Ghost is, above everything else, a germaphobe. People could call him anything else and there’s a chance he’ll disagree with them just out of spite.
Which is why it’s so fucking strange that Ghost has little to no reaction when Soap picks off his plate or deposits something he doesn’t want. Gaz watches it with the highest grade of confusion.
Soap has been a part of the team for three months, and he’s got more brownie points than him. Gaz has known Ghost for years. The man doesn’t share, he throws the biggest bitch fits over blood and other sorts of stuff after the danger has passed. He thinks sharing food is gross, will never take food or water from a teammate, always calls dibs on first shower at safe houses.
Gaz narrows his eyes. “What’s tha’?” Soap peeks over to Ghost’s bottle.
“Lemonade,” Ghost responds dryly. He tilts the bottle, a reusable one he refuses to let anybody else touch, and Soap dips down and drinks from the straw. “Good?”
Gaz is going to have an aneurism.
“Mm,” Soap hums, dipping down for another sip before shaking his head, “Too sweet.”
Ghost shrugs and sticks the straw back into his mouth, idly chewing on it.
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Soap makes a face as he bites into his cheeseburger. He flips open the bun and narrows his eyes. “There’s fuckin’ pickles in here.”
“What? Thats fuckin’ unfair. I didn’t get any pickles,” Ghost gripes, also examining the inside of his burger. “Did we switch on accident? Did ya get onions?”
“Yeah,” Soap says, “Did you?”
“Mm-mm,” Ghost shakes his head, “Give me your pickles.” Soap plucks the pickles from his burger and deposits them into Ghost’s.
Gaz and Price share a look of concern and confusion. Gaz thinks he’s hallucinating, probably.
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Gaz, unsuccessfully tries to snatch a mandarin from Ghost’s yogurt bowl. “I will gut you,” Ghost drawls lowly, squeezing his wrist for a few seconds before dropping it. Gaz eyes the delicious mixture of granola, yogurt, mandarins, and strawberries with sorrow.
So, Ghost is still against sharing.
Soap pops in a few minutes later, coffee in hand. “Oooh,” he coos, sitting right up against Ghost. Ghost sends him a hot glare. “What’s that?”
“Yogurt.”
“Can I have a strawberry?”
Gaz expects Ghost to tell him to fuck off in one of his creative ‘Im coming on your bed tonight’ or ‘I’m gonna murder you’ monologues. None comes, though. Ghost simply pokes around in his bowl for a few moments before offering a spoonful of yogurt. Soap takes it, putting his whole ass mouth on the spoon and licking it clean with a happy noise. Ghost just scrapes some more on his spoon and puts the same. fucking. spoon. in his mouth.
“Thank ye,” Soap sings, scooting away and pulling out his sketchbook.
“Kill yourself,” Ghost mumbles, “Takin’ my damn food.”
Still an asshole.
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Gaz and Soap are watching the MCU movies for the hundredth time. Soap is halfway through his pint of dark chocolate ice cream, and Gaz is mourning the fact that he finished his popcorn.
Hulk screams at Tony Stark’s kind of corpse when Ghost walks in. Ghost makes his way to the fridge, pokes around, and then grumbles to himself. Gaz ignores him for the most part until he hears an indignant noise from Soap. He looks over and Ghost is sitting half on the arm of the couch and half on Soap, mask rolled up to his nose and using Soap’s fork to dig into the ice cream.
Gaz watches with mild horror and mostly confusion as they continue to share the pint of ice cream until theres nothing left.
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The worst part, Gaz thinks, is how his heart nearly gives out every time it happens.
Ghost is particular about things. One of the things he’s particular about is his tea. He likes it a certain way, at a certain temperature, and at a certain time. He has a certain brand, a specific blend, measures the grams of tea like a psychopath before and after he makes his mug.
Gaz almost passes out when a half awake Ghost stumbles into the rec room and Soap is hot on his heels. Ghost is not a morning person, he’s more like a rabid creature in need of a rabies vaccine. Gaz learnt early on that Ghost should not be interacted with in the thirty minutes of him rising from his slumber.
Ghost sits at the table, staring off into nothing. Soap busies himself at the counter. Gaz wants to say something when Soap drizzles honey into a mug of tea. He wants to live, more though, and he doesn’t want to irritate Ghost so early in the morning by being too loud (or by existing, really, Ghost sort of hates anything that breathes in the morning time).
Ghost looks at Soap as he moves over to the table. To Gaz’s complete and utter shock, Soap sips from the fucking mug before setting it in front of Ghost. Ghost just curls around the mug like a reptile starved of heat and sips at it slowly, a content hum leaving his lips.
Soap places a hand between Ghost’s shoulder blades and rubs there for a few moments. Gaz watches Ghost slump further into the table, eyes fluttering shut. Soap says something Gaz can’t hear and Ghost gives a tiny nod of his head.
Gaz has to sit down.
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Gaz has enough a few months later.
It’s hot. It’s hotter than it fucking should be in the UK.
Soap is happily chewing on an ice pop, pressing the cool ice to his forehead on occasion. Gaz had finished his a while ago and was mourning the loss of the cool weight in his palms.
Ghost appears out of thin fucking air and dips over to the ice pop, licking between Soap’s fingers at the bottom to catch some juice before taking a small bite out of the top. “Ugh, ew,” He says. Gaz is expecting him to comment on the spit, the germs, how he finds it disgusting, “Is that fucking watermelon?”
“I like watermelon,” Soap mumbles defensively. “It’s good.”
“Eugh,” Ghost says, making another mildly disgusted noise.
“What the actual fuck.” Gaz mutters.
“What?” Soap and Ghost ask at the same time.
“Whaddaya mean what?” Gaz gestures. “Ghost just got your spit all in his mouth. Ghost, I hate other people’s germs just sucked on your popsicle, Soap. And you share forks, spoons, straws, sometimes plates. To be honest I am completely and utterly confused and mildly concerned somebody hit their head.”
Ghost takes another bite from the ice pop, despite expressing his disgust over the flavor a few moments earlier. “Oh,” He says casually, “It’s not weird if it’s him. It would be kind of weird if I was grossed out by my own husband’s spit. We’ve done dirtier shit.”
Gaz just stares.
“Gaz? You awrite, mate?”
“I think I hit my head.”
Kyle needs a fuckin’ nap.
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