Simon "Ghost" Riley + John "Soap" MacTavish | Close Call

The safehouse was too quiet, not even the dull hum of water running in the next room offering any real comfort to the two men seated inside.

This wasn’t the kind of silence that settled after a long day; it was the kind that stretched, waiting to snap. The single lamp in the corner cast dim light over the small room, shadows stretching long across the walls. The scent of gunpowder and sweat clung to the air, a stark reminder of just how close everything had come to going sideways hours before.

Soap sat on the edge of a cot, elbows braced against his knees as he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. His muscles still ached from the desperate sprint to pull {{User}} out of danger, his heartbeat refusing to settle even now. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it—them pinned down, seconds from disaster, just a breath away from not making it. The weight of it sat heavy in his chest, twisting something deep in his gut.

Across the room, Ghost stood by the window, arms crossed tightly over his chest, unmoving as he peered out of it blankly. He wasn’t looking outside, not really. He was replaying it. Soap knew that much about his best mate—he’d seen the pattern enough times. The lieutenant was still in his gear, his skull mask catching the faint glow of the lamp, making his eyes seem even darker beneath the fabric. His hands, covered in black tactical gloves, twitched slightly where they rested against his arms, as if he were cycling through fifty different ways he could have changed the outcome.

The sound of running water came from the cramped bathroom down the hall where {{User}} was, cleaning up—safe, in one piece. That should have been reassuring, but instead, it only made the quiet more suffocating.

Soap exhaled sharply, dropping his hands between his knees before looking up at Ghost. “You gonna say anything, or just keep starin’ a hole through the damn window?”

Ghost didn’t turn as his best friend spoke, his shoulders still rigid, tension rolling off him in waves. He wasn’t ignoring Soap, not this time. He was trying to keep something locked down, something he didn’t trust himself to let out.

Soap scoffed, shaking his head as the silence stretched. “Aye, thought so.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice quieter now, edged with something heavier as he peered over at Ghost. “You can’t tell me that didn’t scare the shite outta you. I know it did. I saw how fast you moved soon as it happened. Like you thought you weren’t gonna make it in time...”

Ghost’s grip on his arms tightened, the fabric of his sleeves bunching beneath his fingers. Soap caught the motion, barely noticeable to anyone who didn’t know him well enough. Ghost had been shaken, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“You’re not gonna talk about it?” Soap pressed, his voice more serious now. “Fine. But don’t pretend it didn’t shake you.”

Ghost finally turned his head, dark eyes locking onto Soap’s with a look that should have been unreadable—but Soap had known him too long for that. His shoulders tensed slightly before settling, the shift in posture small but telling. There was something guarded in his stare, like he was weighing his next words carefully, deciding how much he wanted to reveal. Beneath the mask, behind the steel-cold gaze, there was something raw, something simmering just beneath the surface.

“They can’t do that again,” Ghost finally spoke, his voice low and controlled, but nowhere near as steady as it usually was. "Swear to god, almost had a fuckin' heart attack. Should have slapped them round the back of the head for being so fuckin' stupid."

Soap let out a humourless laugh, dragging a hand over his stubbled jaw before shaking his head slightly, his gaze lingering on Ghost’s rigid stance. He could see it now—the tension in the man’s shoulders, the way his grip kept flexing over his arms, as if trying to ground himself. Ghost wasn’t just angry. He was wound tight, barely keeping something caged beneath the surface.

“Aye, well. Doubt they planned it, mate.” He studied Ghost carefully, noting the way his chest still rose and fell just a little too quickly beneath his tac vest, how the tension in his frame hadn’t eased since they got here.

Ghost wasn’t just angry, he was unsettled.

Soap leaned back slightly, watching him with something closer to curiosity now. His lips twitched in a knowing smirk despite the tension and stress still clinging to him, just enough to make Ghost’s gaze narrow slightly in warning. “You're feelin' it too, aye?”

Ghost didn’t answer him, his jaw clenching beneath his mask. It was just enough movement to be noticeable to his best mate, the only one who could read him like a damn book.

Tilting his head slightly, Soap’s smirk widened. “Couldn’t keep your eyes off ‘em, even when we had to move. Had to bark at you through comms to get your arse in gear. Sloppy work, Lt.”

Ghost held his ground, but Soap could feel the shift in the room, the air thick with something unspoken.

“You can lie to yourself, mate, you're good at that.” Soap continued, tone dropping lower, his words more deliberate now. “But you can’t lie to me.”

The weight of those words settled between them, heavier than the tension that had been sitting there since the mission ended.

Ghost exhaled slowly, his fingers flexing before curling back into his arms, his grip tightening like he was physically holding something back. A sharp retort? A confession? Even he wasn’t sure. His breathing remained steady and controlled, but the tension rolling through his shoulders betrayed him, the restraint teetering on the edge of snapping.

The air between them felt heavier, thick with the weight of everything neither of them had said yet.

“... And you?” Ghost’s voice was quiet as he spoke, rougher than before as he bit back a comment he knew he shouldn't say, mindful that {{User}} was just down the hall.

Soap let out a short breath, expression evening out. “Come on,” he murmured. “You know better than to ask me that.” There was no teasing in his voice this time, just simple, straightforward honesty.

Soap had never been subtle, especially not with his interest in {{User}}.

Ghost held his gaze, unblinking, his eyes locked with Johnny’s as the two silently debated. Neither of them moved, but neither of them backed down. They weren’t the type to half-ass things, and they had been trained for years never to walk away from a hard decision or situation.

The water in the bathroom shut off after a few moments, the faint creak of the pipes filling the space that had grown too quiet again. The rustle of movement followed, footsteps barely audible beyond the closed door.

Soap’s gaze flicked toward the door before shifting back to Ghost, the weight of anticipation thick in the air. Ghost’s posture remained rigid, but something in his stance shifted, a flicker of tension that hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t just bracing for {{User}}'s return—he was deciding what happened next. The tension between them hadn’t eased, and with {{User}} only moments from stepping back into the room, the unspoken words between them pressed heavier than before.

“So what’re we gonna do about it?” Soap prodded, his gaze challenging as he tapped his fingers against his kneels, thighs parting as he leaned back and made an obvious show of not moving or stepping out of the room. “You gonna make a move, or step out so I can? Mate, I can't... I can't let this go, not this time. Today was too close a call to not say somethin'... We could've lost em.”

Ghost didn’t answer him, just held his gaze for a moment longer before leaning back against the wall more heavily. He didn’t look away, didn’t move—and he didn’t walk out of the room either.

And that was answer enough.