#nullseven

[soapfcrce-a]

five times glanced at:      ( five times the receiver noticed the sender stealing glances at them )

The first time, they hadn’t known each other’s names. Soap couldn’t have been much older than twenty at the time, bright eyes and wired like a sugar rush child for his first big job. Personally handpicked by Price for a manifest grab, his stupid high wired brain even preened at the short jabs and jokes as the group spoke (“The FNG’s here, Sir. Be gentle.” “What the hell kind of name is Soap anyways?”). All in good fun.

It was hard to not notice him in the distance at the back of the hangers during the meeting, Soap’s eye caught the hood faster than the rest of him. The barracks were a contained space, word traveled, and maybe he couldn’t help but wonder if Andrew had been serious about whether or not that guy looked about as monstrous as his size. He also wondered if that was the scary bastard that he supposedly wiped the record of in the Pit—

The sharp jab to his side caught him before hood-man turning did. Soap could swear he could see the dull glint of the hanger lights reflecting off of sunglasses directed at him from the corner of his eye.

------

The second time, it’s exfil on their first job together. Still no names—not directly, anyways. It was always a weird one when the target seemed to know a lot more about the team than you did. At least nearly putting his head through the floor of the helicopter seemed to make the Russian asshole shut up for the rest of the flight…

The rush of the adrenaline had burned away finally, but there was a strange embarrassment settling on his shoulders. Painful awareness of what it must’ve looked like absolutely losing it in front of his superiors? Perhaps. Shepard and Price seemed focus on their capture, so he looked over at Ghost. Measuring the situation he just put himself in? Perhaps.

Was that the look of impressed or the look of ‘Yes, Sergent, you really did just fuck up’ he got back? Those stupid sunglasses and mask made it hard to tell. Well, hopefully the dress down wouldn’t be as painful…

------

The third time, they’re stuck in a car in Mexico. Rodolfo and Alejandro had been nice enough to give them the rough lay of the situation at least, but even Soap had so much of an attention span to listen to everything properly. Ghost…

Well, he can’t help but notice the listless reaction and half distant stare. Soap hadn’t bothered to think about it before, but masks were typically for one of two things in his experience: to hide something or to hide from something. He was smart enough to not try and barge too deep into business that wasn’t his own, but with that sad look in such big brown eyes? He couldn’t help but wonder if it was a bit of both.

When Ghost notices, it’s a miracle that he was able to play it off like the smudge on the window was the most interesting thing in the world. It’s another quiet moment, but Soap has already decided for himself that if he’s to put his life in this man’s hands then he won’t be another thing that makes him look so sad.

---------

The fourth time, they both clearly know the situation was about to turn much worse quicker than Alejandro did. The shared look of disbelief as Graves has his little villain speech, a silent question between them both. This was deeper, wasn’t it? No way he’d just betray them like this. No way the backstab was going to be this smooth, right?

An unspoken plan for when the encounter inevitably went tits up, Soap immediately grabbing one guy for a meatshield while he can hear Ghost smoothly take out the ones closest to him with a knife. When he felt Graves’s bullet tear through his shoulder, it was almost scary to hear just how panicked Simon sounded in his ears screaming his name and for him to run.

Soap decided he never wanted to hear him like that again.

--------

The fifth time, it’s exfil again. He feels the exhaustion in his bones along with the newest in pains and aches that probably also had their own pains and aches. Well, Soap didn’t exactly have falling down an elevator shaft on his bingo list…

Packed as tight as they could be like a sardine can, he could see the lights of Chicago that hadn’t gotten knocked flickering through the van windows. What a strange thing to appreciate when just minutes earlier he had nearly gotten thrown out of a window. He knew he couldn’t see it in the dark, but he still looked up at the taller man next to him. Ghost didn’t seem to take long to notice the way Soap had shuffled and looked over, a small tilt in his head as if to ask something. Maybe it was the exhaustion making him a bit delirious, but Soap couldn’t help but snort and let himself plop against one big arm for a quick rest.

He was surprised that Simon didn’t shove him off for that, but maybe a solid closeness was just something they both really needed.

[pseudowar-archived]

Whether he intended it to be or not, Ghost's gaze was like a weight on Trick's shoulders. Something that was skin-prickling and arm hair rising, an aura that made his shoulders unconsciously straighten whenever he first felt it, and yet, his head duck down. That kind of spine straightening, gaze ducking fear that only an authority or parental figure could provide. It made him feel like he was in basic all over again, a mere recruit trying to get by - a grub trying to become something better.

Thinking on it now, as he feels that familiar cold weight roll up his back, it's probably on purpose - it's easier to be a Lieutenant and cold hearted bastard when you had a gaze that kept people away. A heaviness about you that made even the world's best and happiest demolitionist (read: Soap), think twice before interacting - a thing Trick knew happened just by watching them interact. Soap always getting that look of calculation before he jumped into Ghost's space - like a man testing the temperature of a tub before jumping on it.

The temperature was always white hot, that kind of hot that felt almost cold.

"Morning, Lieutenant," Trick isn't quick to jump to his feet - he's got a fucking cane for a reason - but he is quick to snuff out his cigarette on the brick wall of the administration building. Quick to straighten his spine as usual, and make himself a little smaller on the bench. "S'awfully early, ain't it?"

And it was - the sun's colors just peeking over the horizon, purples just beginning to turn to shades of red and orange and pink. His favorite time of day if he was able to get out of bed, the time when base was still quiet, and everyone that tended to bother him was fast asleep. "Anythin' I can help with?"

@nullseven ; TRICK for GHOST starter call

[warfared]

puts you in my beak

UNHAND ME

[spitbullets]

@nullseven cont'd from here

It was quiet but not an eerie quiet like it was on nights in the midst of an active warzone. That was the night before, tonight they were as safe as you could be in a place like Urzikstan, out in the desert, a few kilos out from exfil for the 141. He, Farah, and a few soldiers would walk them to the spot they'd be choppered out from. Alex could handle it himself with a few men but Farah would want to say goodbye to Price. They seemed to have a mutual soft spot for each other.

But for now, just quiet. Everyone was resting or asleep, Alex stayed up with his rifle, tending to the fire and watching Ghost do, well whatever it was Ghost did. Alex didn't know him well enough to know his habits but the guy always seemed to be on alert, even more so than the rest of his team. They were all military men, special ops, you saw shit you'd wish you could forget but Ghost seemed to be a different brand of haunted. It made the nickname fitting.

Alex was a bit surprised by the question, he turned his head to look at Ghost, he looked even more elusory in this light.

"My country says I'm AWOL. Gone rogue. They'd put me in handcuffs as soon as I stepped foot on US soil. I made my choice and I knew the consequences. No turning back now," he shrugged. "I'm sure you've made some choices of your own you can't go back on."

[hvndredstories]

BEAK TO BEAK KISS <3

KISSING U KISSING U KISSING U

[soapfcrce-a]

@nullseven || sc!

“Th’ old man tell you t’ make sure I’m playing good boy?”

 He hardly looks up to check—or he doesn’t feel the need to throw much focus beyond getting his boots laced up. After working together, Soap was sure he had began to pick up on the little nuances of the lieutenant always lurking in the shadows very much like his namesake. Or maybe he had overheard something about a visit…

It was a bit hard to remember after the fifth round of painkillers and the lack of things to do beyond writing and sketching.

“’fraid t’ disappoint abidy ‘bout bein’ fine, LT.” Scottish accent drawled particularly thick, finally looking up. “Shoulder’s back in quality shape too after the metal the docs pulled outta it.”

[soapfcrce-a]

pecks your hair

insert ritz cracker bait here

[soapfcrce-a]

🎲 (Have one in return! 😉)

24. A sleepy kiss

Getting stuck in a cab to the rathole of a motel they were currently calling home for the week was probably the only good part about the undercover gigs. Less metal, bigger space, not too many eyes wondering what the fuck was going on…

It almost made up for the fact that the workload had given him enough time for sleep that was barely broaching a single digit hour number. It was a special kind of exhaustion that had him using Ghost as a pillow as they made their way back, half lulled by the lights and the radio and half lulled by a solid weight that was doing wonders in making his stupid brain shut up. There was a mumble of something, probably Simon on a phone giving a quick update about going someplace. Probably making sure to meet up with Gaz, if he had to hazard a guess.

The cab stops, they both exit and Soap waits for the other to pay before it drives off. Words were… definitely exchanged, he most definitely wasn’t struggling to stay alert on his feet and was definitely listening to what Ghost was saying. Did he reply? Well, in Soap’s head he did say something.

“Aye, s’alright.” Words just a bit slurred, he half stumbled in his step but muscle memory caught him. Muscle memory also apparently figured that maybe a little peck to a balaclava covered cheek was also pretty appropriate, Soap not even processing the feeling of the polyester on his lips until he had finally moved away.

Muscle memory at least had the sensibility to walk him right into the motel before anything could be said at least. At least Soap could have a moment in private to realize what he’s just done.

[soapfcrce-a]

❛  just don't make a big deal out of this.  ❜

“Or what? Ye willnae spoil me anymore?” Accent drawling a bit unnecessarily with his tease, but he figured he was allowed a bit of cheek. “Who’d ye get t’ deep fry ‘em anyways? Woulda thought Price’d throw a fit.”

Of course that hardly stops the way he tears into a third Mars Bar. Unhealthy as all hell and breaded like fish… just how Soap remembered them. “Don’ think I’ve had these since I were a wee lad. One o’ the few things I looked forward to when maw ‘d tell me ‘n’ Ava t’ bugger off for the day.” It takes another bite before he has to think for a moment on what he’s just shared. “Think that’s th’ first you’re hearin’, yeah? Older sister.”

[soapfcrce-a]

“You’re heavy.”

training turned tension starters

He hadn’t even noticed just how long he had been languishing in his win, much less his stupid brain having a bit of a moment of detailing. Did he put a new crack in Ghost’s mask? Was there always that tear in the top? Did his eyelashes really curl—

“Uh. Sorry.” A quick apology as Soap removed himself, and of course held a hand out for Ghost. “Was thinkin’—yeah, I know, spooky, but ye wouldnae let me land that.” Was he getting better? Or had Ghost let him win one? A lot of ego was definitely riding on the latter—not that it needed to actually be said.

“Not goin’ soft on me are you, LT?”

[pseudowar-archived]

Roach was a fast little bastard when he wanted to be - and he he wanted to be that day. A little bit higher strung than he liked - too much caffeine, and too many people watching - leading him to be an actual menace. That little part of him that wanted to show off taking over as he scales the obstacle course's wall in near record time and flings himself over the other side almost recklessly. Rough rope sliding through gloved fingers like a greased up pole - quickly, efficiently, and maybe, a little dangerously. Boots slamming into mud with a wet clomp that splatters it everywhere, including on a few unfortunate recruits that stood just a little to close to the wall, watching the newest Task Force member with rounded eyes and concerned looks.

He was a fucking terror to follow up - and he knew whoever was in charge of them on that day would drive them into trying to follow his lead as far as time and speed went. (There was a bet among the on-base medics on how many people would royally fuck their ankles that day trying to keep up with the high expectations, Gary was pretty sure it was at 60%.) But that was the fucking point - or so he'd been told. Scare the ones that wouldn't make it, and push the others to their breaking points - it's what had happened to him after all.

Wiping overgrown loose curls from his forehead, the Sergeant looks at the recruits with what could only be described as a shit eating grin and waves - watching with some private amusement as one or two of them stare back bizarrely, unused to his enthusiasm, his way of bulldozing through obstacle courses and then acting like it was nothing to him.

(It was nothing to him, he trained on the near regular with far more restrictions and harder instructors. He dealt with Ghost's perfectionist ass on the daily.)

And then... And then he spots said Lieutenant in the distance, observing them - observing him - and he can't help but widen his grin and abandon his (maybe) finished task of menacing. Gloved hands rising to greet the other man as he trots up. Mud on his clothes, smeared across cheeks that were already pink from exercise. 'Do you think I scared them enough?'

@nullseven ; ROACH for GHOST starter call

[soapfcrce-a]

❛  do you believe in ghosts?  ❜

questions for 🧼

“—No, but don’t let that stop me from haunting you for th’ fresh coronary yeh bastart.”

Maybe he was being a bit dramatic about, and maybe the hand to his chest was unnecessary, but he had finally managed to find a slumped position that could be considered comfortable enough for a short cat nap. Apparently even that was going to go out the window alongside his nerves…

“Fuuuck… think I hate your idea of a wakeup call worse…” Soap gave a bit of a pathetic groan about it, finally sitting up proper to rub the sleep out of his face. “Mnn… yer not gonna spend my watch tellin’ ghost stories now, are you?”

[spitbullets]

@nullseven cont'd from here

TRUST IS A HARD EXERCISE AND A HARDER LESSON TO LEARN. Ghost has never claimed to be good with it. To begin with, being sparing of who he hands that trust to is what's kept him alive all these years. Surviving, running, hiding—striking back when the time is right and he's this biting, biting teeth. All teeth, no bark. He doesn't answer straight away as he pages in with Watcher for a quick sitrep. Bravo Seven to Watcher, we're RTB, he'd murmur into the radio. Copy that, out here. "Patience's a virtue, Johnny." Ghost's eyes trace a path over to Soap, slow and unhurried before they return to the road. The car smells like gunmetal, sweat, dirt, and blood. But it's en route to safety, and that's all that matters. "Wait a bit longer."

Dealing with career military types was always a little awkward, especially the special ops guys. Trusting no one and keeping your mouth shut was, for the most part, a recipe for long-term success. Hence Price, hence Ghost. Soap knew he was a little too trusting, loyal to the 'right' people, or at least those he deemed as such. His hyperactive brain caused him to be curious and excitable but he knew how to hold it together and when to shut up.

He'd known well enough not to ask a superior straight away why they wore what looked like a horror movie prop mask and balaclava every waking hour. After getting to know Riley and forming a rapport, well he broke down and asked.

Plenty of time had lapsed since, he mostly forgot about it but for some reason watching mortar fire light up Ghost's eyes behind his mask earlier tonight had reminded him. "So they say but it's never been one o' mine," he's following Ghost's lead, taking quick strides to keep pace with the Lieutenant's long legs. "A bit? You gon' keep sayin' that 'til one o' us dies or will ya actually tell me one day?"

[warfared]

'Go to sleep.' / for Gaz!

❛ you're makin' it difficult, sir. starin' at me like the bloody grim reaper. ❜

gaz's position in the hospital bed is incredibly uncomfortable. his back's not broken, by any means, but the brace for support makes him feel like it is. it's itchy and uncomfortable, and moving too much makes it feel like he's pulling something.

he wasn't too surprised that ghost chose to stay behind, though. they were teammates, after all.

his eyes fall to the digital clock at his bedside. it's almost midnight. he's so tired that he can't fall asleep, and he wants to get up and move around, but that's not happening anytime soon.

❛ if you aren't busy, d'you wanna grab me a bag of crisps from the vending machine down the hall? sour cream and cheddar, preferably. ❜

[soapfcrce-a]

who hit me with a snowball?

“Dunno. Probably were the wind.”

Of course, he says that like he doesn’t have the remnants of snow still stuck to his gloves and the clear glint of mischief in his eyes. Sure, he was almost 29, but the magic of the first snow of the year couldn’t be resisted.

And maybe there were less dangerous targets he could’ve chosen, but Soap was determined to share the mood.

“Nae old enough t’ ignore the spirit are you, LT?” This time? He wasn’t going to hide scooping up another patch of snow. “Know what this means, yeah? Holidays are soon.”

[hvndredstories]

@nullseven || charity gala shenanigans, ft. the LTs!

It's been. Hours. (He's missing Myanmar. Bloody Myanmar, with it's godawful jungles and his even worse luck with ops there.)

"You seen the captain in the last ten minutes?" Richie doesn't bother with the formalities of hello or asking how Ghost's night has gone. At some point in the night, someone must have caught wind of his heir-apparent status, because he's been fielding absolute shite for the past half-hour, with no escape in sight. He's itching for a cigarette or three.

Honestly, if Ghost is half as rearing to leave as Richie is, he's half-tempted to make up an emergency and bust the both of them out for a reprieve. Sorry, Captain, you're on your own for this one.