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Captain Price announced the camping trip at 0800 on a Tuesday, which was how Soap knew immediately that either the world was ending or Price had finally snapped.
They were in the briefing room, mugs of tea and coffee scattered around the table, Gaz halfway through a yawn, Ghost standing in his usual corner like a haunted wardrobe with knives, and Soap doodling an extremely flattering portrait of Price as a bear with a cigar.
Price cleared his throat.
“We’re going camping.”
Soap’s pen stopped moving.
Gaz blinked. “Sorry, sir?”
“Camping,” Price repeated.
Ghost stared at him.
Soap slowly lowered his pen. “As in… outdoors?”
Price gave him a flat look. “You’re in the military, MacTavish.”
“Aye, but usually when I’m outdoors someone’s shooting at me.”
“No one will be shooting at you.”
“That you know of.”
“Sergeant.”
Soap leaned back in his chair, suspicious. “Is this some kind of survival training?”
“No.”
“Punishment?”
“No.”
“Team bonding?”
Price’s mouth twitched.
Soap gasped. “Oh, God, it is.”
Gaz groaned and put his face in his hands. “Captain.”
“It’ll be good for morale,” Price said.
Ghost’s voice came from the corner, dry as bone. “Morale’s overrated.”
Price pointed at him without looking. “You’re coming too.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Price took a slow sip of tea. “Already packed your tent.”
Ghost went still.
Soap turned around in his chair so fast he nearly tipped over. “You packed Ghost’s tent?”
“Had to. He’d have ‘forgotten’ it.”
“I don’t forget things,” Ghost said.
“You’d have forgotten on purpose,” Price replied.
Gaz lifted his head. “Are we allowed to bring snacks?”
“No explosives,” Price said.
Gaz paused. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
“No explosives,” Price repeated.
Soap looked offended. “What kind of camping trip doesn’t allow explosives?”
“A successful one.”
Ghost turned toward the door. “Enjoy.”
“Riley.”
Ghost stopped.
Price smiled the smile of a man who had raised several impossible soldiers and survived all of them. “Truck leaves at 0900.”
Ghost looked at him for a long moment.
Then he looked at Soap.
Soap grinned. “Come on, LT. Fresh air. Trees. Marshmallows. Me being charming near a fire.”
“That’s three reasons not to go.”
“Only three? I’m losing my touch.”
Ghost walked out.
Price looked far too pleased with himself. “He’ll be there.”
Gaz frowned. “How do you know?”
From the hallway, Ghost barked, “I’m driving!”
Soap beamed. “See? Enthusiastic already.”
The drive out was two hours of pure, concentrated suffering.
Not because of the road. The road was fine.
Not because of the weather. The weather was beautiful, all blue sky and warm sun, the sort of day civilians wrote poetry about.
No, the suffering came from the fact that Ghost drove like he believed every road had personally wronged him.
Soap sat in the passenger seat because he had called it first, and because Ghost had silently unlocked the front door for him before Gaz could get there, which Soap was choosing to count as a victory.
Gaz and Price sat in the back, wedged between bags, tents, coolers, and one suspicious duffel that Price had already searched twice.
Soap glanced at Ghost’s hands on the wheel. “You know, LT, when people say ‘scenic drive,’ they usually mean you’re allowed to look at the scenery.”
Ghost did not look away from the road. “I’m looking.”
“At what? Your enemies?”
“Potholes.”
“We haven’t passed a pothole in twenty minutes.”
“Because I’m watching.”
Gaz leaned forward between the seats. “Are you always like this?”
Soap answered before Ghost could. “Aye.”
Ghost said, “No.”
Soap pointed at him. “That tone means aye.”
Price sighed from the back. “I wanted a peaceful trip.”
“You brought us,” Gaz said.
“That was your first mistake,” Soap added.
Ghost grunted.
Soap glanced over. “Was that agreement?”
“No.”
“Sounded like agreement.”
“Sounded like me regretting every decision that led me here.”
“Same thing.”
They stopped once for petrol and supplies. Price went inside for firewood and ice. Gaz bought three bags of crisps and a pack of cards. Soap bought marshmallows, chocolate, biscuits, and a bag of gummy worms because “they’re traditional camping food in Scotland, probably.”
Ghost bought black coffee, beef jerky, and nothing else.
Or at least that was what he let them see.
Halfway back to the truck, Soap noticed a packet of Soap’s favorite sweets tucked under Ghost’s arm.
He slowed down.
Ghost stopped too. “What?”
Soap pointed. “Are those for me?”
“No.”
“They’re my favorite.”
“Coincidence.”
“You hate sweets.”
“They’re not for me.”
“So they are for me.”
Ghost stared at him.
Soap grinned so wide it hurt. “You packed snacks for me again.”
Gaz, already climbing into the back seat, perked up. “Again?”
Ghost opened the driver’s door. “Get in the truck.”
Price walked past with the firewood. “He’s been doing it for months.”
Ghost turned his head very slowly.
Price did not even blink.
Soap pressed a hand to his chest. “Months?”
“Truck,” Ghost said.
Soap floated into the passenger seat, delighted beyond measure.
For the next twenty minutes, he made kissing noises at the packet of sweets until Ghost threatened to throw him into the lake before they even arrived.
Soap considered that flirting.
The campsite was annoyingly beautiful.
Soap hated that Price had been right.
There was a wide clearing surrounded by thick trees, sunlight pouring through leaves in bright gold patches. A lake stretched beyond the tree line, glassy and blue, with mountains rising in the distance. Birds called somewhere overhead. The air smelled like pine, dirt, and water.
It looked peaceful.
Soap distrusted it immediately.
“Too quiet,” he said, stepping out of the truck.
Ghost got out beside him. “You scared of birds now?”
Soap narrowed his eyes. “After the pigeon incident, I respect them as enemies.”
Gaz laughed. “The pigeon incident?”
“No incident,” Soap said quickly.
Ghost shut the truck door. “Lost a fight.”
“I did not lose.”
“It hit you in the face.”
“It ambushed me.”
Gaz was already grinning. “A pigeon?”
“A highly trained pigeon,” Soap snapped.
Price dropped a tent bag at Soap’s feet. “Save the war stories for the campfire.”
They set up camp with the efficiency of men who had assembled shelter under much worse conditions. Price’s tent went up first because Price supervised with the authority of a man who knew exactly how to make everyone else do the annoying parts. Gaz’s took two tries because he insisted he did not need instructions, then immediately needed instructions. Soap’s tent nearly collapsed once because Ghost walked by and tugged one rope loose without breaking stride.
Soap gasped. “Sabotage!”
Ghost kept walking. “Poor craftsmanship.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Observant.”
Soap fixed the rope, then turned and saw Ghost setting up his own tent with terrifying precision. Every peg was lined up. Every rope taut. Every piece of gear placed exactly where it belonged.
Soap wandered over.
Ghost did not look at him. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Soap crouched beside him. “Can I help?”
“No.”
“Can I supervise?”
“No.”
“Can I admire?”
Ghost paused.
Soap smiled innocently.
Ghost pulled one rope tight. “From a distance.”
Soap took one dramatic step back. “Like this?”
“Farther.”
Another step. “This?”
“Farther.”
Soap backed up until he bumped into Gaz.
Gaz looked at him. “Banished?”
“Temporarily.”
“Tragic.”
Soap put both hands over his heart. “He’ll miss me.”
Ghost, from across the clearing, said, “Won’t.”
Soap yelled back, “You heard me, though!”
Ghost did not answer.
Price, lighting a cigar, muttered, “Like watching two stray cats court each other with violence.”
Gaz nodded. “I was thinking raccoons.”
Soap pointed at them. “I can hear you both.”
“Good,” Price said.
By late afternoon, Soap had discovered three important things.
One, Gaz was terrible at starting fires but excellent at pretending he was not.
Two, Price had packed enough food for a small army, which was either habit or an honest assessment of Soap’s appetite.
Three, Ghost owned a camping mug that said “DON’T TALK TO ME” in block letters.
Soap found this last detail extremely moving.
“You bought that?” he asked, holding it up.
Ghost looked over from where he was stacking firewood. “Stole it.”
“From who?”
“Man who talked too much.”
Soap slowly lowered the mug. “Should I be worried?”
“Yes.”
Gaz took the mug and examined it. “It suits you.”
“It’s a warning label,” Soap said.
Ghost walked by and plucked it out of Gaz’s hand. “And yet none of you listen.”
They cooked over the fire because Price insisted it built character. Soap argued that he already had plenty of character and would prefer a sandwich. Gaz burned the first round of sausages so badly that even Ghost stared at them in silent judgement.
“They’re not that bad,” Gaz said.
Soap poked one with a stick. It made a sound like dry wood.
“That sausage has seen combat,” Soap said.
Price squinted. “I think it’s armoured.”
Ghost picked one up, inspected it, then put it back down. “No.”
Gaz looked betrayed. “You eat ration packs.”
“I have standards.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do now.”
Soap leaned toward Ghost. “Want me to make you one, LT?”
Ghost glanced at him. “Can you cook?”
Soap looked offended. “I am a man of many talents.”
“You once microwaved metal.”
“One time.”
“Twice.”
“The second time was experimental.”
Price took the tongs from Gaz. “All of you, move.”
Dinner improved significantly once Price intervened.
They ate around the fire as the sun dipped lower, painting the lake in orange and gold. Soap sat on a log beside Ghost, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Almost, because Ghost was still Ghost, and in public he behaved like affection was a tactical disadvantage.
Except he kept passing Soap things.
A bottle of water before Soap asked.
A napkin when sauce dripped down his fingers.
The packet of sweets from the petrol station, tossed into Soap’s lap without a word.
Soap looked down at it, then up at him.
Ghost stared into the fire.
Soap nudged his shoulder against Ghost’s. “You’re soft.”
“Say that again and I’ll drown you.”
“Soft and murderous.”
“Better.”
Gaz watched them over his mug. “Do you two hear yourselves?”
“No,” Soap said.
“Yes,” Ghost said.
Price leaned back in his chair. “Unfortunately, we all do.”
The lake became Gaz’s idea, which meant he was responsible for everything that happened after.
It started when he complained about smelling like smoke.
“You’re camping,” Price said.
“I know, but I smell like I lost a fight with a barbecue.”
Soap lifted his arm and sniffed. “I smell rugged.”
Ghost said, “You smell flammable.”
Soap pointed at him. “That’s desire you’re smelling.”
“That’s smoke.”
“Same thing if you’re brave.”
Gaz stood and looked toward the lake. “I’m going for a swim.”
Price looked at the sky. “It’ll be cold.”
“Refreshing.”
“Cold,” Ghost corrected.
Gaz grinned. “Afraid, Lieutenant?”
The clearing went quiet.
Soap slowly turned to Gaz with the expression of a man watching someone step directly onto a landmine.
Ghost looked at Gaz.
Gaz’s grin wavered slightly.
Then Ghost stood.
“Oh,” Soap said, delighted. “You’ve done it now.”
Gaz backed up a step. “I meant generally. Not specifically. As a concept.”
Ghost walked toward the lake.
Price sighed, but he was smiling. “Suppose we’re doing this, then.”
Soap jumped up. “Aye! Last one in has to clean breakfast!”
“Absolutely not,” Price said.
But Soap was already moving.
They made it to the shore in a clatter of boots, laughter, and competitive insults. The lake lay calm in front of them, catching the last of the sunset. Smooth stones lined the edge, cold underfoot. Trees leaned close around them, as if even the forest wanted to see how badly this would go.
Gaz stripped down to his boxers first, shivering before he even touched the water.
Soap pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto a rock. “Look at you, Garrick. Built like a recruit.”
Gaz scoffed. “We can’t all be built like a brick house.”
“I’m sculpted.”
“By what, chaos?”
Soap turned to Price. “Captain, defend me.”
Price, removing his boots with the exhausted patience of a father on holiday, said, “You brought that on yourself.”
Soap looked wounded. “Betrayal everywhere.”
Then Ghost removed his jacket.
Soap noticed immediately, because Soap noticed everything Ghost did. He always had.
Ghost was not trying to make a show of it. That was the problem. He moved like he always did, calm and practical, setting his jacket aside, tugging off his gloves, then reaching for the hem of his black shirt.
Soap forgot whatever insult he had been about to throw at Gaz.
Ghost pulled his shirt over his head.
The world became deeply unfair.
Even Gaz went quiet.
Price paused for half a second longer than usual.
Soap stared, because he was only human and also because, frankly, he had earned the right.
Ghost was all hard muscle and pale scars, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, built not like someone who lived in a gym but like someone who had survived every bad thing the world had thrown at him and gotten stronger out of spite. I mean come on how does one even get abs like that. Ink covered more of him than Soap had expected. Dark tattoos curled over one shoulder and down his arm, disappeared along his ribs, wrapped across his back in sharp lines and shadowed shapes. Skulls, smoke, thorned edges, something that might have been a dagger, something that might have been wings if you looked at it from the right angle.
It was beautiful.
Not pretty. Not polished.
Beautiful like a warning.
Gaz made a faint sound.
Soap’s head snapped toward him.
Gaz lifted both hands. “Respectfully.”
“No,” Soap said.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You thought it loudly.”
Price coughed into his fist. “To be fair, Soap—”
Soap whipped around. “Captain.”
Price raised his brows, amused. “I’m just saying you’d have to be blind to not want to look, the Lads got tattoos.”
“Aye, and eyes are for looking at nature.” Soap pointed aggressively at the lake. “There’s a whole view right there.”
Gaz’s mouth twitched. “You jealous?”
Soap scoffed. “Me? Jealous?”
Ghost, still standing there shirtless and entirely too calm, looked at him.
Soap crossed his arms. “No.”
Gaz grinned. “That was the least convincing no I’ve ever heard.”
“I am not jealous.”
“You look like you’re about to bite someone.”
Soap glanced at Ghost. Definitely something he would want to bite. Wait no of course not.
Ghost’s eyes were crinkled at the edges.
The bastard was amused.
Soap stepped closer to him, not touching, but close enough to make a point. “I’m simply saying some people should keep their admiration to a respectful minimum.”
Gaz looked him up and down. “And what’s your admiration at?”
Soap did not hesitate. “A respectfully enormous amount.”
Price laughed.
Ghost shook his head and walked past them into the lake.
Soap watched him go.
Gaz leaned closer. “You’re drooling.”
Soap elbowed him.
Gaz yelped. “Possessive bastard.”
“That’s my lieutenant,” Soap said before he could stop himself.
The words landed.
Price went very still in the way he did when he had heard something interesting and was deciding whether to make it everyone’s problem.
Gaz’s grin widened slowly.
Ghost stopped knee-deep in the water.
Soap’s face heated.
He cleared his throat. “I mean. Our lieutenant. In a… team sense.”
Gaz nodded solemnly. “Of course.”
“A unit cohesion sense.”
“Obviously.”
“A chain of command sense.”
Price was smiling into his beard. “Naturally.”
Ghost turned his head just enough to look over his shoulder at Soap.
His mask was still on, because of course it was. He had changed out of his heavier balaclava at camp into a lighter black neck gaiter pulled up over his nose, leaving only his eyes visible. Those eyes were fixed on Soap now, dark and unreadable except for the faint amusement at the edges.
Soap lifted his chin. “What?”
Ghost said, “You coming in, Johnny?”
Gaz made a noise like a kettle boiling.
Soap forgot how legs worked for half a second.
Then he recovered with incredible dignity by tripping over his own boot.
Price laughed outright.
“Shut up,” Soap barked, hopping on one foot.
Ghost turned back toward the lake, shoulders shaking.
Soap got the rest of the way undressed with as much pride as a man could have after nearly being defeated by footwear, then marched into the water after Ghost.
The lake was freezing.
Soap let out a noise he would deny until death.
Gaz doubled over laughing.
Price swore under his breath as the water reached his knees.
Ghost stood waist-deep, completely unmoved, because apparently temperature was afraid of him.
Soap splashed him. “React like a normal person.”
Ghost looked down at the water dripping from his chest, then back at Soap.
“Was that meant to do something?”
“Aye. Establish dominance.”
“You splashed me.”
“With intent.”
Ghost stepped closer.
Soap immediately backed up. “Now, LT, let’s not do anything rash.”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed with terrible promise.
Soap pointed at him. “Simon.”
Ghost lunged.
Soap yelped and tried to escape, but water was a traitor and Ghost was fast even half-submerged. Ghost caught him around the waist and hauled him sideways with almost insulting ease.
Soap had exactly one second to shout, “DON’T YOU DARE—”
Then Ghost dropped him into the lake.
Soap came up sputtering, hair plastered to his forehead, dignity drowned somewhere below.
Gaz was laughing so hard he could barely stand.
Price looked far too pleased.
Ghost stood in front of Soap, arms crossed, water gleaming on tattooed skin, looking like a very smug nightmare.
Soap wiped water from his eyes. “You absolute bastard.”
“Established dominance,” Ghost said.
Soap stared at him.
Then he launched himself at Ghost.
It was a terrible idea.
It worked for approximately three seconds.
Soap managed to shove Ghost back half a step, which he considered a tactical victory, before Ghost caught him again. This time, though, Soap clung like an octopus.
“No,” Ghost said.
“Aye.”
“MacTavish.”
Soap wrapped both arms around his shoulders. “You started this.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“I’m winning.”
“You’re being carried.”
“Winning while being carried.”
Gaz splashed them both. “This is disgusting.”
Soap turned his head. “Jealousy is ugly, Gaz.”
“You’re wrapped around him like a scarf!”
“A tactical scarf.”
Price waded farther in, shaking his head. “I should’ve stayed at camp.”
Ghost had not let go.
Soap noticed that.
He noticed the arm still locked around his waist. The steady hand against his back. The way Ghost could have dumped him into the water again but had not.
Soap’s grin softened despite himself.
Ghost looked at him, close enough now that Soap could see droplets clinging to his lashes.
“Still possessive?” Ghost asked, low enough that only Soap heard.
Soap’s stomach flipped.
He swallowed, then smiled. “Aye.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked over his face.
Then he said, “Good.”
Soap’s brain stopped.
Gaz splashed them again, because Gaz had the survival instinct of a moth near a lamp.
“Stop flirting in the lake!”
Soap turned, outraged. “We are not flirting!”
Price gave him a look.
Soap amended, “We are not only flirting!”
Ghost let him go.
Soap immediately mourned the loss.
Then Ghost shoved Gaz under the water.
The next ten minutes dissolved into absolute chaos.
Gaz declared war. Soap formed an alliance with him, betrayed him in under thirty seconds, and joined Ghost’s side because “love and strategy are both complicated.” Price tried to remain above it all until Soap splashed his hat, at which point he became the most dangerous man in the lake.
By the time they stumbled back to shore, everyone was soaked, freezing, and breathless from laughing.
Soap grabbed a towel and threw one at Ghost before anyone else could.
Gaz noticed.
Of course Gaz noticed.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said.
Soap wrapped his own towel around his shoulders. “I’m considerate.”
“You’re guarding him.”
“There are wolves in these woods.”
Price looked around. “No, there aren’t.”
“Metaphorical wolves.”
Gaz grinned. “You mean me?”
Soap pointed at him. “Exactly.”
Gaz put a hand over his heart. “I admired respectfully.”
“You admired with your whole face.”
“He has tattoos!”
“So look at a tree!”
Ghost pulled his shirt back on, slow enough that Soap suspected he was doing it on purpose.
Soap glared at him.
Ghost’s eyes crinkled again.
Menace.
Absolute menace.
That night, they sat around the fire wrapped in hoodies and blankets, eating marshmallows that Soap insisted on roasting to a golden brown and Gaz kept accidentally setting on fire.
Price smoked his cigar and looked more relaxed than Soap had seen him in months.
Ghost sat beside Soap, close enough now that their shoulders touched openly.
No one mentioned it.
Which meant everyone noticed.
Gaz held up a flaming marshmallow. “Is this done?”
Soap stared. “It’s on fire.”
“So yes?”
“It’s carbon.”
Gaz blew it out and ate it anyway.
Ghost watched him. “Animals have better survival instincts.”
Gaz pointed the stick at him. “You don’t get to judge after drowning Soap.”
“He had it coming,” Ghost said.
Soap gasped. “I was innocent.”
“You said you were establishing dominance.”
“As a bonding exercise.”
Price took a drink from his mug. “That what we’re calling it now?”
Soap ignored him with dignity.
Gaz leaned back on his hands, eyes glittering with mischief. “So, Soap.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“No.”
Gaz grinned. “That’s my lieutenant?”
Soap groaned and buried his face in his hands.
Price chuckled.
Ghost sat perfectly still beside him.
Gaz continued, because he was brave only when Ghost was too comfortable to murder him. “Very subtle. Very professional.”
Soap peeked through his fingers. “I panicked.”
“You panicked possessively.”
“I was defending his modesty.”
Gaz stared at him. “He was shirtless.”
“Exactly.”
“Soap, everyone was shirtless.”
“Aye, but not everyone was built like that.”
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Price’s brows rose.
Gaz made an unholy sound of delight.
Ghost turned his head slowly toward Soap.
Soap froze.
Then he straightened, because retreat was for cowards and men who did not have feelings about their lieutenant’s shoulders.
“I was simply admiring the art”
Gaz wheezed. “You sure about that Soap? That the only thing you admiring?”
“I said what I said.”
Price looked into the fire like he was trying very hard not to laugh again.
Ghost’s voice was low. “Built like what, Johnny?”
Soap narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t start.”
“Asked a question.”
“You know exactly what you look like.”
“Do I?”
Soap threw a marshmallow at him.
Ghost caught it.
Of course he did.
Then he lifted the bottom edge of his mask just enough to eat it.
Soap stared.
Gaz stared.
Price very politely looked away, which somehow made it worse.
Ghost lowered the mask again and leaned back, calm as anything.
Soap’s mouth was dry.
Gaz whispered, “Did that feel intimate to anyone else?”
Soap grabbed a handful of marshmallows and threw them at him.
The fire crackled. Somewhere beyond the trees, an owl called. The lake reflected the moon in silver ripples.
It was ridiculous.
It was peaceful.
It was theirs.
Later, when Gaz had gone to his tent and Price had wandered off to check the perimeter out of habit, Soap stayed by the fire with Ghost. The flames had burned low, painting Ghost’s mask and the sharp line of his shoulders in warm orange light.
Soap nudged him gently. “You had fun.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“Didn’t.”
“You laughed.”
“Once.”
“Four times.”
“Counting?”
“Always.”
Ghost was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “Wasn’t terrible.”
Soap smiled into the fire. “High praise from you.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
Ghost shifted beside him. His shoulder pressed more firmly against Soap’s.
Soap looked at him.
Ghost did not look away from the fire.
“You meant it?” Ghost asked.
Soap’s smile faded into something softer. “Which part?”
Ghost’s fingers tapped once against his own knee. A tiny tell. “The lieutenant bit.”
Soap understood.
The jokes fell away.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “I meant it.”
Ghost said nothing.
Soap bumped their shoulders again. “You’re my LT.”
There was a pause.
Then Ghost turned his head, eyes dark and steady on Soap’s.
“Possessive bastard,” he murmured.
Soap grinned. “Your possessive bastard.”
Ghost huffed.
But he did not correct him.
And when they finally stood to put out the fire, Ghost’s hand brushed Soap’s. Not by accident. Not quite holding. Just enough to say something neither of them was ready to say in front of the others.
Soap looked down at their hands.
Then up at Ghost.
“Next camping trip,” Soap said, “I’m bringing a camera.”
“No.”
“For nature.”
“No.”
“For the lake.”
“Johnny.”
“For your tattoos.”
Ghost started walking toward the tents. “I’m leaving you for the bears.”
“There are no bears,” Soap called after him.
Ghost glanced back, eyes crinkling.
“There will be.”
Soap laughed and followed him, still cold from the lake, still smelling like smoke, still buzzing with the warmth of the fire and the shape of Ghost’s almost-smile.
Behind them, the camp settled into quiet.
For once, no one was bleeding. No one was running. No one was waiting for orders or gunfire or the next disaster.
There was only the forest, the lake, the dying fire, and Ghost walking slow enough for Soap to catch up.
Soap did.
Of course he did.
That was his lieutenant.