A/N:This is set pre-MW2 (obviously, since Soap and Ghost are looking for intel on Macarov), but best to include that anyway. I'm also recycling my description of Ghost from my other MW2 oneshot "Casualties" because it sounds hot, I'm lazy, and it's midnight while I'm writing this. Obviously Soap/Ghost slash, and this is more obvious than it was in the last one. Mostly because Ghost is alive in this one. XD Also, assume the "uniforms" they're wearing are the almost-civvy urban gear they wore in the Rio de Janeiro levels, i.e: the jeans and shirts with Kevlar, etc.
DISCLAIMER:Ghost, Soap, Makarov and Modern Warfare 2 belong to Infinity Ward. If it belonged to me, Ghost wouldn't have fucking died. He would've stabbed Sheperd in the throat with a .50 cal round.
"You always have to play with the distance toys, don't you?"
Soap didn't even glance up. He sat on one of the stiff beds in the small room, Ghost occupying the other one. He looked down the detached barrel of the Intervention, sliding a brush inside and clearing away all of the non-existent debris he couldn't see. If they had time to kill, they might as well make sure they were ready.
"Fine. Don't answer me." Ghost shrugged.
They'd been sitting in some low-budget hotel for weeks, waiting for days on end, keeping an eye on the building across from theirs, a whore-house Makarov's favorite Commrade was known to frequent. Soap was beginning to think their intel was off. Again. Wouldn't be the first time they'd gotten stale information. Guns had been cleaned, knives had been sharpened... They were beginning to run out of things to do to keep themselves occupied while cooped up in the shit-hole they were calling a "base of operations". Soap was starting to get restless. He was starting to think they'd been fucked over. There were plenty of other places they could be in, places where they knew the intel was solid, places where more good could be done than sitting around, waiting for someone to show up...
"How many times are you going to clean that fucking gun?" Ghost demanded, the soft rasp of the barrel brush beginning to grate on his already frayed nerves. Soap only glanced up at him with indifferent blue eyes. He gave the barrel a few more scrubs before he set the brush to the side and started the process of reassembly.
"That's a little more tolerable." Soap could hear his team mate's smirk as he spoke. Soap responded by throwing one of his knives at Ghost, just missing the masked man's head.
"Getting pissy, MacTavish?" He was met with more silence. Ghost shrugged and pulled the knife from the already crumbling sheet rock. He turned to give the knife back to its owner and found Soap standing directly behind him, hand extended, waiting for the knife.
"I'm gonna make you wear a bell or somethin'. Fuckin' sneakin' up on me." Ghost muttered as he slapped the knife into Soap's palm.
"Now who's getting pissy?" Soap smirked.
"Fuck you, John."
Soap raised an eyebrow. Ghost noticed it was the eyebrow with a thin scar cutting through it. A frag or an IED he was too close to or something of the like... Soap said there was so much blood and the flash was so bright, he thought he'd gone blind.
"You trying to tell me something, Riley?"
Ghost responded by lunging off the bed and taking Soap to the ground. Soap knew how fast his teammate was. Everybody in the 141 had to be quick, mentally and physically. "Two types of people: the quick and the dead". Ghost moved to hit Soap, but the blow was deflected. Soap used this new displaced momentum to throw Ghost to the ground. Soap found himself straddling the masked man and Ghost seemed more than just a little pissed at the situation. MacTavish pushed Riley's mask up, though Ghost made no move to fight him.
"I don't know why you wear this damn thing." Soap growled. Ghost wasn't unattractive, not with his features that a trashy romance novelist would call "aristocratic", and his bright green eyes and black hair that earned him a few Harry Potter jokes in his direction until he was old enough to understand the mechanics of a fist fight.
"You fucking know why." Ghost hissed. Soap grabbed his chin and forced his head to the side, looking at the curved scar running from the corner of his left eye to under his lips.
"It's not so bad."
"Says the other scarred-up bastard."
"Would you rather I be someone else?"
"Fuck no." Riley smiled.
"Good."
Soap kissed Ghost the same way he did everything; fast, heavy, precise, calculated, controlling. Ghost tried his damndest to take control, earning him only a few smart-assed remarks about being court marshaled for an attempted coup.
"Fuck off, John. We know who really runs the one-four-one."
"Easy, Simon. I have stripes that say otherwise." Ghost snarled at bit at Soap's neck for the comment. Soap made a silent prayer that this wasn't the moment Whats-his-nuts decided to visit the brothel, because there was no way in hell the two members of Task Force 141 would notice him if he emptied an AK clip into the whore-house...
It was nearly three hours later when the call came through their comms.
"Papa-six, come in."
Soap rubbed his eyes and sat up. He knew that it wasn't the best idea in the world, both of them falling asleep at the same time in a known enemy zone.
"Please tell me they're calling us home." Ghost muttered to no one in particular.
Soap reached for the com. He could've slept for a few more hours and Christwas he sore... It had been, as always, a fight to keep Ghost under him. He caught sight of a dark, ugly, purple bruise on his shoulder in the shape of Riley's teeth. He was sure he had a few more on his neck. He spared a glance at his still half-dozing teammate, half-heartedly called him a lazy bastard, and noticed that Riley was similiarly covered in red marks and bruises.
"This is Papa-six, over." Soap sighed, trying to avoid sounding exhausted.
"Papa-six, you have new directives. Intel for the current mission was skewed. Your extraction point is your drop-off L-Zed. Be there in two hours, over."
"Got it. Back to the starting point in two hours. Papa-six, out."
"I think I'm going to demand some leave time when we make it back to base." Ghost sighed.
"Sayin' you need time to recover?" Soap smirked. Ghost flicked him off and looked over the edge of the bed, trying to find his discarded clothes. He'd just gotten back into his pants and was looking around the room for his Kevlar when he was thrown against a wall and felt sharp teeth digging into his neck.
"Fuck... John... We don't have time for this."
"We've got two hours, Simon."
"And how often do we find ourselves in enough trouble to eat up all that time without wasting any of it?" Ghost continued to argue, though his willingness to push Soap away was beginning to wane.
"You afraid we'll miss our ride out?"
"You know they'll leave us behind."
Soap thought for a moment. He knew Ghost was right. He knew that they'd been inactive long enough to look for trouble without realizing they were looking for it just to blow through a few clips.
"Fine. But this will be continued."
Ghost took a few deep breaths once Soap was gone. Intensity was part of the job, but sometimes they got a little carried away.
"Nice to see you back, Captain Mactavish." Worm grinned as they jogged away from the helicopter. Soap offered a tired smile.
"Ghost! My quarters. And that's an order." Soap yelled over the heavy 'thwack' of the chopper blades.
"Aye-aye, Cap'n." Ghost said sarcastically. He knew he'd pay for that later, when the intensity carried them away, when the fight became more about "gaining the high ground" than "eliminating the opposition". He smiled behind his painted visage. That would just make things all the more interesting.
A/N2: I promised myself I wouldn't do this just because I have so many one-shot collections, but fuck it all I'm getting attached to this pairing. So that's what this has become. It was supposed to be "Casualties" and that's it. Now it's growing on me and goddammit I can't stop. So if you like it, review it and put it on alert because I have a feeling I'm going to be making more MacRiley stories. -_-'