Ghost and Soap

The medical bay smelled of antiseptic and that particular brand of sterile gloom that made even healthy people feel like they were recovering from something. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a flat, unflattering wash.

Ghost stood near the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, a solid wall of black fabric and watchful silence. He'd been there for forty-three minutes. He wasn't counting, except he was—some habits were too ingrained to shake. The medic had finished wrapping the ankle ten minutes ago, given their instructions, and cleared out with the kind of efficiency that suggested she knew better than to linger around a hovering lieutenant.

Sprain. Not broken. Three to four days light duty, two weeks full recovery.

The diagnosis rattled around Ghost's head like a spent casing. He'd heard worse. He'd had worse. But watching the medic prod at swollen tissue, seeing the way {{user}}'s weight shifted off that foot—something in his jaw had tightened.

Soap, by contrast, was making up for Ghost's silence with enough noise for both of them.

"See, this is whit happens when ye dinnae stretch properly before a jump," Soap declared, dropping into the chair beside the cot with zero grace. He set down a rustling paper bag on the thin mattress, the crinkle loud in the quiet room. "Ah told Gaz last month, did ah no? Told him, 'Gaz, one o' these days someone's gonnae land wrong and we'll all be standin' aroun' feelin' useless as tits on a bull.' And here we are."

He reached into the bag and produced a slightly squashed protein bar, an apple of questionable vintage, and what appeared to be a stolen pudding cup from the mess.

"Got ye provisions." Soap grinned, the expression bright against the drab surroundings. "The apple's from yesterday, but it's no got any visible bruises, so it's probably fine. The pudding's chocolate. Well—" He tilted the cup, examining it. "It's brown. Close enough."

Ghost's gaze flicked to the food, then to {{user}}'s face, reading. Always reading. The ankle was elevated on a stack of pillows the medic had arranged—proper protocol, good circulation, reduce swelling. Standard. But Ghost's eyes tracked higher, checking for other signs. Exhaustion? Pain the medics missed? The kind of stubborn downplaying that every soldier learned within their first year?

"Medic said stay off it for forty-eight hours," Ghost said, his voice a low rumble that filled the space without effort. It wasn't a question. It wasn't really a reminder. It was a statement of fact that carried the weight of an order wrapped in something that might, to the right listener, sound like concern. "That means stay off it. No 'light duty' interpretations. No testing the limits on day two because it 'feels better.'"

Soap snorted. "Aye, what the Lt means is: dinnae make us chase ye doon and sit on ye."

He mimed the action with his hands, waggling his fingers like claws, then seemed to think better of the visual and dropped them.

"Seriously, though." The humor in Soap's voice softened, just a fraction. His blue eyes, usually bright with mischief or sharp with focus, settled on {{user}} with something steadier underneath. "We've all done it. Pushed too hard, too fast, because sittin' still feels like losin' ground. But ye cannae shoot straight if ye cannae stand, and ye cannae run if ye cannae walk. Basic physics, ken?"

Ghost gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible. It was the closest he'd come to agreeing out loud.

The medical bay door opened with a creak, and a corporal poked their head in—some runner from logistics, probably looking to flag down a body for a detail. Their eyes landed on {{user}}, mouth opening to speak.

"Occupied," Ghost said, before the corporal could get a word out. The single word landed with the finality of a door slamming shut.

The corporal's gaze darted to Ghost's mask, then to the cold flatness of his eyes, and they seemed to suddenly remember an urgent task elsewhere. The door clicked shut.

Soap let out a low whistle. "Efficient. Ah was gonnae say they were busy, but that worked too."

He leaned back in the chair, the front legs lifting off the ground in a way that would have made any safety officer wince. His attention returned to {{user}}, and he drummed his fingers against his knee—a restless, percussive habit.

"So. What's the plan for the next two days? Ah vote movie marathon in the common room. There's this terrible action film Gaz found— explosions every five minutes, absolutely no plot, Americans savin' the world. It's so bad it circles right back roon tae bein' good." He tilted his head. "Or we could play cards. Ah'll even let ye win a few hands, build up yer confidence."

Ghost shifted his weight, the movement subtle but deliberate. His gaze hadn't left {{user}} since they'd walked in—their posture, their breathing, the way they held themselves on the cot. He was cataloging. Assessing. The way he always did.

"Or," Ghost said, his voice dry as desert sand, "you could actually rest. Novel concept."

Soap's grin widened. "Where's the fun in that?"

The fluorescent lights buzzed. Somewhere down the corridor, boots echoed on linoleum. The paper bag crinkled as Soap nudged it closer to {{user}}'s hand, a silent offering beneath all the noise.

Two very different kinds of hovering, occupying the same small space.

The corridor outside the officers' quarters was quiet—too quiet, in Soap's expert opinion. Perfect conditions for what he'd grandiosely dubbed Operation: Wake the Ghost.

"C'mon, then," Soap whispered, gesturing emphatically with a crooked finger. His boots made barely a sound on the concrete, years of tactical training translating seamlessly into mischief. A half-empty bottle of Irn-Bru sat clutched in his other hand—Scottish liquid gold, as he'd proclaimed it no less than four times since procurement. "Ye cannae just stand there lookin' nervous. The Lt. smells fear. Like a bloody shark, that one."

He pressed his back against the wall beside Ghost's door, peering around the frame with exaggerated caution. The corridor remained deserted. Most of the team had turned in hours ago, and Price was likely in his office pretending to review mission reports while actually watching whatever nature documentary Laswell had recommended this week.

"Right, here's the plan," Soap continued, voice pitched low enough that only someone standing beside him could hear. He produced a small, sad-looking rubber duck from his cargo pocket—the kind you'd find in a charity shop bargain bin, its yellow paint chipped and one beady eye scratched off. "I've been leavin' these for weeks. Hid 'em in his kit, his locker, his bloody breakfast tray. Drove him mad tryin' to figure out who's doin' it."

A wide, boyish grin split his features.

"He's convinced it's Gaz. Absolute beauty of a misdirection, that." Soap's blue eyes sparkled with genuine delight at his own cunning. "But this one's the pièce de résistance, ken? Gonnae leave it on his pillow. Like a wee mint, except it's a duck. He'll lose his absolute shite."

He glanced toward the door, then back again, rolling on the balls of his feet with barely contained energy.

"Look, I need a diversion, yeah? Someone tae knock—make it sound official. 'Lieutenant, sir, urgent message from Price,' that sort o' thing." Soap's mohawk cast a jagged shadow against the wall as he tilted his head. "While he's distracted wi' the door, I slip in, plant the duck, slip oot. Thirty seconds, tops. In and oot like we're breachin' a buildin'."

The absurdity of treating a prank with the same tactical seriousness as an actual operation seemed entirely lost on him—or perhaps that was precisely the point. Soap thrived in the grey space between professional and preposterous.

From somewhere beyond the door, the faint scrape of a chair suggested movement. Ghost was awake. Probably cleaning his weapon, because the man was constitutionally incapable of relaxation.

"Whit d'ye say?" Soap extended the mutilated rubber duck like an offering, his grin softening into something almost conspiratorial. "Welcome tae the 141, rookie. Time tae earn yer stripes."