Howl [COD Simon Ghost Riley & John Soap Mactavish AU]

Pour it Out

Soap was pure adrenaline at this point, beyond the hope for rest and into the runner's high. This was what he had trained years for, what he was built to do, but damn if Ghost wasn't making it more difficult than it should be. And it snowed on, the break in the storm fleeting.

It wasn't a long trip back, just a tiring one, and a few minute's walk from the little cabin, Ghost moaned against Soap's back. He paused. Ghost jerked around for a second, trying to get his bearings.

He felt the tight muscles of the man's shoulders beneath his body and he knew what he'd done. The horror of it wasn't lost on him, that he'd sought something he knew was unlikely to prevent something he knew was inevitable. And he'd almost dragged the Scot down with him. He patted Soap's side with his free hand, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

"Put me down." He said on a strained breath out.

"We're almost there." Soap's voice was just above the sound of the wind.

"Put me down, Soap."

Slightly concerned, Soap leaned forward until Ghost's feet touched the ground and helped him stand. He caught his balance enough to turn and bend over to puke in the white snow.

Soap caught him by the back of his coat as he braced his hands on his knees. It wasn't much, just water and a solid portion of the only food they had left. He ran the back of a gloved hand over his mouth.

"Easy." Soap helped him straighten, stay on his feet.

It was dark, but Soap caught the whites of his eyes as they flashed. "I'm sorry."

The words held an ocean of emptiness, they fell on Soap's ears as cold as the ice at their feet, keeping him from chastising the Lieutenant for wandering off. It terrified him, really, because he believed, to his core, that Simon wasn't the kind of man to do anything without reason and forethought. Whatever desperation had driven him out on his own didn't seem to have been resolved. That meant it could happen again.

"You can't do this to me, Simon." He warned, his tiredness showing through his voice.

Simon only looked down in shame, wavering on his feet again, so Soap took the man's body against his and walked them back through the door.

The warmth inside was a contrast that made them both start sweating, and now, beyond the ripped open wounds bleeding from his shoulder, Soap had to be concerned about hypothermia and frostbite. He pushed Simon down to lean against the couch and stripped his wet clothes off of him, down to his shorts.

"No sleeping." He mumbled, a reminder for both of them. He looked at the red patches along Simon's cheekbones. "You're probably frostbitten."

Simon looked back at him with glassy brown eyes, confirming another of Soap's fears. "I'm sorry, Johnny."

Johnny ignored him, pulling at the soaked bandages he had so carefully placed before. "You'll need stitches for these now."

Simon watched him rise to get the medical supplies. He knew he was going to die there, he could fight the need to feed but he likely wouldn't survive it. And that was fine. But it wouldn't feel good, and it wouldn't be good for the other of them. Soap wouldn't understand.

There was one thing he had to do, then. To make him understand. He had to confess, he had to leave some memory of who he was and what he'd done. Simon, in his fevered mind, wasn't strong enough to take it to the grave alone. Soap came and knelt beside him again. Always beside him. They varied in rank but that hadn't mattered since they set up camp. He was torn again, between wishing it wasn't the Sergeant he had to do this with, and being infinitely glad it wasn't anyone but Soap.