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asterdisaster06 · 9 months

Text

dial drunk

simon "ghost" riley x john "soap" mactavish

Pt 1.

summary > “I’m tired of you disappearing for weeks and then waltzing back into my life like it’s nothing.”

“Better than me disappearing for good.”

“Is it?”

. . .

word count > 3.5k

warnings > angst, simon riley is a dick, unhealthy relationship, unhealthy coping mechanisms, soap POV, minimal simon riley involvement

a/n > you know the angst is good whenever you meant to wrap it up in two chapters and it’s turned into an entire fic

ao3

Ghost had always been a flighty person, and Soap couldn’t blame him. It’s a simple symptom of the ailment of a bad childhood. It had slowly gotten worse, progressively causing more and more heartbreak every time Soap had received a call through the grapevine from Price. Or maybe it was less, but Soap had honestly lost track of both the times and his emotions. On an occasional note it Gaz or Alejandro were the one to send a bolt of anxiety through Soap’s system. The one time it was Laswell had his heart drop to his stomach and caused him to curl up into a ball, bedridden until his lover - if he could even call him that at this point - returned home. Until he did, the dial tone was all Soap had, letting the pain metastasis to his very soul.

It made Soap feel like a young soul in the 1940s waiting for their poor husband to return from saving the world. Except, Soap had been through the exact same battlefields on the exact same missions. And sure, one could argue that his childhood had raised him in this way to turn into someone that Soap no longer could say he knew, but it only took so many ‘I’ll do better’ claims to tear that small hope down. The small hope that maybe, just maybe, this time Simon would find that help in his life. He no longer wished for Simon to confide in him, knowing that was a lost cause, but he only wished that therapy was something he even considered.

Simon had been gone for two and half weeks this time, the longest of all his run away trips to wherever he decided to let his heart guide him. Not like it mattered to Soap, it was all the same anyways. Once upon a time Simon’s sporadic nature had seemed charming, a challenge to Soap to weasel his way into the heart of the rugged soldier who had a broken look in his eyes. The window to his soul betraying cracks and rough edges despite the ever present silence that permeated most interactions between him and Ghost.

Eventually Soap had lodged himself halfway through the walls that Ghost had put up around himself in an effort to keep everyone out and away. Planting C4 until he had blown his way into Ghost’s heart. In more ways than one. Those days of heartfelt dates that left Soap giggling and kicking his feet were long behind the couple. Some days he reminisces on the bar runs that left his cheeks flushed and soul kept warm in the embrace of his kind lover. The kind where they poked fun at each other and teased about their choices of drinks; although, Simon had always known his order by heart and had it ordered before he even sat down. Ever the gentleman.

Now though? He wasn’t even sure if Simon could recall his favorite color let alone his birthday. He had untethered from the parts Soap could even begin to recognize, changing from charming to alarming in seconds. There were instances where Soap had been frozen with Ghost storming out of their shared apartment with venom still hanging in the air on a string of tension. One that snapped as soon as Soap found himself able to move, only to sit and draw his knees to his chest with a thousand mile stare imbued in his now dull eyes. The hundreds of bullet wounds didn’t compare to the anguish Simon leaving his side over and over again left him with. But that’s mourning, he’d forget it in the morning anyways.

He took to drinking to quell his sorrows if only temporarily. Price was adamantly against it, but all of his attempts to help blew up in his face with Soap only rebutting that Price couldn’t say shit with his smoking habit. Soap had apologised the day after, but it was enough to get Price to stop trying. It hurt Soap more than Price could ever know that it felt like he had given up on him. Logically, Soap knew that it was well deserved, but his own self-hatred transferred over to his internal turmoil of Simon and his long lasting effects on the man’s own well-being. In the end, he said nothing for three whole days once his Ghost had returned, letting the doubts and resentment fester until he could no longer take it. It ended just how Soap had predicted, with Simon isolating himself until he eventually slipped out of the building they once called home to who knows where.

The current day was overcast, it was raining and Soap was calling drunk to the number he had memorised. The number that was carved into his ribs and sounded out everytime his heart beat. The phone rang and rang and then beeped with Simon’s gravelly voicemail breaking the anticipation lined with hope that ran through Soap’s veins. He listened to it, despite knowing it wasn’t truly his love. It comforted him in a sick way, knowing that Simon’s continuity was something that he could always expect out of his boyfriend. Shit though, all he wanted was a simple response. A text beyond the ‘be back soon’ that he always sent when he ran away would suffice. He didn’t even need to hear Simon’s voice. He would settle for anything at this point more than the second hand calls that always instilled terror in him that this would be it. That they would be calling him to inform his poor soul that Simon had finally succumbed to his reckless nature. That he was lying dead in a ditch or found shot in an alleyway. It’s not like Soap had much to reassure him that Simon could be better than those circumstances.

He sighed, stumbling his way over to the countertop where he opened the medicine cabinet. Besides the classic Ibuprofen or Advil everything in there belonged to Soap. Simon had continuously refused to get on meds, let alone take them. The one time that Soap had believed his love had actually started to try and get better, he soon found the still full pill bottle in the trashcan a week later. He thinks on this, deciding that that was when the cracks started to show and the burning train wreck that was their once fruitful relationship came into the light. It was long ago enough and paled in comparison to more recent events that it didn’t even affect Soap beyond a slight tinge of soreness surrounding his heart.

He grabs an orange container, popping the white lid off and pouring out a small pill into his hand. Doing the same with another, Soap stuck them in his mouth and threw his head back with a swallow. His meds had been upped in the last month, anxiety and depression plaguing his very soul, infection spreading through his veins into his nervous system. He knew exactly who was to blame for this. Although he could never bring himself to mention it to him, aware that it would only bring about another fight that ended in Simon speeding past traffic lights into the ever present gap in space and time. Time and time again it had ended in exactly the same way, and yet Soap could never bring himself to end it completely. He wasn’t entirely sure which one of them would be more broken by that executive decision. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know

Staring out the window on the third floor of the apartment building with a cup of tea clutched in his hand; watching the raindrops race down the window and placing bets on which one would reach the end first. Simon, or himself? The bigger raindrop, or the faster one? There sat a lukewarm cup on the counter just how Simon liked it. He figured that if his beloved returned he would like a warm cup of tea to come home to. Or at least, that’s what he claimed to refute the allegations that he simply was too ingrained in the habit of making two.

The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts, and Soap simply sighed as he trudged over to the countertop where it was laid to rest. He no longer felt his heart skip a beat at the sound of the ringtone, knowing damn well that it wasn’t going to be anything of value being said to him. He truly had given up on what little hope he held for Simon Riley.

He clicked the accept button, composing himself for whatever words were going to be spoken. He recognized the caller ID as Price and had a vague recollection of conversation long ago about everything revolving around their Ghost. Soap had chosen not to respond at that point, but maybe he would come around at some point. Unlikely, but considering he was still with Ghost, anything was possible.

Price’s voice sounded out, reminding him that he did in fact agree to an obligatory run to the pub on this day to simply catch. Of course, that was when Ghost was currently living in the house for once in a blue moon and had agreed to social interaction. They both knew it was bullshit and he would likely be away whenever the monthly tradition had occurred, but they agreed for a sense of shaky normalcy. Soap was right though, and he was doomed to engage with his teammates in an awkward exchange without bringing up the one who was not to be named. He didn’t know what was worse. Sitting there with a stranger in all senses of the word or being alone and facing the pity looks sent his way. Despite knowing the latter is what today had in mind, he responded that he would be there soon over the phone to Price. The man over the phone gave his good wishes and hung up.

Soap breathed out a shaky sigh, rubbing his face with his hands in an effort to wake up. It was already well into the afternoon, and he had barely eaten anything except the spirits that brought upon numbing from the thoughts of his Ghost. He could barely be called his though. Not with everything that’s going on. The alcohol was warming his chest in a way that Ghost hadn’t been able to do in a long time. He dragged himself to the bathroom, almost slipping on a puddle made from one of the leaky windows on the way there. Simon had promised to fix it sometime soon, but obviously he hadn’t gotten around to it.

After brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth of the sickening smell of booze, and fixing his grown out hair into something almost intentional looking, Soap stared at himself in the mirror. He splashed water on his face with the thought that maybe, just maybe, it would rinse off the dark circles around his eyes and the reddish tint his eyes held. He attempted to shave if only a little bit, faltering as he had to focus on what patches he had already gone over. It seemed to pass by quickly, his consciousness transporting him into his room to pick out some clothes. In the end, Soap threw on some jeans that only had minimal dirt and stain on them and pulled over the black hoodie that Simon had gifted him a while ago. Well, gifted was a subjective matter, but Soap had always protested his innocence of stealing it. That memory seemed so long ago. Years if not decades in the slow passing time with Soap stuck in the prison of his own mind.

Nonetheless, Soap pushed forward, finding himself walking in the rain down to the pub on the corner of the street with his hood up and only his wallet and phone to his name. He staggered along the street, taking a moment to almost feel sorry for what he had become. All for the shame of being young, drunk, and alone. Soap came upon the small run-down establishment and entered, scanning the bar room for familiar faces. He had a feeling he was hallucinating it, but it almost seemed as if he found Simon in all of the faces he saw. At least, until his eyes hazily locked onto the friendly appearance of Price and Gaz sitting in a booth.

“Hey,” Was all Gaz said.

Price simply looked on with what Soap interpreted as both sympathy and disgust at what he had become. It would’ve hurt less if it wasn’t exactly what Soap was expecting given the fact that he sees the same look in everyone’s eyes. Even his own mirrored back at him. Price offered Soap a seat next to him, scooting over. Soap all but collapsed into the cushioned booth, observing the already ordered drinks. He nodded a simple acknowledgement to Gaz, taking a sip of the water in front of him. It soothed his throat that was sore from crying late into the night, every night.

“How’s it been?”

Soap didn’t exactly know who asked that, too distracted to discern the differing voices through the hustle and bustle of the bar on top of it. Nevertheless, he stared down at the water droplets left from his glass on the table and took a moment before speaking, clearing his throat before he did so in anticipation of his larynx protesting.

“I think you guys know already, we’re past this. Long past it,” Soap croaked out, coughing before taking another sip of his water.

Gaz and Price shared a silent look full of worry; Soap caught it but chose to say nothing. He had been through this song and dance too many times before to care at this point. He was tired, tired of it all.

“Son, why do you do this to yourself?” Price pauses before asking this, treating Soap like a wild animal.

“The fuck do you mean, Price?” Soap spat out, a hiss lining his heavily-accented words.

“Jesus, dude, look at yourself. You’re losing any semblance of who you really are without. . .” Gaz trailed off, unsure if the name was allowed to be uttered.

“Without who, Gaz? Without who? Without Ghost? Without Simon? Without my boyfriend? Say the fucking name without it seeming like a taboo word that’ll just send me flying off my hinges. We’re long past that pal,” Soap snapped, eyes bloodshot and bleary.

His raspy voice had caught the attention of a few patrons around the establishment. He didn’t care, not in the slightest. All meaning to his pitiful life had gone along with Simon the first time he had left, and it had never returned. He fiddled with the loose string on the sleeve that he had been slowly unravelling every time he was nervous ever since he was given the article of clothing.

“Shit dude, you need help. You need to get away from him. You can’t keep living like this!” Gaz exclaimed, shaking off the harsh words Soap threw in his face.

“He’s right, we don’t like seeing you like this,” Price said in a low voice.

“Oh, so this was just an elaborate intervention, huh?” His Scottish tone was sneaking out as his voice rose with irritation. Whether it was at them, himself, or the whole situation overall was up for debate.

“Don’t say it like that. You know damn well that Simon doesn’t deserve your forgiveness over and over again just to run off on you. This isn’t a healthy relationship. This is barely a relationship at all. God love that boy, but he has issues that need to be addressed by a proper therapist instead of taking it out on you. We want to help you,” Price said, coaxing Soap into a sense of false security.

Soap frowned, his jaw tensing up at the very utterance of the truth. The truth that he knew damn well was something he needed to hear. He refused to believe it though; didn’t want to face the facts that his once charming boyfriend had turned his back on him. His narrow eyes focused on an interesting spot on the table as he crossed his arms in pure silence. He chewed at the side of his mouth, eyebrows furrowed as his whole body tensed up. Soap had a vague idea of where this was going, and he didn’t like how it would end.

“Looking at you like this, it’s not right,” Gaz began. “I need to know you aren’t a danger to yourself.”

“I’m not going to off myself as soon as I go home,” Soap said, spite coating his every word.

“That’s not what we mean. You’re drinking yourself to death, Soap. You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. That’s as much as killing yourself as you can get without tying a noose around your throat,” Price said, his voice echoing inside of Soap’s head, causing pain to evolve around his temple. He really should’ve taken an Advil today. Or maybe two.

“I’m fine,” Soap says, tiredly. He truly was exhausted, borderline delirious; but if he could just make it through this interaction, he’d be home free to go home and pass out with a bottle in his hand.

“Like hell you are, we’re getting you in therapy and you’re staying with one of us until you’re deemed okay,” Gaz shoots back.

“You are not seriously considering that? Babysitting me? Right Price?” Soap asks, turning his attention to Price.

“We believe that it would be for the best; not letting you be alone going stir crazy,” Price explains softly.

“Fuck this, I’m going home. Leave me alone,” Soap brushes off Price’s hand, standing up and shuffling out to the exit.

“Shit, Soap, wait up,” Gaz says, grabbing Soap’s arm in an attempt to make him stop. To make him actually think about it for a second in order to process it. Maybe if Soap had let him do so, he would’ve gotten help. He would’ve sat back down and listened to what his friends had to say and thrown up a bird to Simon and let that part of his life die away. These thoughts flashed through Soap’s mind for a split second, fading out to instincts as he swung back at Gaz - making sickening contact with Gaz’s nose. The second of silence seemed to never end, until it did. The sound of his own heart roaring in his ears faded as he saw the flash of pain and betrayal in Gaz’s eyes as he clutched his now bleeding face. Shit.

Soap didn’t know what to do except run, and so that’s what he did. It made his stomach turn as flashes of the night of Grave’s betrayal arose in his memories. A phantom pain plaguing his arm and side where bullet particles likely still laid. The environment around him flashed as rain pelted him and his- Simon’s hoodie. Shame bubbled up in his stomach, forcing him to double over in an alley and throw up the pure liquid in his gut despite his attempts to choke it down. That’s where he laid as he stared up at the grey sky. That’s where he laid as he was dragged into the police car by the cops that he presumed Price had sent to track down his pathetic ass. He was forced into handcuffs, something that wasn’t foreign to him. Soap wasn’t exactly surprised that he ended up here, he was only surprised that he didn’t end up in a cop car sooner.

“Young man, how drunk are you?” A cop asked. Soap finally caught his question after three times of him asking.

Soap looked upon the man with his eyes tinged pink from crying and his throat destroyed from sobbing and mumbling to himself.

“I beg you sir just let me call, I’ll give you my blood alcohol, I’ll rot with all the burnouts in the cell,” Soap babbled incoherently. He wasn’t even aware of what he was saying; his only thoughts being of hearing Simon’s voice to beg for forgiveness. Or maybe to yell at him for leaving him to end up here. Whatever Soap believed in, it brought good fortune to him and the officer let him pick up the phone to dial the number he knew by heart, even drunk out of his mind. It rang, and rang, and then the beep of the hangup tone rang out in the silence.

“Just wait I swear he’ll call me back,” Soap cried out, tears of desperation beginning to stream down his face.

“I’m sorry, I have to take you to the station now,” The officer was overly polite and gentle, able to see the fracturing of the broken man in front of him. His eyes expressed condolences for Soap being hung up on. Even the cops thought Ghost was wrong for hanging up.

“Fuck that, sir, just let me call,” Soap wailed, truly losing himself to the pure distress and anguish with his other half abandoning him in his time of need.

He was met with silence as the car travelled through traffic lights, and the buzz of the transmitter radio was the only thing breaking through the heavy sobs Soap let out as he hung his head low.