Archive of Our Own ^beta

Soap was used to being the odd man out. He’d always been shorter, brasher, crazier, and more cheerful than his fellow recruits. He thought he hadn’t minded it, had even liked standing out. At least he was memorable, right?

But joining the 141 had introduced him to a new dynamic entirely. One where he wasn’t the ‘weird’ one, where his teammates took his bad jokes and penchant for destruction in stride. Hell, they even shared his quirks, sometimes. He’d felt at home among them in a way he’d never felt in a team before.

That’s not to say he didn’t stick out, though. As the only human on an otherwise entirely-werewolf task force, he’d adjusted to the idea that he wasn’t always in on the joke. Mostly, anyway. There had still been some nasty surprises.

When he’d gotten back from a long mission to Gaz greeting him with a hug and a thorough slobber? That was a nasty surprise. Apparently, he’d committed the two cardinal werewolf sins: smelling like strangers, and causing his teammates to worry about him. Unluckily for Soap, the remedy for both was administered by tongue. Price and Ghost had laughed hard enough at that display that he’d almost escaped the lecture for blowing up a building while he was still inside it. Almost.

Another nasty surprise came after a normal briefing. It had been early evening by the time they’d finished, and the others had headed for the back fields of base, hoping to “blow off some steam”. Soap had tagged along, expecting a rugby match or two. He should’ve checked the calendar. When they’d gotten outside, he’d glanced up, distracted by the full moon.

Then he’d looked around him, and found a few more moons than he bargained for. They’d all stripped down as soon as they got outdoors, transformed, and loped off into the woods without him. Soap promptly turned to go back inside, suddenly feeling the urge to go scrub his eyes with bleach. There was no amount of scrubbing that could make him forget Price’s tramp stamp, though.

But on the whole, he hadn’t been blindsided much by their eccentricities. Sure, they were werewolves, but they were loyal and ruthless and understanding and plain good company. He’d overlook a lot of things for far less.

This latest, though? This, he wasn’t so sure he could forgive.

It had been after the final meeting following another long mission. They’d finally gotten home, gotten to use their showers and sleep in their own beds and complain about familiar unimportant things instead of deadly problems that came up on the job. He and Ghost had always had trouble sleeping, and that night they’d found themselves sitting together in the common room, sharing a cigarette indoors because it was pouring outside and they knew no one would bother to tell them off.

“D’ye ever think about what yer life would be like if ye hadn’t joined the service?” Soap asked Ghost, out of the silence. Ghost snorted.

“Would’ve already died, likely.”

Soap looked over in surprise.

“How could yer life possibly have been more deadly before you joined up?” He asked incredulously. Ghost shrugged.

“Just built for combat, I reckon.”

“You trying to tell me you had that body before you were a recruit?” Soap prodded, sensing his discomfort, changing the topic. “Not sure I believe ya, there, Lt.”

“Making comments about a superior officer’s body could get you court martialed, Sergeant,” Ghost warned him in an offhand tone.

It didn’t sound as though he was actually offended, more like he was required to demand propriety. He let Soap get away with whatever he liked, though, and Soap was prepared to exploit that fact to the fullest.

“There’s no way that counts as ‘making comments about a superior officer’s body’!” Soap squawked in mock offense. “That would sound like this,” and he leaned in towards Ghost, purring seductively, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re making everyone else in here look bad.”

That surprised a bark of laughter out of Ghost. Soap grinned victoriously.

“One; you didn’t mention my body at all. Two; there’s no one else here,” Ghost counted his mistakes on his fingers. “Three; why would you want me to leave if you’re hitting on me?”

Soap smirked.

“Because yer coming back to mine, obviously,” he preened. Ghost punched him in the shoulder. “Ow, fuck!”

“Don’t be a baby.”

“Don’t be a bully!”

“Bully? What are you, an afternoon special?” Ghost sneered. Soap scowled.

“And here I was, ready to take you back to my room,” he sniffed. “Well, invitation retracted. You’re not welcome in.”

“You were not,” Ghost scoffed, and Soap made his first tactical error.

“Was so! S’not my fault you can’t tell when someone’s flirting right to your face!”

Ghost blinked.

“What?”

Soap realized what he’d said, a second too late.

“Not! Uhh.”

He squinted harshly, avoiding Ghost’s gaze, trying desperately to think of something to say that would cover his ass. If he hadn’t been so tired he was delirious, or if he’d thought for even a second before he spoke, Soap might not have put himself out there like that. But he had, and he was so low on sleep he couldn’t think fast enough to talk his way out of it. That was his second tactical error.

“…Sorry?” He offered finally, into the heavy pause that had pooled between them.
That was his third tactical error.

“So you did mean it,” Ghost concluded, tone carefully neutral.

Soap glanced back at him. The look in his eyes was almost… thoughtful. Not the reaction he’d expected, but he’d take anything that didn’t involve him being beaten to a pulp at this point.

“Huh,” Ghost said, once it became clear Soap had nothing to add. “Okay. I have to go… make some plans.”

Abruptly, he stood, and the weight distribution of the limp sofa shifted so much that Soap almost tipped over backwards. He marched out of the room without a second glance. Soap watched him go, dumbfounded and with the beginning of misery tugging on his gut.

What did Ghost’s reaction mean? The immediate avoidance was a pretty big clue, but he hadn’t given any other indication of being upset. Maybe Soap was just too tired to read Ghost the way he normally could, but he’d almost seemed… determined? Or purposeful? Soap didn’t know what to make of that at all. He gusted a huge sigh, falling back into the cushions in defeat.
Not that he’d planned to tell Ghost how he felt anytime soon, but if he had ever pictured how it might have gone, this was not one of the scenarios he’d prepared for. What was he meant to do now? Was Ghost going to avoid him? Shutter back up, be all cold and professional when they had to work together? Was he mad? He didn’t seem mad. Soap decided he should prepare for the possibility that Ghost’s anger was a slow boil, just in case.

God, he wished that Ghost hadn’t just taken their last cigarette with him. He could really use a smoke right now.

…

The next morning, Soap shuffled into the common room half-expecting Ghost to deck him the moment he saw Soap. Luckily, Ghost was fiddling with the coffee machine, and didn’t see him enter. Soap quickly did the math, and figured that forgoing coffee for one day was probably worth it to avoid the one man who had cause to get him kicked out of the 141. He snatched a banana off the counter and scurried over to the table Gaz and Price were sitting at. They mumbled their hellos to him, and he nodded back; he got two matching odd looks immediately, and cursed his usual self for being so verbose.

“What’s your problem?” Gaz asked, with no preamble. The man was a menace.

My best friend probably hates me now, and I might lose the only job I’ve ever loved.

“Have to look at yer ugly mug, don’t I?” Soap muttered. “Tha’s bad enough.”

“Sure, but I have to look at yours, and that’s even worse,” Gaz countered.

“No insults at the table, boys,” Price told them without looking up from his paper. His physical newspaper. The man had never left the Stone Age.

Soap was about to fire off another line- he still hadn’t had the last word, after all, and Price only got stern after he was fully awake- but stopped short when a mug was placed at his elbow.

It was his usual mug, filled with coffee. Ghost’s hand released it, and he sat down in the chair next to Soap, his own mug in his other hand. Soap looked at the offered mug, then at Ghost, then back at the mug. Ghost was studiously staring off into the middle distance, and acting like he didn’t know Soap was staring at him.

Gaz leaned across the table, and shut Soap’s mouth with one finger under his chin. Soap batted his hand away, blushing furiously.

“You‘ve seen coffee, before, right?” Gaz asked him seriously. Soap flipped him the bird. “I mean, you know how to drink it and all?”

“I’ll drink you,” Soap grumbled, and Gaz hacked a surprised laugh.

“What?”

“Fuck off,” and he buried his face in the mug, burning his tongue with how much coffee he drank.

It was perfect- too much milk, no sugar. Exactly the way he always made it. He let out an appreciative hum, and looked over to see Ghost’s eyes flick away from him. Maybe the man wasn’t mad, after all. He wouldn’t make Soap coffee if he were mad, right? Was this a peace offering?

Soap relaxed, his first smile of the morning tugging at his lips. He drank more coffee to hide it.

…

It started to become a ritual between the two of them. Ghost always got up before Soap, and always made him coffee along with his own tea. Soap didn’t know why he kept doing it- once was enough for an olive branch, right?- but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He would give Ghost a huge smile whenever he brought Soap his coffee, and Ghost would pretend Soap wasn’t even there. As if he went to the trouble of making a cup of coffee just to set it at the table each morning for his own amusement, and Soap just happened to be there to drink it.

Well, whatever. Ghost had always been oddly skittish about unpredictable things. Soap did his best to let him get away with it unscathed, avoiding each opportunity to make a playful jab; sensing Ghost wouldn’t appreciate the teasing, in this case. One time, though, he couldn’t hold back entirely, and laid a hand on top of Ghost’s when he delivered the mug, holding him still to give him an appreciative grin. He stroked a brief thumb over the back of Ghost’s hand, then let him go.

Curiously, soon after that, their little kitchenette started to be stocked with tablet. He didn’t know where it came from-certainly could never find it sold anywhere near here, himself- but let out an overjoyed crow when he found it in the cabinet one morning. He swiveled around, facing the others.

“Whose tablet is this?” He asked, and got only blank stares and a shrug. “No one? Really?”

“Dunno, mate,” said Gaz, looking entirely unconcerned. “If it’s on the top shelf, though, it’s fair game. Have at it.”

Soap grinned and snatched the packet off the shelf. He slid into his seat the at the table and passed out pieces to each of them. They eyed him dubiously, but when he started to pout, they caved and tested out the new snack.

“Fuck is that?” Gaz asked with his mouth full, half-disgusted, half-intrigued.

“Sorry, son. Too sweet for me,” Price admitted.

Ghost kept silent, but his eyes were scrunched in distaste.

“Don’t appreciate fine cuisine, the lot of ye,” Soap complained cheerfully. If they didn’t like it, fine. More for him.

…

“Gaz, am I a forgetful person? Or maybe an idiot?”

Gaz looked up from his phone. Or, down, actually. Gaz was sitting upright on the couch, splayed out comfortably, and Soap was next to him, sprawled upside down. Gaz laid a comforting hand on his shin, hanging over the back of the couch, and leaned forward to make eye contact with Soap, whose head was hanging over the edge of the seat.

“Not concerningly so. Why?”

“I keep misplacing things,” Soap sighed. “I was sure I’d run out of pencils, so I went out and got some. But when I got back to my room, I looked through my desk drawer to find some scissors and there was a brand new packet of them. Completely untouched! I could’ve sworn they weren’t there yesterday.”

“Hold on. These are the special drawing kind? The ones you were complaining about running out of to Ghost yesterday?”
“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” said Gaz, in a strained tone. Soap craned his neck upward to get a better look at him. His lips were pressed into a thin line, like he was trying not to laugh. “On second thought, mate, you might actually be a bit of an idiot, yeah.”

Soap grabbed a pillow off the couch and hurled it at Gaz. Gaz cried out, unprepared, as the pillow hit him satisfyingly square in the face. He grabbed the pillow himself and wound his arm back, readying for a far harder hit than Soap had given him. Soap scrambled off the couch and up, holding his arms out placatingly.

“Now, now, we can talk about th-oi!” He yelped as the pillow slap knocked him a full step backward. “Oh, it’s on!”

They battled until Price caught them. Pillows were banned from the common room after that.

…

Their routine during the full moon hadn’t changed when Soap joined the team initially.

But after several month’s worth of being the one to clean up muddy paw prints the morning after a full moon (while the others slept off whatever they’d been doing the night previous), Soap decided he was going to insert himself somehow. He knew he could keep the floors clean if he could just figure out how to clean his teammates before they got inside.

His first attempt had simply been to close the door after them. Big mistake. He’d underestimated how strong a werewolf could be, and woke up to the same muddy paw prints as usual, plus a busted back door, plus three pissed-off men who’d wanted nothing more than to go to bed in wolf form and wake up six hours later than usual.

This time around, he’d thought through his plan. He waited until they’d all run off into the back woods, their furry behinds long gone, then closed the door behind them and waited on the deck behind the building. He fiddled around on his phone for a few hours, watching the tree line for movement. When he spotted the first of them loping back towards the barracks, he grabbed his supplies.

He hadn’t told the others, harboring a sneaking suspicion that his strategy wouldn’t be popular. He’d been proven right immediately.

Three wolves surrounded him on the deck, in various states of dishevelment. Soap stood his ground, back to the closed door, and brandished his hose threateningly when one of them growled at him. He’d seen them shifted before, of course, but they were all big gray wolves, and in the darkness it was hard to tell them apart.

“None of that,” he admonished sternly. “I’m tired of cleaning up your messes month after month. You’re not getting back inside until you’re clean.”

He turned on the hose without preamble. All three wolves’ hackles raised. Funny, that. They only seemed to hate water when they were shifted. He’d never noticed an aversion in any of them otherwise. He decided to advance on the smallest one first.
The wolf’s yellow eyes pinned him down, the beginning of a snarl on his face, but Soap glared right back. Then, he aimed the spray directly at the wolf’s paws. He yelped and jumped back, but Soap kept the stream on him, not letting up. The deck was getting soaked, but he could see mud washing off as well. The wolf dodged this way and that, unsuccessfully, then turned and snapped at the water, jaws flashing viciously.

Soap let out a shocked laugh.

“You’re just like a puppy, ain’t ya?” He cackled. “Afraid of a little water.” The wolf snarled at him, his head tilted at a very specific angle, and suddenly Soap knew. This was Gaz, avoiding his hose like the plague. “C’mon, Gaz,” he prodded, delighted, “You’re a tough sort. Little water’s not gonna hurt you, is it?”

Gaz growled at him, a resentful look in his eyes.

“You’re halfway done already,” Soap told him. “You can go back in as soon as you’re clean, right? Come on.”

Gaz’s growl got louder, then stopped with a huff. Gaz shook his shoulders out, and reluctantly stepped closer. Soap grinned.
“That’s it, good, just like that,” he murmured, and turned the spray on him as gently as he could. Gaz’s eyes closed and his shoulders stayed high and stiff, but he held still, and Soap washed the mud and dirt from his fur.

“Good!” He praised, and Gaz cracked an eye open. “You’re all done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Gaz looked liked he was about to complain, or maybe snap at him, so Soap dropped the hose and opened the door wide enough for him to slip through, to head off any protests.

“Come on, then,” he prompted, and Gaz wasted no time, darting inside as soon as the opening was big enough. He slammed it shut behind Gaz, and ducked back in front of it, heading off the two remaining wolves. They’d both tried to slip in alongside Gaz, bypassing his hose, but he’d anticipated that move, and he was quick enough to shut the door. So far, so good.

Both wolves glared at him. He ignored their glowering, and bent over to pick up the hose he’d dropped- and promptly fell ass over teakettle, when a push from behind overbalanced him.

“Hey!” He spluttered, indignant, from the ground. The wolf behind him let out a soft huff, almost a laugh, sharp teeth visible. Soap scrambled back up, half-soaked from landing on the wet deck, and waved the hose angrily.

“Don’t be an arsehole, Ghost,” he growled, and Ghost huffed at him again, somehow managing to look quite pleased with himself. “That’s it! You’re next.”

The ensuing scramble mostly just served to get him completely soaked, but at the end of it, he did have a wet, miserable, mostly clean Ghost shivering in front of him. He grinned, wildly, and dropped the hose again.

“Bastard. Fine, then. You’re all done. Get in there,” and he cracked the door again. Ghost didn’t slip in lightning-quick like Gaz, though- instead, he slinked past, making sure to rub as much of his wet fur as possible across Soap’s legs as he went. Soap let out a protesting cry, and Ghost shot him a look of satisfaction, swinging his tail gracefully so the door slamming behind him didn’t shut on it. Soap growled at the closed door, pissed off and helplessly charmed.

Then, he turned on Price.

“Gonna muster up some dignity, Captain?” He asked. “Or are we doing this the hard way?” Price growled, soft and low.

They did it the hard way.

In the end, Soap slept almost as long as the others, and the breakfast table the next morning was tired but peaceful. The floors, though, were completely clean, if a little wet.

…

Since Soap had begun to take a more… active role in looking after his team on the full moon, they slowly became more comfortable with shifting around him. Even when it wasn’t a full moon, sometimes he’d sit down on the common room sofa, ready to relax, and get tipped over by the force of a large furry body rocketing up to sit beside him. Usually, it was Gaz, and usually, he was asking for ear scratches. Soap wouldn’t normally comply, on principle, but damn were those puppy eyes hard to resist.

So, technically speaking, he did comply each and every time. But only technically. He still had his principles.

“Don’t look so smug,” he would mutter, and Gaz’s tail would wag hard enough to thwap the back of the couch rhythmically.
The others were slower to warm up to him. It made sense; when they were shifted, their instincts took over a bit. They had less control over their impulses, and cared far less about things like dignity and decorum (things Price and Ghost tended to value quite highly in human form). Eventually, though, they did start to trust that he wouldn’t capitalize on their vulnerable state. It took them a while to notice, but eventually they realized that Soap actually doted on them more in wolf form. He couldn’t help it, really. Teeth and claws notwithstanding, they were downright cute as wolves. It was hard to say no to them like that.

Of course, when Price brought in a freshly killed rabbit, fresh from the woods, and wanted to eat it inside, Soap drew a line.
‘No viscera in the common room’ was actually written up on the whiteboard, just as a reminder. It had originally been written in red whiteboard marker, but whenever Soap wasn’t in the room, it mysteriously vanished from the board. Soap understood that Price might be embarrassed, but every time he came back to see it wiped away, he felt a new gust of annoyance. So, next time, he wrote it in red permanent marker. Price had told him off for that, and Soap had told off Price for trying to wipe off his house rules, and they’d been huffy with one another for a couple days. The message had stuck, though.

Ghost probably spent the most time in his wolf form, and the least time indoors. Consequently, when Soap did get to see Ghost shifted, it was a real treat. They were all beautiful wolves, but Ghost’s sharp gaze and sharper teeth were a sight to behold. In Soap’s opinion, he was the most graceful looking of the three. Something about him was just more controlled and fluid and smoother than the other two. Not that he would ever say that aloud.

He could admire Ghost’s impressive form, though, when he loped into the common room one evening, and right over to Soap’s spot. He didn’t bother with rocking Soap about by sitting next to him, though. Ghost just jumped right on top of him.
Soap let out a loud oof! and was pretty sure his thighs would be bruised tomorrow- Ghost was not light in any form- but he didn’t protest. He let the large wolf pad in a heavy half-circle and flump down onto his lap, claiming Soap’s space like he belonged there. Soap could admit to himself that it did feel right, even if his legs were definitely going to lose some feeling.
He landed a tentative hand on Ghost’s fur, brushing through it gently. Ghost let out a low huff, and lowered his head down, relaxing. Soap took that as permission to dig his hand in even deeper. Ghost had the softest fur known to man. Actually, all of the wolves did, but Ghost’s tacit permission to touch elevated the experience to something magical.

This time, though, he had to brush through slowly, to avoid his hand snagging in any tangles. He examined Ghost’s back more thoroughly. Though his fur was thick and healthy, it had brambles and matted bits and little pieces of fluff, for some reason. Soap thought for a moment, then pushed lightly at Ghost’s side, urging him up.

Ghost growled quietly, and didn’t move. Soap huffed a laugh.

“Up, you berk,” he murmured, “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to go get something. Then you can stay as long as you want. Promise.”

Ghost stilled, clearly thinking it through for a minute. Then, he let out a sound that was remarkably close to a human sigh, and heaved himself up and off. Soap ran a hand between his ears in thanks, and Ghost’s ear flicked, but he didn’t lean away.
Soap practically ran to his room and back, a little afraid that Ghost would get antsy and leave if Soap made him wait too long. But when he reentered the room, Ghost was sitting in his warm spot, looking impatient. Somehow. Soap shoved Ghost over so he could sit down again, and tolerated the heavy shuffle of Ghost’s paws as he found a comfortable position to lie down. When he’d finally settled, Soap brought out his secret weapon.

He ran the hairbrush gently down Ghost’s back, brushing as lightly as possible, just testing him. Ghost’s huge head flipped around, and he glanced between Soap’s hand and his eyes. Soap gave him an innocent smile.

“‘S just, yer looking a little scraggly,” he told Ghost, whose eyes narrowed. “I don’t have to. I can stop, if you want. But it might feel good to have yer fur all soft and smooth.”

Ghost considered this for a moment. Then, he flopped his big head back down onto Soap’s leg. Soap pressed back his grin. Victory.

He brushed through Ghost’s fur slowly and gently, taking care to brush out the tangles without hurting Ghost. If Soap wanted this to happen again- and he did- he would have to tread carefully, and that meant not causing discomfort.

It was extremely satisfying to watch Ghost’s pelt start to look better with just a little care, and immensely soothing to brush through the thick, soft fur. His other hand pet over Ghost’s side, and brushed away the lint and pieces of nature and fur. Lots of fur. Mountains of it came off with the brushing, and Soap realized he was going to have to sweep up afterward. He could practically sculpt a new wolf from all the fur he was shedding.

But the best part was watching Ghost slowly relax, turn more and more into a puddle of wolf on his lap. Soap doubted Ghost realized how floppy he had become, untucking his paws and nose to lie in a liquid heap. Soap hadn’t even noticed he’d been carrying tension around in his wolf body, but it must have been there, because its absence was stark. He’d never seen Ghost this tranquil before.

He brushed until he could find no more flaws. Until Ghost’s fur was soft and shiny-looking, and laid completely flat. Until he couldn’t justify touching Ghost anymore, not when his task was completed. He softly set the brush down on the little side table. Ghost’s head raised, and he looked at Soap accusingly.

“What?” Soap asked, baffled. “Yer clean.”

Ghost merely continued staring at him. It felt like an indictment.

“There’s nothing else to brush! You look perfect,” protested Soap, wincing as soon as the words were out. That was a little too honest. Ghost didn’t seem to pick up on it, though, just giving him a look and then pointing his nose towards the brush. He blinked slowly at Soap. Soap hesitated, then heaved a sigh.

“Fuckin’ walloper. Fine. You win,” he groused, picking up the brush again.

Ghost didn’t lay his head back down until Soap resumed brushing. Then he relaxed back into a doggy puddle. Soap suppressed a giggle, sure Ghost would not care to be thought of as adorable. Soap couldn’t help himself, though; Ghost insisting on being brushed was impossibly endearing.

They both stayed like that for longer than either of them would admit, relaxing together on the couch of the common room until Price bustled in and interrupted them.

Soap froze when he came in, though he wasn’t sure exactly why; he just felt like they’d been caught in a private moment, somehow. Price gave them an odd look, but didn’t say anything, and shuffled past them to the book he’d left face-down on the table across the room. Soap set his brush down again, unwilling to keep going with a witness, and this time Ghost let him. He tried not to be disappointed about that.

…

It wasn’t often that Soap convinced his teammates to go out drinking, but when they did, it was quite an occasion. He had learnt early on that there was no competing with a wolf’s metabolism, but he kept up as best he could, switching from beer to scotch when Gaz and Price started a game of pool. Beer was his social drink, good for keeping his faculties and guzzling with the best of them. With scotch, though, he could sit at the bar, and drink as slowly as he liked. It was better for unwinding, as the night wore on. It was not helping him get any more sober, though.

Ghost had been dragged over to play referee when Gaz and Price got into an argument about whether or not trick shots counted as being worth points. Soap had watched Gaz land a pool ball into a stranger’s glass of beer more times than he could count, and he’d had the same argument before, so Gaz didn’t value his input. As far as Soap was concerned, a drop pocket was one point, and a glass of beer was a glass of beer. Impressive as it was, it counted for nothing. Now, if he hadn’t been trying to win the first time he’d seen it, he might have felt differently, but that was how Gaz had chosen to introduce that little trick to him, so it was his own grave, really.

Soap didn’t realize that he’d been watching them all fondly until someone cleared their throat right behind him. He swung around, using the bar as a handle to swivel himself, and regretting it immediately. No one cleaned the bottom of the bar, apparently. His resulting face of disgust was what greeted the stranger standing beside him, and he had to shake his head in friendly apology when the man gave him a hesitant look. That was the wrong move; he was drunker than he’d previously thought, and the shake tilted his vision from side to side a little.

“Sorry, what was that?” Soap asked, still distracted. He squinted to regain his focus.

“Is this seat taken?” The man asked, flashing him a smile.

He was pointing towards the seat Ghost had been in minutes ago. The one where his glass of bourbon still sat. Soap glanced around, and indeed, the seats on either side had been taken. The man just needed a place to sit. He slid the glass of bourbon toward himself wordlessly, and the man didn’t hesitate to take its place.

“Thanks,” he grinned, and Soap gave him an offhand smile, turning to face back towards the pool table.

He only got halfway, though.

“The name’s Jason,” the man said, leaning in just enough to catch Soap’s attention and hold it.

Soap gave a little nod, not wanting to be impolite, but uninterested in striking up a conversation with some strange man. The man, Jason, didn’t seem to care, though. He launched into some monologue about this or that, and Soap felt just enough social obligation to stay facing in his general direction.

“But what about you, though?” The man interrupted himself, throwing out what he must have thought was a charming smile. He looked just a fraction too self-satisfied to pull it off. “Come to this bar often?”

Soap blinked. Distracted as he was, he knew a pickup line when he heard one, and the man was coming on pretty strong. Great. Now he had to figure out how to politely give this guy the boot. He was a bit too drunk right now for subtle social cues, though. He hesitated, and the man clearly took it as shyness.

“Don’t talk much, I guess?” He asked. Soap snorted. “That’s okay. I can do the talking for both of us,” and he leaned in, carelessly bullying into Soap’s space. Soap stiffened.

“What say we find somewhere a little quieter to talk, huh?” His smirk this time was downright slimy, and Soap recoiled, opening his mouth to give the guy a piece of his mind, drunk or not.

Before he could, though, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder from behind. The man’s eyes shifted slightly, and his face paled. He turned into a grotesque in a half second flat- it was almost impressive.

“He doesn’t need your help for that, or anything else,” came a deep, icy voice behind him. Soap relaxed into the grip on his shoulder. Ghost. His favorite person had come to the rescue. The man opened and shut his mouth like a fish. He tried to stammer a reply, but Ghost cut him off. “That wasn’t a suggestion. Move.”

And the man was gone faster than it took Price to prepare a cigar. Soap turned to face Ghost, planting a hand on the top of the bar this time for leverage. His vision swung along with him, but he didn’t mind it as much this time, happy the man who should have been sitting with him, instead of that other creep.

“Thanks,” he grinned dopily, not even pretending to disapprove of the way Ghost used his intimidating aura for his own gain. “Could’ve handled it myself, but thanks.”

“Shouldn’t have to,” Ghost grunted. “Guy was out of line.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Kill’im fer me, wouldja?” Soap asked sweetly, batting his lashes up at Ghost. Ghost’s eyes widened behind the balaclava. “Not really,” he hurried to add. “Now’m afraid ye actually would. Don’t. Kay?”

“Mm,” Ghost hummed noncommittally. Soap frowned.

“No killing.”

“That’s not really in line with our job description, Soap.”

“You know what I mean!” Soap whined, exasperated and too drunk for nuance. “No civilians, at least. Promise me?”

“What if they deserve it?” Ghost asked, and Soap couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.

“Ugh! You’re impossible,” he groaned. Ghost’s eyes crinkled a bit. Soap cracked a smile at that, unable to stay made at those beautiful eyes. “Fine. Guess I’ll just have to keep you from endangering any lives tonight. Come on, then,” and he hopped off his stool. He had to skid sideways a couple steps to keep upright, but he managed it.

Ghost dropped the cautionary arm he’d raised to catch Soap, and gave him a skeptical look.

“Where are we going?”

“Home, of course,” Soap declared, tucking his hand into the crook of Ghost’s arm. Ghost, probably too surprised to protest, let him. Soap tugged them towards the pool table. “You can’t be left here unattended. You’ll commit a crime the 141 can’t cover up. I’m your reverse bodyguard now.”

Ghost huffed a laugh.

“What the hell is a reverse bodyguard?”

“It’s like a regular bodyguard, but instead of keeping you safe from everyone, I keep everyone safe from you. Yer welcome,” Soap sniffed.

Ghost rolled his eyes, but let Soap drag him to Gaz and Price to say their goodbyes. They both looked a little too cheerful when they saw Soap bodily pull Ghost around, but Soap was on duty now and also very drunk. He didn’t have time to worry about what Gaz and Price were giggling about behind their hands like schoolchildren.

When they got out into the cool night air, Soap stumbled to a stop. Ghost jerked to a halt beside him. Soap realized they were still looped together at the elbow, and tried to loosen up so Ghost could wriggle out, but he only pulled Soap in closer with an arm around his shoulders. Soap leaned against him obligingly. He was big and warm and smelled delightful, after all, and Soap was beginning to suspect that his own balance was mildly compromised.

“Yer warm,” he mumbled into Ghost’s pec. Ghost scoffed, but scrubbed a fond hand through Soap’s mohawk.

“You’re drunk. Come on, let’s go home,” Ghost murmured.

Soap let out an agreeable hum, and let Ghost guide them down the sidewalk, taking over the direction completely. It felt nice to be warm in Ghost’s arms, following where he led. The thought occurred to Soap that he wouldn’t mind doing this for the rest of his life. He shook his head slightly to clear himself of the thought. Ghost would have made a move by now if he were interested. Soap couldn’t have been more clear, that time, weeks ago. He had to get this infatuation out of his system. Not that there was any hope of that. He knew he was in too deep for some simple redirection to distract him. The man holding him right now was his new ideal for everything he wanted in a partner, head to probably-scarred toes. He didn’t know when that had become the case. Long ago, probably. Oh, well. For tonight, he was soft and unfocused and had everything he could want right there with him.

If he hugged Ghost a little tighter to him at the thought, Ghost didn’t say anything about it.

And if Soap felt him squeeze back a little, he chalked it up to wishful thinking.

…

Movie night was a necessary evil, borne of one too many references to werewolf movies that got nothing but blank stares from the other three. The movies were bad and the ribbing Soap got for liking them was worse, but this was educational, damnit. He wasn’t about to let his three werewolf teammates off the hook about knowing their own culture. Even if it was all human actors in FX makeup. Still.

“How have you never even heard of A Werewolf in England?” he complained loudly, slotting the disk into their crusty old DVD player below the rec room television. “It’s perfect for you all!”

“Haven’t we already seen this one?” Gaz asked. He’d claimed Soap’s usual spot, and his own, spreading out farther than was strictly necessary on the little beaten-up couch. Price sat to his left, and Ghost to his right, squeezed as close to the arm of the couch as he could manage. It didn’t give him much space.

“No, we saw An American Werewolf in London.”

“What’s the difference?”

“This one’s worse.” Soap grinned at the round of groans that inspired, and climbed back up to his feet. He stood in front of Gaz, and planted his fists on his hips. “Move.”

“Nah, don’t think I will,” Gaz grinned at him lazily. Soap looked to Price for support, but Price was busy scrolling through his phone, which he had promised to turn off during movie night. Soap rolled his eyes.

“Come on, don’t make me take my spot back by force. You couldn’t handle another arse-kicking,” and he pointedly eyed Gaz’s cast, freshly applied as he got back from his latest solo mission. Soap hadn’t gotten the story yet, but he had sat with Gaz through his checkup and resisted the urge to sign it like a schoolchild. That would just be juvenile. He drew a little wolf on it instead.

“Exactly,” Gaz declared. “I’m recovering. You wouldn’t kick a man while he’s down, MacTavish.” Soap growled at his smug look. It was true, but bad sport for Gaz to point it out. Gaz called his bluffs every time. It made him a great friend and a terrible person to play poker with.

Price snickered a little, just barely, but Soap noticed it. He’d kept his eyes glued to his phone, but his mustache was twitching, and his eyes didn’t scan back and forth. He wasn’t reading, he was pretending not to listen. The man wasn’t one to play favorites on the field, but during off-time? Gaz was his golden boy. That wouldn’t normally annoy him, but he was starting to feel outnumbered, here. Then he got an idea.

Soap shrugged theatrically.

“Fine,” he sighed, “Guess I won’t sit there.” He leaned forward and snatched Price’s phone out of his hands, lightning-quick. “I’ll sit with Ghost.”

Then, giving himself no time to lose his nerve, he turned and sat on Ghost’s lap, Price’s phone safe in his grasp.

Price let out an indignant squawk, and leaned around Gaz to try to get his phone back. Gaz winced, minutely, when Price’s weight leaned on his bad arm. Price noticed immediately, and reeled back to his spot. He contented himself with shooting Soap a stern look, which he gleefully ignored.

“Give that back.”

“Of course, sir! After the movie,” Soap grinned. He twisted to partially face Ghost, who’d gone completely still beneath him. “Keep this safe for me, wouldja?” He asked casually, offering the phone to him. He tried to keep his expression nonchalant, pretend this was completely normal, but his heart was beating wildly. Was Ghost about to beat him to a pulp for being so shameless? The phone was his way of asking permission, after the fact. Is this okay?

Ghost silently plucked the phone from his grasp and slid it into his back pocket. Soap beamed at him, then twisted back to face the screen. Looked like he was going to get away with it.

“Start the movie, Gaz,” he said once he’d settled. Gaz had an odd look on his face, like he was trying not to laugh. He shook his head cheerfully.

“Can’t. Arm doesn’t stretch.” He lifted his cast arm to demonstrate. Soap gave him an unimpressed look, then eyed his other, perfectly good, arm. Gaz gave him a wide-eyed innocent look. Soap glared. Gaz smirked.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, “fine. Have to do everything around here,” and he bent forward, reaching for the remote and trying to keep his balance at the same time.

The remote was just barely within his reach, and he had to squirm to grab it. Ghost grunted behind him, and Soap winced. He’d probably hurt him somehow, moving about. He wasn’t a light man, after all. “Sorry,” he murmured, getting back into place and starting the movie. Ghost let out another tiny grunt, which Soap took to mean all good. He settled in to watch the movie.

He got just as many complaints as he could’ve hoped for. The movie was immediately terrible, and nothing about it, werewolf or otherwise, reminded him of real life.

“Fuckin’ blood moon, really?”

“Have they ever seen a wolf before?”

“Werewolves aren’t known for decapitation! That’s not even our thing!”

“Why are they walking like that? Is the floor made of fucking jelly?”

“You don’t make an offering to a werewolf. Do you want an offering?”

“No, I don’t want a fuckin’ offering.”

“Me neither! Offering. Fuck off.”

Soap cackled triumphantly. Gaz shoved him with his good arm (which, inconveniently, was closer to Soap), almost tipping him clean over. Soap had to dig in to keep from falling, and Ghost put hands on his waist to right him. They dug in firmly to his sides, and Soap let out a little squeak. They both froze.

Slowly, carefully, Ghost’s hands stroked up and down his waist. They stopped at his hips, and gave an experimental squeeze. Soap inhaled sharply. Ghost’s body stilled. Soap squeezed his eyes shut, unable to fend off the wave of humiliation. Damn his lack of self control. If he could just keep his mouth shut for two hours, he could’ve kept preserved this night in his memory as a precious moment, and not a shining example of just how badly he could embarrass himself.

“Mate, you alright?” Gaz asked. Soap opened his eyes to see Gaz looking at him with a mixture of concern and amusement, and nope. No. Not today. Ghost was already party to his mortifying slip, he was not about to let Gaz in on the fact that he’d gotten too turned on sitting on the lap of his superior officer.

“Fine,” he gritted out.

“Really? You look a little red.” Gaz’s expression took on an edge of suspicion.

Soap panicked, and chucked the first thing he could grab at Gaz’s head to distract him. It happened to be another of Price’s books, which he always left lying around. The man was perpetually opening a new book, falling asleep before he could get into it, and leaving it somewhere.

Gaz automatically batted the book away from him, but his cast arm had caught the spine of it, and his reflexes were not at their best right now. The book flew sideways and smacked the DVD player with a hard clunk. The movie froze mid-chase sequence, then the screen went black.

“Are ye fuckin’ kidding me?” Soap asked Gaz, exasperated. Gaz threw both hands up awkwardly, equally put-out.

“Don’t throw a fucking book at me next time, then!”

“Boys, boys,” Price cut in, already sounding tired of them. “No fighting. Kyle, is your arm hurt?”

“No, sir,” Gaz mumbled, rubbing the outside of the cast and watching Soap like he might explode again. Soap felt a twinge of guilt.

“Good. Then just start the movie again, Soap.”

Soap grumbled and climbed out of Ghost’s lap, getting on his hands and knees to see if he could fix the problem. Price started in on analyzing Gaz’s batting strength with his bad arm, and Gaz said something back. They chattered behind him as he dug around behind the player, seeing if anything had become unplugged somehow. He had to squeeze to fit himself under the table, in order to check all the wires, but nothing seemed amiss. He knew he must look pretty stupid from the others’ perspective, wiggling his ass around and cursing absently from where he was stuffed under the table. Eventually, he maneuvered himself back out, and sat back on his haunches.

“There!” He said. “That should do it. Price, will ye press play and see if it starts up?”

Silence met his request. He turned around. Price and Gaz had stopped talking, and were both staring at Ghost. Price looked shocked, and Gaz delighted. Ghost, for his part, was staring straight ahead, looking at the blank wall. He looked stiff.
“Uh. Guys?” Soap asked.

They snapped out of it. Price glanced at him, and then snapped his mouth shut with realization and grabbed the remote. Gaz darted his gaze between Soap and Ghost, a growing smile on his face. Soap was about to ask him what he was doing, when Price started the movie again. Soap crowed in victory.

“I always knew I was a fixer at heart,” he said proudly, standing up, and Gaz rolled his eyes.
“You set off bombs for a living.”

“I’m like the lass in the horse movie,” Soap insisted, “Where she’s the only one who truly understands the horse? That’s me and this DVD player.”

He stood in front of the couch, suddenly shy. Surely Ghost didn’t still want a seat buddy, not after he’d completely embarrassed himself. He hovered uncertainly, and kept bickering to distract himself. Luckily, Gaz was always quick to criticize the dumb shit he said.

“What movie are you fucking talking about?”

“Any of them! It’s a type of movie!”

“There’s no way ‘horse girl’ is a movie genre.”

“I’ll show you. We’ll do those next, when I run out of werewolf movies.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Ghost muttered, and looped one strong arm around his waist. He yanked Soap back down onto his lap. Soap yelped a bit, startled by his strength. “Shut up so we can finish the damn thing.”

He tugged Soap even closer, the arm around his middle constricting. Soap gasped a little, but let Ghost maneuver him as he liked. He didn’t want to admit to himself how hot Ghost’s manhandling was, but fuck if he wasn’t a puddle of a man right now. Ghost’s arm didn’t release him when he’d stopped moving. Soap laid a hand on it, then when Ghost didn’t protest, clutched him tight. He needed to grip onto something, to someone, right now. He was feeling a little lightheaded.

Gaz snickered a short laugh. Soap glanced sideways at him.

“What’s yer problem?”

Gaz shook his head wordlessly, a twinkle in his eye. Soap gave him a suspicious glance.

“Really? You’ve got nothing to say? No little barbs? That’d be a first.”

Gaz held up his hands in surrender.

“Hey, I’m just trying to watch the movie. Not my fault if some of us are stinking up the whole room with-ow, fuck!”

Ghost had reached over and flicked him in the forehead, hard. It had actually made a rather impressive flack. Gaz winced and leaned away, holding a hand to his forehead. “I didn’t say anything, Jesus! Shit.”

Soap turned to Ghost, a question on his face. It was true that the werewolves had much stronger noses than he did, and sometimes they could even smell things like strong emotions. He couldn’t imagine what Gaz had smelled just now, though. Ghost shook his head subtly, and Soap turned back to the screen with a fond eye roll. If Ghost decided he wasn’t going to know, then he wasn’t going to know. Sometimes werewolves could be a bunch of weird bastards.

It was probably nothing.

…

Soap wasn’t particularly good at asking for help. Not when he was behind on paperwork, not when he was sick as a dog, not even when he had trouble opening a pack of crisps. This time, though? He pushed through his own bullheaded insecurities, and made an exception.

“Can I get a little cover, here?” He asked, ducking behind a shipping container to radio in for backup.

The infiltration they’d planned had gone down the drain almost immediately, and they’d been forced to split up and divide fire as much as possible. Soap didn’t love improvised plans at the best of times, but in this foggy shipyard in the middle of the night? Not conducive to orderly takedown or extraction.

“Negative. Bit tied down at the mo’.”

“Sorry, Soap. No can do.”

“Location?” It was Ghost. Soap breathed a sigh of relief, then ducked reflexively when bullets hit the wall behind him.

“East of the big green container, near where we came from.”

“Rog. Give me four minutes.”

“Copy. If you could make it two, though, that’d be gre- fuck!”

He scrambled for cover as two hostiles came into view, shooting blindly around the corner he’d taken shelter behind. He laid down cover fire as best he could while moving backwards as carefully as possible. Once he could duck behind the next corner he did, but they were advancing on him, and he didn’t like his chances if he made a break for it now.

He snuck a glance back around the corner. One of them was still advancing, slow, careful. He couldn’t see far enough past the fog to know the second’s position. He took aim, settling himself lower than the man’s sight through his rifle. Honestly, an HDR? They were in close range, for fuck’s sake.

He took the man out with a clean shot between the eyes, and peeled his eyes for the next one. He strained his eyes, trying to make out anything in the thick fog, a shape, movement, anything. It was his ears that saved his life, though, picking up a light boot tread milliseconds before he was being shot at from behind. He dove back around the corner, feeling distinctly like a mouse surrounded by cats. They knew these docks intimately, and it was only a matter of time before they pinned him. He faced the corner he’d been smoked out of, backing up and desperately trying to lay down enough cover for himself. If he didn’t run, now, he was done for.

Then his boot caught on the edge of something, and fuck it, he was done for anyway. He tripped and fell backward over the body of the man he’d killed moments ago, and cursed his own lack of awareness. The fall had knocked his gun out of his hands, as he’d brought them down to break his fall, and one of his wrists had taken the brunt of it, pain lancing up his arm as he hit the concrete. He ignored the feeling, scooting backwards on his hands and feet, trying to keep his distance and feel around for his gun at the same time.

The man who’d surprised him had an ugly snarl on his face, eyes fixed on Soap’s, not rushing now that he had Soap pinned. He raised his firearm silently, closing one eye to take aim. Great. Soap was about to be killed by a fucking amateur. He closed his eyes.

And heard the scariest rippling snarl he’d ever experienced in his life tear through the air. He opened his eyes in time to see a huge gray shape tackle his would-be killer, flattening him to the ground and ripping him apart. He watched in complete awe. It almost seemed unrealistic how easily the man became bloody parts, when he was alive and whole not seconds ago. The wolf on top of him kept growling, biting, tearing, until the body beneath him was unrecognizable. Then, long seconds after he’d stopped moving for good, the wolf lifted his head, bloody maw gleaming, staring directly at Soap.

Soap felt his heart jump to his throat. He stopped breathing, certain he’d never been in the presence of a more deadly creature. He raised a trembling hand, and weakly saluted the wolf.

“Thanks, Ghost,” he said, voice unsteady, but workable. “Talk about the nick of time, eh?”

The wolf merely stared back, eyes unblinking. Soap got the distinct feeling that Ghost wasn’t all there. He’d seen the man shift on the field, before, of course. Never like this, though, never without a direct order or a plan to do so. He remembered the lesson he’d been given, back when he’d first joined a team of werewolves.

-

“So, how fast can you do it?” He’d asked Price. “Like, is it just snap! You’re a wolf now, and snap! You change back? Or is it harder than that?”

“It’s not hard, per se,” Price had answered slowly, “but it does require a lot of concentration. For that reason, we like to know when we’re going to do a shift, hours ahead of time, if possible.”

“But why? Wouldn’t it be useful for emergencies, things where ye’d need to shift quickly?”

“You have to understand, shifting is about control. The wolf wants control of the body, and the mind. A stable werewolf can only ever give over his body. If we shift too quickly, we risk giving over the mind to the wolf. That’s when it gets dangerous.”

“Like, Wolfen dangerous? Or are we talking Teen Wolf?”

Price had given him an uncomprehending look.

“Nevermind. Continue.”

“A frenzy is what happens when the wolf has control over the mind and body both. The werewolf becomes aggressive, unreasonable, controlled by his instincts. A strong emotion of some sort is usually what causes a frenzy in the first place, so the wolf will act on that emotion with no regard for his usual morals or limitations. It’s a bloodbath, and a large part of the reason werewolves have been persecuted almost to extinction.”

“All because ye didn’t put a shift in yer day planner?” Soap had asked, a little dubious. Price had rolled his eyes.

“A stable werewolf is only as dangerous as his conscience will allow. Same as any other man. But a frenzied werewolf is as close as a person can get to becoming a true monster.”

-

Looking into his eyes now, Soap was certain that was what he was seeing. Ghost was in frenzy. He scoured his mind, trying to remember if Price had ever told him what to do if he came across a werewolf in frenzy. He didn’t think Price had told him, though, and Soap had certainly never asked. He raised his shaking hand to his radio.

“Cap? You there?”

A brief pause, then blessedly, the line crackled.

“Solid, Sergeant. Sitrep?”

“Ye have any pointers on what to do with a werewolf in frenzy? Ghost’s looking a little, uh… out of it, over here.”

The line crackled again, and Soap just barely caught the end of a string of curse words he’d never even heard before.

“Okay. Okay, Sergeant, here’s what you’re going to do. Do you see any of his clothes nearby?”

Soap, baffled, glanced behind Ghost’s huge form. Sure enough, lying on the ground in a tattered heap, had been the clothing Ghost was wearing seconds before he’d pounced on the ex-man below him. He shuddered. His chances of getting to them were less than zero.

“Nearby, yes. Clothes, not any more.”

The line delayed before crackling again, and Soap assumed Price let had out another string of expletives. He held eye contact with Ghost the entire time, certain that backing down at this stage would not end well for him.

“Okay, alright, Soap. Just hold your position, okay? Gaz and I are coming for you. Don’t move a muscle.”

“Copy,” Soap breathed, then, “Why clothes?”

“Just,” a brief pause, maybe running, maybe reloading, Soap couldn’t tell, “something he’s worn. Something that’s his. If you hold it out to him, it might- fuck.”

The line went dead. Soap was on his own.

Fuck, indeed.

He slowly raised a hand to his heart, maybe to feel the proof that he was still alive for as long as he could- then paused.

He was wearing Ghost’s tac vest.

-

The man had handed it over at the last minute, when the straps of Soap’s had given out on him at the least opportune time possible. It had been just them left in the van, Gaz and Price clearing the way ahead of them, and Soap had freaked out a little, not ready to go into an open firefight without his usual gear. Ghost had wordlessly shucked off his own vest, then handed it over.

“Wha- no, absolutely not,” Soap had denied at first, vehement. Ghost had merely snorted.

“How many times how you seen me get shot?”

“Well, none, bu-“

“And how many times have I seen you get shot?”

“Fuck o-“

“And which of us has advanced regenerative healing capabilities?” He’d smirked behind the mask, insufferably smug, as Soap had put his vest on. “Don’t get too much blood on it, yeah?”

“I’ll get your blood on it,” Soap had grumbled, and Ghost smacked the back of his head fondly before jumping out of the van wearing only his basic uniform, mask, and approximately ten thousand knives. Crazy bastard.

-

Soap carefully undid the shoulder straps, then lifted the vest over his head. Ghost watched his every move, sharp eyes tracking his hands as they held out the vest to him. Soap didn’t know how this was meant to help at all, but what did he have to lose? He shook the vest a little, enticingly. Ghost’s canines came into view as he bared his teeth.

“Come on, then. Don’t you want it back?” He asked Ghost, proud of how steady his voice sounded. “I hardly even got blood on it. Just like you asked.”

Ghost didn’t react at all, except to flick his eyes between the vest and Soap’s face. Soap tried again.

“Go ahead, take it. You need to put something on, Ghost. You’re indecent.”

The joke fell flat, vastly insufficient for cutting through the tension in the air. Soap winced.

“Please, just take the vest, Simon. For me?”

Ghost pricked up his ears at that, and Soap realized he’d used Ghost’s real name. Of course. Of course his name would remind his human side who he was. He felt a spark of hope.

“Simon. Simon, I know yer in there. It’s gettin’ cold, love. Come on over and put yer vest on.”

He didn’t know where the pet name came from, only that he had poured as much honest tenderness into his voice as possible. If anything was going to get through to him, it was appealing to Simon, not Ghost. And it seemed like it might just work. Ghost- Simon- took a hesitant step forward, towards Soap. His body language was stiff and mistrusting, disoriented, maybe. But Soap kept himself open and friendly, soft and welcoming.

“That’s it, that’s right, Simon. C’mere, ye big lug. Come to me. You’re alright.”

The words became meaningless platitudes, sweet drivel, just beckoning Simon forward as gently as he could. Simon took step after step towards him, until they were within touching distance of one another. Soap kept speaking low, comforting him, using his name as much as possible. He held out the vest again, in offering.

Simon looked at it, then slowly, slowly, reached out a paw.

Which shrank and shifted and warped, until a human hand was taking the vest from his own.

Simon stood before him, naked and bloody, holding his own tac vest before him.

Soap could have wept with relief. Instead, though, he gave Simon a gentle smile.

“Glad to have ye back, Simon.”

Simon looked like he was on the verge of replying, smiling back, even, when two sets of feet came sprinting their way. They both whirled, at the ready, but it was only Gaz and Price. Gaz gaped when he saw them, and Price took a wheezing breath, sagging against the side of the shipping container completely.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Price sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, as limp as Soap had ever seen him. “I thought for sure you were a goner.”

“Jesus…” Gaz said, looking Simon up and down slowly.

Simon stood firm, never one to shy from a little nudity among his fellow wolves, but his expression was wary. Then Price’s comment caught up with Soap, and he stopped analyzing Simon to gawp at his captain.

“Excuse me!” He fumed. “I think I deserve a little more credit than tha’! I’ve survived alright this far, after all! No faith, this man.”

He turned to Simon and Gaz, expecting at least a little backup, but they both just stared at him. He got the feeling, once again, that he had missed out on something the others had all caught. And suddenly, he decided he’d had just about enough of this night, and he turned on his heel towards where they’d parked the van.

“Come on, then!” He called over his shoulder. “Let’s get out of this miserable place.”

He didn’t wait to see if they’d follow him, but a few steps later, he heard boots and bare feet begin to pad along behind him.

…

Soap was used to being the odd man out. He was the only human in a task force filled with werewolves; it was inevitable. But recently, it had gotten a lot worse, and quick.

He’d thought the rest of his team would be just as glad as he was to get the fuck out of dodge after their last mission. Sure, it had technically been a success, but hell if it wasn’t very nearly the worst mission they’d ever had. The perfect excuse to get drunk and forget it all happened. At least, he’d thought so.

Not according to the others. The ride home had been stiff and silent, the debriefing just as uncomfortable- even the morning after was quieter than he was used to. Soap didn’t know what to make of it all. Nothing truly bad had happened, right? They hadn’t even lost anyone. God knows worse things had happened to them on the field. So why was everyone still so tense?

He tried to corner Price first. The man had been the one to give him the lifesaving suggestion, surely he must have some clue as to why neither Gaz nor Ghost would be alone in a room with him.

But the moment he’d cracked the door to Price’s office, he’d been shut down.

“No, lad,” Price cut him off the moment he’d peered around the doorframe. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Not doing what?” Soap exclaimed, taking his opening and closing the door behind him. “Why is everyone acting so weird?”

“I’m not the one you should be talking about this with,” Price insisted. “Talk to Simon, please.”

“I would if I could find him!” Soap burst out, frustrated. “He disappears the moment he’s not needed. It’s infuriating. Will you please just tell me what it is I’m missing, so I can fix it?”

Price sighed, long and tired. It was a sound Soap had heard before, plenty of times, but he’d never sounded so sad.

“I’m not cut out for this shit,” Price murmured under his breath, then straightened. “I’m sorry, son. But it’s not my story to tell, alright? I can’t help you.”

Soap had left his office empty-handed, and more confused than ever.

Ghost was a bust, obviously. But he had to try anyway. He searched high and low for the man, checking all his favorite haunts, but he was nowhere to be found. Soap couldn’t help feeling a little hurt. Sure, Ghost was unreachable when he wanted to be, but he’d never put the effort in to hide himself from Soap before. What was different now?

Eventually, he gave up, and retreated back to his room to sulk. He felt tired, and isolated, and rejected. Had he done something wrong? Were they mad he’d gotten himself into trouble, and Simon had needed to put himself in danger to get him out? It didn’t seem realistic that Simon would be mad at him, if that were the case. He’d been the one to make the choice, after all. And none of them were really acting like they were mad at Soap. But he couldn’t think of another explanation for what had happened.

He flopped down on his bunk, intent on a nice evening of feeling deeply sorry for himself, when someone knocked on the door. Soap shot back up and hurried over, sick with hope. Had Ghost come looking for him, to explain everything?
He deflated slightly when the door opened and Gaz was standing there. Gaz gave a weak smile.

“Can I come in?” He asked, hesitant.

Soap gestured him inside. Maybe Gaz wasn’t the exact person he wanted to see right now, but if any of his friends were about to defrost on him, he’d certainly give them a chance. When Gaz was standing in the middle of the room, he paused.
“Listen,” he started, “I shouldn’t be here right now. I shouldn’t be telling you anything, okay? But I can’t stand to see you mope like this. You’re pathetic, mate.”

Soap scowled at him.

“Good start. Makin’ me real glad I opened my door for the guy who’s been avoiding me for days.”

Gaz winced.

“Alright, fair enough. That’s- I’m sorry.” He showed his palms pleadingly. “We- I- shouldn’t have done that.”

Despite himself, Soap melted a little. He never had been able to scorn an apology. He heaved a sigh, sinking back onto his bunk. Gaz sank into his desk chair, relaxing a little. Soap waved an expectant arm.

“Well, then? What did you come here to say?”

Gaz paused, then:

“How many of the old werewolf stories have you heard?”

That hadn’t been what Soap was expecting. He scratched his neck.

“The old-? Uh, don’t know if I’ve heard any werewolf stories. I mean, I’ve seen all the movies. But you mean, like, fairy tales?”

“Yeah, basically. There are lots of old fairy stories about werewolves, and most of ‘em are bunk. Just nonsense. But a couple of them are rooted in truth. I guess Price knew one that, um… applied to the situation. Back at the docks.”

Soap leaned forward.

“He-? Knew a fairy tale? I don’t follow.”

“It’s, it- yeah. An old one, one I’ve only heard once before. Don’t know how Price knew about it. He must’ve- well.”

Gaz let out a slow breath, centering himself. Soap had seen him do it before whenever he needed to concentrate. He started again.

“Okay, it’s like this: there’s an old story, about a man who lost himself to his wolf on the full moon, once. The legend says that he went on a rampage, terrorizing the village, completely out of control. The man’s family didn’t know how to get him to change back, weren’t sure if he even could. But the man’s lover wasn’t afraid. She gathered up the clothes he’d left behind, and marched into the forest herself, to find him. The family tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t be stopped.

She found the frenzied werewolf, in the middle of the woods, fully shifted and as dangerous as could be. He caught her scent, and turned to her, ready to kill- but she held out his clothes to him, and called him by name. The story say that, because she wasn’t afraid, because she loved him completely and called him by his true name, he found the will to change back. That she saved him with true love.”

He paused, letting this sink in. When Soap didn’t say anything, he muttered,

“Or that’s the story, anyway. Price must’ve heard it before. Guess he thought there might’ve been truth to it, somehow. Don’t know how he knew it would work.”

I don’t think he did, the voice in Soap’s mind chimed in absently. But he’d known something, at least. Even if he hadn’t known the story was plausible, he knew something was there- for Soap, at least. A horrible thought sent him bolting upright, and Gaz looked up at him, alarmed.

“Did it- the story-“ Soap gnashed his teeth, frustrated. “Did it work because she loved him? Or because he loved her?”

“Uhh…” Gaz took a second to catch up to Soap’s thought process, and Soap waited impatiently. “Oh. I think… I think the point of the story is that they loved each other. I don’t think it would’ve worked, otherwise. I’m not sure, though. It’s just a legen- hey!”

But Soap was already gone.

For all of three seconds.

Then he popped his head back in.

“Come on, then,” he said impatiently, “I need your nose. Can’t find the bastard without ye, can I?”

Gaz grinned, and rushed after him.

…

“GHOST!” Soap bellowed. “I know you’re up there. Get off the fuckin’ roof, now.”

Soap and Gaz’s search had taken them across most of the barracks before Gaz caught Ghost’s scent, lurking near the mess hall. It had taken a lot of frustrating silent gestures as they tried not to spook him, but Gaz had managed to communicate ‘he’s on the roof’, and Soap had managed to communicate back, ‘good, now get the fuck outta here’.

Now he was alone, standing directly below Ghost’s hiding place, waiting impatiently for a response. At first, he thought Ghost might just ignore him entirely, and he looked around, preparing to find a way to climb up there himself, but then legs appeared over the awning, and Ghost dropped down to stand before Soap. He crossed his arms, remaining silent.

“Fine, I’ll start,” grumbled Soap, when it became clear he wasn’t going to talk first. “When were you going to tell me about the old folktale with the laundry and the true love, huh?”

Ghost stiffened.

“Who told you-“

“Gaz, because you wouldn’t, ye fuckin’ walloper. You can’t just ignore me, Simon! We need to talk about this.”

“What is there to talk about?” Ghost growled, and Soap jerked his head back, stung. “You clearly know everything.”

“I-“ Soap snapped his mouth shut. I thought this meant you wanted me. “I thought- you changed back. The story said the werewolf would only change back if it went both ways. If… if she loved him enough to call him home, and he loved her enough to go where she called. Did…” he took in Ghost’s flinty eyes, his stiff posture. “At least, I thought it did. Was… I guess I was wrong.”

Hardening his expression against the rising tide of disappointment and grief, he turned to go. Ghost’s voice stopped him.
“You really didn’t know?”

He paused. Then turned back.

“Didn’t know what?”

Ghost looked pained, but in a different way, now. The cringe of his eyes was almost embarrassed. Would be, if Soap didn’t know him better than that.

“I- Johnny. I’ve been courting you for months.”

Soap’s mouth fell open without his permission. A swift tide of brain-destroying fuzz threatened to overtake his train of thought, and he had to fight it off.

“You… no, you haven’t. What are you talking about?”

Ghost cast his eyes upward briefly, then looked back to Soap.

“You didn’t notice me making you coffee every day for months? Special ordering those disgusting Scottish candies? Letting you touch me, and drag me out to drinks, and brush my fucking fur?” Okay, he was definitely embarrassed now. “Walking you home, keeping sacks of shite from hitting on you, sitting you on my lap so my own packmates can’t smell anything but me on you? What, were you asleep that whole time? Get distracted thinking about C4? How could you not have noticed?”

Soap let Ghost’s words hit him full in the face, taking a step back. The enormity of what he’d just said was a struggle to get a hold of all at once. Ghost had been enacting some months-long werewolf-type courting ritual, and he hadn’t had a clue. He floundered in it, in the idea that Ghost had been telling him the whole time, in his own way.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Soap asked, finally. Ghost huffed.

“I didn’t think I needed to. I thought I was being perfectly clear.”

“Not… I don’t mean in the last few months. I mean, why didn’t you say anything when I admitted I was flirting with you? Why didn’t you tell me then?” Why did you let me think I was alone in this?

Ghost shook his head.

“That wouldn’t have been the right way. You should know you’re loved, should have no doubt about it. That’s the whole point of courtship. The words themselves are meaningless. I wouldn’t… you deserve to be courted the right way.”

The right way. Courted.

Loved.

Soap reeled, soaking in this new information with no small amount of vertigo. Then one shard of evidence pierced his veil of giddiness. He rubbed his mouth, finding the words.

“So then why did you leave me? After I called you back from the frenzy. Why did you disappear?”

Ghost gave him an incredulous look.

“Why did I- why- I almost killed you, Johnny, fuck! What if that happens again? I can’t control myself around you, clearly, so-“ he stopped, rubbing his eyes through the eye holes. He pleaded quietly,

“I can’t put you in danger like that.”

Soap looked at him, baffled.

“But I wouldn’t be in danger.”

Ghost cut his eyes up to Soap’s, scanning them harshly.

“Are you taking the mick right now?”

Soap let out a disbelieving laugh.

“The mick? Fuck’s sake, and you get on me for saying weird shite. Simon, did you even listen to the story? Your frenzy can’t hurt me. I’ll just call you back. Every time.”

Ghost let out a shuddery breath.

“And when you stop loving me, and the call doesn’t work anymore? What then?”

Soap’s eyes widened in realization. So this was the real reason for his avoidance; Simon thought he would walk away. That he wasn’t holding Soap’s beating heart in his hands.

Well, fine. If he needed to peel off his own skin to show Simon the empty cavity where his heart used to live, then so be it.

This was worth bleeding for.

He patted down his pockets, fishing around for what he was looking for. Luckily, it was already on his person; he thanked God in that moment for cargos. He pulled out his sketchbook, and held it out to Simon.

Simon looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Open it,” Soap insisted.

“Why?”

“Will ye just-“ Soap grunted in annoyance, and flipped the book open himself, shoved it into Simon’s hands. Jabbed at the most recent page.

It was a sketch of Simon, with his mask off, wet from rain. On a mission in Bolivia, tropic rain soaking them to the bone. Simon and he had been alone, waiting for exfil, when the skies had opened up. Safe from prying eyes, Simon had uncovered himself, and enjoyed the flash flood on his bare face. With his eyes closed against the water, he hadn’t noticed Soap staring in awe. He’d looked incandescent. He had a beauty that seemed implausible; no one could be that perfect. So he’d tried to capture it in a drawing. Hadn’t quite succeeded, of course, but the moment was recognizable nonetheless.

Simon was staring at it silently, eyes wide. Soap flipped to the previous page.

Simon’s bare hand, holding a cigarette. He’d taken the gloves off, the way he did sometimes around Soap, showing little pieces of himself when he relaxed. Soap snatched them away, commemorated them like something precious, because they were. They were precious. Simon’s real eyes scanned over the penciled-in smoke, the cherry, the filter. Caught on the carefully rendered tattoos and scars that were visible without the gloves. Soap flipped to another page.

Simon, leaning in to Soap’s space, passing him his morning coffee, his eyelashes prominent from this angle, long and delicate. Simon, full shift, running away from him into the woods. Simon, cleaning his knives on a rare sunny day at home. Simon, wrapping his own leg wound in Siberia. Simon, sleeping while Soap kept watch. Simon, slumped in a chair. Simon, holding back laughter. Simon, Simon, Simon. There wasn’t a single other drawing in the whole damn book.

When he’d flipped through the whole thing, Soap shut it firmly, leaving it in Simon’s hands. He looked up. Simon was watching him, his expression fragile.

“The call won’t stop working,” Soap told him firmly. “I’ve never been in danger from you. Never have been, never will be.”

Simon considered this for a long moment. Then he said,

“Well, not from my wolf, maybe. I could still shoot you.”

Soap laughed, loud and surprised and delighted, and almost too hard to notice Simon tugging off his mask and leaning in- but only almost.

Soap met him halfway.

Their lips connected with a joint sense of relief, painful in the release, like a tourniquet being untied. Soap felt tears run down his cheeks, and he laughed into the kiss helplessly. Simon pressed into him, pushy and insistent and intoxicating. Soap melted into it, matching him movement for movement, breathing his desperation into Simon’s mouth. Then he squeaked, as large hands cupped his arse and squeezed. Simon broke away from the kiss to laugh at him. Soap gave him a stern look, cheeks pink.

“Ye don’t think maybe we should take this somewhere private, if yer gonna do tha’?”

Simon’s eyes darkened with a speed that was at once flattering and alarming. Instead of replying, he leant down and scooped Soap up in one dizzying movement, throwing him over his shoulder. Soap yelped, and clung ineffectively to the back of Simon’s hoodie.

“I have legs, ye fuckin’ glaikit!”

Simon merely growled in response. Soap tried to pretend that didn’t send a thrill through him, and obviously failed completely, because the hand on his arse tightened smugly.

Convenience of all conveniences, Simon’s room was not far from the mess hall, and they didn’t see anyone else on the way there. Simon didn’t need both hands to unlock his door, apparently, because he didn’t put Soap down to open it. When they were inside, he shut the door and marched to his bed, throwing Soap onto it so enthusiastically he bounced.

Soap tried to scowl at him, but the dizziness of being flung every which way and the dizziness of realizing how strong Simon truly was had combined to give him a dazed expression instead. He still managed a weak middle finger, though. Simon just smirked, and crawled up after him, until he was between Soap’s legs and inches from his face.

“Still sure?” He asked, and Soap wasn’t so out of it that he missed the edge of nervousness in his tone. He wrapped his legs around Simon and pulled him in closer. They both groaned at the contact, warm bodies finally connected all down their fronts. Soap felt the impression of Simon’s distinct interest, and grinned.

“Been wanting this fer months,” he admitted, freely now that Simon had accepted him. “Don’t make me wait any longer, yeah?”

Simon dropped his head into the crook of Soap’s neck for a moment, and breathed heavily. The light brush of his soft hair sent shivers down Soap’s spine. Then Simon’s head snapped back up, and he looked Soap in the eye, a clear challenge.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Johnny. You can be patient for me, can’t you? Be my good boy?”

Soap whimpered, the sound torn out of him without conscious thought. Simon’s slow smile when he heard it felt dangerous.

“Oh, baby, I’d be careful if I were you. Can’t go making all those pretty sounds and expect me not to want to pull more out of you.”

Soap’s eyes widened. It was like Simon already knew where all of his buttons were, and exactly how hard to press them. He wasn’t the only one who knew how to play to his audience, though.

“Pssh, yer all talk,” he scoffed. “I’ll believe you when I see some evidence.”

Simon snarled immediately, and Soap would have been smug, if Simon hadn’t ripped his own shirt off and started tugging at Soap’s, too. As it was, he was too busy stripping as fast as humanly possible to rub it in.

When he was completely nude, he turned to Simon, and his mouth dropped open. Not because Simon’s body was beautiful- though it was- and not because he was intimidating in more than one aspect, but because of the look he was giving Soap. It was dark, predatory, hungry. Soap shifted against the bed without thinking, and Simon’s eyes dropped down.

Soap had one leg crossed in front of him, and the other hung off the side of the bed, from where he’d peeled his tight jeans off. His pussy was bared like this, perfectly visible. Not enough for Simon, though. He reached out and grabbed Soap’s ankle, dragging Soap towards him, until his legs were open and his cunt was presented before Simon’s eyes. Soap went bright red and tried to shut his legs, but Simon put a firm hand on each knee, not even glancing up at him.

“Don’t tell me you’re shy, sweet thing,” he purred, and Soap swallowed a whine. “Let me see you. Go on, relax.”

So Soap did. Slowly. He let his legs fall open, let Simon see his most intimate parts. Let him stare.

“Do you always get this wet?” He asked, voice low. Soap shook his head, beyond words. “Just for me, then. Good. No one else gets to see you like this.” And now he did look up at Soap, his eyes intense. “Ever. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Soap breathed, and mentally kicked himself.

“Sir?” Simon asked, holding back a laugh. “Oh, baby. You’ve got it bad, huh?”

“Shut up,” Soap snapped, then gasped as Simon leaned in and cupped his mound. No fingers in him, he wasn’t even moving, just cupping Soap possessively.

“I don’t think you mean that,” Simon mused, entirely too casual. “I think you like it when I tease you, play with you a little. In fact,” one finger slipped between his folds, right to his entrance, “I think you’re desperate for it. What do you think?”

Soap searched Simon’s eyes, and Simon stared right back smugly. He actually wanted an answer, the bastard.

“You’re kidding,” he choked out. Simon raised an eyebrow.

“Am I?” He asked dryly. “Are you willing to find out?”

The very possibility that Simon would walk away from Soap in this moment was unreasonable, but it sparked fear in Soap just the same.

“Don’t,” he pleaded, quickly, “Please. I… I am.”

“You are what?” Simon was enjoying this way too much.

“I am… desperate for it. For you. Please, Simon, touch me, fuck me, please, I’ll be so good, don’t make me wait anymore, just please-“ he cut himself off with a high whine, overwhelmed by the sensation of two of Ghost’s fingers sliding inside him. His hands were bigger than Soap’s, longer.

“Oh, Johnny,” Simon breathed in amazement. “You feel incredible.” Soap writhed, bucking his hips. He needed more friction than this. Simon was going too slowly.

“Please,” he begged. “Please, Simon? ‘S not enough. Fuck me, please.”

Simon chuckled.

“Like a bad faucet, you are. Can’t turn you off now that I’ve started this, huh? Hush, baby. I’ve got you.”

He shifted, letting his body fall over Soap’s, until he was lined up at his entrance. Soap gasped again at the feeling, at Simon’s cock catching on his entrance. Simon’s eyes glinted, and he mouthed softly at Soap’s jugular.

“What are ye waiting for?” Soap panted, already overwhelmed. “I’m not made of ice cream- mmm!”

Simon pushed in, splitting him wide on his cock, filling him up. Soap slammed his mouth shut, determined not to make any embarrassing sounds, but he couldn’t help letting out muffled cries, urgent and desperate. Simon let out a low groan, right in his ear, and kept going. Christ, he’s huge, Soap thought, and had a split second of concern moments later when he still wasn’t fully seated.

Then, Simon seemed to lose his patience, and thrust in the rest of the way. Soap forgot himself, and wailed out as Simon’s hips met his arse. Simon let out a strained chuckle.

“That’s my good boy,” he purred, “can’t keep from carrying on when he’s finally fucked like he needs. Sweet thing. I’m going to make you fall apart on my cock, love.”

Soap growled, surprised both of them with his own vehemence. “Do it, then,” he ground out, lip curled.

Simon let out an answering growl, pulled back, and pushed into him, harder, picking up speed. Soap’s hands made their way to Simon’s ribs, then dug in as Simon started to really pound into him. Suddenly, he needed to hold on as tight as possible, to make sure he wouldn’t fly apart, and he spared a thought to be grateful his nails were so short; they’d have cut Simon right open otherwise. Fuck, maybe he’d like that.

A thought for next time, though- now, it was all he could do to push back into Simon’s thrusts, tug his warm body as close as he could get it, and let out lost little ah ah ahs. He leaned forward enough to latch onto Simon’s neck and suck bruise after bruise onto his pale skin.

Between the wet sounds of his mouth working over Simon’s body, and the wet sounds of Simon working over his body, they were probably a little too loud, and definitely too obscene for the thin walls of the barracks. Soap couldn’t bring himself to care, though, not when Simon shifted, leaning his weight on one hand so the other could find his clit and tease him cleverly.

He unlatched from the impressive map of bruises staining Simon’s neck and chest to cry out, practically seeing stars at the complete stimulation. Simon’s sweaty face, leaned over him, curled into a smug grin, and he desperately wished that wasn’t so hot, because the pulse of arousal from Simon’s cocky attitude took him right to the edge.

“Nearly,” he breathed out, between whimpers, and Simon’s grin sharpened. He didn’t change his pace, but he did dip his head so his mouth was right at Soap’s ear, and he whispered,

“You’re perfect, you know that? So beautiful for me, all for me. I’m gonna make you feel so good, sweet little thing. I’m gonna keep you forever, my perfect mate, all mine to protect and love and fill you up with my cock. How’d you like to come on my mouth, and my cock, and my fingers, until you forget how it felt not to be adored? That’s right, keep making those beautiful sounds. I want to hear you feel good, sweet boy. Pretty mate. My mate. Mine.”

Soap cried out, body tensing impossibly as he came hard. His vision was overtaken by sparks, and his pussy clenched tight around Simon, making him feel even bigger. Simon fucked him through his orgasm, reaching his own peak just after, sinking his teeth sharply into the crook of Soap’s neck. Soap relaxed into the hot pain, relishing it. Simon whispered soft words of comfort as Soap panted below him, half out of his body, catching his breath.

He came back to himself gradually, and noticed Simon’s biceps trembling as he fought to keep his weight from crushing Soap. He snorted, and pushed at Simon’s chest with an insistent hand, until he carefully pulled out. Soap shoved him to roll onto his back, and tucked himself into his side, laying his head on Simon’s chest. He could hear Simon’s steady heartbeat, faster as he breathed in, slower as he breathed out. Healthy. Strong. Simon’s chin nuzzled the top of his head, and his arm wrapped around Soap’s side, pulling him in even closer. Soap didn’t know if he’d ever been so content.

He rolled over what had happened in his mind, curling happily into the memory. Simon’s other hand landed in his hair and combed through it absently, petting him. Soap sighed and pushed into his hand, savoring his mate’s gentle touch- wait.

“Simon?” He asked quietly.

“Mm?”

“When you said ‘mate’…? And ‘love’…?” He didn’t know how to finish the question, but Simon didn’t make him.

“I meant it. Of course I did, love.”

“Okay. Okay, good. I… me too.”

Simon snorted gently. Soap smacked his chest with no force.

“Shut up.”

Then another thought occurred to him.

“Wait. You bit me. Am I gonna be a werewolf now?”

The chest under him shook, and it took a moment for Soap to realize that Simon was laughing.

“No, Johnny. That’s not how it works. I can’t rewrite your genes by biting you.”

“I dunno that, do I?” complained Soap, embarrassed. “Can’t keep track’a yer stupid werewolf bullshit, how’m I supposed to know?”

“Well, you could stop treating idiotic werewolf movies as documentaries, for one.”

They bickered until they were too tired to remember what they were supposed to be fighting about, and then they bickered some more just for the hell of it, until they were too tired for talking at all, and then they drifted off peacefully into sleep together.

…

When Soap sauntered into the common room the next morning, he had to make his own coffee for the first time in months. Simon was usually up before him, but he seemed to sleep very well the night before, and Soap was loathe to wake him. The man barely got enough sleep as it was. He brightened up when he realized that this meant he could finally return the favor; if he made Simon’s cup of tea fast enough, he might even be able to bring it to him in bed.

Before he could search the cupboard for Simon’s box of tea bags, though, he was interrupted by a theatrical wheeze. He ducked his head back out, to see Gaz holding his chest and sneezing.

“What’s yer problem?” Soap asked, baffled. He started to walk over, but Gaz held out a warning hand.

“Are you fucking- no, don’t come any closer! You’re going to kill off my olfactory receptors with that smell, Jesus.”

Soap halted.

“What smell? What are ye talking about?”

He looked to Price for clarification, but Price was holding his nose shut too, leaning away from him. He was holding back a smile.

“Son, you smell like a rabbit warren. We’re happy for you, but we’d rather be happy for you from over here, if you don’t mind.”

Soap crinkled his nose, frustrated. A rabbit warren? They weren’t making any sense.

“Sex, you smell like sex! Jesus Christ. Can you take that somewhere else? You’re giving me a headache.” Gaz complained.

Soap burned with embarrassment, eyes going wide. They could smell Ghost on him. For fuck’s sake. They knew exactly what had happened.

“Shit, yeah, sorry. I’ll just-“ and he skittered out of the room, giving up on his half-baked excuse.

Soap went back to his own room, picked up his things, and hightailed it to the showers. When he finished, hopefully smelling of soap and not- well, anything else, he barged back into Simon’s room and flopped onto the bed, heedless of how his movements might wake Simon up. Simon let out a little groan, blinking his eyes open blearily. Soap forced himself to ignore how cute Simon was in the morning, in order to glare at him.

“You need to warn me next time, before I go out smelling like a billboard for everything we did last night.”

Simon blinked rapidly, then his eyes widened a fraction. His mouth twitched up into a slow grin as he processed what Soap had just told him.

“So, they know, then.”

“Yes, they know!” Soap burst out, throwing up his hands. “I practically gave them a front row seat for the playback. It was fuckin’ humiliating!”

Simon chuckled lowly, snaking a hand out of the covers to tug Soap in towards him. Though irritated, Soap went willingly, snuggling into the warmth of Simon’s sleepy form. Simon tugged Soap atop him, to lay on his chest. Soap let out an aggravated huff, but relaxed anyway. Simon tucked his head down to sniff through Soap’s mohawk, then he paused.

“You took a shower?”

Soap snorted.

“Yeah, obviously. I’m not gonna go around smelling like that on purpose, steamin’ Jesus.”

He untucked his head when Simon didn’t respond, to look up at him. There was a small but distinct pout on his face. It was adorable.

“What?” Soap asked.

“You don’t smell like me anymore,” Simon huffed. Soap let out an incredulous laugh.

“I can’t smell like you all the time, can I?” He watched in amazement as Simon’s pout grew into a true frown. “Are ye seriously upset about this?”

“You’re my mate. You’re meant to smell like me,” Simon half-growled. Then his expression shifted, grew a little less serious. “And you will.”

And with that, he scooped Soap up and rolled them, getting on top and pinning Soap in. Soap shrieked out, half in surprise and half with laughter.

“Get off me, you big walloper!” He laughed, but Simon was undeterred, rubbing his face along Soap’s, scenting every inch of Soap he could reach. Soap shoved him back for a moment, until he was balancing on his knees above Soap. “Nothing but a big old dog, sometimes, I swear,” he complained. Simon’s eyes glittered mischievously.

“A dog, am I?” He asked, then dove back in- but this time, with his tongue.

Soap shrieked out, laughing and squirming to free himself, but Simon held him down securely, licking him all over, until Soap was saturated with his scent. Soap laughed himself hoarse trying to wiggle away from the assault, but there was no stopping Simon when he was really determined. At last, he seemed to decide Soap smelled enough like him again, and he peeled back off, with one long parting lick to his cheek. Soap let out an inarticulate noise of complaint, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, but the damage was done.

“Gonna have to take another shower, now,” he whined. “Slobbery dog.”

Simon gave him a smug look, and just shrugged.

“Take as many showers as you want. You love me. You’re going to let me scent you for the rest of our lives, you won’t stay clean for long.”

Soap groaned and flopped his head back on the pillow, admitting defeat.

“Aye,” he admitted wryly, failing to hold back a smile. “That I am.”