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If you asked Soap to list what he hated the most, he’d say odd numbers, dogs, and trans-atlantic flights—all in that order.
He was fine with flying. Considering that their missions were scattered all around the world, it was impossible not to be after a while. What Soap really hated was the adjustment period: the curse of jetlag and homesickness.
Regardless, Soap had been in this plane for over 6 hours now and he was ready to get out.
He had spent the first 2 hours sketching in his journal before his favorite pencil broke. The in-flight entertainment only lasted him for 4 miserable hours, so he resorted to watching the clouds for the last half hour. Fingers drumming against the center armrest, Soap can’t help but curse his past self for forgetting to pack a sharpener.
Soap feels a warm hand cover his own and his fingers still.
“Stop that.”
“Get off of me,” Soap grumbles, jerking his hand back. Neither of them were wearing gloves; it’s always strange when they travel as civilians.
“Someone’s feeling upset today.”
“Just ready to get off this damn thing. Bored out of my goddamn mind right now.“
Ghost is silent for a moment. “Why did one airplane annoy the other?”
“Seriously?” Soap turns to face him. He’s still getting used to this version of Ghost. Dressed down in a dark hoodie, plain jeans, and a simple black face mask, he almost looks human.
“Bad altitude.”
Soap rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”
“You said you were bored,” Ghost replies with a shrug. “Got plenty more jokes in my arsenal. Unless you’d rather watch another movie.”
“And if I did?”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Tell me another then.” Whatever the man has in store, Soap is sure it can’t get any worse. It’s just unfortunate that Ghost’s talents on the field couldn’t translate over into comedy.
“An artist tried to paint the sky…”
“Go on…”
“They blue it.”
That one gets an amused huff out of Soap—a moment of weakness. Ghost’s eyes gleamed, softer without the dark eye black around them. “Alright, alright, maybe you can tell a joke.”
“You doubted my ability?”
“Never,” Soap replies sarcastically. He turns to pull up the flight tracker and frustratedly sighs at what he sees. “Still got an hour left…”
Ghost settles further into his seat, elbow knocking into Soap as he gets comfortable. “Try and get some shut-eye. You’ve been awake this entire flight.”
“Might be a lost cause at this point.”
“Suit yourself.”
Before he’s able to reply, Ghost’s eyes were already closed; Soap couldn’t quite bring himself to do the same. Soap stares a little longer at the dark bags under the other man’s eyes, a stand-in for the usual dark eye makeup. Resigned, Soap instead turns back towards the window. Back to the same damn clouds.
They arrive at Dulles Airport exactly on time at 0930 hours. The two of them find their way through the airport, getting through customs and immigration without a hitch.
Normally, they would’ve been briefed overseas with special transportation arranged. However, this time Laswell had requested their presence in person given the sensitivity of the upcoming operation. She’d been on edge ever since Shepherd’s betrayal, and Soap doesn’t blame her.
Personally, he didn’t mind playing tourist for Laswell’s peace of mind anyway.
Leaving behind the dull glow of overhead fluorescents, they step outside into the harsh sunlight. Soap raises a hand to block it out as he adjusts—the deep breath of fresh air he gets is worth the momentary blindness. He hears Ghost do the same.
“Big fuckin’ airport,” Soap mutters, turning his head back to look at the main terminal as they leave it behind for the shuttle stop. It’s a monumental example of mid-century modern architecture, making use of both concrete and glass. He wishes he hadn’t broken his sketching pencil earlier. “Wonder what the size of this place is…”
“53 square kilometers. 113 gates.”
Soap winces as he leans back against a pole. There’s a few other people milling about. “Some impressive numbers. Is it the biggest one in the States?”
“It’s big, but not the biggest. That’d be Denver International. Colorado.”
“Gonna pretend I know where Colorado is.”
Soap can tell Ghost is smiling under the mask despite the shake of his head, the crinkled eyes giving him away. He’ll never understand why people can’t look past the skull and see the range of expression in Simon’s eyes. Soap’s snapped out of his thoughts by a loud honk. Along with another passenger, they quickly board the shuttle taking them to the car rentals.
They head over to the counter once they’re dropped off at the building, paperwork and other identification in hand. It doesn’t take long to verify everything; in short order, they’re led to the car they’ll be driving around for the foreseeable future. A black Nissan Altima.
They’re not paying for it. Whatever thoughts he has on the matter isn’t important.
Ghost grabs the keys before Soap can even protest. As he goes to start it, Soap loads their bags into the car; the engine rumbles to life as he shuts the trunk closed. He enters the passenger side and immediately readjusts the seat to make room for his legs. Whoever was in this car last had to have been half his size.
Soap pauses mid-recline to watch as Ghost inputs an address from memory. He couldn't imagine calling up that information without the help of his phone. Laswell had suggested they meet up at a restaurant to avoid the prying eyes and ears of her colleagues. “Hiding in plain sight,” as she put it. That’s all he could remember off the top of his head, so maybe it’s a good thing he wasn’t the one doing the routing. It was an estimated twenty minute drive, potentially less considering who was behind the wheel.
“Let’s hope you don’t run over anybody this time…” Soap says, buckling in.
“No promises.”
“And don’t forget we’re in the States now.”
Ghost rolls his eyes. “I’ve driven on the right side of the road before.”
“That was when we were supposed to be on the left side.”
“Doubting my driving skills, Johnny?”
“Always.” Soap gives his seatbelt an extra tug.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop him from having nearly several heart attacks as Ghost navigates out of the airport and onto the main road. Ghost veers into the wrong lane more than once, gets honked at at least thrice, and cuts off several people in the span of 5 minutes. Peeking quickly at the route ahead, Soap is eternally grateful that it’s mostly a straight shot most of the way there. He’ll just have to brace himself for the upcoming exit when it comes.
They arrive—fully intact—at the strip mall before noon. Soap feels a minor ache in his right hand from gripping the handle above him a little too roughly. He only relaxes when Ghost starts pulling into a parking space, the one thing he’s surprisingly skilled at.
It figures that Ghost would be a menace on the open roads but have the ability to reverse into any space in one attempt.
Soap can’t get out of the car and into the restaurant fast enough, Ghost hovering close behind him. The smell of freshly cooked food gets his stomach grumbling. Besides a few snacks on the flight, Soap hadn’t eaten much for the past few hours. Laswell catches them before the host can seat them.
“They’re with me,” Laswell tells the host as she approaches the front, motions for Soap and Ghost to follow her. She leads them to a booth on the far end of the restaurant. “Took you long enough.”
“Got here as fast as we could,” Ghost replies. “No traffic yet.”
“‘Yet’ being the key word.” She sits down on the far side of the table, gesturing to the empty bench they’re standing beside.
When Ghost gives no indication of moving first, Soap shrugs and slides into the bench. He scooches closer to the wall when Ghost takes a seat. It does little to help. While the armrests on the plane and center console of the car had kept them apart, there was nothing between them now. Any movement Soap made would involve bumping into Ghost in at least four separate points.
Soap still couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing.
Laswells shoots them an amused look. “You two have come a long way, so food is on me. Just don’t break the bank—there’s only so much military spending I can justify on a single meal.”
Soap’s happy to see the breakfast menu still in effect; the one positive of timezone hopping in the early hours was the potential for a double breakfast. It doesn’t take him long to figure out what he wants—pancakes with a side of bacon and eggs. Once the waiter leaves with their orders, Laswell pulls out a file from her bag and places it on the table. Soap can feel Ghost shift in his seat, the other man’s thigh bumping up against his own.
“I take it this is why we’re here…” Ghost murmurs as he slides the folder over to their side of the booth. He carefully opens it, fanning out the documents and photographs found within. Nudges the spread in Soap’s direction.
“You’d be correct.” Laswell replies, her mouth a tight line.
Soap leans into Ghost’s side to get a better view, left arm resting on the table top. “Who is it this time?”
“I believe you two already know him.”
Shuffling through the documents, Ghost’s hand freezes when he uncovers a photograph hidden underneath a loose sheet of paper. In one swift motion, Ghost slides the photograph over to Soap with a growl.
“Makarov.”
Soap pins the photo down with his left hand to stop it from flying off the edge. Angling up the photograph with his left hand, he makes note of the unmarked plane, the distinct skyline, the dark-haired man at the center of the composition. There’s no mistaking who it was.
“How’d you find him?” Ghost asks.
“That’s classified, Lieutenant. I don’t make a habit of revealing my sources.” Laswell points to one of the documents in front of them, “We don’t believe missiles are involved this time, but he’s been spotted making frequent trips in and out of D.C. These records show a potential American connection.”
Soap puts the photo down, placing it back by the folder. “What kind of business does a Russian Ultranationalist have in the capital of the United States?”
“He’s no diplomat,” Ghost responds with a glare. “If he’s here to talk with someone, it’s not about peace.”
“You think Shepherd’s involved?” Soap asks, looking back up at Laswell. She’s quiet for a bit too long.
“We can’t rule it out.”
They wring a series of additional questions out of the documents, some Laswell answers, but an uncomfortable number she doesn’t. It’s hard to get Intel on a man who was always one step ahead of them, bound by no rules except his own. They put their terrorism talk on hold when Soap spots their waiter coming back with their food. He quickly arranges all the loose sheets and photographs back into one neat stack, placing them back in the folder and setting it off to the side.
Makarov could wait. Soap’s stomach couldn’t.
Their food is carefully placed on the table before the waiter quickly makes themselves scarce. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had sensed the tense atmosphere in the booth.
Soap’s fork is halfway to his face when Ghost shifts, his elbow knocking Soap’s arm off balance. There’s little room for them to move comfortably without bumping into each other. He tries to focus on the flavor in his mouth and not on where they’re touching as Ghost puts his mask in his lap. It’s a challenge that Soap fails miserably at.
Eventually, he redirects his attention towards Ghost’s order instead—a vegetarian omelette filled with tomatoes, onions, mushrooms, and green peppers. He would’ve stolen a bite if it wasn’t guaranteed to get him killed.
“So you boys have anything planned for the rest of the day?” Laswell asks between bites. She had ordered a turkey club sandwich, opting for something off the lunch menu instead. Soap shakes his head, finishes chewing before he speaks.
“Figured we’d be a little spontaneous.”
“Also assumed you’d have us out on the field by sunset,” Ghost says dryly.
“I’m flattered,” Laswell responds, “but I’m not sending you two in blind. I’m gonna need at least another day to follow up on a lead and get in touch with some of my remaining contacts. I’m not letting anything get past me—not this time.”
The events of the past year are still fresh in their minds. Soap still isn’t sure if he’s ready to visit Chicago again after what happened. The three of them go back to eating, letting the distant conversations of the surrounding tables fill the lapse in conversation.
Soap picks at the remains of his bacon. “Maybe Ghost and I could explore the city a bit. Have a look around.”
Ghost turns to him, an amused look on his face. “You suggesting we do recon, Sergeant?”
“We can call it that if you’d like.”
“A little reconnaissance never hurts,” Laswell smiles. “I figure you both have been to D.C. before?”
Soap nods. “Was here once for some kind of military event. Didn’t really get the chance to look around though.”
“Now’s your chance to play tourist,” Ghost quips.
“Still got plenty of time too. Most of the museums in the city close at 5, so you two just might make it if you’re quick. Or have a look around the monuments,” Laswell takes a sip of her drink. “My wife and I like to hang around the National Mall when the weather’s nice.”
They spend the rest of their meal discussing other places in town that Soap and Ghost should check out while they’re in the area. Laswell has plenty of recommendations—mostly from her wife—on the best restaurants and venues around. Soap’s just disappointed he probably won’t have the time to see everything.
Laswell takes care of the check, Ghost puts his mask back on, and Soap grabs the folder.
“I’ve got you two set up in a hotel out in Arlington, should be about an eighteen minute drive from here,” Laswell says as the three of them leave the restaurant. “If you plan on heading into the city, I suggest you take the Metro. The hotel is right on the Orange and Silver lines and a stop should be within walking distance.” Soap nods appreciatively, thankful for any opportunity to avoid the passenger seat.
“I already called them ahead of time. You know how to reach me if there’s an issue. And as a parting gift…” She pulls out a few more papers and two cards, handing them to Soap. “Pre-loaded Metro cards. Should last you two a while. I’m sure you can figure out how to operate a vending machine if you find yourselves in need of a refill.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to.”
After exchanging goodbyes, Laswell retreats to the other end of the parking lot while Soap and Ghost return to their rental. He scans the reservation as Ghost wordlessly enters the driver’s side. Soap mentally prepares himself for another round of torture.
He passes the papers to Ghost and pockets the Metro cards. “Double beds and a complimentary breakfast.”
“Thrilling.”
“Don’t get too excited now.”
“I’ll try not to.” Soap looks around at the surrounding strip mall as Ghost inputs the hotel address into the dashboard.
“Think we could stop by somewhere else on the way? Need to get myself a pencil sharpener…”
“Looks like there’s a couple places by the hotel. Could have a look around before check-in at 3.”
“Guess we won’t have time to visit the museums today, huh?”
“Guess not,” Ghost says, though he doesn’t sound too disappointed. His finger hovers over the dashboard display. “The Metrorail should run pretty late though.”
Soap quirks an eyebrow, feels a grin forming on his face. “You suggesting we do some recon?”
“If you’re insisting on calling it that,” Ghost replies, pulling out of the parking spot with the hint of a smirk underneath his mask. He makes a series of questionable maneuvers in order to get them onto the main road.
The first few minutes of the drive are relatively peaceful. Soap watches the scenery go by, lush patches of green interspersed between suburban homes and shopping centers. It’s a nice distraction from Ghost’s driving. Soap can tell there’s a lot of history in this area based on the architecture alone. It reminds him of something he’d long forgotten.
“Isn’t the hotel we’re staying at right by one of the Army’s cemeteries?” Ghost turns to look at him and Soap wishes he wouldn’t.
“Arlington National Cemetery?”
“Aye, that’s the one.”
“It’s one of two cemeteries run by the U.S. Army,” Ghost continues, turning back to face the road. “The other one is in D.C. We could always visit.”
“Think I’d prefer seeing the monuments.”
Ghost shrugs. “Just a suggestion.”
“You sure have a lot of knowledge about the U.S. for a Brit,” Soap teases, leaning back into his seat.
“You’ve got to know your enemy, Johnny.” Ghost swiftly cuts someone off in the right lane in order to make their turn. “That’s how you survive.”
The vehicle makes a sharp right and Soap braces himself against the center console, hand on Ghost’s shoulder for extra support. Letting go of the handle above him was a mistake he doesn’t plan on repeating. They stop by a nearby shopping center to get some snacks, supplies, and the pencil sharpener that Soap desperately needed. Thankfully, it’s a short trip to the hotel from here.
They arrive at approximately 1510 hours and Ghost smoothly turns into the parking deck. Soap will never understand how the man navigates tight spaces with ease despite his god-awful driving on any road with more than two lanes. With luggage in hand, they check-in at the lobby counter and go up to their room on the sixth floor.
“Fuckin’ smelled like dog piss in there,” Soap remarks when they step out of the elevator.
They walk down the hall, rolling their luggage over an offensive floral patterned carpet. Soap unlocks the door to room 627 and throws his backpack and bags onto the closest bed once he steps in. He moves up to make room for Ghost and rolls his suitcase into the corner.
Ghost glances at the beds, raising a brow. “Already claimed a side?”
“Consider it a preference,” Soap replies before shifting his attention to his bags. He rummages through the backpack first to track down his journal and his prized 2B pencil, gently setting them down on the bed.
“Any other ‘preferences’ I should be aware of?”
Soap tears the packaging off his newly acquired sharpener. “Afraid that’s strictly need-to-know, Lt.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ghost takes off his mask and replaces it with the balaclava waiting in his pocket.
The next twenty minutes are spent unpacking and getting some rest in. While Ghost took a quick nap—passing out right after announcing his intentions—Soap had settled in the chair by the window, journal and pencil in hand. He writes about their flight, Laswell, Ghost’s terrible driving. Soap leaves spaces in between the text for future sketches when he has the time.
When Ghost wakes up, Soap is already ready to go. He’s got his journal and essentials packed in the small bag strapped diagonally across his chest.
“Where’d you find that bumbag?” Ghost asks, rubbing at his eyes.
“It’s a crossbody bag, actually.”
“Same thing.”
“I think you need your eyes checked.”
Without lifting a finger, Ghost flips him off; Soap can tell from the glare thrown his way. Ghost pulls off the balaclava and shakes off his bed head, runs his fingers through his hair, smooths it out with his palms. It’s short enough that Simon can get away without any product or real maintenance. Lucky bastard.
Ghost has a different face mask and backpack on when Soap comes back from using the bathroom. Thankfully they weren’t planning on visiting the museums; whatever Ghost had packed into that bag of his would probably get them arrested on the spot.
It’s a two minute walk from their hotel to the nearest station. It takes them approximately half that time to reach the fare gates where he can get a better glimpse of the coffered concrete arch that makes up the ceiling. Maybe all that time looking up architectural references for his sketches was useful after all.
Soap pulls out the pre-loaded cards from Laswell, handing one over to Ghost.
“Laswell say how much is on these?”
“Enough to get us there and back.” Soap taps the card on the gate. They both pass through and go towards the system map to find their station. Ghost hovered over his shoulder, more interested in the little icons and Smithsonian stop on the map than their routing to the Mall itself.
“Did you know a British scientist funded the Smithsonian Institution?”
Soap follows him down the escalators. “What?”
“James Smithson, British scientist,” Ghost remarks as they walk further down the platform, parallel to the rails. “Gave his entire estate over to the Americans.”
“Huh. Didn’t expect that.”
“Don’t think the Americans did either. Took them seventeen years to found the damn thing after his death.”
Soap sits down on the corner of a bench while Ghost leans against the concrete railing. There’s a fair number of people around even though it’s not quite the end of the average work day, nearing 1600 hours. The flashing lights along the platform indicate their incoming ride.
The train rushes by and Soap’s eyes struggle to keep up with the motion as they go stand by the edge. He impatiently shifts in place, waiting for the carriages to come to a complete stop. They step aside for a passenger to exit before entering the half-full carriage.
Ghost puts a hand on his shoulder before squeezing past Soap on his left. “Keep up.”
They sit next to each other in an unoccupied row in the back, Ghost taking the window seat. There’s no armrest to separate them. Holding his backpack in his lap, Ghost’s upper arm is a gentle pressure against Soap’s side.
Soap playfully bumps his knee into Ghost’s to grab his attention.
“Hm?”
“We’ll be getting off in 10 stops. Smithsonian station.”
Ghost nods and leans back into his seat, spreading out his legs further into Soap’s space. A voice says something half intelligible and the doors close before the train begins to move. “I’ll keep an ear out.”
They get up, exiting the carriage doors to their right behind several others when the train comes to a complete stop. Soap readjusts his bag on the escalator up, pulling out his card. “What’s with the crowd today?”
Ghost shrugs as they pass through the gates, “You’ll find out.”
On the surface, Soap and Ghost are met with a field of green and even more people. He recognizes the buildings flanking the lawn from looking at his phone earlier—all the museums that they’d have to skip out on due to time constraints. Maybe another day.
Soap feels a grip on his upper arm pulling him off to the side. “Let’s go. Think there’s an opening over there.”
He follows Ghost to an empty patch of grass on the center lawn, sees the Washington Monument over to his left in the distance. Soap pulls out his journal. “It looks fuckin’ tiny from here. How tall is that thing anyway?”
“About 169 meters.”
Soap lets out a low whistle while starting a quick sketch. It’s simple enough considering the structure is just one large glorified pencil. He includes the trees flanking the lawn, the unidentifiable heads of tourists, the fact that Ghost told him. Satisfied, Soap carefully puts his notebook and pencil back into his bag before they continue walking.
“You weren’t lying.” Soap says as they get closer, the monument towering over everyone. It makes him feel extraordinarily small as he tilts his head back to see it in full. He steps off the sidewalk into the grass, quickly pulling out his journal. The rustling of the American flags compete with the sound of the crowd.
Ghost comes up beside Soap, hands in his pockets. “You planning on doing that all evening?”
Soap quickly sketches out the scene at the base. It’s not exactly pretty, but he can refine it later at the hotel. He snaps a quick picture for future reference. “Just taking in the moment.”
“Got something better for you,” Ghost says before leaving his side.
Soap tucks his journal away before doing what he does best—follow his commanding officer. He leaves the monument behind to catch up to Ghost. The amount of pink petals and sounds of moving water increase in volume as he falls into step behind the Lieutenant. When they stop to cross a street, Soap can finally take in the sight in front of him.
Above all the heads there’s a sea of pink flowers.
“So this is what everyone is here for…” Soap says, in quiet awe. They wait for the light to change before crossing, trailing behind the crowd when it does.
“Cherry blossoms,” Ghost says. “They’re in peak bloom this week. Consider us lucky.”
“No kidding.”
The crowd seems to move around Ghost as they walk towards the water; even without the skull mask, the man sticks out like a sore thumb. He navigates through people in the same calculated way he does in the field. Several nervous looks are thrown their way, which Soap attempts to ignore. He lets out a sigh of relief when they reach the edge of the water—the Tidal Basin. The tree branches arch over the sidewalk, full of pink petals. It’s a nice change of scenery from their usual missions. Soap snaps several pictures as they make their way around the perimeter.
Halfway through the loop, they agree to rest on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial.
Ghost stretches out, leaning back on his elbows while Soap gets to work on his journal. He dedicates a spread to the flowers and pulls up his numerous reference photos. Soap captures the scene in front of him—the still waters of the basin, the cherry blossoms, the Monument in the backdrop. Sneaks glances at Simon to include him too.
Soap continues scribbling away, even when he feels Ghost staring back at him. He writes out another entry before putting his journal back in his bag. Soap’s thankful for the clear skies and gentle breeze currently rustling Simon’s hair.
He gets caught looking when Ghost turns his head. “Something in my hair?”
“Considering how long you keep that balaclava on, I’m surprised there isn’t.”
Ghost shakes his head, turning back towards the water. They spend at least another forty minutes watching everyone go by in companionable silence. It’s reminiscent of their last stakeout mission. There’s even a couple dogs here and there to keep things exciting. There was still more than an hour left of full sunlight.
Soap’s stomach makes a noise, effectively disrupting the peace.
Ghost tilts his head back to look at Soap. He’d long since gotten more comfortable, laying on his back with his hands on his stomach. “Hungry, Sergeant?”
“Don’t think I’ve eaten anything since we saw Laswell…”
“Here,” Ghost turns over and pulls a protein bar out from his backpack. “Got this earlier. Figured one of us would need it today.”
“Knew I could count on you.” Soap takes the bar with a grin and carefully tears it open before pointing at the backpack. “What else have you got stored in there?”
“It’s need-to-know.”
Soap snorts before taking a bite, the chocolate melting in his mouth. “Didn’t know that bag of yours was such a security risk.”
“Nothing wrong with a little privacy.”
“We’re talking about snacks, not state secrets,” Soap replies, slightly irritated. “Let’s move, I still want to see the reflecting pool.”
Ghost stands and slings the backpack over his shoulder. “Which one?”
“Consider it a surprise.”
Taking the lead this time, Soap pulls up the route on his phone. Thankfully, the crowds were already thinning out. He still felt a little bad about the estimated twenty-eight minute walk ahead of them, but Ghost would just have to deal with it. Commanding officer or not, they were on even civilian ground now. He could handle going a little out of the way at Soap’s behest. The cherry blossoms and scattered petals paving the way made the journey a more pleasant one.
A few stray petals find a home in Simon’s hair when they pass under a particularly low hanging branch.
“Hey, wait,” Soap holds the protein bar in his mouth, reaching his now free hand up to brush the petals off Ghost’s head. “There. Had some flowers on you.”
They briefly make eye contact before Ghost pulls on his hood. “Thanks.”
Soap finishes his protein bar, discarding the wrapper in his pocket. He passes the time by asking Ghost about the various memorials they pass by on the way—the man doesn’t disappoint, jumping seamlessly from presidential term limits to the Polish army bear from the Second World War without missing a beat. He wonders what other hidden knowledge Simon has stored away.
Together, they walk along the edge of the reflecting pool. Soap playfully bumps into Simon and Simon pushes back—both of them dangerously close to the edge. Soap loses his footing for a brief moment, casting ripples across the water. Ghost pulls him back upright.
Ghost elects to stay out on the steps facing the reflecting pool when they reach the memorial. There’s still a group of people huddled at the feet of the statue inside despite it growing dark. Soap hangs back as he quickly sketches out the scene in front of him, meeting Ghost outside when he’s done.
“Have fun?”
“Sure,” Soap answers, sitting a few steps above Ghost while flipping through his journal. “Wanted to get some more sketches done here, but…”
As if on cue, Soap’s stomach grumbles again. Ghost rummages through the backpack and pulls out a ball of plastic wrap. He hands it over to Soap. “Afraid it’s cold by now, but it should do the job.”
“What is—” Soap peels back the wrapping to reveal what must be an hours-old sandwich. He can see bits of pulled pork and cheese. Just like that morning in the diner, his stomach speaks for him. “When’d you get this?”
“While you were looking at art supplies, I was looking for food.” Ghost replies as he reaches back into his bag, pulling out a water bottle and knocking it against Soap’s ankle. “And don’t forget to hydrate.”
“Aye, sir.” Careful not to drop the sandwich, he finishes the water in a few large gulps. Soap mutters a quick thanks and wipes his mouth off on his sleeve. He passes back the empty container.
Ghost throws the bottle in his backpack, then pulls out another sandwich and two more water bottles. He reaches back to place one by Soap’s feet. They both start to eat, watching as the skies turn a vibrant shade of orange as time goes on.
“Anything else in that bag of yours you plan on sharing?” Soap asks before taking another bite. Whatever is in this sandwich tastes better than their standard MREs.
“I’ll let you know.”
Soap keeps chewing and keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to let his frustration bleed through. They finish their meal in silence. Besides a couple of stragglers, most of the other visitors had left once the sky turned dark.
Wiping his hands on the side of his jeans, Soap grabs his journal and starts sketching again. The artificial memorial lighting illuminates the pages and Soap is already missing the warmth of the sun. He quickly captures the Washington Monument’s reflection on the surface of the pool, an image straight out of a postcard.
He looks down at Simon, quickly draws out a side profile when the opportunity presents itself. Soap finishes writing down an entry with a yawn.
“It’s getting late.”
Soap nods, secures his journal back in his bag. “Time to head back?”
“Lead the way.”
The walk to the nearest Metro station takes twenty-two minutes. Considering it was getting late and they were already a security risk, they skipped visiting the White House. Soap really didn’t need Secret Service on their ass as well.
The trains are pretty empty at this hour and Soap follows Ghost onto an empty carriage. They sit together near the back, with Soap by the window. Even though their trip is only supposed to last twelve minutes, he can already feel himself drifting off.
Soap startles awake at the sudden nudge to his left. He quickly gets his bearings—it’s just Ghost. “How long was I out?”
“Around ten minutes. Give or take a few seconds.” Ghost responds as the train lurches to a stop. “This is us.”
Soap feels the exhaustion creep through his body once they exit the carriage and the station. He’s grateful that the hotel they’re staying at is right next door, as they’re already back in front of room 627 in what feels like a blink of an eye. Thank Christ for Laswell.
He follows Ghost inside once the door is unlocked, quickly putting his bag by his bedside before crashing face-first into the hotel mattress.
“You plan on sleeping like that?”
“Fuck off,” Soap groans, turning his head so he’s only half-muffled. He watches as Ghost replaces the face mask for the balaclava. “You’re the one who sleeps with the mask on.”
“You’re not the only one with preferences,” Ghost turns his back towards Soap, making him unreadable.
He turns his face back down into the pillow.
“You plan on showering?”
“Probably in the morning,” Soap mutters as he sits back up, facing the other bed. He’s definitely not the greatest smelling person in the room right now, but he can’t quite bring himself to care.
Ghost is already shirtless and changing into a pair of sweatpants. “We can take turns then.”
“Fine by me.” Suddenly aware of the sweat stained shirt he still has on, Soap quickly takes it off and tosses it to the side. “Mind if I use the bathroom first?”
“All yours.”
Soap takes a quick piss, brushes his teeth, and wipes himself down with a towel in lieu of a shower. Ghost takes his place when he leaves the bathroom, and Soap hears the toilet flush as he unbuckles his belt and takes off his jeans. He turns off the bedside lamp to the sound of a running sink. When Ghost comes back out, Soap is already fully under the covers and drifting off to sleep. He thinks he manages to get out a good night before everything turns black.
He’s suddenly jerked back to consciousness when something hits him across the nose. Propping himself up with one arm, Soap groggily reaches around the bedside table for his phone. Realizing it’s missing, he reaches blindly around the bed. Soap finds the device between his pillows; the screen turns on with a tap. It’s 0205 hours. “The fuck was that for?”
Soap can hear a steady plip plip plip from the other side of the room.
“Was trying to get the light.” Ghost is sitting at the end of his bed, no balaclava to be seen.
Soap rubs at his eyes; even with the light on, it’s hard to see the source of the problem. “What for?”
“Water leak.”
“A leak?”
Ghost moves an arm and Soap feels the damp balaclava smack him in the chest—a perfect shot. “Woke up to water in my face. Fuckin’ faulty pipes.”
He tosses the balaclava back to Ghost. “Feelin’ a wee bit soggy there, Lt.?”
“Quiet, Johnny.”
Ghost empties the bin in their room and places the container under the offending leak. Throwing on a shirt, Ghost heads down to the front desk to see what their options were. Soap doubts that maintenance would be available at this hour. With Ghost gone, Soap is left to deal with the leak by himself.
He scrolls through his phone amid the occasional plop, the plastic bin amplifying the sound. What was easily ignored in his sleep was impossible to unhear now that he’s awake. The lack of rhythm in the drip frustrates him even further. Soap lasts about five minutes before he puts on a video to drown out the noise. Hopefully Ghost would be coming back with a solution.
When he returns, Soap hopes it’s with good news. It’s 0225 hours now and they’d have to be up in a few short hours unless Laswell got back to them sooner. They couldn’t miss out on the hotel breakfast either.
Simon is maskless, annoyance clear in his features. “Maintenance won’t be here until morning. Can’t switch rooms either—they’re all booked out.”
“What?”
“Apparently some big event is in town on top of the cherry blossoms. Said they wouldn’t have an open room until tomorrow.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was…” Ghost mutters as he goes to dump out the collected water in the bathroom. “Offered to bring us more towels if we needed to get us through the night.”
Soap watches as Ghost lines the rubbish bin with a towel before placing it back under the leak. It muffles the sound to a more tolerable degree. Ghost moves to the other side of his bed, tugging off his shirt once more.
“Hold on,” Soap sits up, puts down his phone. “Are you seriously just going back to sleep over there?”
Ghost turns around to give him a look. “Expecting me to stay up all night?”
“No, Jesus—I mean there’s enough room for us to share a bed.”
“Think I’ll be fine,” Soap hears him shuffle around. “If it becomes an issue I can get on the floor. Done it more than once.”
“C’mon, you can’t be serious, Simon.”
“I am.”
“Well so am I.”
They both fall quiet.
Soap doesn’t know how much time passes. He focuses instead on the pronounced dripping sound, waiting for the dam to inevitably burst and not wanting to be the one to break it.
“Move over.”
Soap exhales. “Thought you’d never ask.”
He moves further to the right side of the bed. Soap wishes he had taken that shower earlier when he feels Ghost get under the covers beside him. It’s too late now. Adjusting the alarm on his phone, Soap places it back on the bedside table and turns off the light.
“You good, Johnny?”
“Doing great, actually.” Soap can feel the fabric of Ghost’s sweatpants brushing against his calves, the heat radiating from Simon. “Always preferred the right side of the bed anyways.”
Ghost turns to face the wall. “Go to sleep, Sergeant.”
“Aye, sir.”
Instead of his alarm, Soap is woken up by a particularly loud snore. Slightly disoriented, he gives himself a second to focus on the sensations around him before opening his eyes—hears the rhythmic splashing from the leak, feels hairs tickling his face, is fully conscious of a warm weight on him. He’s not sure he wants to move.
When Soap opens his eyes, he’s met with a face full of Simon Riley. There’s no balaclava covering his short, dirty blonde hair or scarred face.
The covers had mostly fallen off of them during the night and Soap would be shivering if they weren’t cuddled up to each other like this. Simon has one of his arms flung across Soap, fingers brushing against the waistband of his boxers. One of his own arms is touching Simon’s chest at an odd angle. Soap feels a warm breath against his chin.
His phone alarm chooses that exact moment to go off and Soap flinches, pulling away to turn the damn thing off. Soap sheepishly turns back to a wide-eyed Ghost. “Mornin’, Simon.”
“Johnny?” Ghost retreats back to his side of the bed, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Set the alarm for 0700 hours after last night. Figured we’d need the extra hour and a half.”
Ghost groans. “Thought I dreamt half that shit.”
“Dream of me often?” Soap jokes while sitting up. He stretches out his arms above his head. “ Maybe we should make a habit of this. When’s the next sleepover?”
“You say that like we’re friends.”
“Are we not?”
“Friendship isn’t in the field manual.” Ghost gets up to go back to his side of the room.
Soap’s eyes follow Ghost as he inspects the leak and the filling bin. “Yea, and neither is sleeping with your Sergeant.”
“You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“Don’t pretend like you didn’t buy me dinner and a drink yesterday.” Soap snaps, willing himself not to follow Ghost into the bathroom. He may not know the full extent of what he was getting into, but he had enough intel to move forward—Soap wasn’t one to back down in the face of a challenge. He speaks over the sloshing of discarded water and a running sink, “Christ, Simon. I’m not dumb.”
Ghost doesn’t respond, placing the bin back under the leak. Soap thinks the dripping has increased in speed since last night, or he’s just spending too much time thinking about it. Ghost doesn’t look in Soap’s direction when he heads to the bathroom a second time. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
“And we’re talking this through over breakfast.”
The bathroom door slams shut.
Soap’s hands itch to grab his journal and start writing out a new entry. Instead, he digs through his suitcase. He tosses a fresh set of clothes onto the bed, ignores the sounds of the shower behind the wall next to him. The water shuts off after about six minutes, but it’s not like Soap was counting down the seconds.
They don’t speak when Ghost exits the bathroom—Soap quickly takes his place.
Turning the water onto the hottest setting, he tries to pinpoint the exact moment things shifted. All this because of a fucking water leak. Maybe he should’ve just let Ghost sleep on the floor after all. Soap only steps out the shower when the scalding sensation gets a little too unbearable. He makes use of the two clean towels Simon was kind enough to leave behind.
Ghost is nowhere to be found when Soap steps back into the room.
Annoyed, he rushes to get dressed and struggles to style his mohawk. There’s a few strands that refuse to stay back, and he frustratedly leaves them be. He grabs the key card and takes the elevator down—it’s large enough to fit both Soap and a family of four with plenty of room to spare. They appear to also be taking advantage of the breakfast as he trails behind them towards the dining area.
Considering Ghost is likely the only person in the building walking around in a balaclava, he’s not hard to miss.
Soap notices a full meal already laid out as he approaches the table. There’s two of everything—two mugs, two plates, two muffins, two apples. For every item on his side, there’s a matching one in front of Ghost. Soap mumbles a thanks as he takes a seat.
Ghost pulls the mask up enough to expose his mouth. Soap takes a sip of the coffee in front of him. They both start eating in silence.
Soap clears his plate and grabs an apple, rubbing it on his shirt. “We ready to talk?”
“Not much to talk about.”
“Nothing to say about last night?” Soap takes a tentative bite; it’s sweet.
“I like to keep things professional.”
“By taking me on dates?”
“Thought we agreed upon a different term.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, you mean our recon missions?”
“Johnny…” Ghost is looking directly at him. The fire behind his eyes seems to have burned out.
“It’s not like I’m asking for you to marry me, Simon.”
“But you might. Someday.” Ghost’s hands are clasped together, fingers fidgeting. “Don’t know if I can promise you any of that.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we still—”
“I know and I don’t care, Simon.” Soap puts the apple down, keeping his voice level. “No one’s forcing me to be here. We’d have to be together for that to even matter in the first place.”
“Don’t know why you insist on being compromised in the field.”
“You act like you weren’t already,” Soap replies, but there’s no real bite to it. “Just following your lead, Lieutenant.”
Ghosts eyes narrow. “And those choices have had their consequences.”
“At least let me make a damn choice—you can’t keep making these decisions on your own.”
Simon’s hands still. Someone hits their plate a little too hard with a utensil. Soap winces.
He hadn’t noticed how crowded it had gotten since he first arrived, too caught up in Ghost to care. He reaches a hand across the table after another thirty seconds of quiet. It’s a calculated risk. Soap’s fingers poke at Simon’s clasped hands.
Ghost doesn’t pull away, but is still taut as a tripwire.
“You have to let me in at some point,” Soap whispers. “Can’t always afford to wait in our line of work.”
The tension finally breaks; Simon lets out a long breath, his hands relaxing, fingers opening up. Johnny’s own hand inches forward as his fingers find refuge in the warmth of Simon’s exposed palm.
“But I’ll wait if you need me to.”
“Don’t think either of us want to waste anymore time.”
He can’t help but laugh at that. “And whose fault was that?”
With a cautious peek into something unfamiliar, yet comforting, they finish what remains of their breakfast and head back up to the sixth floor. Thankfully, the elevator is empty this time. Standing next to each other, Soap lets himself brush his hand against Ghost’s—he smiles when Simon reaches back.
They’re welcomed by a particularly aggressive splash and the incessant buzzing of a cell phone as soon as they step back into their room.
“Must’ve left my phone up here earlier,” Ghost says, going over to the table by the window. Soap follows close behind and feels the mood shift when he picks it up. “It’s Laswell.”
With the volume up to max, Soap can hear Laswell’s voice come through the speakers. “Morning boys. Hope you slept well.”
Soap suppresses a snort. “You could say that…”
“Any updates, Laswell?” Ghost says gruffly.
“I’m afraid we can’t discuss much over this channel. I’ve arranged for a ride to come get you two in an hour.”
Soap raises his brows. “That soon?”
“Still finalizing the details before the official briefing, but you’ll get that sunset deployment of yours.”
“How bad is it?” Ghosts asks.
There’s a pause from the other end of the line. “Hard to say. Focus on packing first and we can discuss more once you get here.”
“See you, Laswell.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The call ends with a click, and they share an uneasy look before going on auto-pilot. Ghost collects the towels strewn throughout the room, making a large pile of them in the bathroom. Soap gathers all their rubbish together in one place. They leave the bin under the dripping leak.
They pack their clothes in their respective suitcases alongside one another. He refolds a couple shirts that got tossed aside in the past twelve hours, tucks his extra belt away in its designated pocket, and makes sure all his hair products are accounted for.
Soap saves his journal and pencil for last, double checks to make sure that everything is accounted for—particularly the new sharpener. Satisfied, he secures the bag back onto his chest. Ghost pulls a few U.S. bills out of his wallet, placing them on the dresser as Soap does a final sweep.
The two of them leave the room together, side by side. “You think we’ll ever get to see the museums?”
“Maybe next time, Johnny.”