Pattern Breaker

The Consequences of Martyrdom

John was perfectly content to pretend what had happened, had never happened.

And he wished it hadn't. But there was no going back now.

Unless you knew, you wouldn't be able to see the body language that shifted on Ghost when Soap was around– quickly disappearing as he alternated between pretending like the fight never happened, and pretending like John didn't exist.

That last one hurt.

It wasn't much later in the week that they were all called to a meeting, energy buzzing. Price and Alejandro led the way where Los Vaqueros were waiting.

It was time.

"Hey- Vaqueros, pay attention." Alejandro called, slamming the doors open as he spoke to his men in Spanish.

"Alright, listen. We are taking back your HQ. We are getting our prisoner. We are killing Commander Graves." Price said, the group of them that included Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, and Gaz surrounded a table as Los Vaqueros circled around them.

"When?" Rodolfo asked.

"Now." Said Ghost.

"This is a fight against our own. We are no t 141 and Los Vaqueros on this. We're a team." Price paused. "Ghost Team."

Soap watched as Ghost leaned down, grabbing a familiar bag off the floor before dumping it unceremoniously on top of the table. Black masks slipped out, painted crudely with white skulls.

So that's what Ghost was doing at the shop , Soap thought, a small smile forming across his lips as he went to reach for a mask.

The room suddenly fell dead silent, so quiet it was almost painful. He glanced up at Price, about to ask what the hold up was- when he saw an unfamiliar face.

His smile slowly fell, replaced with a slack-jawed stare.

Directly in front of him was the absolute most beautiful human being he had ever laid eyes on.

Clean shaven, exposing a sharp chin. Lips that weren't too full, but weren't too thin. A deep cupid's bow, twitching in what he imagined was a suppressed smirk. A fresh image replacing memory tainted with alcohol– a neck covered in an impossibly well done black and gray tattoo that spanned the entire expanse of his throat and under the chin, accentuating the already strong jawline in a manner Soap found extremely erotic. Aquiline nose, slightly crooked from being broken probably too many times to count. High cheekbones, one with a long-healed scar whispering across the skin. Shaggy blond hair, cropped short on the sides but left curly on top. Wild and messy.

Incredible blue eyes, ones he had seen countless times before, contrasting aggressively against the smudged black eye paint.

Eyes that were staring directly into his own. Intense. Burning. Hidden secrets promised behind light blond eyelashes.

After what had just happened, this was the absolute last thing Soap was expecting. Maybe Ghost had actually taken Soap's drunken words to heart.

Or, maybe he was just being an asshole.

He couldn't breathe.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why couldn't he breathe? Why couldn't he stop staring? Stop staring. Stop staring. Stop staring at him, you fucking idiot! Was he going to pass out? He was about to pass out. Mother, Mary, and Joseph he was about to fucking pass out if Ghost kept looking at him like that. Why is he looking at him like that!? Why wouldn't he stop–

"You're drooling, amigo." Alejandro whispered in his ear, his lips pressed tightly together like he was trying to keep himself from laughing. Soap slammed his teeth together with a loud click, dropping his eyes as Ghost pulled a mask off the pile– securing it firmly over his face.