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Summary
“Not old.” A scar ran down the side of Ghost’s face, perpendicular to the cut of his jawline, and it shifted as he spoke, “Younger than Price.”
“Really?” Soap’s stool scraped across the floor as he tugged it closer. Far too close for two grown, military sculpted men to be to each other but Soap had had at least two tequila shots even before he’d started on his next drinks, so it felt like nothing at all to be able to smell that Ghost was clean. No blood. No dirt. Clean, washed skin underneath his clothes and mask, “I mean, that wee glance you gave us of your mug back before the raid wasn’t much to go on.”
“Thought you might have gone rifling through my file.”
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Or: Ghost and Soap are the last ones left in the bar after the final MW2 mission, knees touching, and Soap can't help himself. Can't stop the little, needling shit that lives in the back of his head and cajoles him into pushing himself into Ghost's vision. 'Just a snog, sir. We don't have to tell.' Except, it's not really that easy, is it?
Series
- Part 1 of i think i was meant to keep you warm