap rolls his eyes at Belle. Her cheek has made a comeback and, truly, it knows no bounds.

”Not your captain, lass. Azure, remember what we’re looking for?”

While her sister makes ugly faces at Soap behind his back, Azure dutifully lists up all the signs of a deer in their near vicinity. She’s got the hang of this hunting thing pretty quickly. Soap is inclined to try and teach her how to take down a prey should their stay on the island extend for some days longer – at the moment, prospects of anything else certainly aren’t looking up.

Belle has proved handy with building shelters, and they’ve made quite the sleeping situation to battle the weather. And the jaguar. Honestly, the girls have surprised him immensely with their ability to adapt and overcome.

They would make damn fine pirates. He’s gonna keep that one to himself, for the time being, though.

“Very good,” he praises when Azure is done. “Let’s go and get ourselves a deer then.”

The jungle is alive with insects determined to suck them dry of blood, and the immediate lack of deer closer to camp isn’t helping any. It means they have to wander further in than they’ve gone before.

Which isn’t necessarily a problem, but Soap has to stop every now and then to mark the trees so they’ll have something to follow back again. Getting lost on an uninhabited (probably, hopefully) island isn’t on the agenda.

Belle eventually wages war against the mosquitoes with a giant leaf and grim determination. She turns out to be rather adept at this, perhaps unsurprisingly with all that fiery stubbornness she usually only applies to giving Soap an early onslaught of the wrinkles.

They stop for water a few times, chatting aimlessly with each other. The last few days, the girls have begun opening up about their life back home, and apparently, Soap wasn’t wrong about the ‘poor’ thing after all.

They’ve got five younger siblings, their parents work from day to night, and there’s this hole in the roof right above the bed that's a bitch anytime it rains.

It’s kind of nice to hear tales from a domestic life, though. He’s spent so long running and fighting and stealing shit that he’s forgotten the joy of eating dinner with someone. Of course, he doesn’t have a crew to join anymore, and Soap might be many things, but first and foremost he is a pirate. The day he leaves the sea for good is the day some idiot has decided to bury him on land, instead of giving him back to the ocean.

Deep within the spiral of his own thoughts and with the girls chattering quietly behind him, it takes Soap a moment to hear it, but then something creaks from the canopy right above him.

A quick glance up reveals nothing but green, but as he looks ahead again the same sound echoes closer to them, and this time Soap catches the smell of wet fur.

“John! Watch out!”

He unsheaths his knife and rolls out of the way just in time for the jaguar to leap over him instead of into him. Belle screams, but when Soap gets back on his feet, he finds both girls behind him, dutifully keeping exactly as still and quiet as he’s been teaching them to be.

The jaguar whips around with a vicious growl and charges again. Soap drops low, knife firm in his hand. They collide in a mess of claws, knife, and teeth, and Azure once again cries out his name in alarm.

“Stay,” Soap barks, barely avoiding a bite to his jugular.

He tries to angle the knife, but the jaguar is big as shit, and those claws are fucking everywhere at once.

On his back, faced with an endless assault of snapping teeth, he can’t make the proper move to get a good stab in. Failing would be fatal. He’s got one chance and one chance only; wasting it just isn’t an option, especially not with the way his stupid arm is back to throbbing meanly.

“For fuck’s sake, you’re bogging,” he groans when that maw gets a wee bit too close to his face and he’s treated a first seat experience to the foul stench of dead animal. Teeth snap twice in response, almost stealing his nose.

He's just gotten a decent hold on the knife when, abruptly, the beast flies back with a wounded snarl. Another stone whistles past Soap a moment later, though this time it misses the jaguar by quite a bit.

“John!” Belle screams.

Jumping up with a groan, Soap hurtles back to the girls and throws himself in front of them just in time for the jaguar to shake its head.

“Good hit,” Soap gasps, slowly pushing the girls backwards.

“Thanks,” Azure whispers. She’s got another stone ready in hand. “Pretty sure that was just pure luck, though.”

“Aye, well. They say not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and I’m pretty grateful for the save.”

The jaguar growls and then it’s back.

Soap honestly thought he’d have more time; that stone had been big and well-placed, and he’s a fucking idiot, alright, because he should’ve gotten his gun out, and all of this would’ve been over in three seconds flat.

But he’s distracted with the girls, and the exhaustion is making him sluggish. He barely manages to get his good arm up to block before those deadly teeth sink into his skin with sharp precision.

“Fuck,” he hisses, white noise raging in his ears, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

His vision swims as he drops his knife and his knees buckle. The jaguar is so heavy it drags him down on one knee, stubbornly holding onto his arm. The hit must still cause it some confusion though, since it doesn’t immediately try and rip it off.

“Shit! Shitshitshit, John –“

With a groan, Soap gets his free hand into its mouth, fingers curling around the nose. He yanks with all his strength and it pulls an angry sound from the jag, but it doesn’t let go.

”Come on,” he grunts, digging deeper with his fingers. The jaguar whines. “Let go, ya fuckin’ bawbag!”

“Should I throw another rock!?”

Azure sounds three seconds away from bringing a mountain down on them, so Soap shakes his head wildly, still trying to pry the fucker off his poor arm.

“Don’t, it’ll rip my arm clean off!”

“But you’re going to die –“ Belle cries out.

“I’m not,” Soap sneers, pulling and pulling and pulling, his head a mush and nose stuffed full with the stench of rot and wet fur, “there’s only one beast in this world that’ll get me, and it isn’t gonna be some oversized, fuckin’ cat –“

A gunshot explodes into the relative quiet of the jungle.

Warm blood splatters all over Soap’s face and the jaguar sags before it slides clean off his arm.

A flock of birds scream and take off from the canopy, leaving the world entirely silent in their wake once again.

Too slow, Soap blinks against the shrieking, uncomprehending sound in his mind.

Time seems to have stopped. Or at least slowed down a considerable amount. His heart is still determined to try and beat its way out of his chest, and breath leaves him in hard, steady pants as he stares down, dumbfounded, at the jaguar.

It’s got a hole in its head.

Ridiculously, he checks for his own gun, but it’s still hanging by his hip, and when he turns to see if one of the girls have somehow managed to magically conjure one of their own, Azure is frozen with her arm in the air, stone ready to go.

They’re both staring straight ahead of him, and like a snapped rope, his mind falls back into his head.

He whips his attention straight ahead, in the direction the bullet came from.

... 

The heart is a funny thing. It both makes and breaks you, but he’s just about certain he’ll die this time, when it slams into the pit of his stomach in sudden and brutal dread.

“Oh fuck,” Soap croaks.

Ghost slowly lowers his smoking gun, and their eyes meet.

Oh fuck.

The last five years, Soap has religiously been imagining what their reunion might look like every day. And every day it’s been something different.

Most times, he would imagine himself impaled on one of those vicious swords Ghost carries around on his back. Other times (mostly when drunk), Soap would be stupid enough to think himself back into his arms instead; hidden and safe from the world like no other place has managed it since they parted.

Saved from getting mauled by a jaguar honestly hadn’t made it on the list yet, but faced with the skull mask covering the top part of Ghosts face, Soap forgets all his previous daydreaming, anyway.

It looks exactly like Soap remembers it; muted gold, adorned with teeth hiding most of Ghost’s mouth from view. The engravings are the same, a story of daggers and a kraken, and all the riches of the sea. It’s made by a smith who works for the king, and it cost Ghost a fucking fortune along with an increased amount of doubloons on his bounty.

Soap’s heart staggers on in his stomach, like a pathetic toy that's long since lost its functions.

He might throw up.

They’re several steps apart, but those dark eyes are clear as day, even with the coal smeared around them. Ghost doesn’t so much as blink, and the look in his eyes remains horribly blank.

There’s no anger, no love, no peace. Only cool indifference.

Soap barely notices how several people fan out behind their captain, because finally Ghost opens his moth.

“Hello Soap.”

His voice strikes Soap bodily.nThe thick accent is as troubling as the first time he heard it.

“Long time no see, captain,” Soap eventually manages, voice no more than a rough whisper.

Behind him, one of the girls suck in a breath.

“Soap?” Belle whispers.

Double fuck.

Azure sounds like she’s swallowed a bag of nails, “please don’t tell me the pirate you stole from is the fucking Ghost!”

Soap is sweating so bad, and his arm is hurting like a bitch. He really does feel like throwing up, but he can’t look away from Ghost.

“Uh,” he says. “Surprise?”

“You’re the Soap?” Belle hisses, inching closer to him. “Are you aware there’s a ridiculous amount of blunts on your head!?”

“That would be me,” he agrees weakly, eyes finally flickering out to note the pirates all glaring at him with varying expressions of fury and severity.

He pauses on Roach, who’s leaning against a tree just behind Ghost, arms crossed.

“Hey, Roach. Good to see you, mate. I take it this thing is out of juice then?”

Soap taps the stone.

Roach sighs, but he doesn’t sound angry when he answers. “You’re practically a lighthouse, Soap.”

“Mh, aye,” he mutters, attention sliding back to Ghost.

He’s staring at Soap, quiet as the grave, which Soap will probably find himself in sooner rather than later.

He’s gotta get them out of this.

“Uh, listen. Thanks for the save, cap’n. That would’ve ended badly. We’ll just be on our way then. Leave you guys to it.”

“Stay,” Ghost simply says and Soap swallows against the messy mix of grief, terror and delight making him all dizzy.

“I’m kinda busy, though?” He tries anyway, inching just a step backwards.

The move’s got his vision swimming something fierce, so probably, he’s lost a lot more blood than he should have. It’s kind of difficult to know for certain, when he can’t feel most of his body.

“Have a deal I gotta honor, so why don’t I just find you later and –“

Ghost raises his gun again and points it at straight him.

“I said fucking stay, Johnny,” he rumbles; low and cold and vicious as fuck.

Soap’s body shoots ramrod straight, and he presses his lips tight to keep in a whimper.

Fuck, but he’s missed that. The nickname, the ruthless expectation to be obeyed. Even with a gun pointed at him, Soap feels right at home with Ghost this close.

When it becomes clear that Soap is done testing fate, Ghost tips his head at the crew.

“Get the girls. I’ll take care of our boy.”

Pirates immediately start advancing advance. A twig breaks behind Soap as the girls step away, clearly distraught, and another wave of protective fear blows at the sorry embers of adrenaline.

 He growls and forces himself bigger, moving backwards to effectively turn himself into a wall.

“Soap,” Ghost warns, but Soap shakes his head, raising a hand as the pirates get nearer.

“No,” he says. “Ghost. Please. I was––they just wanna go home. They haven’t done anything wrong; they didn’t even know who I was. Found them beat up in Dead Man’s Land by those English bastards. I promised to help them, so just…” he hates how his voice wavers as he starts blabbering, but mostly how fucking unaffected Ghost remains. “Let them go, aye?”

A sound to his right alerts him that someone has managed to sneak up on him from his blind spot.

“Soap,” they say, and he whips a fist squarely into Alejandro’s face before he’s thought the action through.

It’s a bad hit, hurts from his knuckles and all the way into his wrist, but at least it pushes Alejandro a few steps back.

“Mierda.” Blood drips from between his hands as he cups his busted nose, and he glares up at Soap. “What was that for?!”

“I said stay away from them,” Soap hisses, hunching down as another pirate he doesn’t recognize stupidly passes Alejandro.

He gets himself a kick in the nuts and then Soap’s elbow connects with the side of his skull, dropping him in an instant. Roach is wise enough to stay out of reach from Soap’s hands, but several pirates are gathering now, and he’s got a bleeding fucking arm so when they all eventually come charging it’s gonna be over real quick. What’s worse is that Soap hasn’t even located König yet. He can only hope Ghost has left him on the ship as a warning instead of bringing him along.

“We won’t hurt them,” Roach says softly from his spot at the tree. “But we can’t leave them here either, can we?”

Soap looks from him to Ghost to Alejandro who’s drying off blood with a scowl, then back to Ghost. He’s decked out in the same long coat as always––black, and gold and legendary, swords and guns and the promise of violence. Oh, and probably about twenty knives hidden somewhere on his person.

Something settles within Soap. A puzzle of sorts, or maybe the last nail in a tailored coffin.

“Well,” he says, body suddenly heavy. His arms drop. “You won sir. But five years is a good shot, you’ve got to admit. Bet you didn’t think I could stay quiet for so long, eh?” He smiles through the fog crowding across his vision, though for some reason, Ghost remains sharply visible in the middle of the mess.

“Keep the record and shut the fuck up, Soap,” Ghost suggests.

Soap just sniggers, swaying on his feet.

“Nah. I’m a dead man anyway.”

Then he goes out like a blown candle.

I love you.

Mh.

You don’t have to say it back. You don’t need to.

I know, Johnny.

Chapter Text

A sharp pain rips him out of oblivion’s fuddled lands and smacks him ruthlessly back into reality with unceremonious apathy.

The first thing Soap notices is that he’s sitting on cold, dank wood and that the ground is moving in a familiar pattern of up-and-down he could recognize in his sleep. It’s also humid and smells like gunpowder, so even before another painful tug on his arm has him peel apart his sticky lashes, Soap knows he’s been put in the Haunt’s brig.

He blinks down at Roach. He’s bend over Soap, deft fingers wrapping clean cloth around the wound left by the jag’s teeth. Soap can feel the faint trace of magic on his skin. Some kind of healing spell must have been applied while he’s been out. It smells like stardust and myths and something ancient.

“Isn’t this kind of redundant?” He croaks anyway. “He’s gonna kill me, you know.”

Roach just shrugs. His expression is mostly hidden by the murky gloom ever present down here, but Soap thinks he’s scowling.

“Didn’t ask for the reason to be honest. And you’ll live, it’s not that deep. Bled a lot though.”

“Fuckin’ felt deep enough when the big bastard was chewin’ away at me,” Soap grumbles. “But thanks. Where’s my gun?”

Sighing, Roach ties the last knot on the cloth before easing back on his heels. Warm eyes blink down at Soap, and… yeah. There goes the last bit of his defenses.

He almost cries—it’s been so long since he last had a place of belonging, a home to come back to. Worst of all he misses his people. Like Roach, who’s a brother through everything but blood; who’s patched Soap up more times than he cares to admit, and who would once lay down his life for him, just as Soap wouldn’t think twice before doing the same.

Soap’s a fucking idiot, alright, done a lot of stupid shit in his life, but throwing away the Haunt—his family—it really takes the cake. It's the only home he’s ever known. And now he’s worse than an enemy.

“How you been?” Roach asks quietly, ignoring Soap’s demand for his gun and glancing backwards, towards the stairs leading up onto the deck. He’s definitely not supposed to chatter with the prisoner, but Roach has always been too good to follow the rules.

Soap snorts and leans back against the wood behind him.

“Let’s just say the life of a fugitive isn’t boring, at least. Left Graves in the dust ‘bout a week ago. That was pretty nice.”

“I heard something about that. It didn’t sit well with him.”

“Nothing ever sits well with the tadger.”

“True.”

“What about you then?” Soap tilts his head. “How’s life been since I left? Quiet, I presume. Boring. Peaceful.”

“No, yes, and absolutely not,” Roach says drily, giving him a strange look. Then he very, very carefully tips his head towards the dark hall leading up to the stairs, and Soap’s breath hitches.

He's here. Ghost is here.

Roach squeezes his wrist to regain his attention. “I’m not gonna put myself on the line here, and frankly, you don’t deserve to know what’s going on anymore. You’re not family. Not after what you did.”

The words are cruel and mostly for show, Soap knows that; but even if Roach doesn’t believe them, it doesn’t make it any less true.

“Fair,” he mumbles. “Where’d you put the girls?”

Roach points to his right and Soap follows the direction of his finger until his eyes land on Azure and Belle, huddled together in the cell next to his. They’re wrapped in a blanket each, a pair of cups near a bucket of clean water.

Soap turns to Roach with a reproachful sneer.

“The fuckin’ brig, seriously? They’re kids, they won’t do shit –“

“Stop complaining. They’re fine. One of them bit Rudy.”

This makes Soap pause, secretly a little amused, and when he opens his mouth to argue the point further Roach quickly leans in.

“Soap,” he whispers, too quiet for anyone but them to hear. “He’s… he’s not doing good. Like, I—all of us, really, we’re worried. If you would just let me –“

Soap sharply jerks his head and presses a finger against his own lips.

“No,” he mouths, willing his gaze as flinty as possible. It makes Roach cringe back, but Soap doesn’t let up.

“You promised me,” he hisses.

It takes Roach a moment, during which their gazes don’t waver from each other, but eventually he relents with a sad little nod.

“You don’t deserve this,” he whispers, eyes big. “Neither of you.”

Sure; Ghost doesn’t.

But Soap’s reaping shit as he’s sown it, and he doesn’t want pity or anything of the kind.

Instead of answering, he juts his chin towards Azure and Belle.

“Better get them something nice to sleep on, or I’m gonna be your worst fucking nightmare until Ghost finally puts that bullet through my head.”

For several reasons, good reasons might he add, Soap has been partial to believing that the moment Ghost gets his hands on him again, he’ll be sent down to feed the fish in the most grueling way possible.

In itsy bitsy pieces still screaming for mercy, or alive and well aware that it was his own choices that led him to it—frankly, the method doesn’t matter, just that it happens.

But it doesn’t that first day.

The girls wake up when it’s time to change the bandages. One would think Roach’s presence would deter them from being too forward, but Soap should have known better. After traveling with them for weeks he’s more than intimately aware of what exactly it means when Azure presses a furious, tear-stained face against the bars separating them.

“You fucking pirate bastard, you lied to us!”

Soap tries to look contrite, he really does, it’s just not his best expression. He does smug and shit-eating much better.

“Of course, I did! I told you I did.“

“When?”

“People without last names are rarely good news, lass. I also made you well aware that I had a mountain of bounties on my head.”

Belle stands up to join her sister. “Welp, newsflash asshole; there’s a difference between being hunted by pirates, and then being hunted by the Ghost!”

That… is not untrue. Even Roach hums his agreement. He’s clearly enjoying this a little too much going by his shaking shoulders. Soap isn’t gonna entertain him any further.

Properly contrite now—at least a bit—Soap bends his head.

“Right,” he says. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Azure sniffles and Belle scoffs which will have to be good enough. There’s nothing else he can do, and he truly didn’t plan for them to get caught. It’s a shitty accident, that’s all.

Apology over and done with, Soap continues.

“Next time I’ll make sure to tell the strangers I’m helping home that the sea’s most feared pirate is on my ass. Maybe I’ll even inform them of the price he’s willing to pay should anyone hand me over. You know, in case they hadn’t heard.”

Now Roach does open his mouth. “You’re such an ass.”

“But I’m not wrong,” Soap points out over Belle’s affronted cursing.

“Fine,” Azure eventually bites out. “That’s a fair point, I suppose. We wouldn’t have done it, though.”

Feeling himself soften, Soap offers them both a small smile.

“I know that now,” he says. “And I really am sorry he put you in the brig. Ghost is…”

“Mistrustful,” Roach offers with a raised brow when Soap doesn’t continue, tying the cloth tightly before he leans back to survey his handiwork. “And that’s the nice way to put it. But he’s not gonna hurt you. We’re getting you home.”

Both girls turn to look at Soap with expectant eyes, so he nods his agreement. They can trust Roach to tell them the truth. He’s the first mate, amongst other things, but he’s a good man. In the beginning, Soap used to think he was a little too good for the life of a pirate. Then he saw him in battle and that idiotic notion promptly fled his mind, like a bird on the wind.

Roach is fucking terrifying.

“I know what the captain looks like,” Soap admits. “But he’s, uh, not unreasonable. And you haven’t crossed him in any way. He’ll get you home. Actually,” he adds, tilting his head. “You’re probably much safer with him than me.”

Ghost might’ve bounties bigger than all of Soap’s combined, but that’s all null when no one dares engage with him anyway.

“You know,” Belle says and settles on her ass by the bars, pale eyes cutting right through Soap with sharp consideration. “It’s curious how you keep calling the Ghost captain.”

Soap purses his lips. Azure makes a noise of agreement.

“Yeah. I mean, clearly, he’s the one you decided to steal from.”

Still packing up his stuff, Roach freezes for a moment. He gives Soap a furtive glance but doesn’t say anything. The silence stretching in the brig is apparently answer enough because Azure nods, satisfied with her theory.

“You worked here, didn’t you?” Belle asks, and Soap snorts, slightly hysteric, though it’s Roach who answers; voice filled with dry humor and no small amount of bite.

“Oh, our Soap did more than just work here,” he says.

Fuck’s sake…

“Roach,” Soap warns.

Roach merely rolls his eyes at him, the vindictive fuckass.

“He was first mate. Ghost’s right-hand-man.”

At least he doesn’t add the; and he was fucking him too that Soap can see dancing on the tip of his tongue. Small mercies and all that.

“What!” Azure screeches, while Belle simply settles for bonking her head against the bar with a resigned little sigh, like this isn’t surprising in the least. It makes Soap want to reevaluate a few things, not gonna lie.

Roach sniggers and settles back on his hands, something wicked playing in his eyes. Surely, this doesn’t bode well for Soap, but when has Roach ever passed up an opportunity to get a laugh out of someone? Especially him.

“Wanna hear more?” Roach asks gleefully. It wakes up Belle from her longsuffering slump, and for the next hour or so, the girls are treated to all of Soap’s most embarrassing moments during his time on the Haunt.

At first, that’s all it is; embarrassing. Soap might not have a whole lot of shame, but he’s rarely felt as pathetic as the time he got sick from eating too much of the cake Horangi had made them for König’s birthday, and he spent no less than a week throwing up his guts. It eventually came to show that the cake had passed its expiration date when he dove in, and he’d paid dearly for it.

“Ghost had to put us ashore to buy more rations for the lubber ‘cause he threw up all the food we tried to put in him,” Roach laughs and the girls laugh along, but it’s at this point the embarrassment melts into soft melancholia, and Soap feels his heartbeat slow down.

He slumps back against the damp hull as Roach’s voice turns to a deep hum in the back of his mind. Images flash, followed by sensations, and Soap loses himself in those happy, awful days when Ghost would wipe a cool cloth against his sweat stained forehead, whispering words of endearment and praise known only to Soap. It tickles the knife embedded in his heart, but it’s an old pain by now. The ghost of a love he doesn’t know what to do with—pun not intended.

What eventually brings him out of his musings is Belle knocking on the bars to garner his attention. Blinking himself back into the present, Soap meets Roach’s soft eyes. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but Roach is one of his oldest friends. He reads Soap like an open book on the worst of days.

“John—uh. I mean Soap?” Belle frowns. “I don’t know what to call you now. Is John even your real name?”

“John McTavish,” Roach, the little gossiper, agrees.

“Call me whatever you want, lass,” Soap says. “John is the name my mam gave me, but no one really uses it.”

“Soap then,” Belle decides, “because it’s funny calling a filthy pirate soap.”

This makes Roach throw his head back with a cackle and even Soap can’t deny the comedic aptitude in that, so he imitates a mock bow in capitulation. Belle accepts with a smug smile, though it quickly slips as she sobers.

“Didn’t you say there’s a witch on ship?”

Her eyes flicker towards the hall. The girls won’t be able to see the stairs from their position, but Roach has come and gone enough for them to piece the layout together by now.

Soap hums, tilting his head towards Roach, who raises a sheepish hand.

“You’re looking at him.”

“Hey,” Roach says, shrinking a little under the twin stares of confusion.

“Uh. I won’t—I don’t hex people,” he continues, the darling.

Soap can’t parse the looks on the girls’ faces as look from Roach to Soap, until eventually Azure makes a weird face and says, “I thought man-witches were called warlocks.”

Soap chokes and bends over himself, wheezing so hard it hurts his busted arm.

 “Man-witch,” he repeats hysterically, tears streaming down his face. He points a shaking finger at Roach.

“That’s—that’s what you are now, mate. You’re a man-witch.”

“I will fucking make you walk the plank, Soap,” Roach warns him, “I don’t care if Ghost kills me for it, I’ll do it. And,” he continues, turning back to the girls when Soap doesn’t stop laughing, “that’s a common misconception. Men are called witches too –“

“Whatever you say, man-witch,” Soap snickers and then Roach is on him with no regard for his bruised and battered body, but that’s okay because even if he’s going to die soon, Soap is home for just a moment.

It takes Ghost three full days to show up.

Soap is dreaming of food and a warm body around his own because he’s treated half the ration of grub the girls get (fair) and because he hasn’t gotten a blanket so he’s freezing his ass off (also fair).

It remains unspecified exactly what wakes him, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it’s Ghost’s sheer presence that does the trick. He’s always been the largest person Soap knows, in several ways. Physically, until he met König, but Soap’s still half-convinced he’s actually the kraken masquerading as human, so it doesn’t count.

Waking is a slow affair. Ghost might want to kill him, but Soap’s body still remembers him as the safest place on earth, and no number of threats or amount of time will ever change that.

When it finally happens, when Soap is put down for his betrayal, he’s decided to stick around and make sure the big fool stays out of trouble, from the afterlife. Or, well. At least make sure that he doesn’t die from it. Best not to make promises that are impossible to keep.

The brig is dark as shit. To avoid unfortunate fires, they don’t light the torches at night, but there’s light streaming down from above deck and Ghost is too big to miss.

He's leaning against the hull right in front of Soap’s cell, arms bulging across his chest. He’s dressed in full gear; jacket, mask and hat. This is business, then. Soap sees no weapons, though, so he’ll go ahead and assume they’re gonna play pig and farmer for a wee while longer.

That’s fine. Whatever he wants, Soap will give it to him.

“Captain,” he greets, as evenly as he can manage with the way his heart starts breaking all over again. “Was beginning to think you’d let me die all on my own.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Ghost says dully.

Soap is all the way in the back of his cell, and there’s at least ten healthy steps between them, but this is the closest he’s been to Ghost since he fucked off and it’s… well, it’s difficult. More than difficult, really, but no words seem to manage the ghastly feeling trying to claw its way out his throat, faced with the consequences of what he did.

The worst part of Soap’s betrayal is that it hurt Ghost. And that Soap knew it would.

That’s why he’s so adamant on keeping up the charade of the bastard who revived Ghost’s cold, dead heart merely for the sake of using it against him. Love and hate exist as the same coin after all; Soap makes sure Ghost’s remains flipped firmly on hate because then he won’t get messed up by rotting affection with nowhere to go. He knows what that kind of feeling does to a man. Encounters that exact agony himself every day.

Soap had to steal that ruby, he had to betray Ghost. But that doesn’t mean he can’t still remain loyal to some degree. When Ghost finally decides to put him down, he’ll be able to forget Soap. Maybe even find someone else.

A lump settles in Soap’s throat at the thought. He broke his own heart in the process of saving Ghost’s life, and for him there’ll be no end to the love growing stubbornly between the sorry remains of his heart. It’s clattering a rhythm of Simon, Simon, Simon that at once keeps him going, while simultaneously inching him closer and closer to the abyss. Soap hasn’t been happy for five years, but at least it means he gets to punish himself for not being good enough to prevent the catastrophe from happening in the first place. He owes that much to Ghost; as his former first mate, aye, but also as the guy who promised to keep him safe and didn’t manage it.

At the end of the day, his own feelings don’t actually matter. Soap’s got a role to play. He’s not gonna let the last five years be for nothing.

And at least Ghost can’t feel the way it hurts when he forces a smile. “Aye? But that wouldn’t be good enough for you. Not painful enough.”

“Think you know me, Soap?” Ghost asks quietly.

“Did once.” He shrugs. “You might not want me on your cock anymore, but that bloodthirst of yours can’t have waned –“

The click of a gun shuts him right the fuck up. It’s not visible in the shadows, with the current distance between them, but Ghost could take out Soap with one of his knives if he so desired, despite the darkness and bars.

Now, the threat of death doesn’t scare Soap much. Selfishly, he just wants a moment. It remains irrelevant that Ghost hates him now, that he doesn’t want Soap safe or warm anymore. All that matters is the fact that he’s here, and he still speaks like the world owes him everything. That he’s big and invincible and that he won’t bow to no one; not even to his own pain. So, Soap happily shuts up and lets each of them have their moment.

Ghost hums a low sound. “That’s better. Don’t mistake this as a courtesy call, Johnny. I’m here to get some answers.”

It takes every cell in his body to remain still but he’s proud to say he manages by the skin of his teeth.

“Good boy,” Ghost says, and it sounds like a fucking threat. Hot shit. “Tell me about Makarov.”

The world grinds to a halt.

Oh fuck it.

Soap swallows. “Uh. Aye, well. Russian, first-class tadger, likes to fuck things up. Once put a bullet through my shoulder, don’t know if you remember.”

“I remember,” Ghost cuts him off, “quit stalling.”

Don’t look away, Soap firmly tells himself, even though he can’t actually see anything but the soft gleam of the mask from here. He’ll know if you look away.

“What do you want me to say?” He asks carefully.

It’s a genuine question. Not because Soap doesn’t know, but because he wants to hear Ghost admit that he’s trying to trap him. They’ve never been able to lie to each other; a hitch that can’t possibly have changed, not even with the damage separating them.

For once benevolent, Ghost humors him.

“Three days after you betrayed me,” he starts, unaware of how Soap’s nails dig into his palms until blood runs down warm and wet, “Makarov’s ship went down. No signs of malfunction or battle. The vessel disappeared in the blink of an eye. How is that?”

Unease sits heavily in Soap’s chest.

“Heard about that,” he admits, which isn’t a lie, not really. “Don’t know though. Sometimes luck is just on your side.” Now that’s a lie. And apparently it strikes a chord.

Ghost slams a hand against the bars so hard it rattles.

“Drop the fucking act, Johnny,” he growls, and now Soap does see the gun ‘cause it gets pointed directly at him, wedged through the bars. “I know you had something to do with it.”

There’s no doubt at all in Soap’s heart that Ghost will kill him. He can fucking feel it; all the way down to his toes. But still he presses his lips tight and stares right back into the dark caves of that skull-mask in quiet defiance.

For a very long time the only sound in the brig is Belle’s gentle snoring and the waves chattering just above them.

“Get over here,” Ghost orders, voice barely a whisper but no less demanding.

Soap is on his feet in a second.

“Finally gonna do it?” He whispers, striding over until the cold barrel of the gun rests between his brows. He looks up at Ghost from under his lashes, happy to see those cruel eyes glaring daggers back at him.

Look at me. Look at me forever.

“Seems to me you’d like to die with how much you’re yapping on about it,” Ghost says coldly. “What did you do to Makarov?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Soap answers, honestly this time. Calypso did, he was merely the one tying the noose for the gallows. Not his fault Shepherd had promised her a boatful of pirates. “And no, I don’t. Mind dying that is. Running is exhausting.”

Another half-truth, and one Ghost once again dissects correctly judging by the slight narrowing of his eyes. Soap doesn’t mind dying but it’s not because he’s tired of running. If he’s honest with himself, there’s a thrill to looking over your shoulder every now and then, of having to outwit someone you know is smarter than several of the wig strutting fuckers whispering things in the king’s ear. But he doesn’t long for it either. If he could have his choice, he would stay in this brig for the rest of his life just to be near Ghost.

But he’s also a pirate. This is always how it was going to end and he’s made his peace with that a long, long time ago. Besides… dying would take away the empty space in his chest no amount of rum or scotch seems capable of filling.

Wordlessly, Ghost retracts the gun and puts it back in its holster by his hip, apparently done with his shit.

“You’re gonna tell me,” he says. “Can’t shut up for long enough not to.”

Soap just smiles. They’re still close enough that he can see Ghost’s eyes, and he can’t find it in himself to stop looking. “Still know me better than myself.”

The boat rocks as Ghost remains eerily passive. Then, abruptly, he turns on a heel and strides back towards the stairs.

“Ghost,” Soap calls, but Ghost doesn’t stop, so he opens his mouth again.

“Simon.”

This does the trick.

Ghost halts with one foot on the first step and Soap miserably watches the almost imperceptible hunch of his shoulders.

“Don’t kill me in front of the lasses, aye?” He pleads. “They shouldn’t see shit like that.”

Ghost doesn’t say anything at all. Actually, he doesn’t move so much as a muscle for so long that Soap is half-convinced the next thing that’ll happen is the bullet after all. But then he finally relaxes and while he doesn’t turn around, he speaks loud enough for Soap to hear him, even as he ascends the stairs.

“That’s not my name.”

The ice in his voice leaves Soap frozen by the bars long enough for the sun to rise.

The girls get to pee in the privacy of a room further down the hold, far enough from the brig that they won’t have to worry about prying ears or eyes. It also means they won’t be able to hear what goes on in the brig, so when Belle is taken for her daily lavatory retreat and Soap has endured the strange looks Azure keeps sending him for hours on end, he grabs the opportunity to clear the air.

“Out with it,” he says, leaning against the bars separating them.

Once again he’s treated to a look full of conflicting emotions but instead of indulging him, Azure presses her lips tight and looks away. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t imagine the slight flush coloring her cheeks. Whatever it is that’s bothering her it must be Bad.

Sighing, Soap bonks his head against the bars, staring her down. “Oi. You’re doin’ my nut in with all that looking. I can hear you thinking from over here.”

Silence.

“This is a mistake, lass. I’m the most annoying bastard sailing the seven seas, I’ll bother you until you break.”

He smiles wickedly when Azure merely mutters something incomprehensible under her breath and casts a desperate glance towards the way Belle disappeared. It’s no use, they both know how much Belle enjoys and extends her daily freedom.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I almost lost my foot? One of Graves’ bastards got me with a dirty sword,” he grimaces. “Can still remember the smell. All rotten eggs and unwashed arse –“

“Oh my god,” Azure chokes, whipping around to glower at him. “Would you stop?”

Soap hefts an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “Aye, of course. So long as you either stop looking at me like I’ve got warts on my pretty mug or cough up whatever’s bothering you.” Softening, he offers her a reconciling wink. “You know you can. I won’t be mad.”

Azure swallows. She bites her lips, and her eyes keep flickering between his face, her hands, and the floor. The flush stays adamant, deepening in color.

“You won’t?” She says.

“You have my word.”

“A pirate’s word,” she repeats skeptically.

Frustrated, Soap rolls his eyes. “Even if I got mad, which I won’t, what could I possibly do from over here?” He gestures to the bars and the floor separating them which earns him a considering nod.

“Please don’t be mad,” Azure stresses.

“I just said –“

“Last night I heard you talk with the Ghost,” she cuts him off, voice hushed and eyes huge. Soap stills, blinking at her. “I didn’t mean to but… You called him Simon.”

Ah.

Who’s Simon?

The love of my life.

Well. Fuck him. Always gotta put his fucking foot in his big fucking mouth. Obviously his and Ghost’s little fight, or whatever it was, had woken one of them. Aware that he’s staring blankly at nothing in particular, Soap eventually manages to shut his mouth. Azure is fidgeting again. Her skin has paled considerably, like she really is afraid of his reaction, so Soap retreats to his usual spot on the floor.

“How much did you hear?” He mumbles.

“… you said you wouldn’t mind dying.”

Soap closes his eyes on a sigh. The Haunt creaks and moans, and the faint cry of seagulls echo down into the hold. Azure sniffles from the other cell as someone yells above deck. When it becomes clear he isn’t gonna say anything, she speaks up again.

“Can I ask what you stole from him?”

Cracking one eye open, Soap hums.

”A ruby,” he admits. “Big bugger of one. He was quite fond of it.” Too fond of it that’d been the hitch, but that’s Soap’s secret to keep.

Azure stares at him wordlessly. He can see the incredulous anger slowly igniting behind her eyes.

“You say he’s the love of your life, but you would break his heart for mere treasure?”

Just then Belle comes bustling down the hall with one of the pirates on her heels, chippering happily about her recent lack of nausea, so Soap settles for a smile that makes Azure recoil. She’s currently the living embodiment of everything Soap feels but can’t show and, curiously, there’s a sense of freedom in that. Belle doesn’t notice the bad mood, and if she sees the baleful look her sister sends Soap at least she doesn’t comment.

The thing with sleeping on the cold, hard floor of a humid brig is that it very quickly gets old. In correlation Soap’s back isn’t young anymore either and it’s keeping him awake with its bitching. The girls are snoring into each other’s ear in the cell next door, cozy on a shared mattress and bundled under several blankets. It’s a rocky sea tonight, but they really have found their sea legs by now. Soap can only be happy for them. Even with the way Azure still refuses to so much as look at him.

It's gotten so obvious that even Roach––still the only crewmember other than Ghost to deign him their presence––has noticed. He didn’t say anything, but Soap could see the curiosity on his face well enough when he delivered their dinner some hours earlier.

Soap glances over at the girls. At least Azure can’t scowl at him in her sleep. His gut tightens.

Whatever. The whole point of this entire shit-show is letting people misunderstand him and Soap has done it for long enough that it doesn’t bother him anymore. Not beyond Ghost, obviously. But the girls… well. They’re innocent. Makes him wish for that same harmless expectation of the world too, even if it’s a fool’s dream to the likes of him.

“Knock it off,” he tells himself sternly, settling back to force some sleep. It doesn’t fucking work though, and not long after he’s relocated a third time a sound rips him from the murky waters of almost-sleep. His eyes fly open, but he remains perfectly still as he stares into the empty hall just ahead.

It's quiet for moment, then the sound rises again.

Pat, pat, pat.

Footsteps.

His body makes an aborted attempt at rising, but Soap forces himself to keep motionless. It’s an unfamiliar and discomforting feeling for a guy who lives by the motto nothing ventured, nothing gained but Soap is also a goddamned professional, and he’s not gonna scare off a potential stowaway. Soap is still loyal to a fault, even if the Haunt (justly so) considers him the enemy.

The footsteps are so soft they’re almost inaudible, even on an old ship such as this, and eventually they taper out completely. Soap keeps his ears strained anyway, trying to catch whatever little sound the unknown party might make. It could be an animal, of course, but the steps sounded too large and weighty for him to disregard the idea of a human skulking about altogether. He sits like this for what feels like an hour; body strained with focus until his head starts hurting. Nothing more happens. Either the stowaway, if that’s the case, has gone to ‘bed’ or he’s imagined it all.

The ship lurches and Soap frowns down at his feet. At least the effort has tired him out enough for his vision to start swimming.

Weird, he thinks, but just as he’s about to give up and obey his body’s demand of sleep another sound jerks him right awake again. It’s not the footsteps and it doesn’t make much sense at all.

A series of sharp thrills roll through the brig; quiet, soft. It’s broken in strange intervals only to be picked up again. The entire ordeal lasts for no more than a moment and then it goes deadly quiet.

A bird? Maybe that’s what he heard earlier, and merely mistook it for a human walking. If a bird has somehow lost its way into the hold, the flapping of its wings might sound strange enough for that to be plausible. But Soap has never heard a bird sing like that before. Almost…

… Almost like it was practicing.

“That looks broken,” Soap comments and Alejandro rolls his eyes.

“Good to know you’re still a funny, funny man,” he says drily, pushing the tray with Soap’s so-called meal under the bars. Really, it’s more of a snack, but Soap won’t complain lest his snack-rights are taken away from him too.

He bends down to retrieve the lump of bread resting unappealingly beside a soft-looking pear. Truly delicious. At least the girls are enjoying Horangi’s infamous soup above deck in a show of magnanimous trust on Ghost’s part, based on their, quote-unquote good behavior and poor fuckin’ company. Mostly Soap’s just jealous the girls got to talk with Ghost, and that the bastard didn’t even come down here to threaten him again. Soap misses him. So bad that even a fist to the face would feel like a caress.

“I’m sorry,” Soap offers Alejandro, a genuine grimace pulling at his lips. “I, uh. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Alejandro scrunches his black and blue nose at him and then immediately looks to regret that decision. When he’s done scowling in pain, he knocks a hand against the bars. “How are you doing? Cold? Hungry?”

“For your merited pleasure I’m happy to report that aye, I feel like proper shite. Worst of all I’m bored.” Soap pouts. “Can’t you come in here and fight me? I know you want to."

Scoffing, Alejandro settles on shaking his head at his antics instead of indulging like a true friend should have done. Not that they’re friends anymore. Or brothers. Ouch. “Much as I don’t mind seeing you stew in the consequences of your own making,” he raises an eyebrow. “I’m not partial to hurting you, Soap.”

The surprising empathy catches Soap entirely off guard and makes him forget himself for a moment too long. Judging by the further softening of Alejandro’s expression, some of the hurt must have bled through the walls Soap nurses like a particular toxic band aid on a truly fucked up situation.

He desperately tries to cover it by forcing a big grin, saying, “right, ‘cause Ghost’ll do that for you,” but it doesn’t look like it’s much of a success.

“You were my brother,” Alejandro simply says, unfaced. “No amount of betrayal can change the past.”

Losing the battle, Soap feels his face fall. He turns away without answering, but with him that’s a response louder than anything he could’ve ever thought to say. Eventually, Alejandro sighs and steps away from the bars. “Roach is ashore. I’ll come back tomorrow with your breakfast.”

“Alejandro?” Soap whispers. His voice is hoarse and rough.

Alejandro stops and turns back to look at him. “Sí?”

“Last night I heard something, down in the hold,” Soap tilts his head in its general direction, and Alejandro leans back to look. “Sounded like footsteps. It might’ve been my imagination but…” he frowns, refuses to meet Alejandro’s searching eyes. “Now you know.”

It’s quiet for a beat.

“Now I know,” Alejandro agrees.

If anyone asks, the full moon is the problem. It’s always the problem, though through no fault of its own, of course. It can’t help that some people have trouble sleeping generally but won’t shut an eye when it’s all round and fat. Soap knows this, yet it’s a particular annoyance that shit goes down the night Ghost is out of commission, and especially with the storm raging outside.

It’s another sleepless one in Soap’s case but unlike their captain, he isn’t offered worrisome amounts of chloroform. Ghost’s perfectly fine, it’s his size (and the fucking full moon) that poses the problem. Oh, yeah, and his ceaseless insomnia, obviously, but that’s a given. He’ll sleep through the night and have enough energy to terrorize them all tomorrow that’s the beauty of it all. If only he terrorized Soap too instead of steadfastly ignoring him.

Anyway, turns out it’s for the better that he’s wide awake and aching by the time midnight rolls around because it just so happens, they don’t actually have a stowaway aboard.

It’s a traitor.

Two traitors, technically, including himself, but to be fair Soap isn’t out to slit throats, so he doesn’t count this time.

He's just decided to try and eat the pear no matter its dubious consistency (and smell, ach) when he hears it; a door opening further down. This in itself wouldn’t be unusual while the crew is sleeping indoors tonight because of the storm, and neither would the soft footsteps padding down towards the brig be. A man’s gotta piss after all.

But the sharp whistle, this time unbroken in a pattern that’s definitely supposed to convey something? That’s unusual. To the untrained ear it might go unnoticed––which is probably the point––but Soap was trained by Ghost who would’ve been on that shit in zero seconds if he’d been operatable and not currently gone to the world. Only open canon fire would wake him now.

Abruptly, a flash of a conversation weeks prior pipes up in the back of Soap’s head as he sits there, considering.

Project mocking jay, the soldier had crowed, back in Farah’s bar.

It’s a baaad time to be a filthy fucking pirate.

“Shit,” he hisses, jumping to his feet. The Haunt lurches and he loses his foothold, skirting down into the bars between himself and the girls. They wake with a startled yelp at the impact he makes, but Soap is already up and moving again, keeping a tight hold on the bars this time. Whoever made the call utters a low curse in response to the noise and the footsteps disappear again.

“Soap? What are you doing?” Azure grumbles, apparently too tired to realize she’s talking to him. “Fucking noisy.”

Soap doesn’t answer. Instead, he fishes out the piece of metal he’s been carefully bending for the past three days. Then he reaches through the bars and wriggles it into the keyhole.

Now Azure gets to her feet. “Soap!”

“Quiet,” he whisper-barks without stopping his task at hand. Almost. It’s almost there. “We’re under attack, someone’s sneaking on board.”

“… What? Why would you think that?” Belle joins her sister at the bars, sounding skeptical. “And why not alarm the crew if that’s the case?”

“The crew is sleeping inside because of the storm,” Soap grits out in effort, putting all his weight into the stubborn lock. His fingers are numb from the cold, but he would rather break them clean off than fail. “It’s too noisy, they won’t hear us. And we can’t alarm the intruders, or Ghost won’t survive this –“ The terror bubbling like a wicked brew in his chest seizes him by the throat at the mere idea of not getting there in time.

He won’t fail. He just won’t.

Soap’s not gonna let anyone hurt a single hair on that man’s head––and should anyone be stupid enough to try anyway he’ll make sure they don’t live to do it again.

Perhaps sensing the truth through his desperation, Azure presses herself against the bars. “Let us help,” she whispers. “Soap, you can’t do it alone. If there really is an assassin –“

The gate springs open and Soap shoots off on wobbly legs before he can hear the rest of it. He takes the steps two at a time, almost slipping and falling ass over head down again at a particularly dire lurch.

Fury sings in his veins. It chases away the hunger, steadies his legs, and then he hits the deck. The storm rips at him and the wood beneath his feet is wet and slippery. For just a moment he’s arrested by the feeling of fresh air and the mournful nostalgia of his surroundings because it’s all the same. Nothing has changed since he left it all behind.

Soap’s home.

When he catches a shadow slip into the captain’s cabin further down, he explodes forward with a snarled curse. The wind howls in his ears, rain and seawater blinds him, stinging his eyes. It’s cold as shit out here and the way ahead has turned into an obstacle course of loose cannonballs rolling around. There’s a single case of some wooden baskets actually getting lifted up by the winds. It all falls secondary to getting to Ghost in time. Soap would take a basket to head a thousand times for him.

He leaps down the stairs to the door, only to have his momentum rudely broken when it doesn’t budge an inch. Locked. Well, this isn’t the first door Soap’s ever ruined; might be his last, though, taking his current situation into account.

His foot connects flatly with the area just above the knob and the door springs open. The sound of splintering wood has the fortunate side effect of surprising the black-clad tadger kneeling above a semi-lucid Ghost, knife raised and ready to strike. They’re on the ground because clearly Ghost isn’t gonna let something as silly as chloroform keep him under in a situation such as this. His head lolls over, eyes finding Soap immediately.

He's wearing the mask made of cloth. Ghost only ever uses it when he’s decided to take off the metal version for a proper night’s sleep.

“Oh no you fuckin’ don’t,” Soap rages before charging. The assassin seems to realize his mistake in hesitating. He immediately gets back to his task at hand, but Soap is quicker, and he catches his wrist just in time to stop the descend.

He pulls, hauling him off Ghost with a furious sound and throws him halfway back to the door. The assassin doesn’t get to do much more than stumble to his feet before Soap wraps an arm around him and frees the knife from his hand. Then he twirls it and sinks the blade into the assassin’s neck. Blood splatters warm and wet across Soap’s face and with his free hand, he grabs him by the jaw, forcing their eyes to meet with a mean tug.

“Who do you work for?” He demands, venom dripping from his voice. “Tell me, or I free your sorry head from your neck.”

But the assassin’s eyes are already glassing over, blood pooling out his of mouth. With a disgusted noise Soap brutally wrestles the knife free. It results in even more blood on his person, especially when he drops to his knees beside the assassin’s lifeless body, patting him down. Beneath his left pectoral he strikes gold.

“Shepherd,” Soap grits, glaring at the S engraved into the skin. “I’ll skin the bastard.”

The door springs open again. It’s been hanging on its hinges after Soap’s tender loving so it's decidedly less dramatic this time––just saying––but before he can truly comprehend the gun pointed at him, and a face he doesn’t recognize snarling obscenities, a sharp explosion resounds from just behind him and the man with the gun falls backwards.

There’s a well-placed bullet hole right in the center of his forehead.

Soap jerks around to find that Ghost has not only managed to sit up, but also shoot a man point blank in the face despite the way Soap can see his eyes swim from the chloroform. He’s also shirtless. This… probably isn’t important to the situation at hand.

“Soap,” Ghost rasps, drawing his attention away from pierced nipples and swirling tattoos.

Soap blinks at him, unsure. Then Ghost’s eyes fall to his hand where the knife he just put through a man’s arteries are still dangling and Soap realizes the scene.

“Oh, right.” He carefully bends down and slides it towards Ghost. “There ya’ go, big guy.”

It is well within the realms of possibility that Ghost will gift the next bullet to Soap him, but after a moment of hazy frowning he clicks the safety and settles back on his hands instead. Soap is just about to open his mouth and push his non-existent luck so he can harass him back into bed when Ghost gets ahead of him again.

“Why?” He demands, voice still rougher than a tumbler of nails. He sounds furious.

Uh-oh.

Feigning confusion, Soap’s gaze flickers away. “Why, what? I’ll fix the door, don’t worry. Pretty cool of me, actually. To kick it in like that. If you think about it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Johnny, and tell me why you just saved my life.” Ghost’s words are slurring together, but it’ll be a cold day in hell when Simon Riley isn’t the scariest bastard haunting the seven seas, so Soap shrinks a little and fastens his eyes on the knobby floorboards.

Ghost growls. “Johnny, you better look at me right now, or I’ll –“

This time the door falls to the floor when König barges through, guns raised and looking like there should be steam coming out from under the mask, but he stops dead at the sight in front of him. Which is fair. Two dead guys bleeding all over the place, Soap covered in blood, and Ghost half-naked on the floor, looking minus three seconds away from hanging Soap by his thumbs?

Aye, not good.

“Scheisse,” König concludes, then turns around to block the entrance to the captain’s cabin with his entire bulk. “No one but Alejandro gets in. Everybody else stay out, check the ship.” Impressive what that man can make himself do when someone he loves needs him.

Saved by the bell. Soap glances back at Ghost which is his own mistake because of course the stubborn bastard is still looking at him. Thankfully Alejandro bullies his way inside that same moment.

“What the fuck?” He asks, looking from Dead Guy One to Dead Guy Two, then to Soap, and lastly at Ghost. His face does a funny journey from blank confusion to resigned horror. “Is that Peter?” He nods down at Dead Guy Two.

“It was,” Ghost says. “Gather the crew and check for more hostiles.”

Alejandro immediately nods but hesitates long enough to fix his attention on Soap.

“Hi there,” Soap smiles and raises his bloody hands together so someone can wrap a pair of ropes around his wrists should they so desire. “Please take me back to my quarters. The captain is bullying me.”

Alejandro frowns and looks at Ghost.

“Indulge him,” Ghost says, for all the world sounding like this is of little interest to him but Soap isn’t stupid enough to make the same mistake twice, so he keeps his attention firmly on Alejandro. “Soap. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

See?

“Aye, aye cap’n.”

Chapter Text

The girls are still awake when Soap is kindly escorted back to his cell. Most of the crew stare after him with their jaws on the deck as he passes by; bloody all the way down to his toes and grinning like a madman. Horangi simply whistles and goes, “impressive,” like Soap isn’t actually an enemy of the community and should be treated as such. Anyway, he can appreciate a man of culture.

“Soap, oh my god,” Belle chokes with eyes wider than cannonballs. Azure doesn’t say anything, though Soap suspects it has more to do with his visage than her obstinate resolution of not talking to him until he somehow fixes the past.

“Not mine,” he says with no small amount of pride. “You should see the other guy.”

Alejandro rolls his eyes. “No, they shouldn’t.”

“I just saved your captain’s life. Some gratitude would be nice.”

Belle gags. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Did you have to drain the poor bastard of blood, though?” Azure finally pipes up, sounding vaguely nauseous.

Scowling, Soap allows Alejandro to free his bound hands through the bars. “Everyone’s a fuckin’ critic these days.”

Magnanimously, König escorts him out of the brig to wash up. It’s probably in deference to the girls’ remaining virtue more than it’s for the sake of his own non-existent sense of modesty, but Soap appreciates the change of scenery nevertheless. He’s not sure how they would react to the nipple piercing either, and at this point he’s desperate to preserve just a smidge of their peaceful innocence.

“Thanks,” he tells König, after being handed a delightfully clean cloth and even a new set of clothes. They’re not as fancy as his own, but Soap supposes he can put aside his quest for fashion until their conflict at hand has been resolved. Maybe Ghost will let him take the plank in something nice if he behaves.

König doesn’t answer, just turns his back on him and crosses his arms while Soap goes around his business. Usually, Soap would try and get as many words out of him as possible, but he knows how much his betrayal affected König. They’d been friends, brothers even, just like Rudy and Alejandro and Horangi, and König doesn’t just open up to anyone. Soap won’t push him. That at least he can still offer him.

“All done,” he declares, both feet in his old (but clean) boots. “How do I look?”

“Like someone with a long-standing reputation of getting into trouble,” König says quietly.

This makes Soap laugh. It’s nice, even if König doesn’t join in with his own demure giggling like he used to.

Back in the brig Soap settles down to wait. There’s food waiting for him on a tray––actual food this time––but he doesn’t touch it and even offers it to the girls. They rebuff the offer on the basis that he’s lost too much weight. Touched, Soap can’t argue with that, so he nibbles a bit on an apple until König shows up again.

“Hands, please,” he asks.

The rope isn’t tight enough to hurt, but there’s no getting out of it. The crew is trained to escape most knots except a few particular ones Soap knows Ghost keeps to himself in case of mutiny. It’s only happened once because no one but Soap has been stupid enough to try it, but he’s glad to see that it works. It would take a knife to free himself from the mess of knots König has swaddled him in.

“Roach still ashore?” He needles as they ascend the stairs.

“Ja.”

“When’s he getting back?”

“Don’t know.”

Soap presses on. “But you’ve sent him a message, right? In case they come back?”

König sends him a strange look. “Of course.”

“Good.” Soap nods, satisfied.

A moment later they hit the deck, and he breathes down a mouthful of fresh air. The storm has died out in the time Ghost slept through the rest of the chloroform and in its wake the world has turned the kind of crisp you can taste. It’s been so long since Soap has been surrounded by anything but humidity and his own sweat that the change almost makes him delirious.

“Soap,” Rodolfo greets him from the wheel. Horangi is lounging by his side, whittling something out of wood.

“Lads.” Soap raises his chin. “How’s that hand coming along, Rudy?”

Humming, Rodolfo lifts his right fist, turning it over for Soap to see the faint outline of Azure’s teeth. The skin is pink and raised in the perfect replica of a crescent moon. “Almost healed. She’s got a bite, though”

“She’s very sorry,” Soap lies. It earns him an unamused look and then König gently pushes him along. “Oop, well. Down to my execution I go. See you in the abyss, guys!”

“Fuck you,” Horangi offers.

In all honesty, Soap isn’t feeling too hot. The adrenaline is finally ebbing out and his body hasn’t been well enough cared for during the past week to stop from shaking in the aftermath. To make matters worse Ghost seems pretty determined on getting himself some answers. He’s like a dog with a bone when he’s finally had enough of fucking around which means Soap will have to lie, but he can’t do that with Ghost (literally, he’s so bad at it, specifically around him) and his head is a jumble of thoughts making no sense whatsoever. The obvious solution is fake it till you make it, and if that doesn’t work, Soap will knock himself out.

Aye. It’ll be fine.

König motions for him to stop by the magically (not literally) fixed door to Ghost’s cabin and knocks once. If he answers it’s too low for Soap to hear, but a moment later König opens the door and lets him in. It shuts softly behind him almost immediately, and he’s left with the unusual, childish need to go after König and bring him back.

That idea is very quickly disabused when his eyes land on Ghost lounging in his chair by the desk. He's in the metal mask again. A knife dances wickedly between his fingers in a flurry of sharp steel and precision, but at least the hat is gone. The dirty blond hair is still kept longer on top, and despite the cover there’s little doubt of the way he’s looking intensely at Soap.

“Captain,” Soap greets, kinda wishing he could put his shaking hands away in his pockets. “Sleep well?”

Ghost swivels in his seat and kicks out a chair in front of him.

“Sit,” he orders.

No thanks, Soap thinks petulantly, eyeing the other chair in front of the desk where a body of wood will separate them. It’s still up for debate whether or not Ghost will hurt him; once upon a time he would rather fall on his own sword than raise it towards Soap, but life’s different these days. Ghost has never been a forgiving man. Neither a gentle one, except for those snapshots with Soap he now clings so desperately to they’ll have claw marks when they’re finally wrestled out of his dead hands.

Anyway, better take a seat in front of the desk and avoid possible dismemberment, he reasons, and strides over to do just that.

The knife sinks into the desk with barely any sound. Soap stiffens, body locked in an instinctual response to flee, but Ghost makes a warning sound and nudges the chair with his foot again.

“I said sit, Soap. You’re testing my patience and we both know it’s a limited source.”

Welp.

“Fine,” Soap mutters, inching around the desk. He keeps a sharp eye on the sheathed knife. Ghost’s hand rests unassumingly a few breaths away from it, but Soap knows he can have a knife in hand in a fucking second. Can put it through Soap’s head in less. Sitting gingerly, Soap forces his bound hands still in his lap.

“Happy?”

“Never.”

The chair creaks as Ghost leans back, resting an ankle on his thigh. It makes him appear bigger but jokes on him because all it does is make Soap horny. It also makes him sad, but that’s got nothing to do with his cock and everything to do with how much he misses him. Pathetically, Soap doesn’t even mind that Ghost wants to kill him. With that shrewd attention finally focused on him again, this time he’s only letting go when he’s no longer breathing air.

Ghost just stares at him for a long, long moment. Then he inches a finger closer to the blade and tilts his head. “Did you plan it?”

Confused, Soap frowns. “Plan what? What are you talking about?”

“The assassin, Soap,” Ghost sighs, swiping a hand to indicate the room at large and, maybe, the pool of blood still staining the floor.

Incredulous fury unseats exhausted nausea so quickly Soap’s vision does a little spin. “Away an bile yer heid!” He snarls, pushing forward in his seat. “I just fuckin’ wasted the tadger, Si, why the fuck would I do that if I planned this?!”

Instead of reacting to Soap’s outburst Ghost remains perfectly still. “To gain back my trust,” he says evenly.

Still incensed by the sheer idiocy displayed from a man so smart, Soap falls back in the chair with a scoff. “Aye, I know I’m an idiot for stealing from you, but I’m not stupid enough to think you’ll let me back in with open arms at first sign of cooperation. I know you. That’s why I managed to get away in the first place, right?”

“Don’t push it,” Ghost warns him, and his voice drops in volume; a little more rough around the edges as he runs a gloved finger up the sharp edge of the knife. “You don’t know me, Johnny. Don’t got that right anymore.”

Sharp guilt has Soap fixing his eyes over his shoulder, on the disfigured painting of Shepherd that Ghost likes to throw knives at. To think it’s possible that a heart can hurt so much and still beat. What a vicious little marvel.

“If you didn’t plan it, tell me how you figured it out.”

“Sure,” Soap grumbles, still glaring holes into Knife-Shepherd’s stupid face. “I went to see Farah a little while back. That’s when I found the lasses. They’d been captured by the English navy who paraded them around like a pair of pigs ready for slaughter. So, I intervened.”

“… fuck’s sake.”

“Aye, you don’t have to tell me, thanks,” Soap snipes. “Before I knocked them out, one of the idiots were bragging about some plot being devised against us pirates. Called it project mocking jay.” He wiggles his bound hands to imitate a bird.

Ghost just stares at him, unimpressed. “Get to the point.”

“I am! This is vital to understand the whole picture, Christ.”

“No. You just enjoy the drama.”

Soap closes his eyes on a heavy exhale, muttering a curse under his breath. “A couple days ago someone woke me in the middle of the night. I thought I heard footsteps, but then some kind of sick bird started coughing up its lungs and I put it aside. Turns out it wasn’t a sick bird.”

Ghost tilts his head. “It was a practice call.”

“Right,” Soap says. “So, last night, I woke again because someone slipped out of the crew’s cabin, and this time they’d gotten the hang of it. I figured that since you still don’t hire new help without a background check worse than the royal navy’s, you couldn’t have let anyone onto the ship with practice in killing.”

It's a precaution; Ghost trains the guys on the ship in his own deadly ways because it a) builds loyalty and b) makes sure he knows all their moves. Or so he claims. To be fair, he hasn’t been proven wrong yet.

“No one in their right mind would send an amateur after you. And it was a full moon,” Soap continues, looking back to Knife-Shepherd because the conversation suddenly carries the same quality as moving straight across a battlefield during open fire. Peter the Traitor isn’t the only one who’s used Ghost’s monthly dose of chloroform against him. “I pieced it together. Then I picked the lock with a spoon.”

“A spoon,” Ghost repeats flatly. “Who the fuck gave you a spoon?”

Roach, obviously, but Soap ain’t snitching, so he shrugs and says, “does this mean you believe me now, cap’n? Can I go back to my cell and rot away in peace?”

But Ghost hums. “No.” He plants his other boot on the floor and leans forward until his arms rest against his knees and there’s less than a step between them.

Soap stops breathing.

This close he can see all the nuances in those cruel eyes despite the thick layer of coal surrounding them; light and dark, the curious fleck of black in his right. Soap can see long, pale lashes, can imagine what they feel like against his skin.

Ghost’s gaze doesn’t stray from Soap’s. It remains cold and dethatched, but Soap remembers the time when Ghost would take off his mask and look at him with a careful kind of love, strong enough to empty the sea. It’d been so soft and gentle it took Soap a year to realize what it was. Sometimes, he wishes he’d been a smarter man, if only to let them have more time together. Not because being Ghost’s friend is somehow less than the fucking and kissing and caring. But because it feels like that’s where they’ve always been supposed to end up.

Now there isn’t a hint of warmth as Ghost orders, “you’re gonna tell me about Makarov.”

To be fair, he should’ve expected this, but Soap’s heart launches itself into his throat anyway. Sealing his lips tight, he narrows his eyes and jerks his head no. Any other time and he would lie his pants off, but he’s so fucking exhausted he might actually start crying if they go at it, and that’ll definitely blow his cover.

“Right,” Ghost hums, sounding almost kind. Sorta like a shark gliding effortlessly through the waves. “Thought so. That’s fine, Johnny. I’ll just tell you what I know then.” In his peripheral, Soap sees Ghost wrap a big hand around the hilt of his blade, but he lets it stay embedded in the wood.

“Little over six years ago, we hit one of Shepherd’s ships and liberated some of his treasure.”

Liberate is such a diplomatic choice of word for what they did that Soap almost snorts.

“We got it loaded on board and went on our merry way,” Ghost continues. “That is, of course, until the two of us went to bed. I let you dose me with chloroform, and you used the chance to fuck off with the goods,” he concludes, voice fucking frigid.

His lashes dip as he pulls the knife out with a snick and settles the pointy end directly above Soap’s stinging heart. Soap doesn’t think he can actually say anything right now and not let the world of hurt and disgust with himself show, but thankfully he doesn’t have to because Ghost isn’t done.

“I hunted you, for three days until you showed up again on Dead Man’s Land for a moment, only to disappear the next. Eyewitnesses initially stated you went to Tortuga during that time, but a month ago I met a blathering excuse of a pirate.” Ghost momentarily pauses. “Wanna know who he used to sail with?”

Soap doesn’t answer, swallowing around the unease lodged in his throat. This doesn’t feel good. Actually, it feels like his ass in on the line.

“Makarov.”

It's not on purpose. The instinct to run is instantaneous, so before Soap is entirely aware of it, he’s on his feet. It just so happens Ghost still has the knife pointed at him, and when it starts sinking into skin Soap hesitates long enough for Ghost to get out of his chair and wrap a mean hand around his shoulder. Pushing down, Ghost doesn’t let go. He looms over Soap, close enough for him to hear each breath caught by the mask.

“Let’s stay where we are, ey, Johnny?” Ghost squeezes once in warning.

“Simon,” Soap whispers, eyes huge and round. The lower part of his back is wet with sweat. “Si, please. I don’t know anything, I swear –“

“You can’t lie to me,” Ghost cuts him off coolly, eyes hard on Soap’s. “So shut up and listen.”

When Soap doesn’t immediately make a move to get up again, Ghost nods in satisfaction though he doesn’t let go. His thumb digs into the softest part of Soap’s shoulder, not enough to hurt, just enough to let him know there’s no chance of escape.

“This scrawly guy is bragging about surviving the unthinkable in Farah’s bar. At first, I disregard him as an idiot.” Ghost shrugs. “But then he finally gets around to the point.”

“Makarov’s name always did open doors,” Soap agrees, hating how weak it comes out. “What’s any of this got to do with me?”

While he can’t actually see Ghost’s face, there’s no shred of doubt in Soap’s heart that the malicious bastard is smiling cruelly somewhere underneath the mask; it’s in the way his eyes crease, smearing the coal into the lines of his skin, and the way his shoulders fall a little. It’s because Soap knows it intimately, because it’s one of his favorite smiles in the world. Too bad Ghost is doing it on account of Soap's own well-being this time.

“He yappers on about some kind of accident, how there wasn’t anything wrong with Makarov’s ship. Then he says your name.” Ghost tilts his head, thumb digging just an inch deeper and Soap cringes with it. “McTavish, the bastard, ruined our plans. He wasn’t supposed to deliver the cursed gem back –“

Terror spikes, brutal and quick like a viper, and Soap snarls as he strains against the bonds and Ghost’s hand, trying to free himself but to no avail. Huffing, he falls back again though he refuses to meet Ghost’s eyes this time.

“Still gonna pretend not to know anything?” Ghost says and, aye, he might sound uninterested on the surface, but Soap hears the sliver of frustrated confusion beneath it, and he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip until the taste of metal coats his tongue.

“Why do you even fuckin’ care?” He rasps, staring blindly into the air. “It’s ages ago. I’m nothing more than a thief to you –“

“Exactly, Johnny,” Ghost snarls and grabs Soap by the jaw to yank his attention back. The fury and fire in his eyes momentarily punch Soap’s breath out of his chest. The only time he’s ever seen Ghost this angry was when he found Soap running away in a dinghy.

He kind of expects everything to end here: that either Ghost kills him, or he throws him back in the brig to rot really away. Either way, he’s certain this is the last stance between them. After this, Soap knows he’ll never see Simon Riley again.
But then Ghost continues, and his voice transforms from ice hot anger to a broken sneer that Soap didn’t even know him capable off in a split second.

“I want to know why you threw me away for an emerald,” Ghost says, the fire in his eyes slowly dying in a pit of misery Soap can’t stand to look at, “and then abandoned it on the ship of my enemy like a fuckin’ present.”

Soap can feel the tears again now and the burning sensation of bile moving dangerously close to his throat. Fear and pain licks at his nerves like a thousand cat tongues, stroking the anger and the sneaking feeling of helplessness until it completely overwhelms him, and his vision is hazed in red.

“It was a ruby,” Soap hisses. “And I didn’t gift it to him! I fucking hated the mangy dog, you know I did!”

“I don’t know shit about you, Soap,” Ghost yells, hands migrating from his shoulder to the back of his chair so they’re even closer. He looks wild, like he’s not entirely in control anymore. “I thought you were it! To me you were more than a life at sea. I don’t care what you stole from me,” the wood groans beneath Ghost’s hands, but Soap is too struck by shock to truly realize it. “I care that you even thought of it.”

Between all of these tiny little pieces of information and realizations, Soap doesn’t know which part guts him the most; that Ghost doesn’t care about the ruby anymore, or that Soap never understood his apparent importance to a man so completely his own that the rest of the world automatically became second.

He stares mutely for good long moment, but in the end, indignation and hurt wins out once again. “Well,” Soap grits through his teeth, “you cared plenty of the ruby back then. Knew it better than your own name, so excuse me for reminding you.”

Ghost blinks. “What?”

Scoffing, Soap wrestles his chin out of his hold and looks away. “I don’t know why you’re pretending not to remember, but –“

“Johnny, what the fuck are you talking about?” Ghost sounds so genuinely confused and aggravated that Soap’s resentment vanishes like dew under the sun, and he glances back with a frown.
Brown eyes glare at him. Angry, yes; but also genuinely baffled. As if he truly doesn’t understand…

Realization strikes and Soap’s shoulders sag.

“You really don’t remember,” he whispers without meaning to, because the memory of Ghost pointing a sword at him for so much as looking at the ruby, brings back that initial ocean of hurt he’d almost suffocated in back then.

Of course he doesn’t remember, Soap thinks, defeated and hollow. His face falls. He was cursed. So only Soap has been remembering the last six years correctly. Perhaps it’s been stupid of him to think otherwise… actually, no scratch that, it’s definitely been stupid. But it’s also been the only way of getting through it.

“What is it I don’t remember?” Ghost demands.

Soap tips his head back up, a dejected smile on his lips. “Nothing,” he whispers, sees the way resentment slithers back into Ghost’s eyes and thinks what a pretty sight, while his heart slowly falls into an apathetic rhythm he knows will stay with him till the end of his days.

“Soap, I swear to –“

A loud boom resounds just outside, then a crash follows, and the next thing Soap knows a cannonball zips right past their heads before embedding itself in the other end of the hull. They both turn comically slow to first look at the intrusion, then back at each other.

“What the fuck,” Soap eventually croaks which kickstarts Ghost.

Cursing several times under his breath, Ghost whips up and stalks over to the newly acquired hole in his ship to look out. As if called, König bursts through the doors exactly then, guns already drawn and smoking.

“Shepherd,” he says before turning on a heel and marching back into the mayhem Soap can hear slowly gathering power outside.

“Shepherd?” Soap repeats. “How did that bilge rat manage to find you?”

Instead of answering, Ghost grabs his own guns and his hat. Soap shoots to his feet, a thorough explanation as to why exactly he should join the fight ready on the tip of his tongue. But Ghost yanks open a drawer and pulls out Soap’s long-lost gun with neither word nor glance. Then he strides over, cuts the rope around Soap’s wrists before Soap even realizes he’s got a knife out. and hands him the gun.

“We’re not done here,” Ghost says tersely, moving towards the door as Soap hurries to follow along. “So don’t die.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Soap snipes back, already high on the oncoming fight. “If you didn’t manage to kill me in the last five years, do you honestly think Shepherd will?” He rolls his eyes as they climb the stairs, the thrill of gunfire and fighting settling like a song in his blood as the world explodes in yells and canon fire. “Have some faith in me, Ghost.”

“I have enough faith in your distaste of Shepherd to let you join this little get together,” Ghost says, emerging on the deck moments before Soap and shoots one of Shepherd’s men already on the ship right through the eye socket, “but don’t think this’ll lead you anywhere except back in that chair when we’re done.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Soap mocks, then dives out of the way to hide from the repercussions in the smoke of hot canons.

It's a damn mess. A mysterious one too, considering the reason why Ghost’s ship is called the Haunt––beyond the obvious connotations––is because it’s impossible to locate. A quick exchange with Rudy who tells him Roach is still ashore doing god knows what is enough of a clarification, however, and so his first order of business when he can’t immediately locate Shepherd and put an end to his miserable life is to make sure the girls are safe.

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Horangi scoffs at him in an ironic imitation of his own recent indignation. There are no less than two navy lads dangling from his sword like macabre kebab. “They’re more than safe.”

“Thank you,” Soap says earnestly, but doesn’t linger long enough to see Horangi’s reaction before he’s back to firing at everything clad in blue.

Shepherd’s a pretentious bastard on the best of days and considering Soap honestly doesn’t think he’s got any of those, it makes him another kind of headache entirely. Which, in correlation, means the backup comes as a particularly grueling surprise.

There are navies on the Haunt and pirates on the General, and Soap is happy to report the odds are weighing heavily on the former (not that it comes as much of a surprise to anyone) when Phillip Fucking Graves and his merry bands of stinking wallopers show up and starts blasting from the other side.

“Motherfucker,” Soap hisses, dodging for his fucking life when not one, not two, but three whole cannonballs get a little too close to his person. Thanks to his quick thinking he manages to avoid suffering crushed intestines, though unfortunately the same can be said about the wheel which gets taken clean off when he isn’t there to block the road ahead anymore.

Soap––having landed flat on his stomach––gapes up at the massacre for a solid moment of complete incomprehension. Then some navy dies to his right, and he remembers where he is. Getting to his feet, he turns his back on Shepherd’s ship to find the fight has come to a slow on the Haunt’s opposite side.

Ghost is standing big and scary and imposing by the rails, looking for all the world like he doesn’t have a single shit left to give from body language alone, like Graves isn’t strutting around less than a swing away. He always walks as if he’s got a shit in pants the size of Cuba.

This isn’t good. Actually, this is as far from good as it can get and not just because Roach is missing (they could manage Shepherd without him) but because Graves has got himself a witch too and they’re so outnumbered it’s become a physical pain between Soap’s temples. Only when Graves’ irritating fucking voice cuts through the air does Soap realizes everything has come to a standstill. Shepherd’s men at his back, Graves in front. For once, Soap can’t pinpoint another time he’s been more bothered than right now.

“Ghost,” Graves calls, “ready to hoist the white flag?”

As expected, Ghost promptly raises his gun and shoots one of Graves men instead of deigning him an answer. It garners very little attention because everyone knows Ghost isn’t going to just give up. The day he doesn’t win is the day he dies, and Soap’s here to make sure that never happens on his watch.

Graves says something Soap can’t hear before he raises his voice to a yell again. “You’re outnumbered.”

This is when Soap loses the battle to the simmering annoyance and he opens his mouth.

“Why don’t ya pack up your shit, shut your puss, and get lost Graves, ya stupid fuckin’ roaster,” he yells back before Ghost has chance to respond. Only a few steps away, Alejandro groans his name like it’s his greatest vice, but Soap is already turning around, searching until he finds the shine of a balding head.

“And you,” he snarls, furiously incensed at their collective hypocrisy as well as the fucking audacity of it all. “Get your wrinkly arse back in the king’s impotent lap, why don’t you, Shepherd!?”

It earns him the reaction he hoped for when the smug look on Shepherd’s face gets wiped clean off. He’s somehow managed to put his person on the Haunt which means Soap doesn’t have to squint to see the fury and indignation as it further messes up his unfortunate looks.

“Well, well Ghost,” Shepherd hisses, teeth bared while he keeps his beady little eyes on Soap. “And here I thought the two of you didn’t associate anymore. I see that sodomy truly knows no bounds, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. Or is it merely the pirate in you that requires this staggering display of degradation towards your own integrity?”

“Repression still doesn’t suit you,” Ghost responds evenly and although he doesn’t raise his voice, it somehow carries easily through the throngs of people.

Grinning, Soap waggles his brows at a slowly reddening Shepherd. “Aye, don’t worry. I still eat dick for breakfast. You can hate me with all you god fearing integrity intact –“ Shepherd raises his gun and aims for him, so Soap swivels with a cackle, hiding behind the mast.

“Hit a nerve, did I?”

“Soap, stand down,” Ghost orders, so Soap shuts his mouth with a delighted little snigger.

“What the fuck do you want, Shepherd?” Oh, Ghost sounds really fucking annoyed by this.

“What we want is your –“ Graves immediately crows, so Ghost shoots another of his soldiers in the blink of an eye. This one goes down screaming, a turn of event Graves clearly doesn’t care much for, judging by his immediate response of several, poorly constructed curses.
He's never been very good at those.

“Not talking to you,” Ghost says, ruthlessly cutting him off. “You have ten seconds to explain yourself before I sink you, Shepherd.”

“Is that so?” The smugness does not suit the fucker, but Soap’s been told to keep quiet, so he presses his lips tight instead of yelling obscenities again. Ghost has a plan, he’s always got a plan; and right now they’re in dire need of one because they’re surrounded by no less than a navy general and a pirate crew with a witch onboard that Soap can see is already cooking up something from the corner of his eye.

He really hopes that whatever Roach has to do on land is important enough to skip this little disaster.

Still red in the face, Shepherd resumes a position of careless indifference, leaning back against the nearest mast. “Because to me it looks like you’re caught. How, pray tell, are you going to sink me?”

Ghost sighs. “Nine.”

Graves laughs and Soap’s fingers itch to strangle him.

“Always so fucking cocky,” Graves snarls, strutting some more. “But this time –“

“Eight,” Ghost continues “Let’s start running lads.”

“You absolute –“

Tuning him out, Soap catches Alejandro’s eyes and hefts a curious brow, but Alejandro merely shrugs and Soap can see his confusion beneath the trepidation. No one on the Haunt doubts Ghost’s capability to get them out of an impossible situation, Soap knows this because he’s one of them. He’s done it time and time again, each turn only consolidating the ironclad belief that Ghost never loses enough to fail, but this time it… it’s looking pretty dire.

“Six.” Ghost’s voice sails across the ship. “Five.”

König imperceptibly shakes his head when Soap tries him too, and neither Horangi nor Rodolfo has anything to offer. He’ll never sink so low as to doubt Ghost, he won’t, but he’s got no inkling whatsoever as to how they’re getting out of this mess.

“Four. Three –“

Shepherd shakes his head with a little laugh, the sun dissapears behind a cloud, and Ghost gets to two, then one, then…

Boom, it says, and the world flashes a brilliant blue and red and purple, light so bright Soap is blinded for a hot minute, ears ringing in the aftermath of the explosion. Magic skitters across his skin like a thousand raindrops at once, and the only reason he doesn’t immediately come to the conclusion that they’ve been roasted by Graves’ witch, is because magic has a taste, and this particular palate of sea-salted rum and smoke only belongs to Roach.

The ships rock with the shock of it, several seamen screaming as they’re thrown overboard. Soap himself gets a hold of the mast and his vision back just in time to stay on the Haunt and avoid colliding with Alejandro further down, who also stays dry but knocks his head into the deck.

“Fuck,” he curses, blinking rapidly.

Soap probably isn’t the only one suffering from lights dancing across his vision, but when he throws a look down the deck he sees that most of their own men are already back on their feet as opposed to Shepherd and Graves’ crew who still roll around in varying states of discomfort.

Then he notices what actually made the ships tilt and he loses his jaw. “Away an bile yer heid--Laswell ya bonnie lass!”

Laswell is indeed pointing her gun at Shepherd, and so is Price and Gaz. Nikolai has got Graves on his knees while the Watcher––Laswell’s ship––rocks gently right behind the Shadow. If this wasn’t enough to turn Soap’s day around for the better, Farah boards Shepherd’s ship from her own Commander, getting the last of his men rounded up with little to no fanfare. Then Roach saunters across the deck, towards Ghost, absentmindedly catching a little brown bag in his hand over and over again.

“Sorry for the delay, boss,” he says, smiling big and bright. “Looks like we were just in time though.”

“It’s Price’s fault,” Gaz gamely offers, “he wouldn’t give up his holiday.”

Price grumbles something around his cigar, tipping his hat. “When you lads get to my age, you’ll start valuing a day off too. Isn’t that right, General?”

“Filthy pirate scum,” Shepherd says icily, on his knees in front of Laswell. It’s a beautiful sight, and even before Ghost gives the order to round up the hostiles, Soap is skipping down the deck.

“Price!” He grins, waving his gun. “Long time no see.”

Price turns with a raised brow, but remove the cigar from his mouth and offers him a cursory once over. “Soap,” he greets. “Finally caught you, did he?”

The and you’re not dead, yet, look at that, remains unsaid.

“The idiot crawled out of hiding to help a fine pair of ladies in need,” Alejandro says before Soap can think up a better story. He remains entirely unfazed at the glare he receives for his troubles. “Caught him on a lonely little island outside Cuba.”

“That’s where we were?” Soap frowns. That storm really did take them for spin then, considering he'd steered them in the opposite direction when running away from Graves.

Apparently done being ignored, Shepherd starts bitching about some inanity regarding their deaths, several empty threats, and something Soap will not repeat in good company. Price sends him a distasteful glance as Laswell waves a hand to have him carted away with an even louder Graves.

“Eat shit,” Soap calls after them, waving his middle finger at Shepherd’s sputtering fury.

The sound of heavy footsteps forewarns Ghost’s approach, aura once again exceptionally bitchy, and with Roach in tow. There’s blood on his mask, on his gloves, and on his boots, but Soap can’t locate any of it as coming from him, so he offers his wrists for another round of rope.

“No,” Ghost says with a little jerk of his head. “Go check on the girls. Then come find me.”

Pouting, Soap recollects his hands but does as he’s told with minimal complaining.

“You never tell us traitors anything.”

Honestly, he doesn’t mind that much. Sure, it hurts to be disregarded and kept out of the planning, but only because they would once wait for him to even begin. The loss of that is his own doing, and he really wouldn’t mind checking up on the girls, so he hurries down into the brig.

Their cell is empty, but it’s mostly been for show the last few days anyway since the female part of the crew has given up their mats for them to sleep on. The only wrong thing Azure and Belle ever did to Ghost was associating with Soap, and taking into consideration they didn’t know who he was, their ban was very quickly lifted. Soap’s pretty sure the majority of their time spent in the brig has been for his sake, even with Azure pissy and not talking to him.

He jogs down the hall to the women’s quarters, knocking once.

“It’s Soap. You can come out.”

At first nothing happens. Simmering worry has him frowning as he raises his hand to try again, but then the door is ripped open and he’s got the pointy end of a sword digging into his throat.
Azure’s eyes are large and wild, Belle hanging behind her shoulder with a mean face, but they both immediately soften when Soap slowly raises his hands.

“Very good,” he praises. “Though I’m slightly hurt you’d think anyone could imitate my lovely voice.”

Throwing away the sword, Azure curses and throws herself at him, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Soap staggers back with the weight but manages to keep his balance even as Belle joins her sister with an equal amount of force.

“Oh,” he says quietly, getting an arm around their waists to gather them close. “You’re okay. You’re okay, I swear.” Noticing the near-silent sniffles Belle is trying to hide, he tilts his head. “Does this mean we’re friends again? Is my piraty ways forgiven and forgotten already?”

“You’re a stupid idiot,” Azure mumbles into his shoulder, fingers tightening their hold on his shirt. “But we’ve always been friends.”

“Our idiot friend,” Belle agrees, voice thick.

Soap can’t really argue with that, can he?

Unsurprisingly, the pirates gathered all decide to raid Graves and Shepherd’s ships for whatever treasure and nefarious plans stowed away on them. This is the pirate way after all, but Soap still hunts down Roach in something of a frenzy and interrogates him mercilessly until he’s been promised, in five different ways, that there are no cursed items of any kind to be found.

“Soap, please. Shut up and trust me on this,” Roach complains, slouching on the forecastle deck like an oversized cat. Apparently, his time on land has been dreadful, so now he’s got to soak up the sea again or some kind of nonsense like that. Fucking witches. He’s even brewing a potion with the contents from the pouch he brought back with him.

Soap offers him a skeptical look. “Aye, ‘cause it went ever so swimmingly last time.”

If he sounds petulant it’s his own business and should be endorsed, fucking frankly, all things considered.

Roach sighs but gives him a sympathetic look. “It’s okay. I swear. Last time I wasn’t here to check.”

That’s true, but the entire situation is giving him a dreadful sense of Déjà vu, so when Price emerges from Ghost’s murky and top-secret meeting with all the non-traitors (except Roach, who’s sunbathing) and barks them both over, Soap gratefully skips around various pirates heaving cargo unto the Haunt.

“Here’s the deal,” Price begins, wasting exactly zero time on bullshit as they descend the stairs to the captain’s cabin. “We all want to know more about this Mocking Jay project the navy is fucking around with. Problem is Shepherd isn’t talking. Neither is Graves, surprisingly.”

“He in on it?” Soap frowns, surprised that a pirate would ever stoop so low as to trust the king’s men. He though Graves was simply in the blind regarding the plan to end all pirates, but apparently, he’s as stupid as he’s arrogant which doesn’t actually come as much of a surprise if Soap’s honest with himself.

Price grunts his affirmation, shouldering open the door to let Roach and Soap in. “That’s why we need the lad with the upsetting mouth, and the other lad with the truth potion. It might be magic, but it won’t work all on its own. Seems like our best bet.”

Soap stops dead just beyond the door, blinking dumbly at the scene in front of him as he tries to understand what Price just told him and what he’s seeing. Shepherd and Graves are bound together on two chairs, back-to-back, and both scowling like somebody whose ships are being raided.

This makes sense to Soap.

“Truth potion,” he repeats slowly, eyeing Ghost lounging against his desk with his arms crossed, and Laswell staring down Shepherd with an unblinking determination that manages to empress and terrify Soap at the same time. “What truth potion?”

“The one I’ve made,” Roach says. He sounds… contrite though it does nothing to alleviate Soap’s sudden worries. He also refuses to look at him.

Soap swallows. “That’s why you went ashore?”

“Yeah,” Roach admits after a moment of fucking around with a few vials and handing them over to Ghost. Only then does he lift his head to peek at Soap.

“I take it they weren’t meant for dumb and dumber over there,” Soap says, voice hoarse. There’s a swell of anxiety weighing down on his chest like a whole barrel of potatoes, something acidic on the back of his tongue.

“That’s what you get for keeping quiet,” Ghost simply says, not even looking at him as he remains blissfully unaware of just how guilty Roach suddenly looks. He’s too focused on the threat in front of him, a small mercy in a situation that sucks some seriously sweaty ass.

You promised me, Soap mouths to Roach, aware of the hurt on his face but unable to wipe it off.

Roach just looks away again.

Knowing Price has eyes like a hawk, Soap falls back until the bitter resentment gets easier to breathe around. Truthfully, he can’t even be mad at Roach. He’s stuck out his neck for Soap and risked his life more than once, not just during the last five years of misery. Of course, there’s a limit. And one doesn’t just deny Ghost; if he says go, you damn well go. It's just that Soap is really, fucking terrified. If this ruse of his had blown… he shuts his eyes against a sudden wave of nausea.

It wouldn’t have been pretty.

With clearly no small amount of pleasure, Ghost manages to force the potion down Shepherd’s throat. Judging by the set of his shoulders, Soap wouldn’t be surprised if he’s smiling under that mask of his again.

“There’s a good lad,” Ghost says with no trace of infliction whatsoever which is actually funny enough to lure a snort out of Soap.

“You will burn in hell,” Shepherd spits, “you and your little band of criminals.”

“Sure hope so,” Ghost agrees and moves back to Laswell’s side, crossing his arms again. “Don’t do well with the cold.”

Shepherd bares his teeth, chest heaving with the strain of breathing against the tight bindings across his chest. “Fuck you.”

“Ah.” Price sounds pleased. “It’s working. The sanctimonious cunt is cursing.”

Soap inches forward. He did get dragged here for a reason. “So, what now? You great plan is to have me antagonize him?” He asks Ghost, sidling up beside him.

“We don’t know anyone better suited for the task,” Ghost agrees, the sarcastic shit. “Give ‘em your best, Johnny.”

“Could’ve just said yes,” he mutters, but obediently bends down until he catches Shepherd’s eyes.

“Aye, well.” Soap sighs. “Tell us about this bird idea of yours then.”

“It’s project Mocking Jay,” Shepherd immediately corrects him, then visibly slams his mouth shut, eyes going wide in shocked surprise.

“So you say. Doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, though. If you arsepieces are so fucking desperate to get your cock stroked by the wig-wearing wankstains, why don’t you just ask? I promise, most of them wouldn’t even let you finish speaking before whipping out –“

“Shut that insolent, filthy mouth of yours, or I shall make sure it will never utter a word ever again!” Shepherd cuts him off. He strains against the rope, but it only serves to tighten it even further. “Mocking Jay will be your doom.”

“Sure,” Soap agrees magnanimously. “Hear that, lads? Our corrupt little days are soon to be over.”

“A tragedy,” Price chimes in.

Laswell simply scoffs. “You can do better than that, general,” she tells Shepherd placidly.

This really gets his uptight ass in a twist, apparently, because his ruddy visage goes purple, and saliva glistens on his lips as they pull into a venomous snarl. “You all think you’re so smart,” he hisses, eyes swimming with the effects of the potion. Soap suspects his aforementioned upsetting mouth isn’t vital to the plan anymore.

“But none of you know how close I was to getting rid of you all five years ago!“

The world grinds to a halt, and a frigid wave of ice-cold realization as to where exactly this is going washes down Soap’s spine. Shepherd’s eyes find his again, filled with such a potent amount of hatred he can almost taste it.

“If it weren’t for Ghost’s little boytoy here, the sharks would have eaten their fill that night –“

“Shut the fuck up,” Soap snarls, desperately jerking forward to knock him out or kill him, maybe, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t get to find out however, because he slams into an invisible wall only a few inches from his goal.

He feels Ghost go very, very still beside him.

“Roach!” He snaps without looking away from Shepherd. Dread wraps a heavy hand around his throat. “Let me go you fuckin’ bastard. You promised!”

“I promised to keep both of you safe,” Roach says after a moment of silence. “And I have watched you hurt long enough. No more.”

“Someone better tell me what’s going on right fucking now,” Ghost says, deadly quiet.

It sends a violent roll of shivers through Soap. Ghost sounds approximately three seconds away from stabbing someone, but Soap isn’t just gonna stand here frozen without at least trying to do some damage control.

“Not a word, Roach,” he warns, finally releasing Shepherd to level his best glare at Roach. “This wasn’t the deal!”

“What. Deal?” Ghost demands, clearly looking to Soap for clarification, but he isn’t stupid, so he stubbornly ignores him and keeps his eyes on Roach who just looks back sadly.

The corners of his mouth pull down, and when he speaks up he doesn’t address Soap.

“Shepherd. Tell Ghost what you did five years ago.”

“No,” Soap chokes, but Shepherd is under the influence of magic, and with Roach’s quiet command a dam seems to break.

“That ruby your dearest Soap stole?” He leers at Ghost. “It was meant to bring down Calypso on this godforsaken ship, but the miscreant overheard a conversation he shouldn’t have and made off with it before she could take you all to your graves.”

The truth is like a bucket of cold water after sopping around in lukewarm lies for half a decade, and Soap rears back like he’s been slapped. He expects to be held in place on all sides by whatever magic Roach has put upon him, but he stumbles several steps back. With his vision and hearing partially blinded to the surging panic roaring like an angry ocean in his ears he decides not to waste the chance; in a split second he turns on a heel and stalks out of the cabin.

His heart is beating a wild staccato in his chest, pumping around the panic like poison in his veins, and he fumbles a step on the stairs after the door shuts behind him. With a choked curse, Soap quickly finds his feet again and half crawls the rest of the way up. On the deck he’s hit with the brisk sea winds and the sun inching towards the horizon’s sharp line.

For just a moment he remains lost.

Then someone puts a hand on his shoulder. Jerking away, Soap barely spares Azure a glance before he turns his back on her and marches off towards the brig.

“Soap!” She calls. “What’s going on?”

König looks at him curiously from his spot by the rigs, straightening to his full height, but ultimately stays where he is when Soap dissapears below deck again. He’s unsure what exactly his face is doing, but unable to waste the energy on figuring it out with the way his bones feel like they’re working their way out through his skin.

“Fuck,” he whispers to the dark halls of the hold, continuing until he reaches the end and the open entrance to the crew’s cabin. An angry voice echoes above him, heavy stomping coming his way.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Soap can feel the world slowly shattering around him. Can hear the sound of glass raining against the ground and thinks he might feel it cut him open too; bleeding, broken, bloody. Ruined and ruining.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He shuts the door after him with enough force that the hinges rattle.

This wasn’t fucking supposed to happen.

Empty hammocks rock with the lull of the ship, the stale smell of sweaty men and rum drumming against his skull. Soap comes to a halt in the middle of the room.

The door is thrown open behind him, and he whips around to find Ghost in the doorway.

If his maskless state wasn’t enough to rob Soap of his last breath, the ocean of emotions on that beloved, missed face of his certainly would’ve done the trick. There’s anger, but there’s also a certain quality of tragedy he didn’t think Ghost capable of. He looks so fucking heartbroken that Soap just knows there’s no going back from this.

Fuck damage control, he’s gonna have to run away again, isn’t he?

Neither of them do or say anything at all, and for a moment Soap simply absorbs all the features he’s slowly been forgetting over the years.

A beloved scar running through one blond eyebrow from that unfortunate run in with Makarov several years back, before Soap’s time, and the others as well; fine and pale, crisscrossing against light skin. Those lips that barely ever move except to talk are pulled down just the slightest bit. It’s the same cut of cheekbones that’s always made Soap weak in the knees, like a lad with his first crush, and the undeniable strength of Ghost’s jaw. It’s the buzzed hair growing longer on top, still the same length as it was when Soap pulled on it every other night. Sometimes, it feels as if time hasn’t moved at all.

There’s blood splattered across his cheek. Soap doesn’t have to ask to know whose it is.

Finally Ghost opens his mouth and says, “why,” and fuck all but he sounds shredded. Like a man who’s been gut stabbed. Soap can agree with that sentiment, at least.

He blinks rapidly, tongue too thick to operate. There’s a war between grief, fury and panic inside of him, and the odds are ever changing at the moment. Only when he’s cleared his throat several times does he manage a whole sentence of more than questionable sounds.

“How much did he tell you?”

“Enough. Why, Johnny?”

“Why,” Soap repeats tonelessly, “why not.” He’s not asking. Inside, he can slowly feel the anger growing in size. It’s his heart’s last defense and he gladly welcomes it. “It was stealing the stupid thing or death. Why the fuck wouldn’t I choose the lesser evil?”

Ghost’s face does a complicated series of scornful twists, and he takes a few steps forward, raising a hand. Even the gloves are gone. Soap can’t do this.

“Don’t touch me,” he chokes, holding up both palms flat.

Ghost jerks to a stop. His eyes are wild, jaw working in tight circles. His chest rises and falls in a heavy rhythm, but he stays where he is.

“I don’t give a flying fuck that you stole it, Soap” Ghost says hoarsely, voice racing in volume the more he speaks. “You’ve been lying to me for five years, running away and letting me hurt you –“

“Good,” Soap shouts, clearly shocking him with the way his mouth snaps shut. “You’re supposed to hate me, Simon. That was the plan all along!” He bares his teeth despite the tears he can feel burning in his eyes and the pathetic lump in his throat. “If you’d just gone and put that bullet in me, we wouldn’t be here now. I’d be at peace, and you would be back to your epic, pirate days before I came along.”

This seems to do it.

At once, all the fire ebbs out of Ghost. His body stills and all emotion is wiped clean off his face. Only when he speaks again does Soap understand that it’s been turned inside; a defense mechanism, like his own furious anger.

“You told me not to tell you, Johnny” Ghost says tonelessly, voice as dead as his eyes and Soap’s gut bottoms out.

I love you.

Mh.

You don’t have to say it back.

I know, Johnny.

Soap makes an angry noise in the back of his throat; half a sob, half a yell, and he takes an aborted step forward with no real intentions behind it.

“Shut up. You didn’t. Not enough to –“ his voice breaks. “Not enough for it to last. That’s fine, I don’t care, just –“

“I did,” Ghost cuts him off mercilessly with that emotionless ruin he’s wrapped around himself for the same way he dons the mask.

“I do,” he whispers, voice breaking.

The first few tears escape confinement, and Soap squeezes his eyes shut.

“I told you to shut up,” he cries. “Why can’t you just shut the fuck up, Simon!?”

A floorboard creaks, and he snaps his eyes open to find Ghost advancing again. Soap draws his gun that no one thought to rid him off without thinking, but although Ghost’s eyes drop down to it, he continues unrepentantly until the barrel of the gun settles against his chest. He’s so, so big and strong, especially this close, but he doesn’t do anything. They simply remain in a twisted image of the reversed position of only a few nights ago.

Soap stares at where the barrel makes a dent in Ghost’s shirt. He can feel the unforgiving muscles behind it, remembers how his scarred skin felt beneath his hands back during better days than these.

“Johnny,” Ghost rasps.

That’s it.

Without a word, Soap pulls back and drops his gun. It clatters to the floor, and he steps around a frozen Ghost who doesn’t move to follow, even when Soap storms out of the crew’s cabin, tears leaving scorching trails down his cheeks.

Chapter Text

He ends up in the crow’s nest on Farah’s ship because she’s the only one in possession of enough respect to spare him a heartfelt lecture and stays there until the sun disappears on the horizon. Then he continues staring blindly ahead as the moon slowly lays out its starry blanket above him. The wind chills considerably, but Soap barely notices his frozen fingertips or the part where his hair isn’t long enough to keep him warm.

He never expected it to end like this.

It's not that he didn’t know Ghost loved him. He did know that. Soap just genuinely thought it was in his own callous and slightly shallow way, like how he loves the Haunt; as a prized possession he would defend, sure, but ultimately sacrifice should the need arise. He’d even told Soap as much, in the early days of their relationship when they were still mostly just fucking.

I can’t, Ghost had told him. Not anymore.

And Soap had accepted with no small amount of relief. As a son who lost his parents and a brother who lost his sister too early and too brutally, the idea of caring for something in the safe and shallow end of affection was ideal to him. Of course, it didn’t last.

Ghost is brilliant, cold and cruel, but also strangely warm in the most addicting of ways. He’s soft, but only when he wants to be. And eventually he wanted to be around Soap which led to Soap plunging happily into the deep end, well aware that Ghost would remain with only his toes in the water at the beach. It'd been enough. Always. Ghost never treated him badly or wrong. Quite the opposite in fact. With him, Soap felt safe and sound in a way he hadn’t since his mother picked him up and put him back down again for the last time. They’d been friends beyond being lovers. Best friends. That much he’s certain has always been reciprocated, at least.

But Soap didn’t believe that Ghost loved him. Still can’t wrap his head around the idea, to be honest, no matter what Ghost claimed. So, he cares for Soap? Aye. But in his mind’s eye, Ghost is still standing with his toes in the water, waving at him from the beach as Soap rocks around between waves and sharks.

The wind picks at his clothes and bites at his fingers, so he shoves them beneath his thighs. He stopped crying the moment he couldn’t hear or feel Ghost anymore, but the skin on his cheeks is particularly smarting faced with the Caribbean’s coolish night. Thinking about it, Soap supposes he’s had quite some time to sulk. Especially refereeing the scale of time in which Price can keep one of those heartfelt lectures to himself before it bursts out in a sea of smoke, insults and grumbling care.

The crow’s nest groans its protest of another body in the rigs, mast swaying a bit, and a moment later the smell of cigar smoke curls into his nose. Soap grimaces as Price silently parks his entire mass beside him.

“Get tae,” he mutters, but the bite in his voice is half-hearted at best. “Am sulking.”

“I see that,” Price snorts softly. “Pretty place to have a cry.” Soap feels rather than sees him tip his face towards the stars.

“I’m not crying anymore. I…” Soap trails off. “I don’t know.”

There’s an empty space right between his ribs he doesn’t know what to do about. No, that’s a lie. He obviously knows exactly what would fill it, but sometimes we just don’t get what we want most. Price doesn’t say anything for a long time, content with puffing on his cigar and looking at the stars. Soap recognizes it as a breather, or perhaps preparation for whatever earful he’s going to get when Price has properly warmed himself up.

A seagull plunges into the water with a piercing cry and emerges with a fish so big it’s got a mighty hard time flapping its way back to solid ground. Nasty birds, those. It wouldn’t surprise him if one day they decide to take back the sea from the pirates and peck them all off to a life ashore. He told Ghost that once. It’d made him laugh.

Deep within these vital ruminations Price decides to break the silence. “Soap,” he says, flicking away his cigar. “Lad. I’m sorry.”

Well. Always knows just where it hurts the most, Price does. Thumping his forehead onto the railing of the crow’s nest, Soap refrains from brushing the apology off as unnecessary but only because he knows it won’t get him anywhere.

“I know you don’t want to hear it,” Price continues, the mind reader. “You probably don’t even believe you need it, but truth is you’ve been carrying a load I can’t even think to imagine for half a decade. I want to…” he pauses, sighs, starts up again, “we all want to apologize for that. Well, except Farah and Roach who’ve apparently been in on it all this time.”

Soap huffs a laugh at the slightly affronted tone and finally lifts his face to offer Price a glance. “If I could, I would have gone to you,” he says quietly, looking back to the moon. “You know that.”

Price hums his affirmation. “But Simon would've realized it,” he concludes by himself, and so Soap just nods without elaborating.

Both him and Ghost were picked up by Price when they were certain life was done for them. Ghost went on pretty quickly and carved out a life at sea for himself, but Soap stayed with Price and Laswell until he met Ghost and got obsessed with the lunatic at first sight. To him, they’re the parents he lost, not that he’s ever told them this. Pirates don’t make it a habit to talk about feelings because feelings have the unfortunate effect of getting you killed, and he’s pretty sure they know anyway.

“He’s pretty out of it,” Price says quietly.

Soap’s heart does an agonizing squeeze he feels in his fucking eyeballs.

“Aye?” He mutters, staring at the moon all the while trying to remember how to breathe. “You sure of that?”

Price makes an affronted noise. “I’ve known that stubborn shit since he was a gangly twig of a kid. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him broken, John McTavish.” The stars stop their twinkling for a moment. “So,” Price continues, undaunted and uncaring for the way Soap has completely frozen, back to staring disbelievingly into the empty air as his understanding of the world shifts a few nudges, “pack up your whining and go cry at your boyfriend. Scream at him if you need to, but if you freeze to death up here, I’m leaving the clean-up to Farah, and she won’t treat your bones nicely.”

Soap groans a long sound but eventually peels his icy fingers out from under his thighs. “You better be right about this,” he grumbles, swinging a leg over the railing because Price is blocking the entrance with his massive ass. “Or I’m coming back to haunt you.”

“Still afraid he’ll kill you?”

“I’m sure not disregarding the probability,” Soap yells from halfway down the rig. His heart is in his throat, and he can taste bile but… fuck. Price is right. Price is always right, it’s so annoying.

Feet solid on Farah’s ship he makes his way to the connection between the Commander and the Haunt. Most crew members, whoever they might belong to, are sleeping soundly, so Soap makes sure to watch his step lest he traps a hand under his boot. He’s in the mood where shoot first, ask later is blinking like a lighthouse in his brain and a pirate fight is not on his agenda.

Back on the haunt he faces the same kind of maze just with familiar faces. König is still awake, sewing a hole in what looks to be a pair of trousers. Horangi sleeps soundly between his legs, but König stiffens when he sees Soap. Because of the mask Soap obviously can’t see his expression, though he’s probably having a bit of a meltdown. Roach can’t keep a secret for the life,
and the fact he’s kept that big mouth shut for the better part of five years it isn’t unreasonable to think most of their closest friends know exactly what Soap did by now.

Still he shakes his head when König makes a move to put down the cloth with trembling hands.

It's okay, Soap mouths, later. He would have smiled for him if he could, but there’s a line of light bleeding out from under the door to the captain’s cabin and Soap’s vision tunnels in on it.
The few steps it takes him to get down feels slippery and year long, but then his hand curls around the knob. It’s cool, bites at his already smarting fingers yet it doesn’t hold a candle to the aching in his bones.

Be brave, he tells himself and has never felt less so than he does that moment, turning the handle and stepping inside.

The door falls shut behind him with a quiet thud and soft warmth wraps around him like a blanket, battling the cold that’s settled into his bones from the crow’s nest. There are several lamps on, golden light shining against the windows.

Ghost is sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, but he looks up the moment Soap steps inside.

Soap has been unsure to what either of their reactions would be ever since Price insisted Ghost is in any way marked beyond the normal amount of discomfort following a messy situation, but the moment their eyes meet and Soap sees the magnitude of the ruin on Ghost’s pretty, naked face for himself, he’s officially lost.

The tears are silent but insistent as Soap promptly loses any resemblance of control. They slide down his cheeks, catching in his stubble. His lips tremble and his chest fucking hurts.

Ghost straightens from his bend position, eyes rapt on Soap, but he stays where he is. “Johnny,” he whispers, hands flexing on his thighs. “I –“ He cuts himself off and goes back to staring aimlessly.

It's the first time Soap’s ever experienced him with nothing to say when he’s wanted to. Raising a hand to roughly wipe the tears away, Soap sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek and steels his spine. “Hi,” he rasps, uselessly wiping again because his eyes keep up the waterworks. “I don’t know what to do.”

It’s true. Where the fuck do they even go from here? Soap for sure doesn’t know.

Ghost’s lips press thin, and he remains quiet, just looking Soap over; eyes slowly traveling from the top of his head all the way down to his toes, then back up, again and again and again. “What do you need?” He eventually asks.

Soap thinks about this. His body is genuinely aching in physical response to the world of emotional hurt he can’t navigate through, and he knows himself well enough to understand that there’s only one way forward. Question is, will he let himself have it? And does he really deserve it?

Ghost knows him too, however, so when Soap flounders for a second too long, opening and closing his mouth enough times that tears start coating his tongue, he nudges him on. “Tell me,” he orders, gentler than Soap has ever heard him.

“Can I have a hug?” Soap whispers immediately, then takes a small step back in shock at his own apparent recklessness. He honestly didn’t mean to say that.

Ghost doesn’t even hesitate though. He simply raises a bare hand and closes some of the space between his legs. “Come here.”

It's all Soap needs to hear. Filled with the surge of desperate need to feel Ghost against him and never let go again, Soap’s scurries over before he’s fully aware he’s moving. He puts a knee on the mattress and swings his other leg across Ghost’s thighs to straddle him. Two strong hands settle on his hips to keep him steady as he sinks his weight down, and Soap wraps trembling arms around Ghost’s broad shoulders. He pulls himself close until he can bury his face in the crook of his neck, smelling gunpowder, sweat and sea salt. Hilariously they inhale deeply at almost the exact same time, but Soap is too high on the way Ghost crushes him close with his arms around his waist to bother laughing.

The first sob rolls up from the pit of his stomach, wrecking his entire frame. “Fuck,” he croaks before another steals his breath away.

Ghost hushes him, one strong hand rubbing up and down his spine. Even with the cotton between them, Soap can feel the warmth and callouses on his skin.

“It’s okay, Johnny,” Ghost rasps, “you’re okay.” You're safe with me.

Time is a relative phenomenon as Soap loses himself, wrapped around Ghost as he weeps all the pain and hurt and loneliness out of his body. Neither of them says anything. Ghost keeps up the petting and doesn’t relent his hold even an inch, not when the night grows around them and not when the last stragglers go to sleep up on deck either. The ensuing silence is a blanket around Soap’s aching heart and eventually the sobs taper into sniffles until he goes entirely quiet. Even then Ghost doesn’t make a move to separate them, and another eternity passes before Soap reluctantly starts wriggling as a sign for him to loosen his hold. He does, immediately, but Soap doesn’t go further than their eyes can meet.

God. Ghost looks like absolute shit.

He hasn’t been crying, but Soap thinks the lines around his eyes have deepened by at least a fathom since their screaming contest in the crew’s cabin. His pale skin looks more ghastly than usual, and when Soap raises a trembling hand to run his pointer finger down the bump on his nose, his eyes slide shut on an exhale that shakes his entire body.

“I’m sorry,” Soap mumbles. “I’m so sorry for hurting you. And lying.”

Ghost slowly opens his eyes again. “You’re not supposed to be apologizing,” he says after a long moment of just looking, voice rough. “But I know you’re gonna insist on it, so I’ll let you have the moment.”

“Good lad,” Soap snorts quietly, running his thumb across the soft skin under his eyes. It’s too dark. “Who’s been teaching you manners?”

Sighing, Ghost lets his hands fall own to grab his hips again, fingers digging into the skin at his flanks. It feels a wee bit desperate. Soap likes that. “Tell me what happened?”

Uneasy, Soap hums and leans back. “How much did Shepherd manage to tell you?”

“Not much more than what you heard,” Ghost admits. His eyes flash dangerously. “I put a knife through his skull when he got to the bragging part.”

“Guess a truth potion doesn’t cut out the bullshit,” Soap muses, gasping softly and jerking forward when Ghost squeezes his hips once.

“Johnny,” he mutters, eyelids dropping. “Please?”

Will wonders never cease? Simon Riley just said please. Promising himself to milk that one later, Soap nods and thinks back. “Well, it’s not too complicated. We heard about one of Shepherd’s stranded ships and decided to go for it, right?” Ghost nods, one finger freeing a sliver of Soap’s shirt so he can slide beneath it to rub against his skin. “It never sat well with us, but most of the crew was on your ass for a day about it, so in the end we went ahead.”

“I don’t remember being suspicious,” Ghost admits, annoyance pulling a frown out of him. Soap suspects that the idea of still being marked by the influence of the curse doesn’t taste particularly good, so he hurries on.

“Roach had gone ashore by then too,” he says quietly. “Something about a distant cousin needing his help. Later it turned out to be a hoax, but it kept him away for long enough that we didn’t stand a chance against the magic on that ship.”

One-handed, Soap pops a few buttons on his shirt, pulling until Ghost can look at the rough sigil etched into his skin. “By luck I’d agreed to be Roach’s guinea pig just a few days earlier. This,” he taps the raised skin, black ink kind of resembling a fucked-up rose. “Is supposed to keep someone safe from mind-altering curses.”

Because of reasons, Soap doesn’t believe in faith. Neither does Ghost, but even his face twitches in response to the coincidence. “Aye,” Soap agrees, letting his hand fall back on Ghost’s shoulder. “It wasn’t finished yet, so the ship still managed to cloud my head for long enough that I didn’t question the crew’s fevered response to getting the treasure back on the Haunt.” He pauses, eyes flickering away. “Or yours.”

This is where it starts to get super uncomfortable.

“It wasn’t until a day later that the fog lifted, and I realized something wasn’t right. Do you remember that you kicked me out of here?” Soap smiles wryly at the way Ghost stiffens. “Mhm. Didn’t think so.”

Ghost’s expression hardens into cool rage, teeth grinding in a rare show of affect. “Good thing Shepherd’s already dead,” is all he says, but the tone of his voice is such a vigorous case of cruelty it's got shivers racing down Soap’s spine.

Wrapping a hand around his nape, Soap tugs until Ghost looks at him again. “I asked you about this one ruby you’d brought back with you, and you got… uh, mad.” That’s putting it nicely, but Ghost rarely ever shows his emotions, so it’ll serve as explanation.

He's also hilariously indifferent towards treasure in general. Sure, he likes the luxury of the Haunt as much as anyone else, but his life as a pirate has always been about freedom and skill. Ghost is a proud man, likes to do things perfectly, preferably on the first try. This means he’s got very little time to bother about jewels, clothes and other such whimsy materials. The only time Soap has ever seen him actively seeking it out has been for the sake of Soap’s own vanity. Now he likes his bling, but that’s another story.

“Anyway,” he continues. “I got pretty suspicious and managed to work my way back into your bed with some nice oral service.” Ghost scoffs, mouth pulling into his own pale version of a smile when Soap waggles his brows. “I can happily report we both enjoyed it immensely, so don’t get your panties twisted, worrying about takin’ advantage of my poor innocence or anything.”

Rolling his eyes, Ghost pinches his side. “Get on with it.”

In truth, Soap is stalling. He likes the strange warmth growing like a seed between them. It feels familiar, melancholic and nostalgic and he’s terrified at the prospect of letting it go and lose it again. Some of the trepidation must show on his face, because Ghost goes back to petting his hip.

Pursing his lips, Soap blows out a breath. “Well,” he mutters. “Uh, the rest of the story isn’t as sexy, fair warning.”

“You’re okay, Johnny,” Ghost promises him. It’s a beautiful thing to say.

“Roach came back,” Soap whispers before he can lose his nerve. He still remembers the look of horror on his face when he popped onto the ship and felt the curse. Later he told Soap how it’d been like diving into boiling water filled with sirens; an agonizing longing for a death you don’t truly want.

“We realized it all came from the ruby, and after a little research, during which I kept you occupied so Roach could sneak in and take a look at it, he realized that if you touched the damned thing there was simply no going back.”

Ghost is very still beneath him. “You hadn’t touched it,” he guesses, a smart lad.

“No. Before we boarded you asked me to help König with the prisoners, but as the curse got a hold of you, you demanded more hands to help with the looting and our resident mountain got roped into the transportation. So,” Soap says quietly. “I never got my hands on anything.”

Again, luck. He absolutely refuses to think that any of it even smelled like fate. If that was the case, they would all be in the Locker right now. No one cheats fate and gets away with it, or so they say. “The curse was designed as an offering to Calypso,” he continues. “First, she would feed on a dozen seamen’s greed for three days before she’d pull them down into her belly. I wasn’t about to let that happen.”

This is where it gets really ugly, and he tightens his hold around Ghost’s nape with a grimace. “You won’t like this part.”

“Haven’t liked any of it, Johnny,” Ghost says dryly, “but you’re gonna tell me anyway. I’m a big boy.”

“Oh aye,” Soap says, though his leer lacks too much heat for Ghost to acknowledge his poor attempt of redirecting the conversation.

Ugh. “Fine,” he grumbles, when Ghost hefts a brow. “We decided the best idea would probably be to get the bitch off the ship.” He rolls his eyes and wriggles a little. “But it turned out it wasn’t that simple. The curse made sure someone had to steal it.”

“So, you had to touch it.”

“Exactly. Long story short, Roach managed to make a counter spell for the curse. It wouldn’t work on you since Calypso was already feeding the ruby and Roach wasn’t about to throw hands with her.”

“Can’t blame him.”

“Nope. He put some kinda magic on me that made sure I wouldn’t get affected, though. I still had to steal it.” Soap turns his head to look out the window. This time Ghost doesn’t try and pull back his attention, perhaps sensing the returning unease through Soap’s stiffening posture. “So,” he whispers, “I made use of the full moon the day Calypso was supposed to take us. You know what follows.”

Ghost doesn’t make a fucking sound. That’s fair. He did try and shoot Soap during his escape, and if he hadn’t been high on chloroform, he probably would have blown his head straight off. Soap licks his lips. “After that I figured it would be best to get the fuck outta the water before Calypso got my ass, so I found the first little island I could and got pissed.” He blinks away the memories of her eerie face regarding him from the ocean and finally dares a peek back at Ghost.

“Then I hunted down Makarov and left him with the ruby. He never suspected it, I think. Calypso demanded a sacrifice, and Roach wasn’t sure she wouldn’t take her first offer if she didn’t get another chance. Taking out your biggest problem felt like the only kind of apology I could offer you, so. That’s uh… that’s it.”

Silence falls between them like a great beast as Ghost stares blindly up at him. Time seems to stretch on forever, and nothing at all shows on his face, but with Ghost that just means he’s feeling everything. Soap lets him have his moment, despite the way his own pulse is beating in alarm and the nausea which has made a grand comeback. Because he’s never been able to handle prolonged periods of silence he starts counting inside his head. When he gets to two hundred, he breaks.

“Please say something, Si,” he whispers, making a move to crawl off, but Ghost tightens his hold on him, keeping him in place.

He blinks once, lips twitching. “You didn’t tell me the truth because you thought I would just get over you.”

It's not accusatory, but Soap feels it like a punch to his gut. “Well,” he whispers, forcing himself to keep eye contact, “no. I didn’t think you wanted us, either. You told me you didn’t do love and I… I never held that against you, Simon. I never have. Actually, I though making you hate me would put an end to all of it, so you could get the closure you needed –“

“And what about you then?” Ghost cuts him off, grabbing his chin again, though considerably less brutal this time. There’s an ocean of grief storming in his pretty eyes. “When were you gonna get closure, Johnny?”

“It’s not your fault I fell hard,” Soap whispers in lieu of answering and means it with his entire heart, but Ghost suddenly looks furious.

“It is my fault that I never nutted up to tell you the truth though,” he grits out. Letting go of his chin, Ghost grabs Soap’s hand instead and puts it above his heart. It beats steadily, like it always does outside sex, but Soap’s surprised to find its rhythm just slightly elevated. “I’m not gonna sugar coat shit, Johnny. You know that. And I don’t lie.” He’s glaring at him, angry and hurt and annoyed, yet Soap doesn’t think he’s ever felt more cared for than he does right in that moment.

“I love you,” Ghost mutters and Soap makes a broken noise. “I hated it in the beginning, long before the ruby. Got worse when I caught you last week and realized I couldn’t even kill you.” Soap feels his eyes widen. Ghost tilts his head sardonically. “Yeah. Planned to have you sit down there forever, just so I knew you were alive.” He sounds so fucking annoyed with himself Soap can’t think up an argument.

Really, his entire mind is in uproar, because Ghost just told him he loved him, and they really can’t lie to each other so it’s gotta be the truth, but that means Ghost loves Soap and…

And it’s all he’s ever wanted. More than anything.

“Simon,” he whispers eventually. “I don’t…” Soap flounders again, unsure where he wants to go with this. “If you don’t want us to go back to the way it was before, that’s fine.”

It’s not, not at all, but Soap would do terrible things for this man, so he could probably do that too. “But at least let me stay here? We could be just friends again –“ he’s rambling, half delirious with this sudden and desperate need to sink into Ghost and make sure he never goes anywhere without him ever again.

He's not making much sense to himself when Ghost cups his cheeks and pulls him down until their foreheads rest together. Soap goes a bit cross-eyed trying to maintain eye contact, but he’d rather go blind than look away.

“Shut up,” Ghost tells him, even though Soap’s not actually making words anymore. “And listen to me.” His eyes are steady on Soap. “I’m sorry. And thank you. For taking care of things when I didn’t know they needed it.” Soap opens his mouth to argue, but one glare from Ghost and he’s shut it again. “Secondly,” he sighs, long and drawn out, “it should be me begging you to come back.”

Soap’s heart skips a beat in his chest. He grabs a hold of Ghost’s shoulders, squeezing. “Okay, fine, you’re comin’ back. No need to waste time on technicalities.”

“Fuckin’ hell. Let a man finish, will you Johnny?” Soap presses his lips together until they hurt. It earns him a vaguely amused look. “I’m glad we’re on the same page here, but you’re gonna have to promise me something.”

This is so stupid, but experience tells Soap that humoring Ghost’s stubborn ideas of how they’re supposed to go about this is the fastest way forward, so he keeps quiet and nods his head.

“From now on, you’re always coming back to me,” Ghost demands, tone forbidding any more questions. It settles heavy, like a stone at the base of Soap’s spine. “I’m not a good man, and I’m not letting you go again. This is the only chance you’ll get to back out so it’s now or never.”

Is it his fucking birthday or something? Soap’s smile trembles at the edges, heart slowing to something calm and happy as he leans down and kisses him.

“Aye, aye, captain,” he whispers against Ghost’s stiff lips. Clearly, he’s taken him by surprise which is kind of nice considering how rarely it happens, yet Soap can’t be anything but thankful when it takes Ghost less than a second to get with the program.

A dangerous sound reverberates from his chest, and he surges forward. The kiss goes deep in an instant, slowly desperate because they’re both too exhausted to really get going, even when Soap eagerly opens his mouth and sucks Ghost’s tongue in. They don’t need the fever anyway. Ghost gets both of his hands under Soap’s shirt, running calloused skin up and down in delicious drags and Soap arches into him, mindless with vulnerable joy. He's horny because it’s hot and because Ghost is fucking beautiful, but there’s a quiet agreement between them to keep it (mostly) sober as Ghost falls back into bed, pulling Soap with him.

He gets draped across his chest, delighted to feel that Ghost is as broad and strong under his clothes as the day Soap left him.

“Off,” he mumbles, pulling at Ghost’s shirt. “Now, Si.”

“So needy,” Ghost whispers. The fondness in his voice warms Soap’s fucking toes.

Somehow Ghost manages to go about getting rid of the shirt despite Soap’s refusal to remove his body more than an inch at best. Soap smiles big and broad when he’s proven right and finds Ghost’s body packed with muscled fat. He’s the prettiest motherfucker sailing the seas, some things just never change. The piercings in nipples haven’t been changed either, still golden loops to tug on. Soap feels his own single match in silver tingle the next time his shirt brushes across it.

When he’s looked his fill, Soap pulls himself up to plant an elbow on either side of Ghost’s head. Dark eyes are already on him because of course they are. They’re mirroring the lazy hunger Soap feels too, but he also recognizes the melancholic happiness somewhere in the darkness.

“It’s actually kind of cute how you think I’m letting you out of my sight ever again,” he says.

Ghost’s eyes crease, fingers deftly working the buttons on Soap’s shirt. “That so?”

“Mhm. I’m gonna be so annoying.”

“Who would’ve guessed,” he says. The last button is freed. “Do you think the sun will be warm tomorrow as well, Johnny?”

“Happy to hear you’re still a bastard,” Soap sighs, to which Ghost merely shakes his head and pulls him free of his shirt. The air is decidedly less cool in here than up on deck, but Soap’s skin still breaks out in goosebumps.

Ghost magically rids both of them of their boots without Soap realizing how (or maybe he’s just not paying attention) and tugs him close again. Soap’s pulled back to his mouth with a hand on his cheek, and Ghost curls around him until all of Soap’s world is skin and tattoos and scars and his heart whispers a happy little breath of relief.

Chapter Text

You hurt me, Johnny.

The world is quiet and the winds almost soft.

Soap slowly blinks his eyes open to Ghost’s sleeping face inches from his own. There are lines that even unconsciousness can’t wipe out, but the draw of his mouth is smooth and pale eyelashes rest against his cheeks. For a moment, what he sees doesn’t make any sense. He expected the brig. Could even smell damp wood and tangy sweat for moment as the dream slithered away from him.

But he’s not in the brig. He’s in Ghost’s arms.

His heart beats a wild staccato, like he’s been hunted for sport all night long. He can’t actually remember most of the nightmare, but he knows he’d been holding Ghost; bleeding out in his arms and cursing Johnny down into the Locker. It’s so at odds with the warm hand on his hip and the toes brushing against his calf under the sheets that Soap has to throw a look around the cabin to make sure there’s no chance he’s actually hallucinating all of this in the brig.

When nothing immediately melts away into rotten wood, Soap takes a deep breath and turns back to watch cheeky shadows flicker across Ghost’s face. It must be the dead of night with how dark it is. The Haunt is rocking slowly, more cradle than swing, and although the wind whistles a tune against the hull it doesn’t sound too cold. He glances at the door leading out onto the small plateau Ghost uses to brood whenever he’s in that particularly sour mood where he might shoot someone. After a moment of consideration Soap quietly slips out of bed.

It’s a wonder Ghost doesn’t immediately fly up and demand who the fuck is taking over his ship. Usually, it only takes the slightest noise to wake him, but his hand slides off Soap’s hip and down onto the bed without any signs of waking and Soap is willing to take it.

He steals Ghost’s discarded shirt from the floor and puts it on without bothering to close it. Then he tiptoes his way across moaning floors, carefully pushing down the handle and shutting the door after him before the chill winds can steal inside and wake up Ghost. It's a cloudless night again. Better be, after all the recent storms in his life, metaphorically and real. If Soap doesn’t see a raindrop for at least a month, he’ll be the world’s happiest man. The twisting wind truly isn’t bad, but it manages to lift the edges of Ghost’s shirt from his body, skittering across Soap’s bare skin with cool fingers.

Stars twinkle above him like an explosion of diamonds, impossible for the ocean below to catch and reflect. Soap has always thought the sea is cruel sometimes because it’s jealous of the sky, but that might just be his unproportioned love for the vicious fucker talking. If he’d died ashore during his time running, he would’ve definitely come back to haunt whatever poor bastard that stumbled across his bones first until they threw them into the sea.

Gritting his teeth, Soap swallows another breath against the strange unease grumbling in his gut. His heart beats and beats and beats, skin jumping as if a million ants live just beneath it, but he’s not… scared precisely. More like he’s sad. Just a bit though, like the kind of sad you get when a really nice time is coming to an end; you know it’s supposed to happen, and that there will be other good times. But it will never be quite the same. Which is fucking weird considering how little of a good time Soap has had for the past five years, but oh well. He’s never proclaimed himself sane of mind. Though he has to admit this is a strange turn of events, even for his standards.

“You okay?”

He has heard Ghost approach because the charming fucker’s been making sure to step on all the groaning floorboards, and it’s giving him the flutter, but Ghost hasn’t actually approached Soap yet.

Turning half-way around, he finds him propped against the doorway, torso naked and face bare. Soap smiles wryly before looking back at the stars. “Aye. Think so…” a fish jumps as he considers. “Maybe not?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Dick,” Soap says fondly, but the smile slips. That fucking lump is back in his throat. “I… Nightmare. Thought I was back in the brig, but – “ he stops talking again, grunting in frustration though it unfortunately comes out as more of a sniffle. “Fuck. I don’t know, Si. I’m so happy, but I’m also terrified it’s all gonna disappear again. It’s stupid.”

This time Soap doesn’t hear him move but suddenly Ghost’s warm body settles against his back, arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders. It very effectively chases the slight chill away and Soap melts into him, happy to burrow closer. He raises a hand to wrap around Ghost’s neck, so he can play with the short, coarse hairs there.

“What’s that thing Roach is always yapping on about?” Ghost asks quietly.

“Don’t put your dick in magic shit?”

“The other thing.”

“Ah,” despite his misty eyes Soap snorts, “to feel our feelings? That sappy bastard finally got to you, Simon?”

“You can keep joking,” Ghost says honestly, dropping his face into the crook of Soap’s neck. He kisses twice, a nip in between each one before he continues. “And we can fuck the noises out of your head and talk in the morning.”

Soap moans. Ghost’s lips are warm, dry and a little chapped against the sensitive skin on his neck, and while his teeth deliver precise little bites that send shivers racing down Soap’s spine, his tongue is a sensual balm not a moment later.

“Or,” Ghost mutters, pausing for a moment. “You listen to me now.”

Honest to God? Soap would like to fuck. Maybe not the healthiest coping mechanism known to man but again; pirate. His morals are practically non-existent, and he sometimes has rum for breakfast. That being said, Ghost is sincere. This feeling-talk? It doesn’t really happen with him, so Soap is aware of what he’s trying to do. And he really is sad, maybe too much to happily fuck it away without ruining the atmosphere at some point by crying the unsexy way.

“You make a compelling argument,” Soap says, tipping his head back to properly rest it on Ghost’s shoulder. “Let’s hear it then.”

Ghost merely huffs an amused sound at his impertinence and detangles his mouth from his neck. Thankfully he doesn’t go far. Bending his entire bulk, Soap gets truly wrapped up as Ghost’s arms migrate to his waist and his chin comes to rest on his shoulder.

“This isn’t going to be as easy as, you’re always coming to me,” Ghost says. “I know that. You know that.”

Soap’s eyes slide shut. “This as in you and me,” he ascertains.

Ghost nods, then chooses violence again and continues by saying, “I don’t know what the last five years have been like for you, but I’ll go out on a dime and say it’s not been fun.”

Oh fuck. Soap’s gonna start crying again.

Ghost must feel the way his body stiffens (of course he does) because he pulls him even closer, however that is fucking possibly. They’re fused together from head to toe, yet there’ve apparently been a few inches to spare.

“Shut yer puss,” Soap whispers around another sniffle. “I was havin’ a fucking blast.”

“Right. Funny man. One of your best, that one.”

“Thanks.”

“… Johnny,” Ghost says against his cheek. “You can feel sad, even when you think you’re supposed to be happy. One doesn’t negate the quality of the other.”

Those tears finally find their way out of him again, completely silent, but his time it feels good. Cathartic almost. Earlier, emotions had run so high he didn’t notice how he went from terror to grief to joy in nothing but seconds. Maybe Roach isn’t too far off the mark with the whole ‘feeling your feelings thing’. “That was a very nice thing to say,” Soap sniffles. “Sure you wanna be a pirate? You could make a living selling self-help books.”

Ghost sighs again, maneuvering him around until they’re face to face. He looks tired but there’s also a softness to his expression Soap rarely sees, and Ghost raises a hand to thumb away the tears. “That was the sanest thing I’ve ever said.”

“Oh, I know,” Soap agrees, huffing. “The world would burn under your supervision.”

“But everyone would be so much more likeable.”

A chill rushes past them, in between their bodies, and then off again. It makes goosebumps roll out across his body, and he shivers, but Ghost reaches down to lope Soap’s arms around his neck, pulling him close again. “I’m sorry I woke you,” Soap mutters, humming when lips brush against his ear. “Thought I shut the door properly.”

“I woke when you left,” Ghost says and bends to kiss down his neck.

Of course he did. Soap is a fool for thinking otherwise. “So mistrustful,” he coos.

“You like insane.”

“No. Okay, yes. I like you.” He grabs a fistful of hair and tugs until Ghost looks up at him again. They’re so close their noses almost brush. “Kiss me,” Soap demands.

“I was kissing you. You interrupted me.”

“On the mouth.”

Eyes creasing with amusement, Ghost tips Soap’s head up with a hand on each of his cheeks. “Greedy little shit,” he tells him fondly, and Soap has a great answer ready for him, he has, but Ghost’s mouth is mind-numbingly good on his, so it disappears rather quickly again.

Tight against his body, Soap can feel Ghost’s piercings dig into his chest. He knows how much he likes them touched or played with in bed, so Soap slips a hand from his nape to rub against one of them. It earns him the cool rail digging into his back when Ghost pushes forward, deepening the kiss with a little grunt, but it’s nice. Soap likes Ghost’s warmth and the world’s cold pitched against each other; makes the big bad pirate captain currently tongue-fucking him feel much more real.

Ghost nips his lower lip when Soap pulls at the piercing again. “Don’t do that if you’re not willing to take the consequences, Johnny,” he warns, pressing chaste kisses against the side of his mouth, the corners of his eyes, then back in again; tongue hot, wet and demanding against Soap’s own.

It admittedly makes it a bit difficult to talk, but Soap is a man perfectly aware of how he wants to get back into bed now, and he’s going to get it.

“Oh, I can take all you give me, Si,” he purrs, escaping another kiss and twisting the piercing. It draws a long, deep groan out of Ghost. The rail digs deeper into Soap’s back as he’s pressed back by Ghost’s bulk. Big palms fall down to grab his thighs, and the next thing he knows, he’s hoisted up like he weighs absolutely nothing at all.

He barely keeps in the good lad just begging to get out when he wraps his legs around a strong waist, but only because Ghost is looking up at him with famished desperation and Soap suddenly remembers just how long it’s been since they got to have this. So, he silently dips down, returning the favor from earlier by kissing all over that beautiful face as Ghost begins making his way back in.

Soap can’t be bothered to keep track of where they’re going. He’s putting his blind trust in Ghost’s ability to get the job done, even with an eager mouth kissing and nipping and licking at his face. When Soap’s just managed to suck the earlobe with the piercing into his mouth, Ghost’s hands disappear from his ass, and he’s sent flying through the air with a startled sound. He lands safe and sound on the bed, bouncing off the mattress.

“Simon, you utter bawbag! Give a lad some warning before you start throwing around the goods.” Soap scowls, putting his weight on his elbows. Then he frowns. “Hey. Where the fuck did you go?”

Not a moment later, a vial of lube wordlessly lands on the bed beside him. He makes the grave mistake of looking at it instead of focusing on his surroundings. It means he never gets to know where Ghost disappeared to because when he looks back, the big bastard is crawling (naked he might add) onto the bed. Momentarily dumbstruck by miles of pale scarred skin, muscles and thick thighs, and that big, beautiful cock of his, Soap is determined to whine about not getting to watch him strip when Ghost crowds closer and Soap gets a good look at his face.

Blinking in surprise, he readily bends as Ghost grabs an ankle in each hand to spread his legs and settle down between them. He doesn’t move after that, just keeps looking at Soap with quiet focus. His expression borders on somber which isn’t weird in itself, but Soap’s babbling always manages to get a rise out of him when wants and needs are running high. It’s not a bad thing though.

“Okay?” Soap asks, settling his legs on either side of Ghost’s thighs. This way he can run a foot up and down his spine.

Ghost nods, but his mouth thins. “Yeah. Just wondering about the state of my sanity. Apparently, I’ve even missed your innate chattering.”

“Hey now. Let’s not pretend my innate chattering isn’t a good excuse to slap my ass.” Soap waggles his brows, but he speaks softly. “Missed me, ey?” He tilts his head. “Show me how much, Simon.”

With his bulk, Ghost manages to stretch his legs to that point where Soap can feel it the most. It sends a pleasant ache up his back and pools in his abdomen like a bubbling pit of hot liquids. The arousal is comfortable, although he can feel Ghost rest warm and half-hard against his thigh, and for some reason there’s no doubt in his mind this isn’t gonna be the hardcore fucking they’re usually inclined towards.

It'll be soft. Pretty. So unlike them.

Ghost rubs his thumbs in tight little circles into the meat of his thigh. His eyes never leave Soap, dark and heavy and somber. “Gonna take your pants off for me, then?”

“Do it for me?” Soap teases, smiling sweetly as he arches his back.

The act’s got Ghost rolling his eyes, but his fingers are deft and quick when he finds the buttons and works them open. “Up,” he orders, tugging until Soap plants his feet flat on the mattress and lifts his ass high enough for Ghost to pull off his pants.

Soap settles naked and happy back into his lap, completely unabashed by his half-hard cock. He can feel Ghost rapidly filling out against his thigh and it’s not like he isn’t aware of Soap’s endless appetite when it comes to fucking, so under his watchful gaze, Soap is only happy to take himself in hand. He grips tight, pumping once on a soft sigh.

“Si,” he urges. “Come on. Weren’t you gonna show me how much you missed me.” It’s not phrased as a question because it’s one of those indisputable truths of the world; judging by the look in his eyes, Ghost is gonna do a lot more than show him, but it’s never hurt anyone to push the limits.

Okay, that’s a lie.

Ghost’s fingers dig deeper into Soap’s thigh when he grabs a handful of skin, fat and muscle, pushing his legs a little higher. Soap’s pretty bendable and he folds easily under the wordless demand. When Ghost is apparently satisfied with their respective position––himself on his knees, Soap’s ankles resting on his shoulders––he lets go for a moment to reposition his cock so it rests heavy and warm in the spot where Soap’s thigh meets his abdomen.

Soap exhales harshly through his nose, tummy jumping in excitement. His skin feels warm and tingles from the scalp of his head to the tip of his toes.

“Satisfied now?” Ghost asks, back to running his hands up and down Soap’s thigs. Luckily, this time he seems more inclined to broaden the edges of those ministrations. He palms across his flanks and brushes a thumb teasingly fast across Soap’s pierced nipple. It's long since stopped hurting, but that piece of silver is a direct line to his cock and even the smallest of touches will send a delicious mix of pain and pleasure running through his body.

Soap sucks his lower lip into his mouth when he feels his cock twitches. “Aye, it’s fine I guess.” He aims for indifferent, but his voice is all breathy when it gets out. The accent’s also much thicker than usual and clearly, Ghost is just gonna ignore the attempted provocation because all he does is hum.

Then he bends down.

The sudden proximity pushes even Soap to the limits since his ankles are held stubbornly in place and Ghost doesn’t stop until he closes his hot mouth around the piercing.

“Fuck,” Soap groans, both at the stretch and the warm tongue on his nipple. “Si –“

Ghost licks a broad line across his pectoral, sucking one last time before he moves on to attack the sensitive skin on Soap’s neck. Sharp teeth sink in deep enough to leave a mark but not enough to break skin, and Ghost kisses the spot before moving on to the next.

Soap whines, abandoned cock leaking precome against his abdomen. He wants to take himself in hand again and get on with the program, but Ghost’s entire fucking body is in the way.
There are two immediate solutions to this problem; wait until Ghost is done marking him up or get creative.

Ever the problem solver, Soap manages to edge his legs down from Ghost’s shoulders, who in turn seems too preoccupied with his current and self-exacted task at hand to notice the disobedience. Delighted at having succeeded without immediate repercussion, Soap hides a grin in Ghost’s hair and slowly raises his legs until he can lock his ankles at the small of Ghost’s back.

This does get him a reaction, but by then it’s too late to stop him.

“Johnny,” Ghost warns, momentarily releasing his neck but if he was about to say anything else it dies on a broken groan when Soap grinds up. Their cocks slide easily in the shared pool of precome between their bellies, and Ghost feels so fucking big Soap almost gags just thinking about it.

He moans a whorish sound. “Might not fit me anymore, Simon. Haven’t been stretched properly for a while now.”

Actually, it’s gonna be damned marvelous, and Soap is looking as much forward to the burn as a navy finding a real big stick to shove up his ass, but he’s finally managed to tick off Ghost enough to get a reaction he’s not mentally prepared himself for yet, and so he’s completely helpless when Ghost sits back up to stare down at him, breaking all contact.

His pupils are blow and in the low candlelight he cuts an even more imposing figure than normal. The golden jewelry gleams every time he moves.

“Couldn’t find anyone big enough?” He asks, voice the kind of low that’s part warning and mostly uncertainty.

Soap blinks, confused as to what exactly he said that would prompt this sudden change, it’s not like… oh.

Welp. There goes his big mouth again.

An almost imperceptible line has former between Ghost’s brows, but at least he doesn’t move away any further. Determined not to give him the time to cook up any more ridiculous ideas, Soap gently acquires one of his hands left lax on his thigh and intertwines their fingers. “I meant that quite literally,” he says, squeezing. “I haven’t had anything but my fingers to do the job. And that’s if I even had the time to stop for more than a few days somewhere.”

Watching understanding relight the fire in Ghost’s eyes is a pleasure in itself, but Soap has to make sure he truly understands. “Do you honestly think I’d ever even look at anyone else, knowing you were somewhere out there?”

Finally, finally relaxing from the stiff defense his body has settled into, Ghost’s hand slowly squeezes back. He doesn’t look away, but there’s a fine dust of pink high on his cheekbones. It’s so devastatingly beautiful Soap’s mouth goes completely dry.

“I wouldn’t have held it against you,” he says honestly and Soap nods.

“I know. But it would’ve hurt you. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Ghost sighs, eyes flickering down to where they’ve both gone a little soft. “I’m gonna make it up to you, though. For the rest of my life.”

The serene sincerity with which he makes that promise takes Soap completely by surprise and warms him to the bones. It wells up in his throat too.

“Okay,” he croaks, smiling wryly when Ghost snaps his attention back on him. “Okay, Simon. Could you start now, maybe?”

Mutely, Ghost obeys. He moves backwards until Soap’s legs fall down onto the bed, then lowers himself. Their bellies brush and Ghost’s arms bracket each side of Soap’s face, but it’s not enough.

Tired of waiting, Soap quickly pulls at the weak link of Ghost’s elbow so he falls down on top of him. He’s a big lad and the weight is substantial, but it’s safe and all-encompassing and smells of gunpowder and sea salt.

“Still impatient as fuck,” Ghost bitches, but it sounds a bit distracted and when he raises himself to look down at Soap again, the sadness has bled from his face. Only the hunger remains now, and Soap can do nothing but agree with the sentiment.

“And you’re still as slow as –“ he starts, but a big palm covers his mouth, effectively shutting him up.

Next thing he knows Ghost is moving rapidly down his body. He leaves behind openmouthed kisses in his wake, hot and wet against Soap’s skin, and like the gentleman he truly is not, Ghost makes sure to be especially attentive to each of Soap’s nipples. It collects goosebumps and whines each time he moves on which has the unfortunate effect of getting Soap hard pretty fucking quickly again.

Unfortunate, because a moment later Ghost swallows him down to the root.

Soap throws his head back, stars bursting behind his eyelids and pleasure shoots in every which direction. Whatever noise he makes gets caught by Ghost’s calloused hand, as he starts a steady rhythm of going up to swirl that wicked tongue around Soap’s leaking head and down again until his nose brushes the hairs at the base. A hint of teeth and Soap garbles something unintelligible that even he himself can’t decipher above the wet sounds of Ghost swallowing down his cock like a damned champion.

He's panting hard in no time with Ghost skillfully alternating between slow and steady and quick and sloppy. It holds the very real danger of breaking his fucking mind, but Soap isn’t gonna complain. Not when he’s finally got Ghost this close again after so long of only dreaming about it. Each place they’re joined––cock, mouth, hands, lips––is a hotspot wired directly to Soap heart that pulls out every last shred of loneliness. It’s the best feeling in the world––as good as the pleasure fogging his mind.

Maybe even better.

Without warning, his balls draw tight, and he moans a broken sound. Liquid heat, hot as lava, gathers at the small of his back but just when he thinks he’s about to burst, Ghost stops moving and lets go of his hand to circle the base of his cock. It effectively stops anything from happening at all, and Soap groans behind his palm, long and suffering to let him know he’s not a supporter of this idea at all.

Ghost slowly pulls off with a chaste kiss to his flushed head.

“Still want me to fuck you?” He asks, voice deep and hoarse and properly wrecked, and Soap’s going to come, he really fucking is.

“If you don’t, I’ll riot,” he croaks dumbly, too buzzed to form a proper comeback. Not that he’s interested. The air between them feels almost fragile, though not in a bad way. More like they’re creating something important here. Or recreating, rather.

Ghost, bless him, nods without commenting Soap’s rather simplified state. He licks a broad stripe up the side of his cock, following the veins with one hand still holding off that orgasm. The other grabs the dip behind one of his knees and pushes until Soap gets the idea. “Oh. Okay.” He moves his other leg, exposing himself to the cool air. “Simon, please.”

“Can I let go?” Ghost asks.

“Mhm.”

“Words, Johnny.”

“Aye, sir.”

Dark eyes flick up to his, mild surprise quickly transforming into content. “Good boy,” Ghost says softly. It runs like hot water through Soap’s body and turns him lax. He can almost feel how he sinks deeper into the bed when Ghost finally removes the hand from around his cock. “Tell me how much you want me to stretch you.”

The world is foggy in the best of ways, and like the greedy bastard he is, Soap wouldn’t mind leaving the reins entirely in Ghost’s capable––and willing––hands. But he’s also determined to make sure he isn’t the only one being cared for here.

“How many fingers, Johnny?” Ghost prompts when he doesn’t answer.

“Let me suck your cock,” Soap says instead and raises himself onto his elbows in an attempt to flip their positions. “Come on, Si.”

But Ghost shakes his head. “Later.”

“I can’t only be on the receiving end,” Soap complains, sitting up to pout at him. He tries to peek a look between his legs, but a bastard blanket is obscuring his view. “You should feel good too.”

“Seriously?” Ghost sighs. “You think I’m not enjoying this?”

“Well, aye, but I haven’t touched your dick yet.”

“Ah. So, this is actually about you own needs.”

Annoyed, Soap narrows his eyes at him. “Shut up, it is not. I know what you’re doing, and I’m really fucking grateful, but I’m not the only one who’s been having a shitty five years. Let me suck your cock.”

As he speaks, Ghost’s stony expression yields a little. “Give me your hand,” he says when Soap stops talking, holding out his own.

This sudden slow in the schedule is getting on Soap’s nerves because honestly, what’s so bad about getting your dick sucked? But Ghost is looking at him evenly with those beautiful fucking eyes of his and Soap’s never had a backbone around him anyway. So, he accepts the hand and blindly allows Ghost to guide it. Only when his hand brushes warm skin dusted with hair does he realize where this is going, and he snaps his attention down just in time to see the blanket slip away.

Ghost wraps both of their hands around his hard, leaking cock. It’s silk and steel and warmth, slippery with precome and heavy in his hand. Ghost tightens their hold, dragging down and up once with a quiet grunt.

“Does this feel bad to you?” He asks unevenly. “’Cause it sure doesn’t to me, Johnny.” Another drag, this time slower.

Soap swallows around a dry tongue, looking up to find Ghost’s expression soft with pleasure, eyes fixed on him. “No,” he whispers. “It feels good, Simon.”

Ghost hums and drags again, but then he also releases his grip, allowing Soap free roam. Eager not to pass up the opportunity, Soap levels himself onto his knees and scoots closer. Their legs touch and Soap buries his free hand in blond hair so he can return the favor and mark Ghost’s neck with kissing bites.

“Forgot how big you are,” he admits, sucking hard on the underside of a stubbled jaw. Ghost just hums again. He’s completely still besides the slow measured pants lifting his chest, and the fingers he’s dragging up and down Soap’s spine. “Might need four fingers.”

“That’s a lot,” Ghost comments around a muted groan. His hips twists when Soap flicks his hand over the head of his cock, thumb dragging across the slip to gather more precome. “Did you go celibate?”

Scoffing, Soap kisses a flurry up his neck, his cheek, until he reaches his mouth and dives right into an open-mouthed kiss.

“Have some respect,” he laughs while Ghost eagerly tries to shut him up again, chasing his mouth. He’s breathing harder now, each sound coated by strain as Soap speeds up on his cock. It’s twitching in his hand. “I managed to get a bit of me-time every other month or so. Still, it’s difficult to work in more than two fingers when you’re constantly looking over your shoulder.”

“Fuck,” Ghost groans, dropping his head on Soap’s shoulder. He rolls his hips in one, sinuous movement only to freeze completely a second later. “Johnny,” he hisses and the warning rings loud and clear between them.

Honestly, Soap wouldn’t have minded letting him come and take the consequences for disobeying, but they both need something a little… closer tonight. So, he dutifully stops and sits back with a winsome grin while Ghost catches his breath.

“Mh. Big bad Ghost, about to come all over me,” he coos, twisting until he lands on his stomach. Then he spreads his legs, pushing his ass in the air. “How about you put it in me, instead?”

The bed dips and groans.

“I plan to, you fuckin’ menace,” Ghost grumbles into his ear, suddenly draped over him.

Hot and soft skin slide across Soap’s sensitive body when Ghost moves down. They’re so close Soap can feel the dip of muscles, and the brush of piercings as a shock of cold in the midst of all the heat. Strong hands grab his ass and spread his cheeks, and had Soap had any shame left he might’ve blushed––he doesn’t though. Not a lick of it.

“Shit,” he hisses, arching his back. “Si, please. Get one with it, will ya?“

Thankfully, a tongue licks a broad stripe across his hole without further prompting needed. It knocks out all thoughts from his head which is most likely the point, because while Soap is busy melting into the sheets and Ghost really goes to town on his ass, he's also, apparently, working on lubing up his fingers. Soap is pretty much breathless when he feels the first thick digit works its way inside his spit slicked hole.

Ghost doesn’t immediately stop eating him out, but when his finger sinks in to the last knuckle he leans back. Soap whines as Ghost picks up a rhythm. The stretch isn’t bad, far from it. Actually, it’s mildly disappointing and feels weird like it always does in the beginning.

“More,” he demands, pushing back, but Ghost’s free hand lands on the small of his back to keep him in place. Soap’s starting to sweat and is delighted to feel him slip a little.

“You’re tight as shit,” Ghost tells him. “So buckle up, love.”

“Am not,” Soap gasps. “Did finger myself.”

Ghost laughs quietly. It sounds possessive as fuck. “Mhm. But not good enough, Johnny. Not like me.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. That’s hot as shit. “’Cause you got big hands.” Soap agrees easily.

“Exactly. Wanna have another?”

Even before Soap can open his mouth and start begging Ghost circles the tip of a finger around his stretched rim a few times. Then he pushes it in along the other. It’s more of a stretch this time that’s for sure. It’s far from a lie when Ghost says he can hit spots Soap could only dream off. He’s not a small man himself, but Ghost is just generally bigger. It’s a beautiful experience all together, and the added stretch burns for only a moment before the feeling of almost-full settles in. Soap rolls his hips back again, and Ghost abandons his back to grab a hold of his flank, squeezing in warning.

Sucks for him, Soap is getting this. Sniggering, he does it again.

“Johnny,” Ghost admonishes. Then he curls his evil fingers and hits the Good Spot dead fucking on. Soap melts. White light explodes across his vision, and he moans a broken sound.

“Fuck,” he gasps, body twitching when Ghost settles on a rhythm that brushes his prostate every single time. “Si, more, please. Gimme another finger. I’ll be nice, I’ll be so fuckin’ nice baby –“

“Then don’t lie,” Ghost says, amused, but grants him his wish by adding a third digit to the mix.

A smart retort dies on Soap’s lips at the cool sensation of more lube and the proper stretch. This isn’t the first time Ghost has managed to make him too high on arousal for words, though it’s definitely been a while since last. So long that Soap’s almost forgotten how good it feels. Now he’s ruthlessly reminded, and it’s so close to tasting heaven that he can’t even be mad at Ghost who laughs at his inability to be a brat for once.

He runs a hand up Soap’s sweaty spine, broad palm clasping a loose hold around his neck to push his face deeper into the pillows. “You asked me to show you how much I missed you, yeah Johnny?”

“A-aye––oh…”

“Missed this,” Ghost rumbles, twitching his hand in a way that forces another round of precome out of Soap’s cock. “Dirty, stunning and depraved.”

Stunning.

Soap whines a low sound, his open, panting mouth turning the pillowcase damp. Another push and pull of Ghost’s fingers and his cock twitches viciously. “Simon!”

“I know, sweetheart. Ready? Or more fingers?”

“You,” Soap breathes, “want you, Si. I can––I can take it.”

He’s not actually sure he can, but only because it feels like he’s mere seconds from coming. Ghost is big big. Soap has made him fit before though, and he damn well will again––so long as he doesn’t come before permission is given. He wants to feel the stretch of him too, as much as possible.

Ghost stills, thumb rubbing soothing circles against the stubby line of Soap’s hair. “You need a haircut,” he mumbles, fingers still buried deep inside of him.

Blinking slowly in a desperate attempt to get with the program, Soap eventually manages to conclude that the big softie is giving him a fucking break. “No one would give me a knife to handle it,” he complains.

“Strange, that.”

Soap huffs at the deadpan delivery. “You can do it. After you’re done fucking my brains out.”

“Of course,” Ghost says. “We’ll take a bath in the morning.”

Oh that sounds almost better than the orgasm he can feel settling back down for the second time tonight, but only almost. Suddenly Soap has had enough of waiting.

He wriggles his hips, moaning when it jostles Ghost’s fingers. “Okay, I’m good. Fuck me now.”

“Politeness will get you everywhere, Johnny.”

Sighing explosively probably isn’t the best way to answer that particular statement, so Soap magnanimously tacks on, “please fuck me right now. Sir.”

The fingers slowly disappear. “Trained you well,” Ghost snarks and then Soap is left entirely devoid of any skin-on-skin contact when he goes to––maybe––lube up his cock.

A need to be able to see Ghost hits Soap right between the eyes with such brutal intensity it nearly steals his breath away, so he utilizes the moment of no hands on his body to flip around until he’s on his back again.

Ghost pauses with his cock in hand, blinking down at him. “Still good?” He asks quietly, already letting go of himself––hard and flushed––to crawl back over Soap.

“Aye,” Soap promises. “Just wanna see your bonnie mug when you get all hot and bothered for my delectable body.”

Ghost’s fingers are a little cool from the lube when he lets a hand run down Soap’s middle. It leaves a string of shivers in its wake, and Soap bites his lip on a soft moan. He rearranges himself until he's got his legs draped over each of Ghost’s thighs again and raises his arms to grab the headboard behind him.

Ghost looks ravenous. “Missed it?” The hand not petting Soap disappears between his legs.

“I used to dream of you,” Soap whispers back.

His heart skips a beat when he feels the blunt head of Ghost’s cock against his rim. He rubs it back and forth a few times, eyes locked solemnly with Soap’s. A quiet agreement to let the banter die hangs in the air between them. This is a homecoming in so many ways; a forgiving and a way to move forward. It should be treated with respect, even by the disrespectful.

The head slips inside.

“Tell me,” Ghost demands, words already coated by gravel.

Eyelids turning heavy, Soap savors the stretch as Ghost moves his hips and puts another inch in him. His cock feels bigger than he remembers and maybe a fourth finger wouldn’t have been a bad idea, but it’s not uncomfortable. On the contrary, Soap wholeheartedly agrees with his own cock; flushed and leaking against his belly and so, so ready for more.

“I imagined you found me,” Soap chokes on another thrust, another few inches, “and took me back with you.”

“For punishment.”

“No,” he says, and Ghost pulls out, leans down over him with a hand on each side of his head and goes even further on his way back in. “In my dreams you forgave me, Si. You’d just take me home.” He means to say more, but Ghost bottoms out with a ragged sound and the words turn into moans and jumbled pleas on Soap’s lax tongue.

He is so full. He’s stretched and filled to the fucking brim, but the pain only heightens the pleasure and makes stars dance before his eyes. Ghost is so big that had he been bad at fucking––which he is decidedly not––it wouldn’t have mattered because his cock mercilessly presses against Soap’s prostate even still. Better than that, Ghost is suddenly all around him; their strained panting envelops them like a blanket, and a strong arm wraps around his back, pulling him impossibly closer.

“Shit,” Ghost breathes against his temple. His voice is shot through and trembling at the edges. “Shit, Johnny, I –“

“Move,” Soap chokes and releases the headboard to sling his arms around Ghost’s shoulders instead.

What the fuck is the idea of waiting when they’ve done five years of it?

With mumbled curse Ghost indulges him. He pulls almost all the way out and then sinks back in steadily. It’s sensual as all fuck because usually, they would be fucking a lot harder than this from the get-go, but Soap finds he likes the difference. A lot. This way, he feels all the fat eight inches he’s currently impaled on down to the minute detail. Or maybe he’s just imagining it in his cock-drunk state, who knows––it doesn’t really matter in the end because the best part of it all is Ghost.

Gradually, he picks up the pace and soon wet smacks of where they meet in steady, deep thrusts echo through the room, coated by Soap’s stumped symphony of pants and moans getting fucked out of him.

Ghost grabs him by the thighs to hoist him closer. “Beautiful,” he grunts, and Soap blinks watery eyes open to find hazy eyes zeroed in on him like there’s nothing else to look at it in the world. No treasure more valuable, no revenge sweeter. “So fucking pretty like this, Johnny.”

Soap edges a hand into Ghost’s hair. “Just like this?” He pants, and Ghost growls.

His fingers keep a punishing grip on Soap’s thighs. “Always. Greedy and stunning and mine. My Soap. My Johnny.”

“My Ghost,” Soap answers immediately. “My Simon.”

In the blink of an eye Soap is pushed even further into the bed. Ghost lowers himself until they’re touching practically everywhere––belly to belly, chest to chest. Soap’s piercing gets pressed against Ghost’s sternum, and it sends thrills of sharp, pain-coated arousal singing up and down his spine. His breath stumbles over a stuttering whine.

Then Ghost starts fucking him. Hard. He pulls all the way out only to thrust back in with a force that sends Soap sliding up the bed. He probably would have hit the headboard if it hadn’t been for Ghost’s grip around his middle. He for sure isn’t in the state of mind where he could’ve prevented it himself.

Eyes rolling into the back of his head, Soap’s breath is forced out of him in a string of breathy, high-pitched ah-ah-ah’s. He stretches with the pleasure drumming beneath his skin, robbing him of speech, and he grinds his hips down to the best of his capabilities, meeting Ghost’s thrusts halfway. Their bodies slide against each other with the sweat, Soap’s cock aching between their bellies.

“Johnny,” Ghost gasps, “look at me.”

He tries, he really does, but Soap’s gone slightly mindless from all the sensations. When he doesn’t manage to lift his head, Ghost grips his jaw and slots their lips together himself. The kiss is wet and messy and deep and –

“I love you,” Ghost whispers against Soap’s lips.

Nothing actually stops, except maybe Soap’s heart for a moment or two there, but then it also explodes into action again. Suddenly it isn’t difficult to move at all, and he grabs Ghost by the face to pull him closer. He moans into the kiss, well aware of the tears mingling with the sweat on his face but he can’t be fucked to care.

“I know,” he sobs, “I know, Simon. I love you too. So, so much, darling.”

Ghost snarls a curse and ups the pace. After that, not a lot of words are shared but they don’t need to, anyway. Kisses slowly morph into an uncoordinated sharing of breaths when Ghost’s thrusts turn uneven.

“Wanna come,” Soap whines, “wanna come, Si, please!” He could of course grab his cock, but he’s honestly unsure if he’s got the motoric skills to even find it at this point, and also slightly afraid of where he’ll end up if he lets go of Ghost.

Luckily, Ghost is a gallant kind of bastard who is also, from the sound of it, very close to coming, which means this is the point where he’ll bring Soap over the edge anyway. A moment later his calloused palm wraps around Soap’s cock and he pumps once, twice, whispers, “there we go, Johnny,” when Soap stiffens and throws his head back on a cry as the orgasm shatters through him, spilling in the space between them and all over Ghost’s fingers.

“You too,” Soap slurs in the middle of it all and bears down on Ghost’s cock, tightening mercilessly. “Come in me, Simon.”

“Fucking hell –“ Ghost groans. He thrusts roughly a few times before Soap feels his big body lock up under his hands moments before warm heat coats his insides. Ghost comes with a small sound from the back of his throat and then slumps down.

The weight of him certainly isn’t insubstantial, but Soap likes the feeling. Kind of like being compressed by the world’s best blanket. He’s too high on soft post-pleasure to be bothered anyway, and so flips boneless arms around Ghost’s middle to pull him even closer. Ghost mumbles something in response though the meaning disappears in the juncture between Soap’s neck and shoulder.

And it’s there; between dirty sheets, with sweaty bodies, and an aching body in the best of ways that Soap’s heart finally settles down.

I’m home, he thinks and feels a tear disappear into his hairline. We’re home.

Ghost sighs, almost as if he heard him.

Morning comes around before Soap realizes he’s fallen asleep again.

He wakes to a heavy arm draped around his middle and warm steady breaths tickling across his temple, but none of these happenings are what pull him out of dreamland. The careful knocking on the door has woken Ghost and Soap is so tuned into his bodily cues that he’s unable to ignore the way he stiffens in momentary alarm. Eventually he settles down again, pulling Soap a little closer by pushing a leg between his thighs.

“Fuck off,” he grumbles.

Soap drowsily agrees with this assessment of the situation and is only happy to snuggle back into Ghost’s unbudging arms when the annoyance knocks again. If possible, it’s even more timid this time which a) tells them all they need to know about who is interrupting and b) pisses Ghost off enough to abandon the warmth of the bed.

“Nooo,” Soap whines, cracking one eye open and making grabby hands when Ghost disentangles himself to pull on mask, trousers and shirt. At least it’s the one made of fabric, so chances are he’s planning on coming back. Soap isn’t taking any chances though and catches a fistful of fabric. “Stay,” he orders, glaring one-eyed up at Ghost who pauses his scowling long enough to fondly rid himself of Soap’s fingers.

“I’ll be back.”

“Ugh. Fine. Don’t kill him.” Too tired to argue the point further Soap slumps back down into the duvets and pillows. “But maybe scare him a wee bit.”

“How noble,” Ghost mocks, right before tearing the door open. “What do you want, König?”

Exhausted isn’t a strong enough word to describe how Soap feels at the moment, and so he finds himself drifting along the narrow edge of consciousness as König’s deep voice stammers an answers.

“… s-sorry captain, but no one’s filled the girls in yet and, uhm. They’re worried about Soap is the thing –“

“Did you kill him!?”

Azure’s voice cuts through the fog, trembling around the edges because she’s clearly scared shitless but also (apparently) incensed enough on his behalf to dare raise her voice against Ghost.
It wakes Soap up immediately.

By the time he’s managed to raise his head enough to spot König in the doorway, Soap hears Ghost deeply. Azure and Belle are half-hidden behind König, bravely glowering up at Ghost who towers over them, blocking the way with crossed arms.

Wincing, Soap pulls himself out of bed, blanket wrapped around his lower body. His muscles really are sore, though he’s unsure if it’s because he got fucked real good last night or just the fact that he’s slept on something other than damp wood for the first time in two weeks. No matter the reason, he almost faceplants into the floor when his knees protest the sudden weight put upon them. Stumbling with a bitten-off curse, Soap manages to right himself just before catastrophe ensues and staggers the rest of the way over.

“Christ,” he grumbles to himself, then plasters on a grin as he nudges Ghost out of the way. “Hey there, lasses. Sorry for the disappearing act. As you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

Two pairs of eyes widen in stumped shock and for a very, very long moment no one says a thing.

Soap frowns. “Uh. Hello?”

“What the hell did you do to your nipple?” Belle asks, sounding rather resigned for someone who looked ready to start screaming at Ghost not seconds earlier. She’s staring at his chest and a quick glance at Azure confirms she suffers the same line of sight, though acutely redder in the face about it.

Soap hefts a brow and looks down himself. Ooh, right. He didn’t put on a shirt. A few fingers covertly edge into the edge of the blanket behind his back, tugging lightly in warning.

“This one?” He flicks the silver ring in his right nipple and feels the corners of his mouth pull up. “It’s a token of friendship. Ghost’s got a matching –“

“We’ll be out in a minute,” Ghost cuts him off and shuts the door in their faces, rounding on Soap the second they’re alone again. “Wipe that shit off your face, Johnny.”

It only makes Soap smile wider. “This bonnie smile? From my pretty face? You like my lack of decorum, it makes you horny––ach!”

In the blink of an eye Ghost has hoisted him up by the thighs and pushed him against the door, trapping him with his bulk. Soap quickly gets over the shock when Ghost’s mouth lands hot and demanding on his, sniggering against the onslaught of lips, teeth and tongue.

“See?” Soap sighs which quickly gets interrupted by a moan when Ghost puts his big hands on his ass, and he does that thing with his tongue that feels really good.

Pressed between Ghost’s warmth and the cool wood behind his back time becomes a relative concept. The kisses eventually slow and they turn careful, deeper; less hurried as they both come to the realization that this is real. Soap knows it will take time to get completely okay again. He can still feel trepidation licking at his toes with thoughts of how he could lose it all a second time.

But at heart he’s an optimistic lad. And he loves Ghost. He’ll do whatever it takes.

“I don’t understand why we can’t just stay in bed,” Soap grumbles over his shoulder at Ghost as they climb the stairs. “My poor body hasn’t been treated well for a week, Si. I gotta listen to it.”

“Your poor body needs a sleep pattern its captain can use,” Ghost shoots back. “I’m not hiring vampires. They’re shitty labor. And we just had a bath.”

Soap cackles “Vile, selfish fuckin’ pirate.”

“Mhm. You like my bad attitude, Johnny. It makes you horny.”

Motherfucker. Soap is about to turn around and bully the bastard back down into the sheets when they unfortunately take the last step up and is met by dead silence on the Haunt’s deck.

To say that everyone and their grandmother is looking at them would be a lie, but only because most pirates’ grandmothers have sworn off their pillaging, bastard grandsons and daughters. There’s a lot of eyes on Soap as his laughter slowly tapers. Somehow, he didn’t think as far as this part. One thing is fooling Ghost for years on end and navigating the following (and shocking) redemption process, another thing is having to do it with not one, not two, but three fucking pirate crews.

They all look like they’ve kicked his dog.

“Ohohoo, nope,” he decides, trying to turn back around only to have Ghost clap a hand around his nape and keep him firmly in place.

“Simon,” he whispers, no small amount of desperate as Laswell makes her way up front. “Don’t make me do this.”

Ghost leans down, the cool metal of his mask brushing softly against his. “You’re okay, love.”

Of course the bastard has to go and pull out the pet names. Fuck him, honestly.

Laswell comes to a stop in front of them in the time it takes Soap to regain control over his crumbling defenses. Her expression is even, no pity in sight, but she doesn’t say or do anything for so long that Soap starts fidgeting under the comfortable weight of Ghost’s hand. Just when he’s really, genuinely about to bolt, she raises a hand and cups his cheek.

“You wonderful, stupid boy,” she tells him, loud enough for everyone to hear yet somehow only for him. “We’re all very sorry and very grateful.”

Teeth sinking into his bottom lip, Soap nods a couple of times before he gets control of the waterworks. “Right,” he rasps, clearing his throat. “Thank you, truly. Just –“ he looks at all of them.

Alejandro, Rodolfo, Horangi and König all stand huddled together to one side and that’s where he lands. Roach keeps a little behind them, face somber. It’s only then that Soap realizes he doesn’t actually know what Ghost makes of him keeping all this a secret.

Welp. That time that headache.

“Don’t make it a big thing, aye? I’m fine, we’re all good. If you’d clocked it I would honestly have been pissed as fuck, so thank you for despising me, I suppose.“ It somehow turns even more quiet. “Ha,” he laughs, blinking rapidly. “This is uh… someone stop me from talking?”

Thankfully, Ghost saves him by taking a step forward, barking out an order for everyone to scram and get to work. It works like magic. Pirates start yelling at each other, climbing back onto their respective ships to ready them for takeoff.

Price ambles over and joins Laswell with Gaz by his side. Both of them slap Soap on the back which is the only kind of apology he can handle, so that’s great. They’ve always been his favorite bastards anyway (right after Ghost, of course).

Price picks out the cigar from his mouth, tipping his hat. “We’ve gotta get going again. The seas don’t pirate themselves.”

“Thanks for helping,” Ghost says, while Soap whines his protest to great irritation for everyone except him.

“Where are you lads off to?” Price asks, rudely cutting off his dramatics.

Ghost tips his head in the direction of Azure and Belle currently helping König with the sails. “Soap promised the girls a ride home.” Also known as, and now I gotta clean up his mess.

Laswell nods, a tiny smile pulling at the wrinkles around her mouth. “We will probably see each other sooner rather than later,” she says. “There are whispers of a council meeting.”

While Ghost doesn’t actually react outwards except for a bothered little grunt, Soap can almost feel how his mood drops. It’s a fair reaction; he isn’t a man made for bureaucracy and to top off the yikesburg, pirates are notoriously bad at keeping to one point at a time because someone brings up someone else’s mother and then the guns come out. Pretty good entertainment for everyone else, though.

Price ducks his head with a laugh, mumbling something unintelligible beneath his breath as he starts gathering the Watcher’s crew.

“Don’t be a stranger, John,” Laswell tells Soap firmly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, captain,” he promises.

Gaz sighs. “If you do come around, please don’t dress up as a stinking farmer again. I swear it's growing like molt in my poor nostrils.”

“Ah,” Soap says, feeling Ghost turn to stare him. “Considering I’m not on the run anymore… actually, that’s a lie. But Shepherd’s dead and the other wigs are incompetent as fuck –“

“Just promise me,” Gaz interrupts his sidetrack, so Soap swears on all that’s holy he will never stoop low enough to roll around a midden again. Honestly, that wasn’t his best moment, but Price had asked for an audience some time ago under the promise of not handing him over, and Ghost is like a fucking bloodhound.

He tells him this much when Gaz waves his goodbye and follow Laswell back to their ship. “You would probably have smelled their betrayal or something, I never know with you,” Soap defends himself.

“I’m not a fuckin’ dog.”

Oop, good thing he can’t read minds at least. Soap smiles, bright and charming. “If you were, you’d be a very pretty one.”

Quite a few things get revealed during the day as it progresses. Farah’s crew fucks off first because she wants to get some more time in at the bar, but she claps him on the back and calls him an idiot so fondly he almost cries again. Not long after Laswell takes off with her boys too, and then it’s just the Haunt.
I
t’s about then Soap realizes he’s completely forgotten about Graves.

“So with Shepherd dead, does that mean Graves has gotten my old room?”

Ghost gives him a flat look. “Don’t call the brig your room. It makes me look bad.”

Soap pats him on the arm with patronizing care. “Si, darlin’, you manage that all on your own. Now answer me, please.”

"Why don't you come see for yourself.”

Because he can be mature when it suits him, Soap refrains from commenting on Graves’ redecoration of the cell but only because he’s pretty sure it would bother Ghost more than Graves whose redecorating skills mostly amount to a kicked bucket and a surly fucking face. At least they haven’t given him a blanket. Soap feels vindictively happy about this.

Graves opens his mouth. “Fuck –“

Cutting him off with a raised hand, Soap turns back to Ghost. “Please tell me you didn’t question him already? I swear to God, Ghost, if I don’t get to grill the bawbag I will do embarrassing things.”

“Like what?”

Christ, the sick bastard sounds so intrigued. Soap loves him.

He's just about to divulge when Graves proves just how much of a stupid idiot he truly is by opening his big fucking mouth. “Yes, do tell. What’re you gonna do McTavish? Stage another mutiny? For real this time, that is.”

It's his own fault, is all Soap is saying. At least, he finds it very difficult to feel sorry for Graves when Ghost lets a knife whistle so close by Graves’ face it cuts a clean line across his cheek. He chokes on a gasp, hand flying up to cradle the wound, and then Soap has to grab Ghost by the wrist and pull him out before he kills Graves. “We’ll get around to it,” Soap soothes. “But we do need some answers first.”

Roach got an earful, apparently.

“I don’t think he’s ever been angrier with me,” he tells Soap solemnly, lounging in the rig. He’s kept put of Ghost’s way for most of the day. “Almost pulled a knife on me.”

“Sorry,” Soap mutters. “For dragging you into it in the first place.”

“Nah. Don’t be, man. You’re my brother. Besides,” he huffs. “You would’ve done the same for me.”

Obviously.

To be honest, delivering the girls ends up being a more somber affair than Soap expected. They drop them off at the harbor of their village because Soap isn’t interested in scaring the shit out of their parent, and this way, the girls will be able to withhold whatever information they see fit.

The last few days, Azure and Belle have been hanging around him almost constantly, demanding stories and games and training of various kinds. They even got less tense around Ghost eventually. Difficult not to, because Soap has been loath to keep away from him for more than an hour at a time, and Ghost has been sharing that sentiment. Exposure treatment at its finest.

Their village is pretty standard for their stye of life, but Belle is holding a box of riches in her hand which Azure has been firmly instructed in keeping any stray hands off until they reach home.

“Well,” Belle sniffles. “For a pirate bastard you’re not too bad, Soap.”

“And for a bratty little moralist, you’re not too annoying either,” Soap chuckles, pinching her cheek. They’re standing on the harbor, the sun beating down against their skin. Behind him, Ghost leans a little closer.

“When you get back to the sea, come find us,” he tells them. Orders, really, but that’s just his default mode.

Azure’s face does a complicated series of curious twists––she’s such a fangirl––and in the end it’s Belle who has to answer with a meek little, “yes, sir.”

“Get home safe, aye?” Soap hums.

“You too,” Azure says, finally finding her voice. Her eyes are misty. “We’ll… we’ll see you later. Right?”

“Obviously,” Soap assures her. “I look forward to meeting the pirate you’ll become, lass.”

It's bittersweet to watch them disappear down dusty streets, Azure on high alert as Belle shuffles after her with the chest. Ghost’s arm snakes around his waist in a backwards hug.

“You’ll see them before you know it,” he promises quietly.

The sun truly is merciless, but Ghost insists on wearing the entire gear because he’s both stubborn and paranoid. On the plus side, it means Soap can turn around and hook a finger into one of his belt loops and pull him closer. Ghost dutifully bends, tipping the mask long enough for Soap to steal a chaste kiss before they separate again.

In the sockets of the mask, Ghost’s eyes look back at him warmly, broad hand still at the small of his back. Soap smiles back.

“Can we go?” He asks, and Ghost’s arm migrates to his shoulder.

“Always, Johnny.”

They return to the sea, and they return to each other; pretty good for a pirate’s life, aye?

Chapter Text

The map is ratty and older than the ashes of Soap’s grandma. It’s also got more holes than actual paper, so, frankly, it’ll be a miracle if anyone gets a treasure out of following it, but Rodolfo certainly looks confident enough. He hangs one-handed from the rigs to smugly lord the piece of dust over his audience of semi-annoyed pirates like he’s the king of the sea.

Alejandro scoffs at him. They’re far enough away that Soap usually would have to strain to hear what they’re saying, but lately the wind has been non-existent, and their voices carry easily all the way to his perch on the stern’s rails.

“It’s Dead Man’s Land, Rudy. Don’t you think it’s been found already? If it even exists.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Ale?” Rodolfo laughs and swings a bit. Sweat glistens on his skin. Not only are the winds gone, but the clouds have been a no show for almost a week by now, which means the sun is free to bake down on them like roasted potatoes. They’re all sweating buckets. It fucking stinks

“We’re docking anyway, might as well give it a go, sí?” Rudy almost sounds affronted, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

On the railing, Soap snickers.  “Gonna let them play?” He asks, and Ghost hums behind him.

“Probably. Worried, are we?”

Twisting, Soap pretends to glare at him but it’s difficult to fake irritation when the handsome bastard is all but naked. Or, well; naked for Ghost-standards, at least, which basically just means he’s ditched the jacket today. He’s still wearing the gloves and everything else. What Soap wouldn’t give to see those big hands flex on the wheel.

Even with the mask, he can tell Ghost is dreadfully unimpressed with his show of petulance.

“Johnny,” he says, voice pitched mockingly sweet. “Would you feel better if I sent Roach with them?”

“You’re such a fuckin’ bastard,” Soap laughs. “And yes, it would."

So what if he's a little paranoid about treasures and the such? Did he just spend five years running from the love of his life, convinced he was gonna hate Soap for the rest of eternity until he eventually killed him? Aye. He did. So, Soap's fucking entitled. Anyway, Ghost knows this, he's just taking the piss on him. It's very attractive.

"You should buy me something nice for being a pest, though.”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

Ugh. Down dick, down.

Soap turns back to enjoy the crew’s shenanigans before Ghost can notice anything. He’s a gorgeous man in so many ways, but one thing that’ll always manage to get Soap hot and bothered is Ghost’s need to buy him shiny shit. He’s fucking obsessed with spoiling Soap, and it’s been a while since the chance presented itself. Dead Man’s Land is notorious for merchants selling… well, unconventional wares, so really, they’re doing each other a favor here.

Horangi says something too low for Soap to hear but it makes Rodolfo yell half-hearted obscenities in response and then most of them get into one of those brawls that starts out as good fun, but usually ends up with Soap getting in the middle to stop someone from getting murdered.

The ship rocks gently under him. He’s sweating again, despite having foregone covers of any kind and is sleeping buck-fucking-naked in an attempt not to overheat. Of course, Ghost’s huge body is practically a furnace and he’s glued to his side––if not on top of him––each night, but this morning, Soap wakes to find himself tragically alone.

That is until a hand smacks his bare ass, of course.

“Thank you, sir,” he mutters, face first into the pillow. “Want me to count?” This earns him another smack, but this time it’s joined by another to squeeze his reddened cheek. He moans in response.

“It’s time to wake up, Johnny. We’ve arrived.”

Blearily peeking over his shoulder, Soap finds Ghost looming on the bed. He’s in his trousers and shirt already, but at least he’s still missing both hat and mask which means Soap is treated to a sharp stare and tousled blond hair. His favorite dish.

“You’re pretty.”

“You’re a menace,” Ghost shoots back, a romantic through and through. His eyes dip down Soap’s naked body, gaze so heavy he feels himself shiver from it.

Soap was folded like a pretzel no more than five hours ago at most, but he feels his dick twitch with interest. Much like fingers, arousal runs down his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake and raising the hairs on his body. It catches Ghost’s attention, but he merely huffs with wry amusement. As if he’s fooling anybody. Soap sees how his shoulders relax. If he wants to play the act of tough and untouchable, he can, but Soap won’t humor him about it.

Before Ghost can say anything more about getting out of bed, Soap flips so he’s on his back, cock half-hard against his thigh. He wraps his legs around Ghost’s waist to pull, and despite how he sighs, Soap meets absolutely no resistance as he tugs him close.

He smiles up at him. “I’m a luxury. Fuck me.”

“Hm,” Ghost says, big palm sliding down the side of his thigh. “No.”

“Yes,” Soap counters and rolls his hips up to rub against Ghost. Turns out, he’s not the only one whose cock is interested in the matter at hand. Despite the blank indifference Ghost is still pretending at, Soap watches how his eyes darken.

Got’im.

He tilts his head with a sly smile, eyelashes fanning low. “Please, sir?” He coos and grinds again. This time, Ghost pushes back so Soap is pressed back into the mattress and feels all eight, fat inches of him. The pressure makes him gasp.

“Manners will get you everywhere,” Ghost tells him solemnly and leans down until their lips almost touch. But when Soap raises his head to kiss him, Ghost wraps a hand around his throat and keeps him still.

“Just not today.” His smile is cruel. “Get up, or I bring you out naked.”

And with that he’s gone.

Soap is left sweaty and confused, glaring horny holes into the roof. “You’re gonna regret that,” he calls when he hears the door open.

Ghost merely laughs.

“Aight lads, listen up.”

Roach’s voice carries easily over the hustle and bustle of Dead Man’s Land. Most of the crew listen dutifully, eyes squinting against the sun beating down on them. Only Horangi is staring in the direct opposite direction. He looks like he would rather be anywhere else, but where König goes, Horangi tends to follow, and their local sweetheart is looking so much forward to this little trip that he’s practically vibrating out of his skin.

“Should we, against all hope, find this treasure, no one touches anything before I say so. Understood?”

“Aye!”

Roach glances at Soap who offers back a grimace. He’s sweaty as fuck and still annoyed with Ghost for blue balling him, the tadger. Any other day he might have gone with the guys on this little expedition. As it is, the wound of the last five years is still sore, and he doesn’t want to ruin the experience with his sour mood.

There probably isn’t a treasure to begin with, but they all recognize this for what it is anyway; a game. A distraction from the last few years of misery. It’s a joke, but it’s a good one.

Roach looks back to his audience of eager criminals. “Off we go then. Everyone staying back will stop by the captain or Soap before fucking off. This isn’t a pleasure trip.”

“Here you go,” Soap smiles and hands the last pouch of coins over. “You’re on potatoes. Don’t buy the green ones and you’re good.” The guy accepts and scurries off in a cloud of dust. Hopefully, he comes back with cargo before going off to entertain himself.

Ghost is standing down by the docks, hands in his pockets. He finished ordering everyone else around long before Soap, so it’s kinda sweet he’s waited for him. Kind of. Not enough to settle Soap’s desire for payback, though.

Ghost turns to look when his feet hit the wooden dock and tips his hat a bit, but he doesn’t go to meet him. Unbothered, Soap puts on his best smile and strides over. He hopes it annoys the fuck out of him. When he gets close enough, he holds out his hand expectantly.

Silence stretches as Ghost stares back down at him in deadpan silence. His eyes remain unblinking in the haunting sockets of the mask, and Soap feels the tension melt down his shoulder blades like candy.

So. They’re playing too, aye? That’ll be Ghost’s own mistake then.

“Sir,” he begins, “my allowance.”

Ghost just scoffs. “I don’t need you to buy anything for the Haunt, Johnny. Everything’s taken care of.”

“Almost everything. But not my needs.” Inching closer, Soap runs an inconspicuous finger down Ghost’s sternum. It doesn’t get him much of a reaction, but he didn’t go looking for one anyway.  “So, are you gonna leave me unsatisfied, Si? Or can I go spend your money on bad things for our pleasure?”

Now, this gets him a reaction; funny how the honorifics doesn’t always get him in the mood, but his given name will have Ghost on his knees for Soap with just the right intonation. Ghost grunts and grabs his chin with one hand.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mumbles, tipping his face up. His thumb rubs through his stubble. “Fine. You win this round.”

Beaming, Soap stretches onto his tiptoes and quickly pecks the cheek of the mask. “Thank you!” This time, when he holds out his hand, Ghost produces a bag of coins from his jacket so big Soap almost drops it after it’s unceremoniously handed over to him. It’s heavy, handsomely heavy, and it’s got Soap’s trousers tight in a second flat.

Thing is, they used to do this a lot before it all went to shit for a bit. Ghost doesn’t care about riches, as long as he’s got enough to spare on necessities after spending the majority on the crew and the ship. Soap doesn’t really care either, for the most part. Sure, he loves himself a good diamond, and fancy clothes have never hurt anybody. He's definitely not humble, but at the end of the day, his relations mean much more to him than some simple metal ever will.

He does care about Ghost, though, and Ghost likes him dressed up in pretty things just as much as Soap likes dressing up for him. It's hot, is what he’s trying to say.

“Don’t stay out too long,” Soap calls over his shoulder as he slips away, giddy with expectations. He doesn’t bother to look for Ghost’s reaction, though he would confidently bet all his money he’s earned himself an eyeroll.

Dead Man’s Land is less tragic than he remembers it, but that could be accounted to Soap being less tragic these days. It’s still disgusting and mostly lawless, with streets overrun by criminals and worse. But it’s pirate heaven; the navy only dares set foot here if they’re more than one, and even then, they never come looking for trouble. Of course there’s the odd exception, but cases like Azure and Belle rarely ever happen.

For most of the day, Soap wastes time looking through the market. Most of the stands are dirty and grimy, though you really shouldn't judge a book by its cover. In midst of rotten fish and drugs you’ll be lucky to find the most striking, handcrafted wares in all of the Caribbean. These merchants usually don’t stay for more than a week at a time, but Dead Man’s land offer the rare opportunity of selling merchandise for more than their typical market value, so even though the risk of theft is, uh, substantial, they take the risk.

The reduced laws mean stolen goods don’t get confiscated, and the people who come here either have no money at all, or enough to buy all of Cuba.

“Pretty, innit?”

Soap glances up at the grinning shopkeeper.

“Very,” he admits. The jewels run through his fingers on their golden chains like liquid sunlight. “Don’t imagine you sell lots of these at the fine courts.”

The shopkeeper is a small man with a bushy beard the size of palm leaves, and whenever he speaks, the beard bops along. Soap can’t see his lips. It only confirms the impression of talking to a bush.

“I don’t,” the shopkeeper laughs, rolling his eyes. “They’re so decent, them wigs. But the ladies?” He raises a thick brow. “Oh, aye. They pay a pretty penny for my stuff.”

Soap scoffs and waves the string of metal and stone in his hand. “This is made for men, though.”

“Well, yes. Here most ladies come for these.” He grabs something from Soap’s right and holds it up against the light.

Whistling, Soap leans closer to inspect the golden dick. It’s got leather straps that looks to fit around each leg and the waist and it’s fucking huge. “You don’t say.”

“Requires lots of lubricant, though,” the shopkeeper nods sagely as he puts it away again.

Aye, no shit, but it would be worth the hassle, Soap bets. Not that he needs it, of course. With the impotent wigs strutting around court, he can only imagine the pain the fine ladies must go through, though all that gold can’t be comfortable in the long run.

Considering for just a moment, Soap raises the chains and gems in his hand. “I’ll take three of these. One in each color.”

The shopkeeper blinks. Then he blinks again. “Uh.” He says, voice a little croaky. “I – I’m glad you like it, but have ya seen the price?”

Now it's Soap who raises a brow. He tries to keep the satisfaction off his face. Ghost is really gonna regret bothering him.

“Oh, aye. I’m counting on it.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a man equally as flabbergasted and happy before. The shopkeeper immediately gets cracking. The sun beats down, heating his skin as he waits. Around him people chatter or yell, birds fly overhead and occasionally lend their cries to the mess of noise. Soap wipes a hand down his neck and dries it off on his shirt before he accepts the bag with the goods.

As predicted, there’s no treasure to be found, and yet everyone returns to the Haunt with a satisfied grin on their dirty mugs. Alejandro is boasting of saving Rodolfo from a den of snakes which Rodolfo viciously disagrees with, but even then they’re laughing; open and relaxed, with an arm around each other.

Roach seems happy too and because Soap is a gentleman, he waits an hour before bothering him. He could probably have done him the favor of another, but Soap was the first to arrive, and Ghost hasn’t come back from wherever he’s disappeared to yet, so this is his chance.

Roach looks at him with dead eyes. “You’re fucking terrible. Honestly, fuck you, mate. This is gonna haunt me forever.”

Soap scoffs but puts his own legally acquired treasure away again. “Would you calm down. Just tell me if it’s fine, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Sure, but it’ll stay right here,” Roach sneers and taps his temple with a finger. “Your paranoia has traumatized me, how does that feel?”

“Right now pretty good, actually, considering how annoying you are.”

“Fucking –“ Roach throws his arms in the air. “It’s just metal, Soap. Not everyone is out to get you, and if they are, I sorely fucking hope they’ll go about it with more flair than Shepherd.”

Although Soap is tempted to argue that it had certainly felt plenty creative from his point of view, he magnanimously lets the issue go. Witches have weird feelings about spells and curses, and Roach absolutely abhors Graves’ witch. Not that any of them are very much alive anymore, but it’s a sore point, so Soap releases him without inflicting any more damage to his poor innocence.

Somewhere around dinner time, the people (also known as the crew, but particularly more obnoxious) decides they should have a party in honor of not finding the treasure. It’s also about this time that Ghost gets back.

“Yes, you can go get rum,” Soap allows a pleading pirate, already halfway to Ghost who’s rising like a shadow by the ladders. “But don’t waste it!” Horangi will throw a fit about unexploited potential, and then everyone will be eating shitty food for a week.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Soap defends himself at the look Ghost offers him when he’s properly on board.

It's not even a lie. Actually, he’s pretty sure Alejandro is the mastermind this time, and then Roach didn’t put an end to the brewing mischief which means that Soap couldn’t either. He might’ve been first mate once upon a time, but this isn’t the case at the moment, and he sure as shit isn’t gonna be the boring asshole who tells them no.

“Didn’t stop them either,” Ghost points out and waves for Roach to take the wheel and get them out on sea again. He barks an order for people to get fuckin' going and raise those sails. At least the wind has picked up again, and though it’s dry and warm as fuck, they won’t have to row.

“Always so unsatisfied,” Soap sighs. “Why don’t you just throw me away?”

An arm shoots out and hooks around his middle. Next thing he knows, he’s pressed against Ghost’s solid body. There’s no way Ghost would let him fall, but Soap grabs onto a bicep to keep a sense of balance anyway.

Wide eyed, he looks up.

Oops.

“Too soon?” He asks quietly, assessing the silent fury in Ghost’s eyes.

The arm around his middle tightens and Ghost pulls him in even closer. It forces Soap to stretch a bit, and he wraps his own arm around Ghost’s neck.

“A bit,” he rumbles. He's not even mad at Soap. He’s mad at himself, the idiot.

Bothered, Soap reaches up and under his hat to play with the short hair there. Scratching his nails lightly against his skin has at least some of the ire bleed out of Ghost’s body. Seems like a proper distraction is in order.

“Tell me what you did today,” Soap demands and pulls on Ghost until he follows along. They don’t part that much, and when Soap feels the wall of the captain’s cabin at his back, and he knows they’re relatively shielded from prying eyes, he allows Ghost to crowd close again.

Pressed against hard wood, Soap delights in being enveloped. Both his arms get hoisted up and around Ghost’s shoulders as one hand finds his ass and the other crawls around his back. If it wasn’t for the mask, Soap knows Ghost would have bend down to kiss his neck. As it is, he settles for dropping his head on Soap’s shoulder. His voice is coated with gravel when he speaks up again.

“Had my swords polished. Met a contact. I also abstained from putting a bullet in some fucktard’s ass.”

Trembling with soft laughter, Soap presses a kiss against his shoulder. “Wow, that one must have hurt.” He gets an affirmative hum in response. “I didn’t know your guy was in town. You didn’t tell me.”

Ghost doesn’t trust anyone else with his weapons save for this one guy he doesn’t even know the name of. Goes by the Shard and only shows up every once in a blue moon, mostly around Dead Man’s land. He’s good, even better than Ghost; the obstinate fucker who’s perfected the art of weapon care simply because he doesn’t trust anyone else not to fuck up.

Soap feels Ghost shrug. “You don’t wanna pay his prices,” he says. “And you wanted a day for yourself. If I told you, you would’ve tagged along.”

This sweet motherfucker, Soap is gonna marry his ass one day. Ghost rubs a hand up and down Soap’s waist until he shivers. Shifting his weight has metal and stone tickle against his skin, under his clothes, and this time he shivers for entirely different reasons.

Reasons which Ghost immediately sniffs out. Straightening, he removes himself enough to let their eyes meet.

“What?”

But Soap shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, smiling like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

The show of innocence only alerts Ghost more, and he tilts his head with sharp interest. “Come to think of it,” he mumbles, eyes tracking down his body and hands slyly moving around. Searching. “You haven’t told me what trouble you’ve been up to yet.”

“Not trouble,” Soap corrects. His heart starts racing when Ghost’s hand brushes the chain running down his spine. It continues to pick up speed as he feels deft fingers stop dead in their track for just a moment before they curiously track their newfound target. “I’ve been shopping.”

“I sure as shit hope so.”

Soap plants a hand in the middle of Ghost’s chest and nudges him a step back. Their eyes meet, but instead of continuing the banter, Soap reaches behind himself to grab Ghost’s hand. Slowly, he brings it down to the hem of his shirt. Like the smart man he is, Ghost quickly understands and pulls the shirt from his trousers.

“You got three seconds,” Soap whispers and his eyes flutter with a shaky exhale when he feels calloused fingertips meet the chain.

It's gold, with green and maroon gems, but Ghost can’t see that. He can’t see how it hooks across his shoulders and runs down to Soap’s waist and meets in a circle. He can’t see the way it frames his chest or the three ornamental chains in the middle glinting with precious stones. He can’t see the ones around his thighs, secured to yet another chain around his hips. Ghost can’t see but he can feel. And even a fleeting touch is enough.

Fingers flexing again Soap’s skin, he groans a long filthy sound.

“Johnny,” he whispers, voice wild. “Shit.”

“Three,” Soap sighs, “two, one –“

With a twist and a gentle push he gets them separated, and when Ghost snarls softly and takes a step closer, Soap leans back against the wall and plants a boot on his stomach. Now, Ghost could easily overpower Soap and take what he wants. Soap would even let him. But that’s not part of the game.

Running his tongue across his teeth, he waits for a moment before he asks, “wanna know how much they cost me?” He grins down at Ghost’s fisted hands, decently kept at his thighs. Soap reaches into his pocket and throws the bag of coins at him. Ghost catches it easily, though he doesn’t look down at it. He doesn’t need to, now that there are only five coins or so left.

The sunset behind Ghost might be an explosion of a billion reds and purples setting the world aflame, but not even the pale stars twinkling just atop the inferno holds a candle to the ravenous beauty of Ghost barely keeping himself under control. He growls his displeasure, body tensing like a predator just before the jump.

But he won’t. Not yet.

Soap lives for this. To push a man in such control of himself over the edge, and for it to be Simon Riley of all people, gets him higher than even the finest alcohol. He’s big and fucking imposing when he’s towering over Soap like this. The air is dense with heated tension, and it makes Soap sweat even more. Carefully, he removes his foot.

“That’s another point for me,” he purrs when Ghost stays put, even though he’s clearly on the verge of snapping. A thrill runs down his spine as he turns his back on him. Kinda feels like overlooking a trail of pawprints in the jungle. “Better step up your game, Simon.”

With the party quickly under way and the stars twinkling unobscured above them, the crew goes from somewhat sober to absolutely hammered in ten-seconds flat. König, Horangi and Ghost are the only sober ones along with Soap, and so it has become their job to keep people from throwing themselves overboard.

Even Roach is pretty tipsy which he usually doesn’t do, but Soap saw Ghost give him the green light earlier, and he’s pleased. After Ghost realized Roach had not only helped Soap escape but also fed the lie of his betrayal, tensions between them have run… high. Their darling captain carries grudges like nobodies’ business on a good day, but when the blow comes from home, it’s another beast entirely.

Ghost has been very, very angry with Roach despite Soap’s pleading to let the matter go. It’s been sitting like a guilty little troll in him, gnawing at his spine each time Ghost has either ignored or been outright bothered with Roach. For some reason––which, put in perspective, Soap can understand––Roach seems to have almost enjoyed the ire directed at him, though, and on more than one occasion has he asked Soap to stop worrying.

Anyway, they’re getting better. Ghost is less angry, and Roach is less meek, ready to bite back should he get treated unfairly, so Soap really is pleased when he catches Ghost clapping a hand on his shoulder at one point.

The party is great. The Haunt’s crew is always a fun lot to let go with, but tonight it seems everyone is in an especially good mood. This is as much a source of great entertainment as it is a headache to the designated caretakers.

“Forget it, hermano. You won’t make it,” Soap says impatiently, glaring at Alejandro. “And if you do, you’ll die.”

Alejandro tries to glare back at him, but his motor skills are all focused on getting him into the crow’s nest, and he’s still not managed to even climb the rigs.

“Cállate, you little rat. I’m a grown man.”

Dumbfounded, Soap gapes at him. “Ale, did you just call me a rat?”

Alejandro blinks at him. “Rat boy,” he nods, and then promptly goes back to his task at hand.

“You’re such a mean drunk,” Soap whines.

Alejandro outright ignores him this time, so Soap considers the way his feet are stubbornly glued to the deck. Whatever. He’s been trying for an hour, that man is not getting into anything above five inches, and Soap isn’t letting him ruin his good mood.

Turning on a heel, he ignores the muttered Spanish behind him and scouts for Ghost. He finds him sitting on the ground, leaned against the main mast with an untouched bottle of Bourbon dangling from his fingers. He’s ditched the hat and is seemingly listening to one of Rodolfo’s many stories. One of his legs is bent, the other straightened out.

He actually looks relaxed, and it warms Soap to the bones. It also makes him wanna change it. The gems and gold run lightly across his skin every time he moves, and with a sneaky smile that he hurries to put away, Soap makes his way over. When he’s less than five steps away, Ghost raises his other leg and spreads his thighs. He hasn’t looked at Soap at all, but he puts down the whiskey and holds out a quiet hand for him to take.

“… the siren, he looked at me,” Rodolfo slurs, waggling his brows, “and asked me to come give him a kiss. Ale got so mad he chucked a cannonball after him with his bare hands –“

Soap accepts the wordless offer of balance and gingerly arranges himself between Ghost’s legs. In return, Ghost snakes an arm around his middle when he leans back. He’s warm and solid, and despite their game still being on, and the way the gems dig into his skin, Soap feels himself relax.

“Gave up on Alejandro, did you?” Ghost hums, hooking his chin on top of his head.

Rodolfo takes a swig of rum before he continues, “turns out their king didn’t like that at all –“

Soap grunts. “He called me a rat.”

“Understandable. You’re an annoying little shit.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re horny. And I was literally trying to keep him alive.”

“But now that he’s hurt your feelings, he can go ahead and drown?”

“Please,” he scoffs, reaching down to lace their fingers together. “You’d think he got two left feet and no knees with how well that’s going for him.”

Ghost’s body jerks with an amused snort, and he squeezes Soap’s hand.

They fall quiet as Rodolfo continues regaling his rivetted audience about the time he and Alejandro almost started a war with Cuba’s sirens. It’s a good story, one of his best. Soap has heard it many times, but somehow it never gets old, even though he’s unsure of its validity. He wouldn’t put it past them to accidentally do something as crazy as bothering the Caribbean’s notorious sirens, but Rodolfo likes to decorate his stories. It doesn’t matter, it’s a good story.

The boat rocks with the smooth waves, and Ghost’s other hand eventually starts exploring Soap’s body. He must have realized something, because his fingers find the chains around Soap’s chest almost immediately. One moment, he’s dragging them in soothing motions up and down Soap’s sternum, the next he’s running them across the metal under his left pectoral.

Soap gasps softly and stretches to allow him free roam.

Ghost presses the hard edge of his mask into his neck with a soft sound. “What does it look like?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Soap mumbles, eyes lidded and face tipped towards the stars.

“’That’s why I’m asking, isn’t it?”

“Patience is a virtue, Si.”

“I don’t got any of those. Except for you.”

Smooth motherfucker.

Soap flushes with pleasure and arousal. His dick twitches against his thigh. Silently, he guides Ghost’s other hand down his stomach. He’s still playing with the chains on his chest, but he’s moved upwards and is now following the intricate design flowing down from his collarbones.

When Soap speaks again, he keeps his voice low. “I bought three of them. Different colors.”

“Yeah?” Ghost asks, but he sounds distracted. Probably because Soap has placed their joined hands in the juncture between his thigh and groin. “Tell me.”

“Ask nicely,” Soap says and releases his hand. It continues to lay dangerously close to his dick; wide and calloused and pretty. But that’s not why he led him there, and he can practically feel Ghost realizing this when his body stiffens.

Someone calls for a dance further down, but Soap barely spares a glance towards the commotion. Seems like Roach has enchanted several instruments to play on their own.

Instead of obeying his demand of manners, Ghost carefully runs his palm down Soap’s thigh and grabs a handful of skin.

He chokes. “Bloody fuckin’ hell.” His voice is harsh; rough like the grating of gems rubbing against Soap’s skin. “Let. Me. See.”

“Mh,” Soap hums with mock-consideration and just a bit out of breath, “no.” He grins when Ghost snarls softly and grabs his other thigh to grope down his legs and up his ass. Rodolfo is still telling stories, and people are dancing, and no one cares that their captain is feeling up Soap right here on the deck.

They’ve seen worse, anyway.

Pulling Soap’s legs up until they’re aligned with his own, Ghost leans even closer to speak directly into his ear. “We’re calling it a night.”

Sure sounds like an order, but Soap just snickers. “Aye?”

“Yes, Johnny,” Ghost hisses. “Don’t you fucking dare –“

But Soap takes advantage of his divided focus and grinds back against the hard cock digging into his ass. The most delicious sound wrestles its way out of Ghost’s throat; all wrecked and needy, and Soap almost admits defeat right there. Then he remembers earlier that morning when Ghost left him hot and aching in their bed and the pettiness gets him to his feet.

He dances away from Ghost’s grabby hands when he lunges for him.

“Nuh-uh,” Soap singsongs, beaming at the glare Ghost levels him with. “If you wanted this to be on your terms, you should’ve been nicer to me this morning, captain.”

Without looking away from Soap, Ghost knocks his head against the mast behind him. “Greedy, spiteful little thing.”

Soap looks down at the large bulge blatantly on display between Ghost’s spread thighs. He licks his lips, glancing back up at him from under his lashes, but instead of answering, he smiles and turns around.

“You should come dance with me,” he calls over his shoulder.

Ghost doesn’t come dance with him, but that’s hardly a surprise. Soap has never seen that man so much as tap his foot to the rhythm, so had he actually joined in shaking limbs, it would’ve called for an exorcism. With their witch well and truly wasted, Soap can only be happy this is not the case, and so he loses himself to the violin and the bad singing, euphoric under the stars and the heavy eyes dressing him down from the sidelines.

Slowly, like a predator, Ghost migrates closer. Soap spends a minute fucking around with Alejandro and when he twirls to join the weird stomping Roach is committed to, he finds him ten steps closer than earlier.

For quite some time, this is how it goes; Soap dances stupid and Ghost watches, amused. He’s unsure how long exactly it continues, but eventually, the chains and gems’ weight becomes impossible to ignore. They rub against his skin, clinking every now and then, almost as if they’re afraid of being forgotten.

Ghost is talking with Horangi, leaned against the rails with his face turned faithfully to Soap. It’s such a heady thing, knowing you command the Ghost’s attention just because, and warmth blooms in Soap’s chest. It loosens his muscles and dulls the world around him except for Ghost. A drop of sweat rolls down his nape. The winds are gone again, and he’s hot after all the dancing.

A thrill is slowly building inside of him, like a swarm of butterflies, and Soap smiles sweetly. It gets him the reaction he’s seeking immediately.

Ghost stiffens, though he doesn’t stop speaking with Horangi. The weight pulling on his skin turns a thousand times more prominent, and Soap slowly runs his hands down to the hem of his shirt.

Wanna see? Soap mouths, inching a few steps closer to get free of the dancing mob around him. He doesn’t know if Horangi is still speaking, but judging by the way Ghost is holding himself, Soap doubts he’s listening.

In answer, Ghost inclines his head.

With a shit-eating grin, Soap fingers the hem for a moment. Then he lifts it. It’s cheeky and quick, but with all the lights around them, and Ghost staring him the fuck down, it’s more than enough.

Never has Soap seen anything as beautiful as that big body falling into smooth, deliberate steps. Ghost promptly leaves Horangi to himself without so much as a word goodbye. Soap might not be able to see his expression, but he can damn well imagine it.

“Uh-oh,” he chuckles, dropping the shirt again. “Gotta go, gotta go!”

Turning too fast means he loses valuable seconds on righting himself, but then he’s also fleeing for the cabin like his life depends on it. People are too drunk to care about anything but their own little world right now, so thankfully there’s no hitch in getting past them.

A quick look over his shoulder shows that Ghost is closing the gap between them at an alarming rate despite the fact that he’s not running, and Soap giggles hysterically, skin jumping with wild excitement as he flies down the stairs and throws open the door.

He's got a hand on the handle, ready to slam it shut when Ghost rips it open. Before Soap can truly comprehend it, he’s against the wall with all of Ghost pressed up against him and a warm mouth making an absolute mess of his neck. The mask lands on the floor a second later.

“Fuckin’ show me,” Ghost snarls. His big hands are already ripping blindly at Soap’s shirt with such force that the buttons fly everywhere. They bounce off the wall and onto the floor like gunshots going off. Or maybe that’s just his horny ass embellishing the state of affairs, who knows.

Soap doesn’t get to do anything at all, is the thing, because Ghost manages just fine by himself, and then, suddenly, his upper body is bare and Ghost steps away far enough to look.

“Fuck's sake,” he chokes.

Soap tips his head back against the wall to appreciate how Ghost’s pupils expand while he eats him up. He’s breathing hard with excitement and hooks his thumb in his trousers. Ghost follows the motion like a moth to a flame, eyes snapping back up at Soap to stare with disbelief.

His voice is a rasp when he speaks again. “Johnny.”

Snickering, Soap pushes down his trousers the barest inch until the chain around his hips peeks out.

“Bonnie thing, right?” He coos, thumb playing with a green stone.

Ghost doesn’t make a sound.

“It was kinda pricey, though you already know that.” Sighing dramatically, Soap reveals another sliver of skin and riches. “Been bothering me all day, Si. Every time I moved, when you touched me, it would dig into my skin. Here,” he runs a hand under the chains supporting his chest and laughs when Ghost lets out a vicious sound.

“And here.” This time his finger catches a blue gem around his waist. Running his tongue across his teeth, Soap watches Ghost intently as he lets his hand fall into his trouser. “But the worst part is down he –“

A hand lands heavy on the wall beside his head. Ghost leans close enough that Soap goes a bit cross eyed trying to maintain eye contact. The look on his face is dangerous; intense and sharp. Like one of the jungle cats just before they catch breakfast.

His other hand grabs hold of the chain around Soap’s waist and tugs. It makes Soap gasp, eyes fluttering from the way the rough texture digging into his skin, realizing how easily Ghost will be able to manipulate him in this.

“Take them off,” Ghost orders, deceptively sweet. His voice is silken sheets filled with knives, and Soap’s mouth goes dry.

“Mhm,” he says, nodding. He pushes down the trousers until he can shimmy out of them. They land in a pile at his feet.

Ghost blows out a strained breath and pushes their foreheads together before looking down.

“… fuck me.”

Fuck indeed. Soap is hot, and Ghost’s wrecked voice isn’t helping any. Soap’s cock is already showing interest, filling out slowly against his thigh because he’s been imagining Ghost’s reaction all day. Patiently, he might add, which genuinely requires an applause.

Still, nothing at all could prepare him for what consequences he’s about to reap.

Ghost mumbles a sound Soap can’t make out, so he frowns through hazy desire and asks, “what?” fully prepared to have a dialogue or something, when Ghost bends and swings him over a shoulder instead.

The world blurs with the move. It wrestles a surprised sound out of Soap, who doesn’t manage to react before he’s unceremoniously manipulated into Ghost’s lap.

Blinking, it takes a moment to reorient himself, but then a knowing smile splits his face, and he looks down at Ghost with smug victory. The light from the lamps dance across their skin. It makes shades of gold and green and maroon dance all over the place; but most importantly over Ghost. He’s bathed in it, sitting in his chair by the desk and gripping onto Soap’s hips almost manically, with the beautiful colors like a mosaic on his face.

… His face which is drawn into something almost like desperation. It’s such a far cry from his usual control it hits Soap bodily. Flexing his thighs, he leans down until he can rub their noses together. His legs are spread to the limit because Ghost is big as shit, but he likes the ache.

“You think I’m pretty,” he croons, playfully nipping at his lower lip. “You wanna fuck me.”

Ghost shifts a little. “I think you’re testing my patience,” he corrects hoarsely, “and that you enjoy it.” His hands wrap around the chains on Soap’s hips and pulls him forward so their crotches slot together.

Ghost is already semi-hard in his trousers and coupled with the friction from the fabric against Soap’s own (and very much naked) cock, it sends delicious currents of pleasure tingling up his back. His lips part on a soft gasp, snug in Ghost’s lap like it’s his place of belonging.

“It was very expensive,” Soap whispers. He tries to move his hips, but Ghost ruthlessly keeps him still.

“I know.”

In another world this might not have worked out, but Soap sees how Ghost’s eyes go heavy lidded and dark at the mention of the cost. He looks up and down Soap’s naked body slowly, taking him in without a word––from the jewelry around his thighs to the fastening on his shoulders, and then back down again.

Soap’s cock twitches where it lies against Ghost’s stomach, flushed and glistening, and he bites his lip.

“Simon,” he whispers, almost pleading.

Dark eyes snap up to meet his.

“Johnny,” Ghost mocks back, though it sounds more affected than usual. “Finally done chattering?”

Without warning he drags him forward again, this time rough and filthy and slow, and Soap’s head lolls forward. His vision is swimming something vicious, but Ghost doesn’t continue. When he looks up to start bitching, Soap blinks himself quiet at the sight that greets him.

His stomach swoops at the faint blush on the highest part of Ghost’s cheekbones. Pink and almost-there. It’s clearly threatening to break that iron-clad control in two and suddenly, Soap’s never wanted anything more.

He can’t move far, and when he tries to shuffle out of Ghost’s lap, the hands holding onto the chains tighten in warning. Ghost growls a low sound, so Soap hurries to turn pleading eyes on him.

“Please,” he says, grabbing onto thick biceps and squeezing. “Simon, baby. Let me suck your cock.” He grinds down because he’s at least got so much mobility and watches with fascinated delight as Ghost exhales a rough sound.

“Please.”

Baring his teeth, Ghost lets go of the chains. It looks like it’s physically painful, so Soap doesn’t waste any time sliding out of his lap and down on his knees, even if he could have stared all night at Ghost’s fraying control.

It’s fucking beautiful; shinier than any gem Soap could ever hope to get his greedy hands on.

Once Soap is on the floor with his half-chub, and saliva pooling in his mouth, Ghost slips down a little and spreads his thighs. His gaze never leaves Soap, dark and heavy on his skin like a brand. Not even when Soap bends down to mouth along the inseam of his trouser. He peeks up through his lashes and sucks his cock through the fabric, smiling big at Ghost. He can feel him filling out against his lips.

“You’re hard,” he whispers and raises his hands to work the fastening open.

Ghost’s voice his coarser than gravel when he answers. “You’re beautiful.”

Blushing, Soap laughs to hide and pulls him out instead. For once he doesn’t have anything smart to say, too surprised by exactly how hard Ghost is. This isn’t unusual between them, not really, but never this early on in the game.

The insinuations of it are getting to him. Warmth coats his chest and bleeds into his stomach.

“Tell me, please,” Soap asks. Pleads. Begs.

He shuffles closer to lay his cheek on one of Ghost’s thick thighs and takes his flushed head into his mouth so he can suckle on it. Soap’s eyelashes flutter at the taste of precome on his tongue.

A hand lands in his mohawk. Ghost cards his fingers through the strands gently at first, but soon he starts tugging. It’s gentle enough that Soap can still control the pace.

“Where’d those manners come from, Johnny?” Ghost rasps instead of answering, tugging a little harder so Soap is forced to swallow him halfway. He’s a hefty, hot weight on his tongue. “Thought you were insisting on being a brat today.”

Soap groans a complaint that’s meant to be annoyed but definitely sounds more needy than anything else.

It makes Ghost laugh. “All because I didn’t fuck you this morning. You’re fuckin’ insatiable.”

Another pull has Soap moaning at the sharp sting to his scalp and the added inches in his mouth. He can still breathe, but drool is gathering at the corners of his mouth, dripping down Ghost’s cock and Soap’s chin, and he’s forced to raise his head from its resting position on his thigh.

Grabbing onto Ghost’s waist with each hand, Soap happily loses himself to the taste of cock in his mouth.

His bare knees mean he can feel all the bumps and knicks in the wood beneath him. It’s gonna ache tomorrow, and his voice will be absolutely shot to hell, but he only shivers with anticipation. Sinking further and further down Ghost’s cock remains a somewhat slow affair, because his hand is still mostly just resting in Soap’s hair. It’s fine. For now. But Soap wants him to lose control.

And he also wants him to answer the fucking question.

When he peeks up, he’s delighted to find that Ghost has zoned completely in on his mouth, gaze a little hazy. The sight bodes well for Soap’s nefarious plans.

He tightens his grip on Ghost, pleased by the feeling of thick muscles and warm skin under his hands as the head of his fat cock finally bumps the back of his throat. They both groan, and Soap’s cock jerks in interest. He fucking loves sucking Ghost off because he’s big as shit, and because he's got a tendency to lose himself a bit.

It just doesn’t mean Soap is gonna let him get away without answering.

Before Ghost can notice and stop him, Soap slips off his cock. It earns him a warning sound, though it quickly dies again when he presses his face against Ghost’s cock, kissing slyly up and down the length.

“Tell me why I’m beautiful, Simon,” he whispers, pressing the flat of his tongue against his balls.

“You’re always beautiful,” Ghost says immediately. His hand grips Soap's hair tighter, tugging him upwards with the clear intent of getting his cock back down his throat. Soap resists and tips his head far enough that their eyes can meet.

Impatience is visible in the tight set of Ghost’s mouth.

“I know,” Soap smiles widely, “but why am I beautiful today, sir? Is it because I’m one my knees for you?”

He blinks slowly, deliberately, and leans down to place a wet kiss on Ghost’s weeping crown, still resisting the pull of those stubborn hands.

“Or is it because I’m stuffing my face full?” He whispers and finally obeys Ghost as he pulls him back down on his cock.

Cursing, Ghost slides into Soap’s throat in one sinuous move. “You insolent little fucker,” he groans, hips snapping up.

Soap has taken him too many times to choke, so instead, his eyes close on a pleased hum that almost drowns in the lewd noises of Ghost fucking his throat.

“Want me to tell you what that shiny little piece is doing to me?” Ghost cups his jaw with his free hand and buries himself deep in Soap’s throat. Immobile and filled with cock, Soap can only moan his pleasure when Ghost brushes the pad of his thumb across Soap’s stretched lips.

He can’t breathe like this. Tears are filling his eyes and he’s getting lightheaded, but then Ghost slips back out again and he’s never felt worse.

“Please –“ Soap manages to garble before Ghost roughly pulls him back down to the root, pressing his nose into the blond hair at the base of his cock. He doesn’t keep him still this time, but sets a steady pace of fucking his face instead.

Ghost is panting hard above Soap, and when he speaks again, his voice is strained.

“I couldn’t think of anything else, Johnny,” he admits over the slick sounds of Soap’s incessant moaning. “Was gonna strip you down and fuck you against the wall.”

Sluggishly, Soap notes that he’s talking about their little clash a few hours earlier, when he let Ghost feel his secret purchase for the first time.

“You’ve been wearing my money all evening,” Ghost grunts and rolls his hips. Sweat runs down Soap’s back. “Gems and gold all over you, and you wouldn’t let me fuckin’ see. They don’t even know –“ he chokes on the rest, but when Soap manages to blink away the tears long enough to look up despite the brutal pace Ghost has set for them, he hears it anyway.

They don’t even know how well I treat you.

Ghost isn’t looking at where they’re joined anymore but rather down Soap’s body; ached from the position and the pleasure, and no doubt gleaming in the soft candle light. Soap’s gut knots, and he feels a drop of precome slide down his cock, smacking wetly against his abs because of the pace. The chains jingle every time his head bobs down, he’s a moaning mess, and its all insanity at its fucking finest, really.

Suddenly, Ghost’s cock jerks in his mouth which means he’s about to come, so with febrile fingers, Soap reaches up to wrap one hand around his wrist and the other around the base of his cock.

Ghost’s eyes snap down to his, filled with warning. Soap doesn’t flinch an inch though. Instead, he frowns up at him, tears and drool and everything. When Ghost graciously allows him to pull off, Soap licks his lips to chase the salty taste of him before speaking.

“I’m gonna ride you,” he explains through the wrecked mess of his voice, “need you hard for that.”

Even with his heaving chest and the need visible on his face, Ghost manages to roll his eyes at Soap. “Your antics aren’t nearly as cute as you think, sweetheart.”

Ha, right. “That why you’re reverting to the nicknames, Simon?” Soap needles with a sneer. It earns him a pinch to the nipple and the punishment is that it’s the one without a piercing, so it doesn’t hurt nearly enough.

Ghost sighs deeply. His eyes fall down Soap’s body. “Ask me nicely,” he demands.

“Please.”

“Mh. You can do better.”

“Please, Simon.”

Soap is in the air before he notices Ghost moving at all. His back hits the mattress, and Ghost wastes no time in crawling over him, looming like a mountain. His bonnie face is set in a scowl that has Soap’s tummy do silly little flips.

Ghost eyes are dark. “Last try,” he whispers, one hand idly playing with the chains around Soap’s thigh. “Or you don’t get shit.”

Glancing down between their bodies where his own cock lays forgotten and achy under Ghost’s spit-slicked monster, Soap considers his options. Being a brat won’t get him what he wants anymore, that’s for sure; he recognizes the look in Ghost’s eyes, and at this point, manners really will get him everywhere.

Soap blinks back up, smiling sweetly.

“Sir,” he coos and stretches his arms above his head so the chains jingle. They’re both sweaty, but at this point it only adds to the shine. “Will please you let me ride your big fat cock? Promise I’ll be nice. No more trouble, I swear.”

Ghost narrows his eyes. “The day you’re done making trouble is the day I’m following you down into the locker, Johnny,” he says, like it doesn’t mean anything, like Soap’s brain doesn’t actually shut down and forgets all plans of orgasms and the likes for a solid few seconds.

This adorable, obsessive, beautiful bastard is Soap’s, and if anyone ever tries prying them apart again, he’s gonna set the fucking world on fire.

Ghost must see some of it on his face, because he smiles a rare, wicked thing and says, “But sure. Let’s say I’ll give you what you want.”

Maybe he intends for more rules, but Soap is officially done waiting for anything and before Ghost can open his mouth again, Soap is pulling at his clothes.

“Off,” he grumbles, hissing at a particularly obstinate button. “Simon, get this off.”

He doesn’t get a reprimand for the lack of manners this time, not even when Ghost rids himself of his trousers and comes back so gloriously naked that Soap has no choice but to flip him over. He ends up straddling his hips, thighs once again burning with the stretch.

“Lube,” Soap orders to which Ghost merely huffs and hands him a vial of oil that’s mysteriously appeared on the bed beside them.

Wasting no time basking in the way Ghost is staring him up and down like a fine meal, Soap lathers his fingers with oil and inserts two in one go. The stretch isn’t bad because Ghost (as established) is a big lad, and they generally fuck a lot, but he can certainly feel it, and after having suffered no attention to his poor cock for the entire duration of getting face fucked, it’s scratching an itch, alright.

And of course Ghost notices.

“Did my big cock get you all hot and bothered, Johnny?” He laughs. It’s deep and husky and Soap smiles big as he plants a hand in the middle of his chest, between his tits, so he can lean over and get a better angle when he fucks back.

“A-aye, sir. Liked it a lot.”

Ghost hums. “Bet you did.”

Soap feels hands on his thighs then, edging up to rub over the jewelry, but he doesn’t open his eyes to look. He does moan in eager agreement when Ghost continues up his body, however, pressing the stones into his skin around the waist like a brand.

Another one of his fingers has Soap’s head lolling forward. He gasps and unintentionally grinds his weeping cock into the mess he’s making on Ghost’s abs. The sudden friction makes him stutter out a sound, almost losing his balance.

Ghost grabs him by the chin and tugs until Soap blearily looks at him again. He's such a fucking sight on his back; huge and thick and scary, and absolutely entranced with Soap writhing on top of him.

“Stop fuckin’ around,” Ghost grunts. “Get the good spot, sweet.”

“Who –“ Soap gasps and wrestles his chin free. “Who says I need permission?”

“Me,” Ghost simply answers. He grabs Soap’s wrist, quick as a viper. In one blind movement, he twists his hand and forces Soap’s fingers against his prostate.

It’s dead on.

“Fuuuuck –“ Soap wheezes, spine arching with the flare of mind-numbing pleasure. His jaw drops and despite his earlier cheek, he doesn’t stop massaging the spot when Ghost lets him go again.

Humming his pleasure, Ghost lays back down. “There we go. One more finger, Johnny.”

Mindless, Soap simply obeys this time. The stretch is sublime now, but it’ll only get better with Ghost buried deep in his ass, so not a minute later, Soap pulls out his fingers to reach behind himself and grab Ghost.

“Good boy,” Ghost sings, and Soap smiles a wobbly thing.

Slowly, he raises onto his knees and presses the blunt head of his cock against his rim. Soap bites his lip. Ghost is still playing with the chains, a thumb idly rubbing over a green stone, but he’s focused on Soap.

“Put it in,” he orders. His tattoos move with the flex of his muscles. He rolls his hips in warning, and his cock slips against Soap’s ass.

“Greedy,” Soap croaks.

Ghost laughs a mean, mean sound.

“Always.”

Trembling, Soap lets the head slip in.

He meant to draw it out, to sink down slowly and really push Ghost to the limits before they even get started, but Soap can’t. He can’t, not anymore; his body is warm, wet with sweat, and he’s aching with lava-smooth pleasure slowly overtaking his higher brain functions.

So, once he’s breached, he sits down.

“Bloody fuckin’ –“ Ghost groans, interrupting himself, hands flying to Soap's waist.

A loud, whorish sound punches out of Soap as he’s brutally filled to the fucking brim, and he falls forward, planting a hand on Ghost’s sweaty chest to keep himself upright.

“Yes,” he whispers, breathless and only vaguely aware that Ghost is holding onto him so hard it'll definitely bruise tomorrow, “yes, fucking yes.” With a weak sob he grinds down.

“Move,” Ghost chokes and slaps his thigh. He looks high. Like he’s joined Soap in the skies already. “Move, sweetheart, now.”

Soap does.

Carefully sitting up, he raises himself by his thighs alone, until only the head is inside. Then he finds Ghost’s eyes and falls back down.

It's heaven. He’s in heaven.

It doesn’t take long to set a rhythm; soon Soap is bouncing in Ghost’s lap, his own cock slapping against his stomach from the heavy pace. His thighs burn, and he can barely breathe through the ocean of need and arousal overtaking him. It smells like sex and sweat, and Ghost is breathing hard, chest rising and falling in deep, hurried motions. He's hitting Soap’s prostate every single time, like it’s damned his job.

Knowing him, he probably thinks it is.

They’re loud. A litany of ah-ah-ah’s tumbles over Soap’s swollen lips, the bed is creaking, and the wet, slapping sound of skin on skin is practically deafening, yet the highest sound somehow remains the clacking of the chains. When the strain in his thighs becomes too much, Soap reaches down to pry Ghost’s hands off his waist and relocates them to the chain around his hips.

Dark eyes move between his face and down his body several times, like Ghost can’t decide what he wants to look at most, even as he readily relieves Soap of some the weight.

Soap decides to help him out.

“Grab’em,” he gasps.

Ghost just blinks sluggishly at him.

“Here.” Soap tugs at the chain.

He can fucking see something break in Ghost’s eyes.

With a filthy moan, Ghost does exactly as told and curls his hands around the thin chain. Then he tugs, and Soap is lifted like he weighs nothing at all.

“G-good,” he sobs as that thick cock fills him to the brim, head thrown back and mind swimming. “Simon, it’s so good. Don’t stop, please don’t stop –“

“Never,” Ghost hisses, sounding like he’s at the end of his rope, and Soap forces his head forward again to look his beautiful face affected with pleasure. His are heavy lidded and absolutely glued to Soap.

“My Johnny. My pretty boy.”

Soap agrees with a cock-drunk smile. “Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he admits. “How you would, ah, fuck me. Knew you’d like it,” he’s slurring his words. “Oh fuck, Si.”

“Bet you wanted me to take you in front of the crew,” Ghost says, “on your hands and knees, in your pretty little outfit.” He chuckles darkly at the pathetic moan Soap lets out on accident. “Yeah? That does it for you?”

Soap tries his best to glare at him, but his thighs are trembling despite Ghost’s help, he’s filled to the brim with cock, and his balls are drawing tighter and tighter every second and fuck it all but; yeah. Aye, yes, fucking sure. Soap would love that.

He doesn’t answer, but he sees how confusion momentarily causes Ghost to stiffen, so his face must have done something. The surprise quickly morphs into a look of such depraved pleasure it’s got Soap tightening around him in anxious anticipation.

That can’t be good.

“Well, fuck me,” Ghost hisses. His eyes gleam sharply. “You filthy boy, you do.”

Soap tries for a pout, lower lip trembling. “No –“ he whines, though his cock happily leaks onto Ghost’s stomach and they both know he’s lying. “I don’t –“

“How?” Ghost cuts him off and when Soap starts to rise up again instead of answering, he slams him back down, keeping him still as easy as breathing. Unfortunately, it means Soap’s prostate gets exposed to prolonged pressure, and it’s got his eyes rolling around the back of his head.

“Tell me how you would let me fuck you, Johnny.”

“Li-like this,” Soap sobs, hands twisting in the sheets. He desperately grounds his hips in circles. “Would ride you, sir. I’d be so good, so good, Si, I promise –“

“For them?” Ghost growls. “Or for me?”

“You! Always you.”

“Good answer,” he laughs, full of mock, and promptly lifts up Soap again only to let him fall.

He cries out, loud and whiny, and somebody will definitely hear him, but he doesn’t give a shit. In fact he likes it; likes knowing the crew has no doubt of how well Ghost fucks him.

The pace ups, even though Ghost still keeps his hips dutifully glued to the bed and Soap is doing most of the work. Something is gathering at the small of his back; running down his spine from the heated tightness in his shoulders, and up from his toes, through his legs and ass, and Soap cries out Ghost’s name again.

Ghost moans. “You’re mine,” he says, though it sounds shaky. “All mine. This,” he pulls roughly at the chains, so Soap jerks forward with a surprised cry, “isn’t the end Johnny. Gonna get you a thousand rings, gonna marry you, just fucking watch me –“

Fire retracts and then explodes outwards. The orgasm rips out of Soap with such force he actually blacks out for a moment, and when his sight returns to him, he blinks down himself with a weak moan trailing out of his mouth, watching his cock coat a stupefied Ghost.

Still coming, he croaks, “what the fuck –“ warm all over and too high on pleasure to truly understand that Ghost just made him come untouched.

He opens his mouth to say something or maybe cry a bit, when Ghost whines a deep, needy sound and flips them to the side.

Soap blinks stupidly as Ghost lifts one of his knees in the crook of an arm, holding onto the back of the harness with his other hand and starts fucking into him. It’s only when Ghost curses and buries his face in the crook of his neck that Soap snaps back to reality. His cock is twitching, spent and mostly soft against his thigh, but Ghost is hard as rock inside of him, and he’s still hitting the good spot, so the overstimulation isn’t an issue.

“Oh my god,” Soap mutters to himself, hands fluttering until he settles one deep in Ghost’s hair. “Shit, Simon, you made me –“ he interrupts himself with a quiet moan because Ghost bites into his neck on a particularly hard thrust.

“Aye, good. Come’n Simon, use me. Come in me –“

He feels Ghost’s big body shudder under his hands and at another broken moan, Soap tugs Ghost out of his neck so he can look him over.

“Christ,” he whispers, struck in the heart by the crumbled look in Ghost’s eyes. “Darling, you’re gone, aren’t you?”

Ghost just moans, eyes somewhere far, far away and he dives in to kiss Soap. They make a noise of pleasure at the exact same time. Ghost pulls him even closer, the rhythm of his thrusts turning erratic. Soap opens his mouth immediately to let Ghost do his thing, but it doesn’t take long for the deep, filthy kisses to taper into a sharing of breath more than anything else.

It's perfect.

“Simon,” Soap whispers, scratching through his hair. “Tell me what you need.”

Ghost lets go of his leg to throw it across his hip and grab onto his ass instead. He nips at Soap’s lips, panting against his skin.

Soap has never seen him this out of it before. It’s fucking marvelous.

“Please,” Ghost whispers, voice breaking in the middle along with Soap’s heart. “Tell me, Johnny. Please.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate for Soap to understand what he’s asking of him, and with his heart too big for his chest, he pulls Ghost flush against him with vicious force.

“You’re so good to me, Simon,” he coos and feels Ghost’s cock twist violently in him. His own cock is making a valiant attempt at rejoining the mission, but he’s not twenty-two anymore. And this isn’t about him anymore.

“Treating me so well. You bought me such nice things today, all I wanted. Didn’t even have to ask for it, you just gave it to me, aye, Simon?”

“Yes,” Ghost moans thickly, pace broken and stilted as he hunts his own pleasure. “Anything you want.”

“I know,” Soap kisses into his mouth. “So come for me, Simon. I want you to come.”

And that’s what does it.

Ghost thrusts thrice, heavy and fevered, and then he buries himself to the hilt; freezing as sticky warmth coats Soap’s insides. The feeling makes him groan and he grabs Ghost’s lax face to guide him back into a filthy kiss.

Their teeth clack and drool drips Soap’s chin, but Ghost holds onto him like a lifeline.

Soap’s a greedy, greedy man with many shiny things, yet nothing in the world could ever compare to this.

Hours later, when Ghost is back on earth and Soap (now free of jewels) has thrown himself on top of him despite the heat, a thought suddenly strikes him like a bat between the eyes.

He sits up in a rush, staring down at Ghost who merely blinks back.

“What?” He mumbles, thumb digging into his leg. “Come back. We’re sleepin', Johnny.”

But Soap shakes his head, opens his mouth only to close it again.

“Did you mean it?” He eventually manages to get out and Ghost tilts his head in confusion. It takes no more than a moment before he smiles; a tiny thing, but soft and warm.

“Depends,” he hums, flattening his palm against the back of Soap’s thigh.

“On what?” Soap asks breathlessly, heart in his throat.

Ghost huffs. He gathers his free hand under him so he can raise onto an elbow. Eyes locked with Soap, who is still incapable of anything beyond staring back dumbly, Ghost speaks softer than Soap’s ever heard him.

“Do you want to marry me, John MacTavish?”

To think that love can feel so big. It makes everything else pale in comparison, even the sea and all her riches. It’s nothing new, though, not to Soap who has loved Ghost all his life, even when he didn’t know him yet.

So, he smiles and cries a bit, leans down, and he kisses him something vicious.

“Aye. I’ll marry you, Simon Riley.”

Chapter Text

“How is this my fault?” Soap says, incredulous. “You’re the witch!”

Eyes squinted against the harsh sun, Roach scowls and refuses to look at him. “It’s not always my job to keep us safe. We’re supposed to be a team.”

“Aye, but it is your job to tell me when we run into other witches. Especially if they want to eat us. You’re the guy with the magic feelers, I’m the one with the gun. Everyone’s got their own little job here and so far, I’m the only one doing it properly.”

Alejandro scoffs at this, but he’s too busy glaring daggers at their guard to say anything.

The wooden bars groan from Soap’s weight as he shifts around, trying to find a more comfortable spot. It’s difficult work. Especially with the rope keeping his arms pinned tightly behind his back, so he eventually has to admit defeat. It’s pretty much impossible to move without tipping to the side because not only are his wrist bound, but so are his legs, and Soap is not, he repeats not, going to flail around like a stranded whale while surrounded by human-snacking jungle witches!

With nothing else to do, he goes back to glaring at Roach.

“Honestly,” he grumbles, which finally garners him the attention he’s seeking.

Roach rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’m sorry I mistook the strangers in the jungle for friendly and non-threatening associates. My bad. Still, I’d hate to be the guy who decided he needed to go pick out flowers from uninhabited islands the day before his wedding.”

The nerve on this guy.

While Soap is busy opening and closing his mouth on several offended noises, Alejandro kicks his foot against the bars so hard they creak. The guy who’s been appointed guard duty, and clearly hating every second of it, doesn’t even bother to look over at their ‘au natural’ cage of curiously strong wood and twine, but this doesn’t deter Alejandro in the slightest, and it isn’t the point either.

“Oi, pendejo! Wait till I get out of here. I’ll grill the skin off your bones for wasting my time, you oversized, magically juiced dickfuck –“

“Whatd’ya mean by that?” Soap demands over Alejandro’s fruitless cursing. “You honestly think I’ve gone and planned to get kidnapped on my wedding day? I’m not a fuckin’ numpty, Roach.”

“Then stop acting like one,” Roach hisses back and leans a bit too far right, a little too fast, so he accidentally knocks into Alejandro who’s in the kind of mood where everyone is the enemy, and with little correlation to what either of them were just saying, they spend the next hour in a strange four-way brawl where one of the participants remains stoically silent the entire time.

Aye.

They’ve stepped in it, alright.

“Stop looking at me like that, it’s not gonna work.”

“It might.”

“Unlike Ghost, I’m not fatally perceptible to the sexual doggy eyes.”

“Mate, that’s disgusting.”

“You kinda are.”

“My preferred choice of innocent maneuvering in times of need has nothing at all to do with sex.” Soap pauses, then reconsiders. “Alright; it has nothing at all to do with sex separate of any encounters with Ghost.”

Roach hefts a brow, amused. “See? You’re nasty.”

“Obviously,” Soap agrees with a frown. “But it’s got nothing to do with animals.” He feels like this is important to point out.

Alejandro thumps his head against the ground, stretched out and hogging all the space with his long fucking body. “Shut up. I’m trying to think, and you are ruining it.”

Soap can’t see his face even with the moon fat and round and unobscured because they’ve been stowed away in the furthest corner of camp under a grove of palm trees, but he bets he’s scowling. Alejandro always is, when he decides to use the entirety of his brain.

It’s still hot as hell out here and if possible, the new guard looks even less happy with his assignment than the first one. On the other hand, Soap has never seen a man more thrilled when he was relieved of duty, an hour before sundown. He has decided to take this as the compliment it isn’t.

“Roach,” he says quietly, considering their guard from the corner of his eye. “Tell me again why they’re gonna eat us?”

“Christ,” Roach sighs. “You’re really stuck on that, huh?”

Soap turns to stare at him. “Uh. Aye?”

The bastard has the audacity to mumble something that sounds conspicuously like ‘ignorant pirate fuck’ under his breath.

“It’s a ritual,” he says, before Soap can start yelling at him again. “They cut us into pieces and eat us under the following ten full moons to appease their god.”

“Who’s their god?” Alejandro asks. “And can we kick his ass?”

“The forest. So, I guess you could go kick a tree, but it won’t do you any good. Witches draw energy from different sources.” Roach sounds bored, but he lifts up his bound hands.

Unlike Soap and Alejandro, he’s been spared the chafing rope and gotten some swanky metal with strange symbols wrought into them instead. Apparently, it’s supposed to seal his access to magic.

“I’m sky and sea. These guys,” he gestures ahead of them, towards the muted lights from several fires in camp, “forest and earth.”

“And that’s why you didn’t realize they’re not exactly playin’ with a full deck,” Soap says sweetly to which Roach bristles as he lowers his hands to his lap again.

“Witches who source from the earth are generally more peaceful in nature, yes. It was an error in judgement, laugh it up.”

Soap doesn’t really feel like laughing.

“Generally,” Alejandro repeats.

At least Roach has the decency to sound a little chastised when he says, “well. Yes. Either that or they’re insane. So.”

Soap looks at their guard again. He’s whittling something in wood, hunched over his work with great care. The moon makes the sweat on his body shine in all the dips of his muscles. There’s… a lot. Lots of muscle, and lots of weapons. He glances towards the lights again. Also; lots of hungry witches they will have to get past at some point. Preferably before morning comes. He’s got a hot date with a guy in a skull mask and no patience waiting for him at the proverbial alter, and Soap is already in so much trouble.

He nudges Alejandro’s thigh with a foot. “Got a plan yet?”

“Sí,” Alejandro says pleasantly. “Tell them to eat our idiot witch first.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Roach grumbles.

Oh no. Soap is gonna have to be the adult here, isn’t he? They might as well just get eaten, then. “Anything that doesn’t involve human sacrifice?” He tries.

“Perhaps.” Not bothering to sit up, Alejandro raises an arm and points at their guard. “See him?”

Roach, sulking in the corner of their cage, sniffs. “I have noticed yes.”

“He’s a big boy. We need to get past him, and I do have an idea. But we’re a man short. After that? Considering I have no idea what their camp looks like, the answer will be; no.”

Humming, Soap considers the guard for a moment. Then he looks back at the forest. The island is mostly palm trees and the likes, with a few protruding rocks too small to be more trouble than a climb. But these man-eating nature freaks have had the great idea to fence in the entire camp.

In all honesty, it’s pretty impressive. The fence is made from the same wood-stuff as their cage, and keeping in mind that Alejandro has been kicking that shit all day with no result, Soap is gonna take a chance and guess they won’t be able to bully their way through the fence. They won’t be able to climb it either. The surface is too smooth because the genius little fuckers have polished it.

All of this stinks a lot of having to vacate the premise through the front gates. But oh well. He’s done more impossible things. “Can you lads keep a secret?” Soap asks and continues before either of them has the time to answer, “I was a wee noncompliant and got a glimpse of camp as they led us through. Please don’t yell at me.”

Roach raises his head from his sulky staring at the ground to instead stare doubtfully at Soap. “I don’t know whether to be annoyed with you, or kiss you,” he eventually says, after a long pause. “How did you even manage to move the blindfold? They pulled that shit tighter than the stick up Alejandro’s ass.”

“Sí. Why can’t you just be normal, hermano?” Alejandro sighs, even as he sits up to finally give them his full attention. There’s a smile playing on his lips. “You are not as funny as you think.”

“Bastards,” Soap says and ignores Alejandro’s cackling. “If you bawbags are in anyway interested, I’ll be more than happy to give you a lay of the land.”

“Yes, yes,” Roach sighs. He scoots a little closer. “Lead us out of here, oh great McTavish.”

With a cursory glance at the continuously uninterested guard, Soap bends over and starts drawing discreet circles in the dirt with his finger.

“This is the general shape of it,” he says, keeping his voice level. There’s little idea in whispering now and out themselves when they’ve been alternating between screaming matches and polite conversation for hours. “And from what I could see, the placement of the huts kinda follows a pattern.”

He draws a row of rectangles to indicate the colorful housing that makes up camp. Really, it’s more of a city with how many there are, and how neat it is.

Alejandro hums. “It’s impressive. I will give it to them. They sure know how to make something out of nothing.”

“Don’t underestimate these guys,” Roach says with a frown. “They might live in uninhabited jungles far from civilization, but they’re neither stupid nor clueless. They’ve chosen to be here.”

“Might I remind you that they are about to eat us,” Alejandro grumbles. “I beg to differ.”

“Okay,” Soap cuts in when he sees annoyance strike a match behind Roach’s eyes. “Stupid or not, we’re facing someone with lots of magic-juice –“

“Please stop calling it that –“

“ – and we’re still a man short. Our best shot is somehow getting out of this cage,” here Soap points at a nodding Alejandro, “and then using the huts as cover. There were several witches on the roofs when they led us through, but I’ll bet they’ve increased security since nightfall.”

“They’re patrolling the streets too.”

“Aye, most likely. Lucky for us, patterns breed patterns. Once we’re in the mace, we should be capable of following the pockets in the watch. This,” Soap pauses to draw an X just before the suburban parody. “Is a shitty old shed. We’re gonna hide in here and watch for opportunities. Any questions?” He lifts a brow.

Alejandro squints at him, tilting his head this way and that. “No,” he eventually says. “But now I understand how you avoided us for five years. I thought it was luck, but you are smarter than you look.”

Irrespective of Alejandro’s rudeness, Soap graciously ignores that comment. He’s just turned to Roach to discuss the juice-stealing shackles around his wrists – stop fuckin’ calling it that, you degenerate! – when something explodes farther into camp.

As one, they swivel towards the sound. It seems to come from the front gates, but he feels the tremors of it all the way to the edge of the jungle. Soap didn’t think their guard could look interested in anything at all, but he actually springs up and throws away his whittling to put himself in front of their gate, spear at the ready.

Soap blinks. “Uh,” he offers. “Are we assuming a rescue mission?”

Roach nods slowly. “Apparently.”

There's a tick under Alejandro's right eye. “Sí. A stupid one.”

There are many, many reasons why it’s never a good thing when Alejandro is right, but his bitchy I-told-you-so speeches are just the absolute worst. So, when John Fucking Price of all people gets thrown into their little cage, five minutes after he’s tried to blow up camp, Soap takes charge before Alejandro can do much more than open his mouth.

“Are you serious?” Soap hisses, even as he lends him a hand. “Price, you’re supposed to be the best of us!”

Covered in dirt, and more than a little bothered from the looks of it, Price claps a big palm around Soap to pull himself up. It almost topples them both over instead because the guy is big, and oh my god… Soap misses Ghost.

He's getting married in less than seven hours, and he’s sitting in a cage.

“I didn’t know they were witches,” Price grumbles as he bends over to dust his knees off. “How was I supposed to know that?”

Roach sends Soap a, see, I told you!, look that’s better off ignored.

“And don’t give me that shit. Who in their right mind leaves home a day before their wedding to explore inhabited islands?” Price glares at Soap, who purses his lips and looks away. “The only reason I’m not screaming your stupid bloody face off is because your groom has called dibs on that particular pleasure, and I’m not robbing him of the opportunity.”

Sigh. Of course Ghost is angry. And scared, probably, though he won’t tell anyone. Which is really why he’s angry. This also means that Soap is gonna let him be angry. Even if he meant well with the flowers, which he did, he fucked up something important.

Running his lip through his teeth, he bows his head under the force of Price’s scowl. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t…” he trails off.

Guilt rests heavy and sticky in his stomach. It glues his tongue to the roof of his mouth and makes it impossible to continue.

Roach takes pity on him. “Soap wanted to pick flowers. Apparently Ghost’s got a favorite, and it only grows in the dampest environments.” Sweeping out a hand, he indicates the jungle behind him. “Thus, the situation at hand.”

Chancing a peek at Price, Soap watches his face move through several emotions at once. He keeps glaring, but it eventually softens into fond annoyance. “Idiot,” he tells Soap. He claps the back of his head with no real force. Soap doesn’t try to defend himself. It’s true.

“Mierda,” Alejandro sighs, raking a hand down his face. “Back to square one then, eh?”

Roach shrugs. “Back to square one. But hey! At least we got that extra man.”

Price might’ve fucked up. “Shouldn’t have lit the fuse that quickly,” he admits, brow furrowed. “I got a little excited.” But he’s not useless. Far from it, actually. In less than an hour they’ve got a decent plan of escape established. It’s almost bulletproof and that’s as good as it’ll ever get with the lot of them, so truthfully, it’s a brilliant turn of events despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary.

He also brings Soap a present. Or well, he brings the message of a present. The present brought itself.

“Where?” Soap demands, voice hushed and forced as he scouts the trees surrounding them on all sides. “Where is he?”

Sighing, like he’s put the weight of the world on his own shoulders, Price clamps a hand around Soap’s neck and manipulates him into position so he’s looking at the ridge of a protruding rock several miles outside the fence. It’s tall enough to just rise above the overgrowth.

“Don’t morse him, you’re not that stupid,” Price says, “they’ll see.”

“You’re right, I’m not stupid,” Soap snipes and wrestles himself out of his grip. “You lads entertain our guard for a minute while the parents talk.”

Roach chokes. “Don’t. Just… don’t call yourself that.”

“It’s not too far-fetched,” Alejandro points out. He inconspicuously moves in to block most of Soap from the view of their ever-whittling guard.

Soap holds up a flat palm and waits. The others talk evenly between themselves about nothing in particular, and the guard still doesn’t care. Thankfully, the moon is out, so if Ghost brought his binoculars this should go over smoothly.

It takes a few minutes, but then a piercing whistle sails through the air.

“What the fuck kinda bird is that?” Roach asks.

Soap does a silent series of hand movements as Price says. “Maybe a warbler of some kind?”

“That’s too loud for a warbler,” Alejandro snorts.

Another thrilling sounds, but this time it’s strung together by several melodies.

“Weird,” Roach concludes.

Biting his lip, Soap ducks his head. Another flat hand with his fingers slightly bent, then a flurry of movement again.

I’m sorry. You’re right to be angry with me. But we have a plan.

The birdsong picks up again, and Soap feels Alejandro stiffen beside him.

“No way,” he says. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“That is… are the birds here on crack? Is there something in the water?” Roach laughs. “Actually, it could be the magic. Sometimes it fucks up the wildlife. I once saw and owl with a dog’s body.”

“It’s not magic,” Alejandro groans. Price is curiously quiet. “It’s our resident idiots in love.”

Soap turns around, not at all red in the face, thanks, and shrugs at the confused look Roach sends him. “Okay, so. Long story short, Ghost and I decided it would be smart to come up with a system of communication other than morse code. You know, considering how everybody knows it.” Here he glances sidelong at Price. Unfortunately, he doesn’t look chastised in the least.

“What did you do to have Ghost imitate a bird?” Roach asks. He sounds slightly hysterical. “And what can I get you to make him do it in front of the crew?”

Soap smiles sweetly. “Dig my grave for me, that’s what. Would you rather we get eaten for breakfast, or can I please go on?”

“He’s gonna meet us?” Price guesses over Roach’s poorly hidden giggles.

“After he was done yelling at me, he proposed to greet us by the gates with back-up.”

“Did you tell him to bring more explosives?”

“I did,” Soap and smiles. “He says you’re gonna compensate him for what you just wasted, by the way.”

This gets Alejandro snickering, so Price turns around and delivers another slap to the back of a head.

“Just remember,” Roach whispers, “I’ll be pretty doped up on magic when we get them off. Also, don’t amputate me. I will be cross with you.”

“Sure,” Alejandro whispers back, loud enough that they finally catch the guard’s attention.

He stops mid-whittling, brows furrowed. Slowly, his eyes travel from Alejandro and Roach whisper-bickering to Price, big and imposing, half-way in front of Soap who’s doing some suspicious sawing motions at the farthest end of the cage. The knife is put down along with the slab of wood. Then the guard rises.

“Jackpot,” Price tells Soap.

“Just keep looking suspect,” Soap orders and continues his non-sawing with a little more gusto.

“Not that hard with Roach’s stupid face.”

“Yes, fuck you,” Roach snaps back at Alejandro, adding in some furtive glances at the advancing guard.

He's drawing his sword now.

This is going well.

“Hey,” he rumbles when he’s closer to the cage. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Alejandro turns his most bitchy face on him. “We’re talking, idiota. What does it look like?” The inherent rudeness works its magic and successfully distracts the guard from noticing Price advancing.

“You better shut up, or I will –“

They never get to hear what exactly he’ll do to Alejandro because Price puts his bound hands through the bars, quick as a viper, and sucker-punches him in the throat. He goes down with a gurgling cry, but Alejandro intercepts before he can fall out of reach. When he’s relieved him of his weapon, he unceremoniously shoves him away.

Then he turns around and points it at Roach.

“Hands.”

Roach scrunches his nose, but dutifully holds out his shackled hands. “No amputations,” he repeats, eyeing Alejandro warily. It’s a fair reaction. Alejandro is a brilliant swordsman, but his own hands are still bound together, and he’s looking a little bloodthirsty.

Rolling his eyes, he lifts the sword. “Sí, sí, I will play nice even though you are fucking annoying.” The blade glints in the moonlight as he raises it high above his head. Soap watches Roach follow the motion with a resigned draw to his mouth.

Then Alejandro brings the sword down.

It all happens in a flash; metal collides with metal, and it screeches unnaturally loud. It’s quickly followed by a surprisingly small popping sound. There’s no light or feeling of magic at all, but when the shackles fall off Roach’s hands and Soap looks up at him again, his eyes are glowing white.

“Holy shit,” Roach croaks. “Guys, I’m gonna be so high.”

The sound of rushed voices picks up from the huts, so Soap swivels on Alejandro and holds up his own hands. “Come on,” he rushes.

Once free, he returns the favor and turns to Price. “There we go, now let’s –“ Soap is interrupted by a loud bang.

As one, they turn to find Roach swaying in front of the now very open cage door. To be entirely truthful, only half of the cage is left. The rest has melted away, embers still glowing here and there at various jagged ends.

He blinks at them, and although his eyes aren’t glowing anymore, there’s little doubt that most of his higher brainpower is cottoned in thick magic. “Well?” He slurs. “Let’s go.”

Then he’s off on wobbling legs.

“Better move,” Price concludes after a moment of silence. “Before he levels the entire camp.”

Against all hope they actually manage to outmaneuver the hoard of angry witches rushing towards their now empty cage, even with Roach higher than a mountain and with no intentions of stealth whatsoever.

To avoid detection, Soap has to body slam him to the ground at one point, behind a wagon of hay, but he takes it pretty well, all things considered. Actually, Soap is unsure if Roach even notices that his face kisses the ground, because he simply rises and continues on his merry way when Soap lets him go again.

“He scares me,” Soap tells Price.

“He scares all of us right now.”

And, uh, well. To make a long story short, the sudden influx of magic Roach suffers probably ends up saving their lives. Navigating the pattern of huts is as easy as Soap figured it’d be, but he couldn’t have predicted the amount of surveillance they’d encounter just before the gate. There are at least ten witches, at whom Roach takes one look and coolly concludes, “yeah, I can take that.”

Soap isn’t so sure he agrees.

They’re hiding behind the last hut. Price looks over the towers with a carefully blank expression. It doesn’t bode well when he turns to Roach and nods.

“Uh, we sure about that?” Soap glances at their witch, currently with fire in his eyes (literally) and a disturbing smile splitting his face.

“Do you have a better idea?” Price shoots back, which is a fair question and no; Soap doesn’t.

According to plan, Ghost is supposed to be just on the other side of those walls. He will be, obviously, but they have to get out before he can light the explosives. And that requires a distraction.

Soap grabs Roach by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet. There’s not a whole lot going on behind them at the moment, that much is clear, but at least he’s got his attention. “Do not level this place,” Soap enunciates carefully, slow enough that Roach can’t possibly miss the message. Hopefully not.

In response, he just squints at Soap, so perhaps comprehension is up for debate. Then he turns around on a heel and marches out into the line of fire.

Price sighs deeply. “You lot will be the death of me.”

“Bearing in mind you’ve practically raised half of us, that would be your own fault,” Soap tells him, eyes glued to Roach. His heartbeat is a steady rhythm in his ears, and sweat is starting to gather at the small of his back from the adrenaline.

“… true,” Price grumbles.

Five steps out, Roach successfully draws the attention of the witches.

Soap watches as one of them leans over the edge of the tower. “He- hey!” He yells. “Sound the alarm! They are right here, the prisoners are –“ The two witches on the ground round as one, drawing swords in a quick movement, but Roach lazily lifts his hands, points them at them and pushes.

It's entirely quiet and the place isn’t leveled, so Soap supposes that’s good, but uh… well. Let’s just say the gate gets a little bigger. Ghost won’t need those explosives after all.

They all stand back in dumbfounded silence for quite a while, until Roach eventually turns around. He blinks slowly, looks around like he’s just remembered where he is. Then he nods and stretches.

“That was nice,” he says, sighing. “I was about to explode.”

Soap opens his mouth to laugh, but then the sound of voices picks up behind them along with the unmistakable noise of several running feet. Price curses and plants a hand on his back.

“Move,” he orders, just as the first javelin buries itself into the ground by Soap’s feet.

They sprint through the hole in the fence with javelins and arrows raining down after them, and it’s the kind of chaotic that’s got adrenaline pumping through Soap’s body, reminding him of his days on the run. It’s a weird, melancholic feeling, especially because once they’re out of the gates, a familiar, and rather annoyed voice yells, “keep moving,” followed closely by the sexy fucking sound of explosives going off.

There’s heat at Soap’s back, the force of the blast pushing him forward so hard he almost loses his footing. But a heavy hand wraps around his own and the next thing he knows, Ghost is running beside him; angry and big and invincible.

Soap laughs breathlessly as the pressing feeling on his chest evaporates.

“Hi baby,” he calls over the cacophony of noise.

Ghost turns to glare at him, eyes flinty through the mask. “You’re in so much fucking trouble, Johnny, you don’t even know –“

Oh, Soap does know, and he just smiles bigger and brighter and laughs a little more, despite how he really doesn’t have the breath for it at all. “I love you,” he pants. “I love you so much, Simon.”

Groaning, Ghost squeezes his hand. “You’re an incorrigible fucking reprobate.”

Also known as, I love you too. You scared the shit out of me.

The jungle thickens around them, the yelling from the witches’ camp fading in the dense undergrowth until its nothing more than murmuring in the background. They slide down a hill, and despite his grumbling, Ghost wraps an unbudging arm around Soap’s middle to keep him close. He smells like gunpowder, like always, a little bit of sweat, and of Simon.

Taking a deep breath in, something white catches Soap’s eye and he whips around.

“Stay,” Ghost growls, “you’re staying with me, Johnny.”

Soap blinks, a small smile playing on his lips as the flowers they came for, but never found, disappear behind another hill. Once they’re back on their feet, he turns to Ghost.

“Always,” he promises.

Price looks a little surly.

“I can’t fucking believe the nerve of you, boy. You run off to find your man his favorite flowers, only to get picked up by hungry witches, miss out on the flowers, and then you tell me there’s no ceremony?”

Soap purses his lips. “Well, aye, sir. You honestly thought I’d manage to rope Ghost into putting on a show for the whole crew?”

Beside him, Ghost sighs. “I told you; I don’t mind.”

Riiight, except he would feel super uncomfortable the entire time, and Soap wouldn’t be able to see his bonnie face. He tells him as much with a single look that has Ghost turn back to Price. “Just get it over with.”

“Romantic,” Price snaps, but waves them closer. “Fine.”

Stepping over, Ghost swipes off the mask and hat in one smooth move. Price doesn’t react whatsoever, even though it’s gotta be years since he last saw Ghost’s bare face. Soap can hear the crew hovering just outside the door to the cabin. They threw a fit when they learned they weren’t invited to the ceremony, and Ghost actually had to pry Alejandro off Soap’s neck.

It doesn’t matter. Not with Ghost beside him now, and the memory of how warm his eyes got when he learned why exactly Soap got himself captured by loony witches.

Price takes a deep breath. “Right. We’re gathered here today,” he squints his eyes, “all three of us,” Soap cackles, “to commemorate the union of John MacTavish and Simon Riley. By the power invested in me by the Court of Pirates, and in accordance with the Will of The Seven Seas, I, John Price, shall oversee and act witness to the validity of this bond.”

He turns to Soap. “Do you take Simon Riley as your lawfully wedded husband?”

Soap tips his head up and finds Ghost’s eyes. They’re very soft. “I do,” he says, easier than breathing.

Price turns to Ghost. “And do you, Simon Riley, take –“

“I do,” Ghost cuts him off, eyes solely on Soap. “I take John MacTavish as my lawfully wedded husband.”

With his heart too big for his chest, Soap barely hears Price’s annoyed grumbling about Ghost’s lack of respect for order and rules, and the timing, gods the timing. All he sees, all he hears, is Ghost and his own heartbeat. Dark eyes, warm only for him, look him over like he’s the true treasure of the sea.

Like he’s the solace to a stormy, worn-out heart that beats on and on no despite everything. And best of all he hears the same affection, that same endless love, echoed in himself.

“You may now kiss the groom,” Price grunts sourly. “If you’re in any way interested, of course.”

Ghost’s eyes crease and he reaches out to pull Soap in.

“I might be inclined,” he mutters against Soap’s laughing lips.

The rings are already on their fingers, gold and simple and heavy. Soap couldn’t wait and Ghost has never been good at denying him anything. In truth, this entire thing, the waiting and the flowers and the official celebration, has mostly been for show; Soap has belonged to Ghost in every life he has ever lived and will continue to do so in each one to come, no matter what the world looks like.

FIN