Hi! This is my first time writing/actually uploading a fic in a long time 😭Crossposting from AO3 <3
Cold Pillows and Warm Blades (894 words)
Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, mentions of blood, sparring, fighting
“C’mon. Hit me again.” Ghost said huskily, his breathing ragged and uneven. He was practically swaying, his head spinning. But he kept spurring Soap on, for some reason. Maybe he had a death wish. Maybe it was something deeper than that. “It’s not a bad thing to let your anger out, Johnny.” This was the closest thing to intimacy he would let himself have. The feeling of Soap’s knuckles grazing his jaw was the nearest thing to a kiss, a tender caress, that he’d allow himself. It wasn’t a masochistic thing. That was far from what was going on. Any other form of closeness or intimacy was too much. It was overwhelming, stifling. He felt trapped in any kind of tenderness. It was a foreign concept to him.
He waved Soap forward, a slight grin on his busted, bleeding lip. His balaclava hid it, but the stains were visible, the metallic smell and taste of blood inescapable. Ghost figured he’d patch himself up afterwards, his knuckles bruised and bleeding, his nose crooked and aching. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t dealt with on his own before. Swiftly, he was knocked out of his thoughts by Soap’s fist directly hitting him in the jaw, sending him stumbling backwards. He hadn’t braced himself for that hit, leaving him flat on his back on the mat below the two men. Soap’s voice was muffled in his ringing ears as Ghost lay on the mat, trying to gain his bearings.
“Ghost. Ghost, goddamn you.” He eventually heard Soap growl at him, an almost worried expression on the sergeant’s face. Ghost slowly managed to open his eyes, his breathing still shallow and shaky. “L.T., If you don’t get up, I’m gonna-” Ghost waved off Soap’s worry with a small gesture of his hand, signalling that he was fine. He was more than fine, actually. Sure, he was in immense pain, and was going to be reeling from this for the next couple of days; but it was worth it, in an almost sick way. “I’m fine. Give me a minute.” He croaked out breathlessly, a low chuckle escaping him. He groaned and leaned back onto the mat, letting himself catch his breath. “...You sure?” He heard Soap ask, his tone having an almost hesitant manner to it. “Don’t worry about it. Never seen you so worked up like that.” Ghost says with a low chuckle, a hint of something akin to admiration in his gruff tone.
After a minute, he let himself get up, still refusing to take off that damned bloodstained balaclava of his. “Rough week?” He asks Soap as he limps over to him. Ghost tilts his head to the side as he speaks, an absentminded gesture even he wasn’t aware of. He could taste the metallic flavour of blood on his tongue, and it was almost enough to make him sick, but at the same time…it was nice. It was a reminder that it was Soap’s hands that had caused that. Maybe he was sick, perverse in a deep, irreparable way. “You could say that.” Soap began, looking over Ghost, making sure he was actually alright. Once he was content with Ghost’s condition, he continued. “It’s just been…stressful, I guess, going on mission after mission, not having time to go on leave or anything.” He sighs. Ghost slowly nods his head, making eye contact with Soap for once, his hazel eyes having an indescribable glint to them. “Mhm. ’m in the same boat. I hope sparring helped you out, at least a little. Usually helps me to get anger out in that way.” He muses, the aches and pains from sparring getting to him, not that he’d show it.
“...Yeah. It’s been therapeutic, in a way.” Soap replies, almost unsettled by Ghost’s sudden eye contact. He furrows his dark eyebrows, noticing that Ghost started to sway slightly. “Are you completely sure you’re fine? I got a few good hits on ya.” He asks in an almost apprehensive way, before he gets cut off by another slight wave of Ghost’s hand. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’ve been through worse,” He says with a low chuckle, his voice almost strained. “I’m gonna head back to the barracks, patch myself up a little.” He continues, giving Soap a small, very slight wave. “I’ll see you, Johnny.” Ghost says, stumbling back to the barracks, playing off the amount of pain he’s in. He isn’t even close to being fully recovered from the injuries he sustained on the last mission he went on. But in a strange way, this felt worth it. He was able to do something for Soap. He liked feeling useful, feeling like he was able to do something for someone he cared about, even if he didn’t dare let himself say it.
He was completely lost in his thoughts as he entered the barracks, heading to his bunk. Ghost laid down with a groan, the cold pillow beneath his head a reminder of the lonely existence he lived, the solitude he forced himself into. He’s reminded of all the intimacy he won’t let himself have. What’s wrong with him is wrong all the way through him, he thinks. And there has to be something so deeply wrong with him; as there's no way a man of his ranking should be acting and yearning like this.
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