Pattern Breaker

An Interlude to Impulse

The Sergeant slowly woke from his deep slumber, vision bleary and head pounding. His arm ached, but it was bearable. Nothing compared to how it felt before.

He sat up, wincing, blinking sleep from his eyes as he took in his surroundings. It was just barely daybreak, whispers of sunrise not yet cresting the horizon. Turning, he saw Ghost sprawling over the couch— his head laying on the armrest closest to Soap. It did not look comfortable. He had removed his tactical gear and boots, one leg hanging off the side of the couch, the other hooked on the back. His weapon was laying across his chest, hand resting firmly on the grip. The man completely dwarfed the couch. He snored lightly, and Soap could imagine he was probably just as exhausted, despite not being injured. It had been a long, long night. His hard shell mask was sitting on a nearby table, replaced instead with a plain black balaclava.

I bet he keeps those things on back order , Soap scoffed lightly at the thought of Ghost having a dedicated closet full of them overflowing out of the boxes. Masks hidden in plain sight around whatever base they were stationed at– contingencies. Probably keeps an extra shoved in his boot. There was no grease paint smudging his eyes this time, though. He must have washed it off while Soap slept.

He couldn't see the man's face, but it was the most peaceful Soap had ever seen him. His brow wasn't hanging over his eyes, darkening them. His body wasn't tense, ready to strike. The man had a burden that followed him wherever he went, and Soap wasn't sure if he was even aware of it– despite how observant Ghost was of himself and others. You couldn't see any of it now in his sleeping form. It was almost cute... if it weren't for the gun.

Soap was careful as he stood, both for the sake of his own body and to try to keep from waking Ghost. He needed the rest just as much as John did. It was the least he could give him. He almost failed, tripping over the thin blanket that was thrown over him but now pooled as his feet. Cursing, he stumbled. Ghost's snoring hitched for a second before returning to normal.

His curiosity got the best of him.

He peeked quickly into Ghost's combat boots. They were covered in dirt and dried blood, scuffed to hell, the inside heel worn out.

No mask.

It didn't take long for John to make his way around the small house, finding the nearest bathroom. It wasn't until he caught sight of himself in the dirty mirror after flicking the lights on that he realized he was half naked. He was only in his boxers- Ghost must have removed his destroyed shirt and bloodied pants. His face flushed bright red at the mental image of his Lieutenant stripping him down to only his undies while he slept.

"Embarrassing," He muttered, twisting the shower knobs on. His mortification softened marginally when he laid eyes on a pile of neatly folded clothes sitting on the toilet tank next to a mostly-clean towel.

John carefully peeled the bandages off of his arm and ear, wincing when the gauze stuck to coagulated blood. His ear would be fine, heavy scab formed over the graze. His arm however was angry and weeping still.

He was not looking forward to the inevitable infection that was waiting.

"Right. Forgot about that." John spoke to himself, glaring at the massive bruise and lump smack in the middle of his forehead. His entire body was riddled with bruises, cuts and scrapes. But he didn't feel quite as shitty as he had, and knew the shower would prove useful as well.

The water temperature was comfortable enough. Ghost must have cleaned most of the blood off of Soap when he (immediately) passed back out after he had finished stitching him up.

It wasn't a five star hotel, so no free shampoo and conditioner samples, but the giant bottle of- Honey?- scented hand soap that was shoved in the corner of the shower would have to do.