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tiddygame · 3 months ago

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Ghoap god type au part 8!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

can i offer anyone... almost 8k words of exposition and plot dump? hmmm? no? well, what if it comes with ghost resting his head in soap's lap? huh? what then?

fair warning: ghost has a bad time again

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

...

The soldiers would often mention how they withstood the general’s abuse because they knew that they could trust him. That he was one of, if not the greatest war hero to ever grace the kingdom. Well known for being honorable and doing everything to protect his men.

There was no honor to be found in surprising an enemy encampment at the dead of night. Very few were armed, most were likely still asleep as they lost the fight for their lives. But the general was good, successful, victorious. So his men charged in without a doubt. Laughed at the ease with which the enemy was felled.

By the time reinforcements arrived, there was nothing left to save. They tried to avenge their fallen comrades, but instead joined them in the afterlife. To say they retreated was far too dignified for the fear and desperation with which they ran. Some of the oh-so-honorable general’s soldiers even laid chase, shooting arrows into their backs as they fled.

The encampment was empty. Smoke billowed into the sky, tainting the white clouds. The ground was scattered with puddles — both blood and water alike.

Ghost sat in the ruins and watched as the tents burned.

After the slaughter, the allied dead were carted away to be given a proper burial. The rest were abandoned. Blue tunics stained red and fragments of shields covered in blood littered the ground.

Winter had long ago sunk her claws deep into the land and the bodies would most likely freeze before they could decay. Stuck in the inevitable snow, they would only be allowed to rejoin the earth in months when Spring’s thaw would free them, all based on the color of their uniforms.

For now, scavenger birds picked at their corpses, enjoying the free feast.

There was a haunting type of silence that could only be found in the wake of a massacre; An echo of death that seemed to scar the earth. Regardless of who or what was left alive, there was nothing living to be found. Shadows of ravens took away the dead, piece by piece. Whispers from the fates were carried by the wind, lies of justice and retribution pushing around dead leaves and tattered scraps of fabric.

Displeased with the lack of calamity, his mind filled the void, reminding him of the clanging metal, pained screams, and unheard pleas for mercy. A macabre orchestra singing a sweet lullaby, begging him to lay down his weapons and freeze along with the dead.

He felt the warmth of his arrival before the god spoke.

“I think you should deflect.”

Ghost didn’t jump this time, by now used to the god’s tendencies. He didn’t look away from the smoldering ash that had once been a medical tent.

He tried to say something, but it didn’t work. There was a vast disconnect between his brain and the rest of his body. It was like he was trapped in sleep paralysis — his mind running rampant but his muscles unable to follow.

He watched a corvid begin picking through the intestines of a soldier who still had his eyes open, watching the clouds pass overhead.

“This doesn’t have to happen again if you leave.”

“Do you think I stay by choice?”

“Yes.”

Ghost didn’t have the strength for anger. He dropped to his knees like he was honoring the people whose blood still coated his blades.

“It must be easy, then, to be a god, if you truly believe it to be that simple.”

“I did not come back from the brink of death just to become a patron of this violence again.”

Soap’s voice held a level of fury he had never heard from the god before. Boots walked in front of his vision.

Before him stood Soap, the God of Death. For the first time since they met, he looked the part. He stood as he had been described, tall, blue eyes, and the clean, unwrinkled clothes of a man rich enough to have Ghost’s lip curling in disgust.

“You came back,” Ghost muttered with poison on his tongue, “Because I gave you an offering.”

Soap matched his tone, “And I accepted because you gave me hope.”

They both had rage sparkling at the tips of their fingers but the tragedy around them weighed far too heavy for something so grand. Soap kneeled, not low enough to be at eye level with the way Ghost hunched in on himself, but no longer leering over him.

Hope.

Ghost only scoffed half-heartedly in response. He hadn’t felt so tired since he had an arrow embedded in his chest.

Soap’s voice was kinder, but not softer. “I am not the god of war—”

Ghost interrupted him, “So you want me to continue fighting a war to prove it?”

“I want you to end it,” Soap corrected in a low tone, emphasis placed on every word.

He almost laughed. “A war that’s been ongoing for almost twenty years — You want me to stop it by just—?”

Soap returned his rudeness by interrupting him, “I want for this bloodshed to cease. Immediately. If that means your general dies, it will not be a great upset.”

“He is not my general,” Ghost growled out through gritted teeth.

The god sneered, “No, you just kill whoever he tells you to without question.”

“I owe him my life,” Ghost spat, feeling phantom chains on his wrists; a weight that had rested on him so heavily for so long he often forgot they were gone.

“Did you owe him their lives too?”

Ghost said nothing in response, just watched the embers slowly die and the flies begin to gather. The silence lingered.

Soap sighed and dropped his head, looking off to the side. It seemed he was taking some time to compose himself but Ghost couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scavenger birds.

Would the people who had been turned into their dinner be glad that their body was not going to waste? Or would they be angry that they were not allowed to rest even in death?

A pessimistic part of Ghost tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter, that the dead do not have feelings. Ghost thinks that he’d be happy to be able to keep providing, to let the birds eat his flesh and the earth prosper off his bones.

There were hands reaching towards him. He couldn’t bring himself to flinch away.

“Ghost.” Soap sounded almost like he was pleading. “Please look at me.”

His hands cupped Ghost’s face. Ghost followed absently. His eyes were no longer focused on anything but he could still only see sleeping faces.

It never got easier.

Whoever suggested as much had never felt the way blood dries on your hands. The way it got tacky, sticking your weapon to your palm even as you tried to drop it. The way it stained your nails and lingered for days. The way it never seemed to wash off. The way it haunted you. The way it got under your skin and festered.

“I cannot watch this happen again.” Soap’s thumbs rubbed just under his eyes like he was wiping away non-existent tears.

Was he crying?

Soap squeezed his fingers where they rested in his hair, drawing him back. “Please do not make me watch this again. Not when you can change it.”

“How?”

There was too much scathing disbelief in his voice for it to be an honest question.

“Do not let them win.”

Ghost waited for more, but that was it. That was all he had to offer. How does he stop them from winning? Simple. Do not let them win. He wanted to scoff at the answer but he didn’t have the air in his lungs.

Just five words but he heard everything Soap was too reluctant to say with them. It was more of a non-answer than anything else because Soap didn’t have an answer; he didn’t know how. He said so himself, he was the god of death, not war.

If Ghost did this, it would be either under his own plan or none at all.

Why was he considering it?

He couldn’t. For all his faults, the general had pulled him out of the ash and gave him food when he should have been left to starve. When the gods ignored his pleas, it was a mortal man who answered and offered him a home.

And now it was a god telling him to betray his liberator.

Was it all for nothing?

One of the tents collapsed in on itself, crackling as it lost the struggle with the flames. Ghost leaned into the god’s hands and closed his eyes. He could still see their faces.

…

A new day was just beginning to break over the horizon, pale light spilling over the military camp. Dew had frozen to the grass and a chill clung to the air even as the sun shooed it away, foretelling the upcoming snowfall.

The sentinels wouldn't be switching for another hour, the soldiers stationed at the lookouts shuffling in place to keep themselves awake and alert. The lookout fire was warm and sang a siren song for them to curl up and fall asleep but they stayed firm in their position. They watched for threats even as they fantasized of the shift change that would let them sleep the day away.

Soon, the camp's cook would be fumbling over the fire with cold fingers as he began to prepare breakfast for numerous hungry soldiers. Until then, they were still huddled on their cots, happily asleep with their warm blankets.

The general lied in his bed, sleeping soundly, warm. Their plans had been finalized the night prior, having spent hours perfecting them. Before long, they would be marching on, taking the enemy by surprise and pushing them back; The war was nearing an end and in due time they would be at the enemy’s front gate.

But, for now, they rest. They were warm and safe.

All except for one.

Ghost was sitting up on his cot and had been for the entire night. He would like to say he had spent all of those hours coming to a decision, but he already knew his answer. No, he had spent all of those hours alone in his tent staring at the grass beneath his feet, only partially aware of the chill numbing his fingers, trying to come to terms with his sudden and drastic change in fate.

He spent all of his life knowing he was never destined for more. He would die as he lived and leave no impression on the world save for the fear that permeated people’s hearts at knowing that something like him could exist. And yet…

Hope. That’s what he spent all of those hours doing. Hoping.

Hoping that maybe he could be something other than man’s monster. Hoping that he could watch the sunrise without the weight of blood staining his hands. Hoping that maybe he could have that happy ending he always heard his mother talk about.

That stupid little idea of a farmhouse in the middle of fields and fields of flowers, or a cottage tucked away in an expansive forest full of animals to make for kind neighbors. When he was younger, it made for a dinner table hypothetical to distract from how little food was on their plates. When he grew older he saw it for what it was: An unobtainable fantasy to make going to work the next day feel less like a death sentence.

But now it was so, so close that he didn’t know what to do. Not the house away from everyone that could bother him, but a happy ending. It was right there and it collapsed his entire worldview.

For so long he didn’t care about death or the afterlife because there was no hell that could be worse than what he was living. But now, he had the chance to be happy. For the first time since he was a kid he had something to lose. And by the gods, did it terrify him.

The sun rose higher; He would need to leave soon. His hands were shaking.

He already had a copy of the plans, he just needed to get them to the opposing army. Ghost had snuck a peak at them as they were being finalized, memorized them, and wrote them down in the margins of that book he got during his second encounter with the god. He had justified it to himself by lying that copying them down did not mean he had to deflect.

Deflect.

Ghost heard the cook strike his flint and steel to start the fire, it echoed through him and got louder with each reverberation.

Gods, he was actually doing it, wasn’t he?

The general had saved his life and in return he was not just going to betray him, Ghost was going to make him watch his troops fall before he stabbed him in the back. As nasty as he could be, he cared for his men. Being forced to watch them die was perhaps the cruelest fate Ghost could inflict.

Please do not make me watch this again.

What was his story? Where does he claim he was going? Was there anything he could say that wouldn’t arouse suspicion? There was no reason for the general to think Ghost was betraying him.

Ghost is… Ghost is just going hunting again.

Yes, that’s it.

A simple hunting trip and nothing more. That’s why he’s leaving on horseback, so he can transport whatever bounty he collects. It’s why he’s carrying such a heavy bag with him, he’d need camping supplies and a book to keep him company. It’s why he’s leaving for several days, hunting can take patience.

He stood mechanically and walked out of his tent.

The general was chatting with the cook. He was probably waiting for his cup of coffee. He didn’t know that one of his best was actively turning traitor.

Ghost approached. He did not feel anxiety eating him alive, no, that had happened hours ago when he had condemned everyone around him. Now he stood hollow, his chest empty, ribs encasing nothing, his heartbeat echoing in an empty cavern.

“I would like to go hunting,” Ghost announced, interrupting the two’s conversation. The cook was confused and the general angry before they saw who it was interrupting them, the former gaining a look of understanding and the latter looked…

Ghost didn’t know what the general was thinking when he saw him. He looked almost… excited. It had Ghost’s already clenched teeth grinding themselves into dust.

“Hunting?” the general asked.

“Yes sir,” Ghost affirmed, praying to gods he did not know, pleading for everything to be okay.

The general hummed, thinking about something. He nodded, “Be back within three days. We leave in four.”

The general grabbed the cup of coffee offered to him by the cook and walked back to his tent.

What the fuck?

No, really, what the fuck? No questions of where or what he was hunting, no arguments, no complaints, no denials…

Why? Ghost would rather have been interrogated and questioned on every specific detail the general could think of to dispute. Why did he agree?

Was it a trap?

He’d asked that same question the last time he approved of a hunting trip but found his fears unjustified. The general did not like him and trusted him even less, there was no reason for him to grant Ghost this kindness.

Did he know?

There was no way he could. The only evidence that there was something afoot were the scribblings in a book shoved into the bottom of his pack — hell, even then they were written on the inner margins some seventy pages in. Besides his one conversation with the god of death, in which he didn’t even fully commit to deflecting, that one book stored at the bottom of his bag hidden beneath his cot was the only way the general could know.

So why, why, why did he agree?

“Breakfast will be served in half an hour, unless you plan on helping, get lost.”

Ghost drew out of his panicked mind and stared at the cook, slowly processing the sentence. And creeped him out in doing so if his sudden lack of assertiveness and refusal to look at Ghost was any proof.

He turned back to his tent, feeling like an imposter in his own skin, and prepared for his trip.

…

It had just reached high noon and a soldier was riding through rolling plains of dead grass.

The wind had gone from whispers to howls. Winter’s mongrels bit at any inch of exposed skin. His steed speeding through the lands only worsened the sting as he struggled to keep his head up and eyes open. Still, he did not tell her to slow. There was no time for delay.

Truthfully, Ghost did not know where he was going. The plans mentioned assaulting a fortress resting at the foothills of a mountain, one that was old and had stood the test of time; One that could end a war if it changed hands.

The plans did not, however, include a list of directions for how to get there. The only thing he knew for certain was that he needed to head north, but beyond that was a mystery.

Initially, he’d gone back to the ruined encampment with the intention of searching what little survived the fires for a map or something of the like. He spent several minutes staring at corpses that had frozen solid in the night and likely would have spent longer if not for Taxes refusing to stay there.

When he was pulled away from the grim sight, he found his plan to have been useless. There was only ash in the main encampment and the reinforcements had come from a smaller camp up the way and closer to the road, likely a failed lookout, one which did not have a map either.

He could trace the events of the fight from the remains of the camp.

The fire had burned out on its own. Stools were knocked over and arrows were snapped on the ground as if they had spilled from a quiver and been stepped on. Blankets had been tossed aside with a quickness, weapons taken but scabbards forgotten.

They had been preparing a meal, probably resting and chatting when they heard the screams of their comrades and cheers of their enemies and raced to help, only to then too become victims of a rich man’s war.

He tried following the trail of those who fled but it only led to him finding more corpses, some who died as they ran and others who either bled out or froze in the night.

He changed plans quickly after that.

Ghost figured he would find something eventually if he just kept moving. He was distinctly aware of the fact that the fleeing soldiers probably had a similar ideology when they succumbed to their wounds and the harsh elements.

After a few miles his plans changed again to finding somewhere to safely spend the night. He could see his breath puffing out even through his mask when it was noon; If what should be the warmest time of day had him shivering, he had no chance of making it through whatever the night held.

When he set out in his panicked state, the only thing he could think about was getting out of camp as fast as he could and in turn finding the fortress just as fast. To set out with more or less no plan was a stupid move, but for all his panicked overthinking, he apparently forgot to think about how he would trade over the information without dying of hypothermia.

He had made good progress but he needed to find a roof to lay under — and fast. Once the sun began to fall it wouldn’t be long before it was pitch black with the hounds of hell masticating a chill into his bones.

…

Ghost had no idea why he deviated off the road he had been following, he just knew that he found himself on a trail with an old cabin sitting at the end of it. It may have been divine intervention or it may have been his subconscious stepping in when the forefront of his mind was stuck in turmoil, either way he didn’t bother questioning it.

Based on the state of the cabin and its furnishings, it was likely a summer home owned by someone, perhaps a hunter, who was thankfully not present and based on the dust, hadn’t been for a while. Whether it was abandoned or not didn’t matter; It was currently vacant and had a fireplace which were the only two things he could bring himself to care about.

Ghost had a distinctly out-of-place feeling as he stood in the middle of a cabin meant for warm summer nights while his breath visibly puffed out and snow piled outside.

Maybe he was just disconnecting from his body again.

Now that he thought about it, he’s not sure he’d felt connected to his body throughout the whole day.

He wanted to shake the feeling away, but he did not have the agency over his muscles to do so. He was only able to collect firewood by absent muscle memory; He could do nothing but hope that whatever part of him still worked would be enough to keep him alive.

All he knew was that he had been looking for somewhere to spend the night, found a cabin, and was staring at a fire in a fireplace shortly thereafter.

He knew he was missing something as he somewhat came back to himself, energy shooting through him as he realized he couldn’t recall what he’d done with Taxes after dismounting. Suddenly terrified that he’d left her on her own, he burst out the door and looked around quickly, searching for tracks and…

She was stabled.

There was a tiny, two-stall stable next to the cabin. She had been de-tacked, brushed, and fed. He approached her and slowly reached out to touch her muzzle, the normally irritable horse accepting the slow touches like she knew something was wrong.

He stayed there for a while, making sure that she was alright and then waiting longer to see if it was an illusion that was going to wither away with his grip on reality.

It didn’t.

He returned to the cabin.

He sat against the wall near the fireplace with his legs splayed out like he’d collapsed and stared at his hands, focusing on how they burned from the change in temperature. He still had blood under his nails.

The calluses that had developed over years and years of wielding various weapons were still very visible in the dim light. Some were lighter, some were darker; they sat at the base of his fingers, a few trailing up higher.

He remembered when he had been younger and stupider, he thought he was being tough by continuing to train even as his hands grew sore and blistered. He remembered the panic he had felt when he realized that the next day he would not be given a break.

Only barely winning against his opponent, he stood shaking, hunched over and leaning on his sword, the tip of it buried into the sandy ground, completely relying on it to stay standing. He heaved for air; His lungs were still fighting even as the battle was over.

Blood stained the guard and ran down the blade, dripped down his fingers and fell to the ground. It didn’t splatter, it stayed in neat little drops as it mixed with the sand. His arm hanged limply, thousands of needles prickling his hand like it was going numb even though he could still feel the pain.

He was exhausted to the point of twitching, the world pulling apart at the seams. He could only feel his heartbeat reverberating through his skull. His chest rested against the pommel, the intricate design coming to a point that tried to stab through to his heart.

The sores on his hand had opened very quickly after the fight started. Everytime he lifted his sword, the pain spiked to such an intense degree that he’d fumbled his weapon several times, once almost dropping it on himself. He wanted to cry. Wasn’t his brain supposed to shut off his pain response when it was life or death?

It hurt so bad he’d started to pray that his foe would kill him just so this torture would have been done with. But his pride got in the way of his dreams of dying; He couldn’t bring himself to hand victory to his opponent. He refused to give up even as he wished nothing more than for the enemy to strike him down.

He couldn’t let go of his sword. He tried loosening his grip, he wanted to drop it and never look at a blade ever again, but it stuck to his hands. The opened blisters had dried and scabbed over against the leather wrap of the handle.

He didn’t what would hurt more: To rip all of that away and drop his weapon or to keep pressing against them as he held onto the sword for balance. He tightened his grip.

He couldn’t see or hear. His heartbeat was thudding in his ears and there was red-stained sandy ground beneath him but he couldn’t see or hear. He could, but he couldn’t.

He wondered if this was what it felt like to pass out.

Hands, different ones, not his own. They grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him but his mind was already gone. The scabs ripped and reopened. They were not healed by the next fight.

His hands were bloodied.

When Soap appeared, he had the decency to do so quietly, looking regretful for the situation he had put Ghost in. It was an accusatory way to phrase it, but still held some truth.

“Ghost, I—”

“Please.��

Ghost shook his head, not knowing what he was pleading for. The real world was too much and he shut his eyes tight. He was not equipped for whatever conversation Soap wanted or needed.

With one word, Soap apparently heard enough.

Ghost heard him stand, walk towards him, and stop. When he worked up the courage to open his eyes, he saw the god of death before him, holding out his arms. Ghost waited but Soap remained.

Deciding to be brave, Ghost placed his hands in Soap’s. The god gave a small, reassuring smile; He tugged Ghost’s arms lightly twice, warning him of the upcoming movement before fully pulling him up to standing.

Ghost had only a moment to wobble and distantly worry about falling before Soap pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him. Despite being shorter, he still managed to engulf Ghost in his grasp, holding him like he was blocking away the rest of the world.

Ghost had to squeeze his eyes tighter but soon reciprocated. Whereas Soap wrapped his arms tightly around him, Ghost could barely cling onto Soap’s shirt. He had no idea how long they stayed like that; Even time itself seemed to still to allow them a small reprieve.

He knew that Soap began humming a quiet tune at one point or another; Ghost did not just hear the soft melody wander into the dark cabin, but felt it reverberate from Soap’s chest as well with how close they were pressed.

When Ghost found it within himself to lift his head, Soap offered him that same reassuring smile once more. His tune petered out as he guided Ghost towards the dusty bed. His mind was elsewhere but he knew deep down he could follow Soap.

And perhaps out of everything that had happened, that was the part that frightened him the most. The fact that he trusted Soap. Ghost was… vulnerable. Ghost was vulnerable and he trusted Soap to take care of him.

Soap only stepped away for a moment to shake off and resituate the dirty bedding before sitting down and motioning for Ghost to join him; He had Ghost lie down with his head resting on Soap’s leg.

Ghost did so very slowly, his back protesting at every movement. He perhaps should have been embarrassed over the strained grunts he let out but he didn’t care. He was more concerned with reminding himself that it was not supposed to hurt to relax.

It took him a good long while to be able to breathe again after fully lying on his side with his ear against the other’s thigh, his lungs suddenly burdened with the brunt of his anxiety.

Soap draped a few blankets overtop of him; Ghost wasn’t sure where they came from, but they smelled nice. It made part of him shrivel at how incapable he was at taking care of himself, but the comforting weight they offered was a welcome juxtaposition over his rampaging mind attempting to crush him.

He was sure that when he could think beyond reminding his heart to beat and his lungs to take in air, he’d be grateful that Soap didn’t make him lie on top of the moth-eaten top blanket or the grimy pillow. In the moment however, he appreciated the easier contact that kept him tethered without anything more overwhelming.

Ghost pulled the blanket up close, practically hiding under it like there were monsters under the bed. He could feel his heart preparing to fight for his life but he closed his eyes and tried to breathe. They were staccato inhales, shaky and short, but he was breathing.

Would he return to camp? After everything, after the information had been handed off, would he go back to his tent, help them pack up like he hadn’t betrayed them?

Should he run? Just pray that everything works out and try to find some land far, far away where they would mistake Ghost for one of them? As something that deserved respect and kindness? As someone who didn’t have enough blood on their hands to start or end a war?

He’s only ever been a weapon for other people to use to kill anyone they felt like. Why now was he so caught up on killing people?

They were not good people — Ghost knew his sense of honor was twisted but he would never attack the back of a fleeing man for being on the other side of a war. They killed innocent people who surrendered the same way they did an active threat.

Were Ghost’s actions any different? Had he not done the same?

Soap brought his hand to gently card through Ghost’s short hair.

Ghost would have been dead if not for the general. Yes, he hated him, but that didn’t change that he saved Ghost when he should have been left to die.

Soap saved your life too.

And he knows that. He knows every counter argument that could be thrown out at it, he’s had the same debate with himself for years. But shouting into the sky about the cruelty of fate did not clear his warring mind.

Ghost opened his mouth to try to speak but the words didn’t form, his throat closed up and his lungs refused to provide the air. It was only after undoing all of his work to keep himself breathing that he was able to choke anything out.

“I’m scared.”

He could barely admit it as if he weren’t holding the blanket he was hiding under in a white knuckle grip. He didn’t feel any lighter with the admission off of his consciousness.

Soap remained silent.

Ghost was suddenly very unsure if he’d spoken at all. Or maybe he had. Maybe Soap was doing him a favor by pretending not to have heard it, acting like Ghost hadn’t just embarrassed himself. Or…

“Me too.”

Perhaps it should have made him more nervous to hear a divine being admit to such a thing, but he wasn’t after thoughtless false promises. He couldn’t stand being trapped in his mind as he was, not knowing if he had completely lost it. He didn’t want denials or lies that everything would be okay, he just needed…

He didn’t know what he needed.

It’s okay to seek solace.

Ghost closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to exile all of his stress as he exhaled. It didn’t work, but he felt better which was all he could hope for.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t know which one of them said it or if it even existed outside of his decaying mind, or perhaps it was that old friend’s voice that had been haunting him. Regardless, the world resting upon his shoulders felt a little lighter as he fell asleep.

…

When he woke, he had a pounding headache that left his eyes feeling dry and grainy even though he just opened them. Winter’s pale blue light was poking in through the half-boarded windows of the cabin; the dust particles floating through the air looked like snowflakes that had fallen under the roof.

Soap was still there, not having moved through the night and still acting as his pillow. His hands were still gently running through his hair as well, the motion almost making him fall back asleep.

The fire roared on the other side of the cabin and he was covered in blankets, yet he shivered. He dreaded to think how much snow was sure to be on the ground outside.

Ghost sat up but did so grumpily, his mood worsening when one of the several blankets fell and left him just that much more exposed to the cold.

“Good morning.”

The fondness was clear in Soap’s tone. He grumbled back with a glare, unable to think about anything other than how much he wished he was still asleep, and held onto the blankets as he shuffled to the fireplace.

His annoyance at being awake was soothed by the warmth it provided and again he was tempted to fall back asleep. Ghost didn’t remember the specifics of the night prior and he would like to keep it that way. If he didn’t acknowledge it, then there was nothing to be embarrassed by.

Ghost was vaguely aware of a corrupted feeling flowing through his veins; He furrowed his brow, trying to pinpoint what it was.

He felt like he had crossed a malevolent god who placed a curse on him, a curse that made him feel dizzy even as he sat still on the ground and his fingers feel detached as he stared at them. The world around him seemed to move in slow motion, like he was stuck in molasses.

Soap walked over while rooting through his bag.

“You need something to eat, you didn’t eat at all yesterday.”

Ah, he was hungry. That explained it. At least that was an evil that was easy to defeat. He accepted whatever food Soap handed him and ate slowly, taking immense effort to chew every bite.

He still didn’t feel hungry, if anything he felt the opposite, but he did feel a little better once he was finished, even if it took him almost an hour. (It was not because Soap’s smile seemed to brighten every time he took a bite.)

Ghost was slowly coming back to himself but wanted to check on Taxes before he did anything else. When she saw him she whinnied and shook her head; she was just as happy to see him as she was ready for him to pet her.

He obliged, stepping into her stall and looked for where he set her gear as he scratched and petted to her heart’s content. (And was thoroughly reprimanded when he got distracted and stopped; She whinnied loudly, somehow always right in his ear, if his hand stilled for even a moment.)

To his past-self’s credit, he got most things in the right spot, only a few baffling misplacements. Taxes was outraged when he fully stepped away, but calmed down when he gave her breakfast.

He was shaking out her blanket when Soap exited the cabin with his bag looking much fuller than it had the day prior. Several blankets stuck out the top, too full to close.

Ghost shook his head, not wanting to think about whatever the god of death had filched from a stranger’s cabin. Soap stayed outside the stall, passing his bag over silently and watching him as he prepared to head out again.

As he expected, the bag was much heavier than it had been when he left. Looking at how much was in it, he had an errant thought about Soap not seeming like the thieving type and a realization crashed over him. Perhaps there was a reason why the god of death was able to lead him to this particular and particularly vacant cabin.

He suddenly decided not to dwell on why Soap led him there.

Taxes was still eating so he took some time to himself, pulling everything out of the bag and organizing it, both to take inventory and to make everything fit.

He didn’t know where he was relative to the shitty map he had, but based on the temperature difference, he probably made enough progress yesterday to reach the fort before nightfall. He would have to wait until he was on the road to find landmarks that he could use to orient himself and plot a proper course.

After some deliberation, he took the book and put it in an inner pocket of his cloak; he didn’t want to risk anything happening to it in his bag. He spent some time shuffling all of the items, finding an odd amount of comfort in the control he had from simply organizing his own bag.

He felt a smidge of happiness when he got all of it to fit in a way that still allowed the bag to close, an impressive feat considering just how much shit Soap grabbed. A smidge of happiness that weakened when he realized that he couldn’t stall any longer and would have to set out again.

…

He would never admit to anyone, not even himself, how relieved he was when Soap got on behind him and wrapped his arms around him. It was a mirror of a position they had found themselves in before, but this time it felt different. It no longer felt like Soap was worried about falling or trying to warm him but he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly it was.

It’s called a hug.

He rolled his eyes at the little lying voice and was glad Soap couldn’t see his annoyance at the nuisance that decided to chime in again. Because he was wrong. It wasn’t a hug. Soap, the god of death, was not fucking “hugging” him.

(His cheeks burned at the thought but he did not pull away from the touch.)

Soap wouldn’t be able to stay for long. Ghost had of course noticed the pattern in his visits; They were always fairly short and rarely lasted more than a few hours. And while his memories of the day prior were shot to shit, he knew the god must have pushed well beyond his limits.

The realization that he forgot to give Soap an offering made him want to hang his head in defeat. It was the only way he had to thank Soap for all that he’d done or to provide compensation but he was too absorbed in himself to even give the god a flower.

He had never felt like he owed anyone an explanation for why he was the way that he was, but… Soap owed him nothing and gave him everything. The least Ghost could do was give an excuse a reason for… just… everything.

Ghost took a long time to focus on his breathing, in and out, refusing to repeat yesterday.

“I used to be a fighter in the arena.”

Such few words yet he felt like he just gave an entire speech. It was a pitiful excuse for the amount of blood on his hands. He was too lost in his head to see if Soap reacted.

It wasn’t a well kept secret, but the legends surrounding his nickname had grown murky over the years; He didn’t know if people had truly connected the dots between the famous deadly gladiator and infamous deadly soldier under the same name.

“We needed money, seemed like an okay decision at the time.”

He suddenly felt like he had to defend his younger self’s actions, as stupid as they were.

“I knew it could and would probably kill me, but it — dying in battle, it sounded more appealing than starving.”

This is unnecessary. Stop trying to make him feel bad for you.

He continued. He could feel tears pricking at his eyes at the memory.

“My mother begged me not to, but it was the only work available and I couldn’t sit back and watch. So I signed a contract.”

Once he started talking he couldn’t stop himself. Years and years of bottling everything up was finally spilling over and Soap wasn’t the one who needed to hear it, wasn’t the one who deserved to have all of his grief dropped on, yet he didn’t shut up.

If he wanted you to stop, he’d have said something.

“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, at first. There weren’t many fights and they paid well, most of them weren’t to the death or anything like that. I… couldn’t really leave the arena, but it got money to my family so I didn’t care.”

Ghost paused, reminiscing on when things were easier. Soap rubbed his thumb in small semi circles on his arm. Ghost tried to focus on the touch.

“A sponsor didn’t like that I beat his favorite fighter and lost him some money. So he—”

Ghost’s voice cut itself off. He forced himself past the emotional mess his brain was becoming, or tried to.

“He had someone— I didn’t— No one—”

Gods, fucking pull yourself together.

He almost choked on the lump in his throat that he had tried to ignore and coughed.

Just breathe.

“He got caught and they decided death by gladiatorial combat was appropriate. It didn’t make me feel any better; It didn’t bring them back. I signed another contract. I—”

Soap doesn’t want or need to hear this. Shut. Up.

He lost track of where he was or whatever other woes he wanted to force Soap to listen to. He hadn’t explained anything. So many words used and yet nothing of value said. There was no amount of rambling that could make it come across as a sound decision — that could make him look like anything other than a deranged monster in denial.

“The general saw me fight one day. Gave me a better offer.”

You aren’t forcing Soap to do anything. You think he’s kind? Then he’s happy to listen.

“It… wasn’t much different. But the bars were gone. The shackles too. I got to watch the sunset for the first time in years.”

He was having a rather difficult time trying to talk in between arguments with himself.

Soap pulled that same magic trick he had that night of the bar fight and inexplicably managed to hold him closer, somehow squeezing without feeling constrictive. He felt stupid for how much comfort he found in it.

And what have you done to deserve the kindness he gives you? Have you even thanked him?

Ghost shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I—”

His voice broke, saving him from sounding like even more of a fool.

Soap was there out of necessity. Nothing more, nothing less. Ghost lost his mind following a trail to a cabin. He was not sticking around “out of the kindness of his heart,” or whatever other lie Ghost had unwittingly convinced himself of.

Soap was there because if he wasn’t, Ghost would have gotten himself killed, and that was that. He was stuck there until Ghost came back to himself and stopped spilling his fucking life story as some pitiful excuse for why he’s not a monster.

And now he’s spiraling, again, and proving that he couldn’t be trusted with the simple task of delivering information. Gods above and below, he’s a fucking joke.

Soap is currently fucking hugging you, you oblivious bastard!

Ghost thought back to the bar fight again, the way Soap clung to him, worried about—

What part of ‘being worried about falling’ would lead to someone leaning their head against the other’s shoulder? Or caressing their fucking hand?! He’s half a damn inch and one impulsive decision away from kissing you!

Ghost really fucking wished that the dead man’s voice would fucking stay dead.

Fuck you.

In spite of the absolute fuckening the past two days had been, he huffed a small laugh.

“I had a… a friend— my cellmate, actually. He was the only thing that… that kept me going a lot of the time. We’d patch each other up, laugh and joke, remind each other that there was more out there. We always talked about what we’d do when we got out — we were gonna stick together and become mercenaries… ‘heroes for hire’ he always said.”

He laughed wetly, the tears coming back even as he reminisced on long, pained nights made bearable by stupid jokes and drawn out fantasies of the world that lay behind the bars of their cell.

“He…”

His smile waned. Ghost took a deep breath.

“He didn’t make it. Took an attack that was meant for me and paid for it.”

Ghost shook his head again and got back to the original point he wanted to make.

“I can hear his voice now. I don’t know what or how, but I guess getting close to the god of death has unexpected side effects.”

An embarrassed flush ran to his cheeks at his own poor wording, one he was glad Soap couldn’t see.

“It started under that overhang. Ever since, he pops in every now and then, usually to make fun of me or offer advice while calling me names.”

Ghost felt Soap smile against his shoulder.

Ghost smiled as well.

“He likes you, thinks you’re nice.”

It was one hell of an understatement, but he had a feeling that confessing, ‘the voice of my dead friend won’t leave me alone and he thinks you want to kiss me,’ might make things awkward. He didn’t want to make Soap think that he mistook his kindness for romantic advances.

Oh my fucking gods.

Ghost almost laughed aloud at his annoyance.

Soap asked, “What is his favorite color?”

The present tense didn’t slip his notice but he didn’t feel like diving into what the hell that meant. It was the first thing Soap had said since they hit the road.

Ghost smiled. He answered with a griefed laugh, “Brown, like a freak.”

Soap hummed. After a short pause, he leaned forward somewhat and inadvertently pulled Ghost back. Ghost looked at him with a raised brow, but as per usual he was undeterred and stared at him ruminatively.

Rumination complete, Soap fell back to hugging holding him with his cheek against Ghost’s shoulder. He quietly commented, “I think I’d be inclined to agree.”

Ghost rolled his eyes and scoffed playfully, “‘Course you would, freak.”

#And they were cellmates #Ghost is the cat wailing in the cat carrier on the way to the vet and #Soap is the owner covered in scratches trying to comfort him while also crying #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #ghoap god type au #forgotten death au

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