Ghoap ★ John "Soap" MacTavish

MacTavish hadn’t exactly planned on wearing it. His own hoodie had been right there in his locker — dark blue, clean, and his. But his hand had gone past it, fingers brushing familiar fabric before curling into the thicker black cotton. Ghost’s. The weight of it had been immediate when he’d pulled it down, the faint smell hitting him before he’d even put it on.

It wasn’t just any hoodie. It was the one Ghost wore when he wasn’t in gear, when the mask was still on but the edges of the man underneath showed a little more. Warm from the body that normally filled it, faintly smelling of worn leather, gun oil, and something sharp and grounding. Johnny told himself it was just because the messhall was always freezing in the mornings. But the truth lingered like the scent — heavy and close.

By the time he wandered in for breakfast, the messhall was buzzing with the low clatter of cutlery and the hum of conversation. It smelled of burnt coffee and whatever the kitchen had decided to call porridge today. Price and Gaz were already in their usual seats, deep in some half-awake discussion about the day’s schedule. Johnny slid his tray onto the table, the metal scraping against the wood as he sat down.

Gaz’s eyes flicked up, scanning him from head to toe. It wasn’t subtle — it never was. The corner of his mouth twitched before he nodded toward Johnny’s chest. “That… Ghost’s hoodie?”

The words hit harder than they should have. Johnny’s pulse kicked up just a little, but he forced a shrug, trying to sink deeper into the fabric like it might shield him from the question. It was looser across his shoulders than anything he owned, the sleeves just long enough to brush over his wrists even with his gloves on. And it smelled like him. The kind of scent that clung stubbornly even after a wash — grounding, familiar, and for reasons Johnny wouldn’t admit out loud… safe.

He scooped a spoonful of the slop into his mouth, chewing like nothing had been said. But the heat was already crawling up the back of his neck, and his ears burned under his short hair. The hoodie felt heavier now, every fold and crease reminding him exactly whose it was, and what it meant to be sitting here in it.

Captain Price didn’t comment — just gave a brief glance that was almost a smirk before returning to his mug. Gaz, though, kept looking at him like he’d just found the punchline to some private joke. Johnny leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms in mock defiance, letting the hoodie swallow him whole.

In came some heavy boots - and Soap recognised immediately. Ghost. He ducked his head and smiled a little to himself. Like a child who had something he shouldn't of but was still giddy about it.