It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
You were supposed to be friends. Easy.
Friends. Friends who sometimes found yourselves in each other's beds. Friends who sometimes used each other as a means for release, especially after a long mission. Friends who eventually began to turn into something more.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be easy, nights of passion following a stressful day, slipping out of each other's rooms before the other woke up, only to pretend that everything was normal the next day, to pretend like nothing had happened, to pretend like nothing was said in the throes of passion the night before.
Easy. Release. Fun.
But it wasn't just fun anymore, was it?
Soap's arms are warm around you. You don't want to leave them. But you know you have to, you know you have to get up, to go back to your room so that you can pretend like nothing happened. So you can look him in the eyes tomorrow with that knowing glance you always give, and share a laugh about a "friendship" no one else knew about.
You draw away from his embrace, rolling over to the side of the bed to pull on your shirt. Soap's hand is warm on your back, tracing over your skin.
"Stay with me tonight," he mutters, barely audible in the darkness. A heavy silence falls over the room. You shouldn't. That is not what you two do.
But you turn to look at him, dragging your eyes away from the shelf across the room, adorned with knick knacks that Soap has picked up from various missions. His eyes are soft, worried almost, as he returns your gaze.
You shouldn't stay. You have to draw the line between friendship and something more eventually. You have to.
"Sure."
The word is clipped, friendly. Friendly. Because it's supposed to be friendly. It is friendly.
You wish you could believe that.
You fall back onto the bed, your eyes tracing the ceiling tiles that you know so well. You shouldn't stay, but you're incapable of denying him. Incapable of denying yourself.
Soap shifts closer to you. His touch is soft on your abdomen, caring, as he presses a kiss against your jaw.
"You're overthinking," he says softly. He knows you. He knows there's something you're not saying.
"I'm always overthinking," you respond, trying to shove down the feeling that's bubbling in your gut, threatening to spill out of every pore. Friendly. You're supposed to be friendly, and that is it. You don't know when this turned into something more. When two soldiers who used each other as a simple release turned into friends, turned into something more.
Soap's eyes close, his lips pressed to your collarbone. You thread your fingers through his hair, still staring at the ceiling. His touch is warm, soft. Too soft.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs against your throat. You tilt your head up, allowing him more access to your skin. He sighs as your fingertips dance over his scalp.
"You," you say simply, after a silence that is far too long. Soaps gaze meets yours. You trace your thumb over the scar on his chin. You remember the mission where he got that. How you stitched it up for him. "I think about you quite a lot."
You wish you could say more.
Soap's gaze softens visibly, relaxing into your touch. Usually he'd make some sarcastic quip about you caressing him like this. Something about how friends didn't do that. But tonight, he let the comment be. He let his guard down for you, gave you the real him.
"And what do you think about?" he asks, pressing a soft kiss to your fingers, trying to coax the tension out of you. It doesn't really work.
There's another entirely too long pause before you speak again, your eyes unfocusing on his face.
"You're a good friend, Johnny."
It doesn't sound quite right. The word friend comes out almost choked, forced. You don't believe that that's the right word. Soap's lips turn into a frown.
That's all it was. This was just sex.
But both of you know that that's not true.
"Is that all I am to you?"
There's something different in his eyes, something you're not used to seeing. And the feeling in your gut fills your body, dangerously close to spilling over. Sadness -- no, fear.
Your voice lowers to a whisper, barely audible as you speak again.
"I don't know." Silence. Soap doesn't respond, and you find yourself glad that he doesn't. Because maybe he doesn't know either. "I don't know if we're just friends anymore," you continue, your voice choked. "And I'm scared."
Soap cradles your head in his hand, his touch soft. God, you'd do anything for this man. You should've never agreed to just friendship with him. You should've never forced down your feelings. You should've never let yourself become a coward.
"What are you scared of, love?"
Love. It's the first time he's called you that. And god does it scare you how much you need him to say it again.
You blink, trying to rid the tears from your eyes, but it only causes them to seep out of the corners.
"That you'll leave," you whisper.
Soap's eyes are warm, drowning you. You could get lost in those eyes, and you find that you wouldn't mind one bit.
"Why do you think I'll leave?"
Because everyone does, you want to say, but you don't. Because every time I open my heart up, a little piece of it gets taken when they go.
"Because we're soldiers, and that's what we do."
Soap traces his fingers over your face. This was supposed to be easy. Just sex, a bit of comfort in each other's arms and that's it. When had it turned into something more? And when had you found yourself too much of a coward to admit it?
"I wouldn't do that to you."
You wish that were true.
Your fingers trace his cheeks, taking in every little freckle and pore and scar on his skin as if it's the last time you'll see it.
Makarov. Gunshot. Blood.
You suppose it was foolish to think that you could live in this little fantasy in your head forever. The memories always seem to come back.
The next words you whisper are to the empty room. Because there was no one ever here to begin with, was there? Soap is nothing more than a ghost. You spread his ashes in Scotland two months ago.
You are alone.
Just you. Remembering your lover. Wishing that you had been brave enough to say more. Wishing for something that could've never been.
"You already have."
