Slowest Heart

Chapter 8

It's been a long time since Soap's self-care routine has been anything other than just that: routine.

Sure, he's had to bust out his various assortment of essentials in strange as hell places, no battlefields but certainly at long stays on base or squirreled away for a few days at some safehouse, waiting for exfil. It may have felt a bit silly to do then, but it was always the same routine. Shave and wash his face, moisturize, try to make something out of the mohawk, feel more like a human being.

Most of the time, he'd be lucky to have a bar of soap, a decently fresh razor, and any sort of lotion. The full array of items in his hands right now feels like a downright luxury. Like home, if he's being honest with himself. New razors, his actual preferred products—hell he'd even made a mad dash to grab a pack of briefs before Ghost got too fed up with his dallying. It's one thing to go a couple days without fresh ones in the field, another when he's staying in his Lieutenant's home.

Again, he's questioning how comfortable to get himself. There's not enough space on the sink to leave his toiletries, but he should probably put his shampoo and conditioner in the shower, right?

Soap half-closes the door behind himself, not really even having it latch. The room isn't as steamy around him as it must have been for Ghost, but condensation still clings to the window over the sink. Still warm, and he sets the Tesco bags down on the well placed chair by the not-quite-vanity. It's only then that he realizes the state he left the place in yesterday. Red fingerprints and smears that definitely didn't come from Ghost's bath. His own bloody gear on the counter—not to mention the laundry.

"Great fuckin' job, Johnny boy," Soap grumbles under his breath. Not a great start to this cohabitation or whatever it is they've got going on while the world lurches to a halt around them. Laundry already in play, Soap grabs a washcloth from the cupboard and goes to work. Before his self-care, before settling in, he's scrubbing all the bloody fingerprints off porcelain and stainless steel. It's not caked on, definitely not as bad as it could be, and with a couple of minutes perched on the edge of the tub, applying elbow-grease, it's good as new.

"You didn't need to," Ghost's voice from the doorway, and Soap turns to find him carrying a half-full laundry bag. There's no telling how long the big guy had been standing there for, but seeing as Soap didn't even latch the door, he's not bothered by his presence.

"Yes, I did," Soap clambers back onto his own two feet and tries not to study Ghost's appearance too closely. But, it's hard not to notice that his host is covered nearly head-to-toe, despite what Soap has already seen of him. Maybe the mask really is more of an identity to him, rather than protecting his own from prying eyes. Or maybe it's something more, it's hard to tell. At least he's only in the balaclava instead of the full one he wears in combat, that must mean something. "Starting on the laundry?"

"Mh," Ghost's response is less of a word and more of a noise as he moves across the bathroom to the hamper. It's then that Soap realizes he needs to get in on that himself, before real decay begins to set in on blood-stained gear. "If you fetch me yours, I'll put it all in together."

"Aye, can do," Soap darts from the room before Ghost has a chance to change his mind. In the guest room, Soap starts digging all of his properly bloody clothes out of his pack when he realizes he'll have to spend the morning still in borrowed clothes. Truth be told, he hadn't even realized he was still in oversized sweats and hoodie himself, matching his roommate of sorts.

Just two coworkers in comfy clothes after a sleepover, nothing to see here.

Ghost meets him at the top of the stairs, holding the laundry bag open for Soap to dump everything into. If Soap learned anything in Las Almas, it's that Ghost is exceedingly quiet by nature. Big and broad, but not nearly filling a space with his presence. Nearly a full day in his company outside of combat, and Soap realizes that being around him is comfortable. Soothing, even. Who would've thought that the Ghost of SAS is pleasant to be around in civilian life?