Archive of Our Own

Snowblind

     John’s eyes fluttered open to black.  Not the soft, sleep-heavy kind searching for light to focus in a weary morning, but the breath-stealing, all-consuming trapped in the darkness kind.  His body ached, pressed into something hard and damp.  Stone?  Ice?  It was stone, had to be.  He blinked again.  Still dark.  Okay, wherever he was, he was cut off from the sun, or light.  This wasn’t even the black of night.  This was stuck in a hollow chest with the locks slammed down darkness.  Assess the situation.  Always.  Slowly, deliberately, he flexed his fingers.  They worked, thank Christ.  Arms, legs, sore, but moving.  That was something.  Breathing okay, so hopefully no broken ribs.

     Struggling to recall where he was, what had brought him here, clarity began to chase away the fuzz in his brain.  Training, he thought.  Ski drop.  Low, out of a helo.  Snowshoes should be strapped on his back with a fully loaded pack.  His pack was missing.  Shit.  Routine winter simulation over a quiet patch of European mountains.  Nothing that should’ve left him buried alive.  Avalanche maybe?  Maybe he slipped?  He would have heard, or saw, or should recall. 

     Rubbing his hand over his eyes, then back over his head the sharp tang of copper filled his nostrils and pain shot past his ear.  Crap.  Okay, hit his head.  That explained a lot.  Assess.  Where the fuck was he?  The air tasted metallic.  He shifted, pressing up against a low ceiling.  Ice?  No, stone.  Cold as death and twice as heavy.  Guess it was a blessing he wasn’t buried alive in snow.  He’d probably have frozen to death.

     Disoriented, he whispered, then spoke louder, “Hello?”  Raising his voice hurt, but had to be done.  He tried again.  His voice fell flat, swallowed by silence.  Maybe a fall, but on what?  Maybe it was a snowbank that wasn’t solid over a drop and he didn’t realize it.  Maybe an avalanche.  Maybe..

     A scream sliced through the quiet.  Distant.  Human.  Raw.

     He called out, instincts kicking in.  “Ah’m here!  Hold on.  Ah'm coming!”  He pressed toward the sound, snow clawing at his gloves.  But then he paused.

     That wasn’t the voice of someone trapped by snow.

     That was the voice of someone trapped with something else.

     A second scream clawed its way through the stone, sharper this time higher.  Desperate.  He froze.

     It wasn’t an accidental sound, a startled shout.  It was continuous.  Pleading, rising, then breaking into an awful, animalistic wail that made the air vibrate.

     John’s stomach clenched.  This wasn’t survival distress.  This was suffering.  Drawn-out and deliberate.

     He pressed a palm to one wall.  It was slick with condensation, slicker with something thicker.  Blood?  Sweat?  He didn’t want to know.  Breathing slowly, he counted off four steady inhales, holding each before releasing the next.  No sudden movements.  Conserve oxygen.  Think.

     How far underground was he?  The air was thin.  He could feel it.  It was less like breathing and more like sipping through a cracked straw.  He ran a hand across the ceiling, down each side, pressing for give.

     Then came a whirring noise, low and mechanical.  Grinding, maybe.  Not clean like a motor, but wet, like metal chewing through something it shouldn’t.  It stuttered, paused, then resumed. John strained to hear.  A blade?  A saw?

     Was this some sort of fucking nightmare?  If it was, he needed to wake the fuck up now.  Jesus Christ.  There was another sound beneath it.  Slapping.  No, cutting.  Not rhythmic.  Not efficient.  Brutal.

     A dry sob cracked through the stone, then a shriek so feral it forced John backward into the wall.  He pressed a fist to his mouth.  The scream had changed.  No longer pleading.  Just noise.  Raw survival noise.

     And something responded.

     A voice.  Calm.  Low.  A man, maybe.  Muffled words John couldn’t make out, but the cadence chilled him, like someone instructing a lesson.  Like pain was being taught.

     John’s pulse raced.  If he didn’t move now, he might freeze here.  Die here.  Or worse, be dragged into that lesson.  No, he needed to get out.  There had to be a way to get back to this poor, unfortunate person.  He took inventory.  He still had his sidearm.  Still had several mags on his tac vest.  He wasn’t tied up.  Knives intact and mostly in place.  At least he wasn’t defenseless, should that individual find him.

     He tested the far wall again.  A slight shift.  His boot nudged loose earth.  Not much, but maybe enough.  He could feel the air thinning, his chest tightening with each breath.

     Was he buried in the same place?  Was this happening just beyond the wall?  Fuck, he did not want to know, but he’d be damned if he’d lay here and listen to it and not try and stop it.  Get out. That’s what he needed to do.  Taking out his largest hunting knife, he began to dig where there was snow rather than stone.  There had to be a way out.

     Gravity.  Oriented and pushing himself up until his back was pressed against the stone ceiling above him, he allowed his knife to drop.  Good.  The snow would lead him out and not down.  Survival training was kicking in.

--

     “Bravo 6 to Bravo 0-7.” crackled through Ghost’s throat mic.  The reception up here was absolute shit.  Between the storm that had blown in and the natural mountainous landscape, if they weren’t within a couple of kilometers, it was useless.

     “Ghost.” he responded icily.

     “Any contact with 7-1 yet?” his captain questioned, concern lacing his gruff voice.

     “Negative.”

     “And you’ve covered his landing zone?” persisted the annoying buzz in his ear.  Why the ever-loving fuck his captain was insisting that he have a partner, he didn’t know.  This was ludicrous.

     “Sweep the area.  We need to find him.  This was a simple drop.  Nick verified that he saw him skiing in the direction of your rendezvous.” cracked Price’s added, assuming that Ghost followed orders and had already done what he was supposed to do with no luck.  Maybe he shouldn’t assume, but his lieutenant was being a prick about things.  No reason to poke the bear.

     “Must have stopped for tea.” was his dry comment.

     “Gaz and I will take the southeast and sweep there, go back past the RZ and double check, then take the north.” he ordered.  He wasn’t feeding into Ghost’s shit today.

     “Rog.” Responded curtly through his speaker.

     “Ghost, the locals are saying there’s an issue here.  Seems something the authorities have kept quiet.  Tourists are going missing over the last year.  A couple Brits, four Americans, a man from Bosnia, another from Prague.  Mostly women, but not necessarily.  Local law enforcement believe it’s a serial killer with a taste for foreigners.  Watch your six.” he warmed.

     “Cute.  That supposed to intimidate me or turn me on?” Ghost snarked back.

     “Just fucking find your partner.” Price growled.

     “Rog.” and the coms went silent.

     “Well he’s a bundle of joy this morning.” Gaz quipped, binoculars scanning the horizon.

     “Yep.  If Soap’s lucky, he’s in our sector.  And if Ghost’s lucky, he’ll find whoever this suspected killer is and get it out of his system.” Price muttered.

     “Could be entertaining to watch.” Gaz pointed out.

     “Sure, sell tickets.  Soap’s good.  Something’s gone wrong.  Maybe there was an avalanche or something.” Price worried for the new addition to his team.  He’d recruited Soap personally.  The kid was the best he’d seen in years.  Made the SAS cut at 22.  Amazing skills.  Whatever the hell got to him had to be bad.

     “Can’t wait to meet the guy.” Gaz smiled, giving his captain some encouragement.  “We’ll find him.  Ghost can grumble to himself.  Don’t worry about it.”

     Captain Price gave a slight nod.  He hitched up the hood to his heavy snow jacket and tied it down over his ever-present Boonie cap before dusting the snow off of his mustache.  He didn’t feel bad sending Ghost into the brunt of the storm at all, not with that fucking attitude.  He could handle himself just fine.

--

     Digging with everything he had, John’s blade sliced through layers of crusted snow.  Each breath burnt in his chest like acid.  Shoulders screaming from the strain, knees threatening to buckle, he pressed on.  The snow was beginning to give.  Inch by glorious inch, freedom clawed closer. 

     Suddenly, the knife pushed clear into open air.  Cold slammed into him like a truck.

     The wind howled, battering his face with stinging flakes that clung to his sweat-slicked skin and froze instantly.  He hauled himself out, chest-first, through a gap no wider than a coffin lid.  Scrambling onto his hands and knees, he found himself gasping, blinking against the whiteout fury around him.

     Frigid gusts lashed his face.  His sweat turned brittle across his cheeks and nose.  The wet inside his shirt chilled to ice.  Breathing in the icy air felt like knives slashing through his lungs.  He looked around, trying to get his bearings.   No landmarks.  Just a swirling, mindless storm howling down the mountain.

     John ducked his head and clawed under his tactical vest.  Gloved fingers trembling, he pulled up the black gator that had pooled tightly about his throat and yanked out a bundled scarf from beneath his thermal undershirt to wrap over his frozen mouth.  It helped some.

     He patted his hood, found his goggles tangled in the lining, and strapped them on fast.  Snow lashed the lenses, blurry but tolerable.  Better than blind.  Thanking whatever God there may be that he hadn’t lost all of his cold weather gear he took stock.

     The jacket needed adjusting.  He slapped snow off his chest, tugged down his hem, and zipped the front high over his throat.  Snow slithered between layers, like ice snakes.  He gritted his teeth, pulled his sidearm out just to feel it, and began scanning the area.

     The snow was so thick he could barely see beyond his hand.  There were trees, it was lightly forested.  Multiple ski routes were supposed to run in this area.  A survival training exercise where he would be introduced to his new team.  Great.  Just fucking great.  So he was out in the wilderness, being buried under God knows how many meters of snow, looking for a couple of blokes bundled up like frigging mummies with no clue what they may look like.  Just fucking great.

     At least he would recognize his new captain.  Maybe.  Guess they’d see.  Think he’d wear a green jacket, or would it be army standard issue?  John’s own certainly wasn’t, because fuck standard issue.  He’d grown up in the highlands, he was no stranger to freezing his balls off in the snow.  The bright blue and white jacket he wore was worlds better than standard issue and well worth it.  They were spec forces, they got some leeway, right?  Well, from what he’d heard about the Ghost, this team got a lot of leeway.  Who in the bloody hell gets away with wearing a frigging Halloween mask on base all the bloody time?  Ghost, that’s who. 

     Fine, gloves, good.  Boots, good.  Layers.  Of course he had layers and now he’d dug out what he needed to keep his face from freezing and peeling off like some sort of fatality issued by Subzero.  Okay.  What else did he have?

     Pack, missing.  He’d fallen down, that much was obvious.  He hiked around the general area, searching.  Searching for any kind of building or shelter that may lead him back to the haunting screams that seem to have disappeared when he reached the surface.  Hunting around for his pack.  There was a threated needle stowed under his beanie under his hood.  There was a very basic emergency first aid kit tucked in one of the pockets of his tac vest.  Vest in good shape.  Plates had to be adjusted, but he managed that by tugging underneath his jacket and NOT exposing himself to the fucking cold. 

     Where in the blazes was he?  They didn’t tell him, that’s where.  The pilot dropped him at an undisclosed location.  He was to survive and make it to the designated coordinates.  Well, wasn’t that lovely.  Looks like someone forgot to stamp the trees with his fucking coordinates.  What a bloody great way to meet the new team.  Oh well.  Team.  He checked his throat mic again, hoping that it would get him something.  Someone.  Nothing.  Not even the crackle of static to say it was working with interference.  It was dead.  When he made camp, or whatever would pass for it, he’d take it apart.  No use now.  He’d just drop something important.  He would hope that it froze over and that he hadn’t smashed it when he landed.

     Dug his way up.  It was a slow incline.  He returned to the quickly closing over hole in the ground that he’d birthed out of to find this lovely little tropical paradise.  From there, he needed a direction.  At least it was bloody daylight.  He’d been dropped midmorning, had his coffee and everything.  His pack had coffee!  Okay now that was becoming a much more pressing thing to recover.  Forget the small one man puptent, forget the slim pad for a dry sleep, forget the mug to use for a drink or to heat up snow for water, forget the fucking fire starting materials, his lighter would have to work.  God he hoped it worked.  He needed his fucking coffee.  Needed.  Like he needed blood and air.  Needed.  Oh, and his food, MRE’s.  Not much.  A couple protein bars.  It would have gotten him through the exercise.  But forget it.  He could do without all that.  He needed his coffee.

     Orientation.  Right.  Sun.  Hard to tell with the snow blowing like a wind tunnel aimed at any chink in his cold weather gear and calling him every sweet… Right.  Sun.  Rises in the east, sets in the west.  Easy peasy.  Unless they were in China.  It was different there, right?  Or was it Australia?  He could never remember.  Didn’t matter, he didn’t fly that long.  Nick had picked him up on the coast of France.  He was still in Europe.  East.  It was afternoon, the sun would be west.  Okay.  He’d crawled up his tunnel and it was facing west.

     The disturbing sounds from the cave, tomb, thing he was trapped in, the screams.  Yea, they came from his left.  So, south.  The screams were to the south.  He shot up a quick, but ridiculously sincere prayer to a god he wasn’t certain existed that the person he’d heard screaming was still alive.  He headed south.

--

     The wind hit John with a renewed ferocity as he pushed southward, where the screams had originated.  His boots crunched through the surface crust, plunging knee-deep with each laborious step.  Every muscle burned with the effort of dragging himself forward, the snow's resistance like quicksand against his limbs.

     “Bloody fucking hell.” he muttered, his words stolen instantly by the howling gale.

     He checked, sized up, the bright glow through clouds that was the struggle of the sun to make itself known, squinting through ice-crusted lashes.  South.  Definitely south.  Someone was down there, trapped with something, or someone, worse than the storm.  His training screamed at him to be cautious, but those raw, animal wails pulled him forward with greater urgency.

     The slope steepened, forcing him to dig the edges of his boots in for traction.  Snow had begun creeping between his layers, melting against his heated skin despite his careful preparations.  He grimaced, feeling wetness seep through his thermal pants.  It was only a matter of time before it reached his socks.  Once those were soaked, frostbite would follow, and he'd be fucked.

     “Come on.” he urged himself, teeth clenched against another brutal gust.

     The whiteout parted momentarily, visibility extending beyond the few feet in front of him.  That's when he saw it.  A dark silhouette against the endless white, broad-shouldered and tall.  The figure stood perfectly still, seemingly unaffected by the raging blizzard.

     John froze, instinctively dropping into a crouch. His mind raced.  Was this the source of those screams?  No.  More likely the cause of them.  Whoever it was, they might know where the victim was.  They might lead him there.

     He weighed his options quickly.  A gunshot would be unreliable in this weather, and the noise would eliminate any element of surprise.  Not to mention if he hit his mark, the guy may not be able to share the location of the person screaming.  His hunting knife, however, that was another matter.

     John slid the blade from its sheath, the cold metal warming quickly in his gloved palm.  The figure remained motionless, perhaps unaware of his presence or simply waiting.  He couldn't afford hesitation.

     Taking a deep breath, John charged, using the sound of the wind to mask his approach.  The figure turned at the last moment.  Too late.  John slammed into him with his full weight, driving them both into the snow.

     The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, but adrenaline kept him moving.  This guy was a fucking brick wall.  Bloody hell.  He brought the knife up, only to have his wrist caught in a grip like iron.  They rolled, snow filling John's collar, down his back.  His opponent was strong.  Christ, incredibly strong.  And skilled.

     A knee drove toward his ribs, but John twisted away, using the momentum to break the hold on his wrist.  He slashed forward, meeting only air as his opponent jerked backward with surprising agility.

     “Who the fuck are ye?” John growled, circling warily.

     No response.  Just the measured, controlled breathing of a trained fighter.

     They clashed again, a brutal dance of strikes and counterstrikes.  John felt his knife connect with something solid, not flesh, but tactical gear.  His opponent retaliated with a vicious elbow that John barely avoided, the force of it whistling past his ear.

     Minutes stretched as they fought, neither gaining true advantage.  John's lungs burned with exertion, each breath like swallowing fire in the frigid air.  His opponent seemed equally matched, neither able to land a decisive blow.

     With a desperate surge, John tackled the man again, both crashing to the ground.  He managed to gain the upper position, pinning the larger man's arms with his knees, knife hovering at the throat.

     It was then, as snow fell away from the figure's face, that John saw it.  A skull-patterned balaclava, stark white against black fabric.  Not just any mask.  The mask.  The one he'd been briefed about.

     “Fuck me.” John panted, recognition dawning. “Ye're Ghost.”

     The masked man beneath him stared up with cold, calculating amber eyes visible through the skull's eye sockets.  Neither friendly nor particularly pleased.

     “Like it on top, do you?” came the icy reply, accent distinctly Manchester, beneath the muffling fabric. 

     “Oi!” he settled his snow covered rear  back on the much larger man’s chest, not moving his knees or releasing his arms.  The Brit wasn’t struggling.  Something told him if he decided to he could bench press John. 

     “Little cold sweet’eart.  Think we can save the playing in ice till we get better acquainted?” Ghost smirked.  The guy sitting on his chest like it was some kind of a bloody throne was actually a lot stronger than he’d expected when Price told him they were adding to the team.  Decent in a scrap.  Could definitely throw him over, take him if he needed to, but it would be a fight.  That made him grin.  Decent with a knife. Now that did things for him, he wouldn’t lie.  Didn’t matter, least he’d found the bastard.  Now Price wouldn’t kill him for getting the new teammate killed.  Partner though?  Fuck buddy maybe, if he looked as good as he felt.  Pretty blue eyes, fuck.  They were pretty.  But no way did he need a partner.  They got in the way.  They got killed.  He found himself oddly wondering what he looked like under the goggles and gator. 

     “What?  What the jumpin’ fuck is wrong with you?” John shook his head.  He felt the press of forearms against his knees, then realized the position he was in.  That encouraged him to climb off of the much larger behemoth of a man, though being out of the snow for that moment had been amazing.

     “Want the long list or the short one?” Ghost asked, accepting the hand that pulled him up out of the snow.  The impression of his bulk very prominent in the fresh powder.

     “Harhar.” John shook his head.

     “You’re Soap?” Ghost assumed.

     “Yea.  And skip the it doesnnae work in the snow jokes on the first date, alright.” Soap waved him off.  It wasn’t his first cold weather training experience.

     “Hm.  Guess Ah’ll need new material.  You’re off course, come on.” Ghost gestured for him to follow.  If he could get close enough to radio Price he could at least let them know he’d found the new guy and not gotten him killed, yet.

     “We need to go  this way.” Soap insisted.

     “Negative, Sergeant.  The teams this way.” Ghost denied him.

     “Yea, but Ah heard some pour sod screamin’ his fool head off like he was being butchered or something, this way.  There’s got ta be a place with a basement or a cave or something over here.” Soap explained himself, knife put away and dusting himself off.

    “That so?” the speculative response ebbed out.  Ghost had every intention of making it close enough to Price to radio in, but he had warned of some local trouble.  It sounded like the new guy was imagining things, but if he wasn’t…  Did he actually give a shit?  That was the real question.

     “Aye.  Sounded like a bloody horror film.  Ye’d fit right in.” Soap referred to the mask.

     “Always this clever, are you?” he smirked.

     “Yea.  If we could get a break in the snow, maybe we could find some tracks, or a house, Ah dinnae bloody kin.  Ye look like ye’d fit in with it, where the fuck would ye hide a place to murder someone?” Soap pressed, heading in the direction he’d been going. 

     Ghost sighed, his breath creating a momentary cloud in the freezing air.  The Scotsman was already trudging ahead, determined to follow some phantom screams.  Price's warning about missing tourists tickled at the back of his mind.  Probably nothing, but if it wasn't...

     “Fine.” Ghost muttered, falling into step behind Soap.  “Lead on,  MacTavish.  Show me your wilderness skills.”

     Soap pushed forward through the snow, his legs disappearing almost to his thighs with each step.  The storm had eased slightly, allowing perhaps five meters of visibility now.  Ghost watched him carefully, noting how the Scot paused occasionally, orienting himself against the dim outline of the sun.

     “Not bad.” Ghost thought grudgingly.  The new guy wasn't completely useless.

     After fifteen minutes of brutal slogging, Soap stopped, turning in a slow circle.  “There should be something here.  The screams were loud enough.”

     Ghost scanned the area, immediately noticing what Soap had missed.  A slight depression in the snow pattern to their left, barely visible unless you knew what to look for.  Years of tracking in various terrains had trained his eye to spot the unnatural.

     “Nothing here, mate.” Ghost said casually.  “Snow's probably playing tricks on your mind.  Happens to the best of us.”

     “Ah'm not imagining it.” Soap insisted, frustration evident in his voice.

     Ghost shrugged, deliberately moving closer to the trail he'd spotted.  “Cold does things to people.  Makes them hear things, see things.  Especially pretty boys from Scotland who don't know these mountains.”

     Soap's head snapped around.  “Pretty boy?  The fuck ye on about?”

     “Just saying,” Ghost continued, stepping carefully along the nearly invisible path, “cold can make a man desperate.  Start seeing what he wants to see.”

     Soap followed him, seemingly unaware that Ghost was now leading.  “Ah know what Ah heard.”

     “Sure you did, love.” Ghost teased, his eyes never stopping their methodical scan of the surroundings.  There.  Another sign.  A broken branch under the snow, recently snapped.  “Maybe you're just hoping to impress me on our first date.”

     “Jesus Chris.,” Soap muttered.  “Are ye always this much of a pain in the arse?”

     Ghost deliberately brushed against Soap as he passed him, continuing along the trail.  “Only for the special ones.”

     The Scotsman's cheeks reddened, though whether from cold or irritation was hard to tell.  Ghost suppressed a smirk beneath his mask.  Throwing the new guy off balance was entertaining, but more importantly, it kept him distracted while Ghost navigated them along the nearly invisible track.

     “Look.” Soap said, stopping suddenly.  “Ah know what Ah heard.  There's someone in trouble.”

     Ghost paused, noting how the snow had been disturbed in a wider pattern ahead.  “Probably just the wind.  Or a hungry bear looking for a tasty Scotsman.”

     “Bears dinnae torture people.” Soap growled.

     “Neither do mountain ghosts.” Ghost countered, nudging Soap slightly to the right, keeping him on the trail without being obvious about it.

     The path curved around a dense cluster of pines.  Ghost spotted more signs.  A scrap of dark fabric caught on a branch, partially covered by fresh snow.  He casually moved to block Soap's view of it while continuing their banter.

     “Maybe it was just the wind whistling through the trees.” Ghost suggested.  “Or maybe you were having a wee fantasy about me rescuing you.”

     “Ye're bloody unbelievable,” Soap muttered, pushing forward.

     The snow was getting deeper, making each step a monumental effort.  Sweat beaded on Ghost's forehead despite the cold.  Twenty meters had never felt so far.  But he could sense they were close to something.  The signs were becoming more frequent.  Disturbed snow patterns, broken branches, the occasional footprint not quite filled in by fresh snowfall.

     “Nothing here but snow and trees.” Ghost said, even as he guided them around another bend.  “Probably best we head back and…”

     He stopped abruptly.  Ahead, barely visible through the curtain of falling snow, was a small structure.  Not a house exactly.  More like a shed or outbuilding, partially buried in the snowdrift.  Its roof peaked above the white blanket, dark against the endless white.

     Soap had seen it too.  “What did Ah tell ye?” he whispered, suddenly alert.  “That's where the screams were coming from.”

     Ghost drew his sidearm silently.  Maybe the new guy wasn't crazy after all.  “Stay behind me,” he ordered, all teasing gone from his voice.

--

     Deep in the cellar of the shed, a hulking figure hunched over a workbench.  The space was cramped, no more than fifteen feet square, with a ceiling so low that the man had to stoop slightly despite the depth below ground.  A single bulb dangled from exposed wiring, casting harsh shadows across the blood-spattered walls.

     The man adjusted his brown skull cap, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm.  His apron, once white, was now a tapestry of rusty browns and fresh crimson.  The machete in his hand caught the light as he turned it over, examining his handiwork with a craftsman's critical eye.

     On a crude wooden table before him lay his latest acquisition.  A young man, perhaps mid-twenties, his chest rising and falling in shallow, unconscious breaths.  Blood pooled beneath him, dripping steadily onto the packed earth floor.

     “Too soon.” the man muttered, voice thick with disappointment.  “Always too soon.”

     The cellar was a museum of suffering.  In one corner, a pile of boots, hiking, ski, casual, formed a small mountain.  Nearby, a collection of watches hung from nails hammered into a support beam, some still ticking, others frozen at the moment their owners had stopped struggling.  Wallets, passports, and jewelry filled a wooden crate beneath a narrow shelf lined with glass jars containing various body parts preserved in cloudy liquid.

     A backpack leaned against the far wall, new, barely touched.  The man glanced at it, recognizing the military-grade construction.  Not his usual tourist fare.  He'd need to be more careful.

     The victim moaned softly, approaching consciousness.  The man sighed, setting down his machete.  He needed more time, and unconscious subjects were boring.

     He moved toward a rickety staircase that clung to the wall like an afterthought.  Each step creaked under his substantial weight as he ascended.  At the top, he opened a small cabinet built into the wall, retrieving a brown glass bottle.

     The storm muffled any sound from outside, but as he turned to descend, he paused.  Something had changed in the air pressure.  The door above had opened.

     Visitors.  Unexpected ones.

     He gripped the bottle tightly, listening to the cautious footsteps overhead.

---

     Ghost entered first, sidearm raised, moving with the silent precision of a predator.  The shed's interior was spartan.  A wooden table, two chairs, a small woodstove barely keeping the space above freezing.  But what caught his attention immediately was the trapdoor in the floor, its wooden handle worn smooth from use.

     Soap closed the door behind them, shutting out the howling wind.  His eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness, scanning for threats before settling on the same trapdoor Ghost had spotted.

     “Clear.” Ghost whispered, moving to position himself beside the entrance to the cellar.

     Soap nodded, taking up position on the opposite side.  They communicated silently with hand signals, a language of violence both understood perfectly.

     Three fingers from Ghost.  A countdown.

     Two.

     One.

     Ghost yanked open the trapdoor in one fluid motion, revealing a set of narrow stairs descending into darkness.  The unmistakable copper smell of blood wafted up, confirming Soap's worst fears.

     They could hear movement below.  Someone was down there, aware of their presence.

     Ghost went first, descending three steps before spotting the large figure frozen midway up the staircase.  Their eyes met for a fraction of a second.  Killer recognizing killer, before all hell broke loose.

     The large man hurled the glass bottle at Ghost's face.  Ghost ducked, the bottle shattering against the wall behind him, releasing a caustic chemical stench.  In the same motion, Ghost fired twice, but the man was already moving, charging up the remaining stairs with surprising speed.

     Soap, seeing the massive form emerging from below, fired a shot that caught the man in the shoulder.  It barely slowed him.  The killer barreled into Soap, sending both crashing into the wall with enough force to crack the wooden planks.

     Ghost pivoted, unable to get a clean shot with Soap in the way.  The Scotsman was grappling with the larger man, fighting for control of the killer's arm as a hunting knife appeared from nowhere, slashing toward Soap's throat.

     “A bit busy here!” Soap grunted, straining against the man's unnatural strength.

     Ghost holstered his pistol and moved in, driving his combat knife deep into the killer's side.  The man roared, not in pain, but in rage, twisting to backhand Ghost with enough force to send him staggering.

     Soap used the distraction to headbutt the man, the crack of impact resonating through the small space.  The killer stumbled back, momentarily dazed.

     “Down!” Ghost shouted.

     Soap dropped instantly.  Ghost drew and fired in one motion, three rounds center mass. The killer jerked with each impact but remained standing, blood blooming across his chest.

     “What the fuck?” Soap breathed.

     The man looked down at his wounds with an expression almost like curiosity, then raised his eyes to meet Ghost's.  A smile spread across his face, revealing teeth filed to points.

     “More.” he said, voice guttural and thick with an accent Ghost couldn't place.  “More for my collection.”

     He lunged again, this time at Ghost, who sidestepped and slashed with his knife, opening a deep gash across the man's forearm.  The killer didn't even flinch, grabbing Ghost by the throat with his injured arm, lifting him off the ground with terrifying ease.

     Soap scrambled to his feet, drawing his hunting knife.  Without hesitation, he drove it into the base of the killer's skull, twisting the blade with a savage determination.

     The man's grip on Ghost loosened.  He turned, impossibly still moving, to face Soap.  His eyes were wide with something like recognition, not of Soap, but of his own mortality finally catching up to him.

     He collapsed to his knees, then forward onto his face, the knife still embedded in his brain stem.

     Ghost coughed, massaging his throat.  “Tough bastard.” he rasped.

     “Aye.” Soap agreed, staring down at the mountain of a man now leaking blood onto the rough wooden floor.  “What the hell was he?”

     “Don't know, don't care.” Ghost replied, moving toward the open trapdoor.  “Check if he's got a pulse and any ID.  Ah'll see what's down there.”

     Soap nodded, kneeling beside the corpse while Ghost descended the stairs, weapon drawn once more.

     The cellar's stench hit him like a physical force.  Blood, excrement, fear, and something chemical he couldn't identify.  Ghost had seen his share of horrors, but the scene before him made even his hardened stomach turn.

--

     Soap rolled the body over, checking for a pulse.  Nothing.  The bastard was finally dead.  He patted down the pockets, searching for identification, but found only a folding knife, some loose change, and a set of keys.

     “No ID.” Soap called down to Ghost. “Nothing to say who he is.”

     The man's vacant eyes stared at the ceiling, mouth slightly open, those filed teeth visible behind bloodless lips.  Soap had seen his share of the dead, but something about this one made his skin crawl.  He glanced at the hunting knife still embedded in the man's skull, then at the three bullet holes in his chest.

     “Should be dead three times over.” he muttered.

     Horror films flickered through his mind.  The killer who always got back up for one last scare.  Ridiculous, but still...  Soap grabbed some cord hanging from a hook by the door and quickly bound the man's wrists and ankles.  Better safe than sorry.

     He scanned the small room for a phone, rifling through drawers and checking shelves.  Nothing.  Just junk, tools, and what looked disturbingly like dried blood under his fingernails as he searched.

     “No phone up here.” he called down.  “Ah'm coming down.”

     The stench hit him halfway down the stairs.  A nauseating cocktail of blood, excrement, and chemicals made his eyes water.  He pulled his gator up over his nose, but it did little to help.

     “Jesus Christ.” he muttered, reaching the bottom.

     Ghost had already cut down a man who'd been partially suspended from a hook in the ceiling.  The victim lay on a blood-soaked workbench, chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.  His skin was gray where it wasn't red with blood, and several of his fingers were missing.

     Soap's gaze swept the room, taking in the horror show.  Shelves lined with jars containing what looked like human remains.  A box of wallets.  Watches hanging like Christmas ornaments.  Boots piled in a corner.

     Then he spotted it, his backpack, propped against the far wall.

     “That's mine!” he said, moving toward it.  “Bastard must've found me after Ah fell.”

     The man on the table groaned, a wet, bubbling sound that snapped Soap back to the moment.  He unzipped his pack, pulling out his first aid kit.

     “He's alive, but barely.” Soap said, assessing the victim's injuries as he opened the kit.  “Multiple lacerations, signs of torture, significant blood loss.”

     Ghost nodded once, already moving away.  “Handle it.  Ah'll try to get us some help.”

     Soap barely registered Ghost's departure as he focused on the victim.  Male, mid-twenties, athletic build.  Tourist, by the looks of his clothes.  Soap cut away the shredded remains of the man's shirt, revealing a canvas of cuts and burns.

     “Hang in there, mate.” he murmured, cleaning the worst of the wounds with antiseptic wipes.  “Help's coming.”

     The man's eyes fluttered open briefly, unfocused and glazed with pain, before rolling back.

     Across the room, Ghost pulled out his compass, orienting himself before adjusting the frequency on his radio.  Static crackled as he cycled through channels, his voice a steady counterpoint to Soap's work.

     “This is Lieutenant Riley, British Army.  Requesting emergency assistance.  Does anyone copy?  Over.”

     More static, then a faint voice broke through.  Ghost adjusted the dial, honing in on the signal.

     “This is Ranger Station Seven.  We copy.  What's your situation?  Over.”

     “Lieutenant Riley, British Army on training exercises.  We've got a civilian in critical condition.  Multiple injuries, signs of torture.  Request immediate medevac.  Over.”

     Soap listened with half an ear as he worked, applying pressure bandages to the worst of the bleeding wounds.  The man's pulse was thready under his fingers, but still there.  He was fighting.

     “Location?” the voice crackled over the radio.

     Ghost rattled off coordinates, adding, “We're in a structure, partially buried in snow.  Ah'll mark the location with a signal flare when we hear your approach.  Over.”

     “Copy that. Medevac dispatched.  ETA thirty minutes.  Weather's making it difficult.  Can you stabilize until then?  Over.”

     Ghost looked over at Soap, who nodded grimly as he administered a shot of morphine from his kit.

     “Affirmative.  We'll keep him alive.  Riley out.”

     Ghost pocketed the radio and moved back to the workbench.  “Thirty minutes.  Weather's shit.”

     “He'll make it.” Soap said with more confidence than he felt.  The victim's breathing had steadied slightly with the morphine, but his color was still awful.  “What the hell happened here?”

     “Serial killer.” Ghost said simply, examining the collection of trophies.  “Price mentioned tourists going missing.  Guess we found where they went.”

     Soap glanced around the room again, the reality sinking in.  This wasn't just a murder scene, it was a slaughterhouse.  How many people had died down here?

     “We should check for other victims.” he said, securing the last bandage.

     Ghost nodded, already moving toward a heavy wooden door in the far corner that Soap hadn't noticed before.  “Stay with him.   Ah'll clear the next room.”

     As Ghost disappeared through the door, Soap continued monitoring the victim's vitals.  The man's eyes fluttered open again, more focused this time.

     “You're safe now.” Soap told him quietly.  “Help's on the way.”

     The man's lips moved, trying to form words.  Soap leaned closer.

     “He... he said I was special.” the man whispered, voice barely audible.  “Said I'd last longer than the others.”

     A chill ran down Soap's spine that had nothing to do with the cold.  “Don't try to talk.  Save yer strength.”

     The victim's hand suddenly gripped Soap's wrist with surprising strength.  “There were screams.  Not just mine.  Recently.  From the other room.”

     Soap's head snapped toward the door Ghost had gone through.  “Ghost!” he called.  “Check for survivors!”

     The victim's grip loosened, his hand falling back to the table as unconsciousness claimed him again.  Soap checked his pulse, still there, but weaker.

     “Come on.” he muttered.  “Thirty minutes.  Just hang on for thirty minutes.”

     From beyond the wooden door came the sound of Ghost's boots on stone, followed by a muffled curse.  Soap tensed, hand moving instinctively to his sidearm.

     Ghost reappeared in the doorway, his posture rigid.  Even with the mask, Soap could tell something was wrong.

     “What is it?” Soap asked.

     Ghost jerked his head toward the other room.  “You need to see this.”

--

     Soap followed Ghost through the door, bracing himself for what might lie beyond.  The next room was smaller, dimmer, lit only by a bare bulb hanging from exposed wires.  The stench was worse here.  Decay and neglect permeating every molecule of air.

     Three metal tables were arranged in a row, each bearing what remained of a human being.  Two women and a man, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition.  Soap's stomach churned, but he forced himself to look, to bear witness.

     “Christ.” he whispered, the word escaping like a prayer.

     Ghost stood motionless by the far table, his skull mask giving nothing away.  “Recent.” he said, voice flat.  “Within days.”

     Soap moved closer, examining without touching.  The precision of the cuts, the methodical removal of parts.  This wasn't random violence.  This was craft.

     “He was collecting them.” Soap said, noticing the careful excisions where fingers, toes, and other body parts had been removed.  “Like bloody trophies.”

     A weak moan from the adjoining room reminded him of their survivor.  Soap turned back, but Ghost caught his arm.

     “There's more.” Ghost nodded toward a heavy metal door at the back of the room, secured with a padlock.  “Might be others.”

     Soap understood immediately.  “The keys.  From upstairs.”

     He hurried back to the main room, checking their patient briefly before climbing the stairs two at a time.  The killer's body lay where he'd left it, bound and still.  Soap rifled through the pockets again, retrieving the keys.

     Back in the second room, he handed them to Ghost, who sorted through the ring until finding one that fit the padlock.

     The door swung open with a rusty groan, revealing a narrow corridor carved directly into the mountain.  The walls were damp stone, glistening in the weak light spilling from the room behind them.

     “Ah'll take point.” Ghost said, drawing his sidearm again.  “Watch our six.”

     They moved cautiously down the corridor, the temperature dropping with each step.  Soap's breath clouded before him as he followed Ghost's broad shoulders.

     The passage opened into a larger chamber, naturally formed by water erosion over centuries.  Ghost swept his flashlight across the space, illuminating what looked like prison cells cut into the rock walls.

     “Hello?” Soap called, his voice echoing.  “Anyone alive in here?”

     A rustling sound came from the farthest cell.  Ghost moved toward it, light trained on the crude iron bars.

     Inside, huddled against the back wall, was a woman.  Her clothes were torn, her face bruised, but her eyes were alert, watching them with a mixture of hope and terror.

     “Military.” Ghost said, gesturing to his tactical gear.  “We're here to help.”

     The woman didn't move, suspicion evident in her rigid posture.

     “He's dead.” Soap added, stepping closer.  “The man who put ye here.  He can't hurt ye anymore.”

     Her eyes darted between them, settling finally on Soap's face.  “Americans?” she asked, voice hoarse from disuse or screaming.

     “British.” Soap corrected gently.  “And Scottish. Are ye hurt?”

     She nodded slowly.  “Not like the others.  He said...” her voice cracked.  “He said he was saving me for last.”

     Ghost was already working on the lock, trying keys from the ring.  “Any other survivors down here?”

     The woman shook her head.  “There was another girl.  He took her yesterday.  I heard her screaming for hours.”

     The lock clicked open, and Ghost pulled the cell door wide.  Soap approached slowly, hands visible, non-threatening.

     “What's yer name?” he asked.

     “Elise.” she whispered.  “Elise Dubois.  I was hiking with friends...”

     “It's alright.” Soap said, crouching before her.  “Can ye walk?”

     She nodded, pushing herself up from the stone floor with shaking arms.  Soap offered his hand, which she took after a moment's hesitation.

     “Medical team's on the way.” Ghost said, already checking the other cells.  “Thirty minutes out.”

     “We've got a survivor upstairs too.” Soap told Elise as he helped her toward the corridor.  “He's in bad shape, but hanging on.”

     Her eyes widened.  “Jean-Paul?  Is he alive?”

     “Dinnae know his name.” Soap admitted.  “But yes, he's alive.  Friend of yers?”

     She nodded, tears spilling suddenly.  “My fiancé.  We were taken together.  Three days ago, maybe four.  It's hard to keep track down here.”

     Ghost finished checking the remaining cells, finding no one else.  “All clear.  Let's move back to the main room.  Better signal there for the medevac.”

     They made their way back down the corridor, Soap supporting Elise, who moved with determination despite her obvious weakness.  In the main chamber, she gasped when she saw the man on the table.

     “Jean-Paul!”  She rushed forward, touching his face with trembling fingers.  “Oh God, what did he do to you?”

     The man's eyes fluttered open at her touch, recognition dawning through the haze of pain and drugs.  His lips formed her name, though no sound emerged.

     “Save your strength.” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.  “Help is coming.”

     Ghost had already climbed the stairs to the upper level, presumably to prepare for the incoming medevac.  Soap checked Jean-Paul's bandages, replacing those that had soaked through.

     “He needs blood.” Soap said, glancing at Elise.  “Do ye kin his type?”

     She nodded.  “O positive.  Same as me.”

     “Good.  That simplifies things if they need a donor.” Soap handed her a clean compress.  “Press here, firm but gentle.  Ah'll get my pack.”

     He retrieved his backpack, digging through for the emergency thermal blanket.  The survivor, Jean-Paul, was going into shock, his skin clammy and cold despite the bandages stemming the worst of the bleeding.

     Upstairs, he could hear Ghost moving around, the occasional crackle of radio communication.  Soap spread the thermal blanket over Jean-Paul, tucking it around his sides.

     “How long were ye down here?” he asked Elise, keeping his tone conversational to distract her from her fiancé's condition.

     “We were hiking.” she said, eyes never leaving Jean-Paul's face.  “Near the eastern ridge.  He came out of nowhere, hit Jean-Paul with something.  When I woke up, we were in those cells.”  She swallowed hard.  “He took people, one at a time.  Sometimes they came back, sometimes they didn't.”

     Soap nodded, checking Jean-Paul's pulse again.  Still there, but weaker.  “The medevac will be here soon.  Just hold on.”

     Ghost's boots appeared on the stairs as he descended.  “Chopper's ten minutes out . Storm's clearing enough for them to land about two hundred meters east.”

     “We need to move him.” Soap said, gesturing to Jean-Paul.

     Ghost assessed the situation, then nodded.  “You take his shoulders, Ah'll get his legs.  The girl can handle the door.”

     Between them, they carried Jean-Paul up the narrow staircase.  Elise followed close behind.  Once upstairs they fashioned a make-shift stretcher from the door they’d passed through, hoping to save him from the elements outside.

     Outside, the storm had indeed calmed somewhat, though snow still fell in fat, lazy flakes.  The temperature had dropped further, the sky darkening with approaching evening.

     “This way.” Ghost instructed, leading them toward a small clearing visible through the trees.

     They trudged through the deep snow, the makeshift stretcher heavy between them.  Jean-Paul moaned occasionally, each sound cutting through Soap like a blade.  Elise stumbled alongside, determination overriding her exhaustion.

     The distant thump of helicopter blades reached them before they saw the aircraft, growing louder as it approached.  Ghost pulled a flare from his vest, striking it against his thigh.  Red light blazed in the gathering dusk, casting their small party in an eerie glow.

     The helicopter appeared over the treeline, snow swirling violently in its downdraft as it descended toward the clearing.  Soap squinted against the artificial wind, gripping the stretcher tighter as they pushed forward.

     Medical personnel in bright yellow parkas jumped from the helicopter before it fully touched down, rushing toward them with professional urgency.  They took over immediately, transferring Jean-Paul to a proper stretcher, assessing his vitals with practiced efficiency.

     One medic approached Elise, guiding her toward the waiting aircraft while another checked her injuries.  Ghost and Soap stood back, watching as their charges were loaded aboard.

     “Lieutenant Riley?” A man in a ranger uniform approached, having to shout over the helicopter's roar.  “We'll need statements from both of you.  And there's the matter of the body.”

     Ghost nodded curtly.  “We'll handle it.  Get these two to a hospital first.”

     The ranger hesitated, then agreed, jogging back to the helicopter.  Moments later, it lifted off, banking eastward toward civilization.

     As the sound faded, silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the soft hiss of falling snow.  Soap exhaled slowly, watching his breath cloud before him.

     “Well.” he said finally.  “That was one hell of a first day.”

     Ghost turned to him, amber eyes unreadable behind the mask.  “Welcome to the team, Soap.”

     They stood there a moment longer, two soldiers in a snowy wilderness, the horrors they'd witnessed temporarily buried beneath white powder.

     “Come on.” Ghost said eventually.  “Price will want a full report.  And we've got a few bodies to deal with.  We’ll get a lift out once their authorities can get here.”

     Soap nodded, following Ghost back toward the buried shed.  “Think there are others?  Other killers like him out here?”

     Ghost didn't slow his pace.  “There are monsters everywhere, sweet’eart.  Just this one’s unlucky day.”

     The snow continued to fall, erasing their footprints almost as quickly as they made them.  By morning, there would be no trace of their presence here, just another layer of white covering the darkness beneath.

     Soap glanced back once at the clearing where the helicopter had been, then forward again, focusing on Ghost's broad shoulders ahead of him.  His first mission with his new team had been unexpected, brutal, and revealing.

--

     Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the resort windows, casting long shadows across polished wooden floors.  Ghost rolled his shoulders, tension knotting his muscles despite yesterday's mission being over.  The authorities had questioned them for hours.  They wanted statements, details, photographs of the scene they'd discovered.  Price attempted to handle it for them after providing their clearance to run their training in the area, but they'd insisted on speaking with the men who'd actually found the killer's lair.  That fell to his lieutenant, though Simon was certain that the old man was enjoying his payback for the crap he’d given him over Soap joining the unit.

     Now, finally alone, Ghost sank deeper into the sauna's wooden bench.  The dry heat seeped into his bones, a welcome change from the biting mountain cold.  He'd chosen this quiet hour carefully.  Most guests were either out on the slopes or warming up in their rooms before dinner.  The resort had been all too happy to accommodate the British military personnel who'd uncovered a serial killer in their pristine mountain paradise, though they'd been less thrilled about the publicity.

     He adjusted the towel around his waist, the only concession to modesty he'd made.  His balaclava remained firmly in place, the skull pattern dampening with beads of sweat.  His knife lay within arm's reach on the bench beside him, his sidearm next to it.  Old habits.

     The heat made his mind wander.  Back to yesterday, to the moment Soap had tackled him in the snow.  The Scotsman had been quick, determined, and skilled with that hunting knife.  Ghost's pulse quickened at the memory.  The weight of the man pinning him down, the cold bite of steel near his throat, those intense blue eyes locked on his.

     “Fuck.” he muttered, feeling himself harden beneath the towel.

     Maybe it was the stress release.  The adrenaline crash after the mission.  Or maybe it was something about the new guy.  Something in the way he moved, fought, didn't back down.  Ghost's hand drifted down his chest, fingers trailing through sweat-slick skin.  His naked fingers drifted over his pebbled nipples sending jolts of excitement through his already stirred body.  He shouldn't be doing this here, but the danger only heightened his arousal.

     His palm slid over his growing erection, the coarse towel creating delicious friction.  Ghost glanced at the door.  Still closed.  He then pushed the towel aside entirely.  The heat hit his exposed skin, drawing a soft hiss from between his teeth.  He spread his legs wider, leaning back against the wooden wall.

     A slight movement caught his eye, the door to the spa area had opened just a crack.  Through the steam, he could make out a familiar silhouette.  Soap.  Watching him.

     Ghost didn't stop.  Instead, he gripped himself more firmly, stroking with deliberate, unhurried movements.  His eyes locked on the partially open door as he put on a show, challenging the Scotsman to either leave or come in.

     “See something you like, MacTavish?” he called out, voice husky with arousal.  

     The steam hung thick in the air, enveloping him in a hazy mist that only seemed to accentuate the play of muscle beneath his skin.  Simon's forearms tensed and released with every movement, tendons shifting in mesmerizing rhythm.  His fingers, deft and sure, wrapped around himself with just the right amount of pressure, each stroke a testament to control and precision.  His chest rose and fell, perfect pecs glistening with sweat, the heat drawing out a sheen that made them gleam like polished marble.  The skull pattern on his balaclava dripped, a stark white against the flushed expanse of his body.  He thrust his hips upward, powerful thighs bucking with a force that sent shockwaves through the bench beneath him.  The long, languid pulls were deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world, as if daring Johnny to watch the show to its inevitable conclusion.  He spread his legs wider, muscles taut and flexed, a statue come to life under the sauna's dry blaze.  

     It was all Johnny could do to tear his eyes away, but the magnetic pull of Simon's performance drew him back, helpless against the spectacle of raw physicality laid out before him.  His silhouette loomed in the doorway, transfixed by the challenge, enticed by the invitation, and entirely unable to look away.

      The door opened wider.  Soap stood there, towel wrapped around his waist.  His expression was unreadable, caught between embarrassment and something darker, hungrier.  His chest was bare, broad, and heaving with each breath, glistening with steam and sweat.  Perfect muscles flexed beneath damp skin, water trickling down and tracing every curve, every ridge.  His biceps were thick and powerful, glistening wet, veins standing in sharp relief as droplets cascaded from them to the floor.  Soap's crystal blue eyes were blown black with lust, pupils dilated at the sight before him, an intensity that made them seem almost feverish.  He licked his lips, the motion slow and deliberate, leaving a sheen of moisture that made them appear impossibly full and kissable.  The sight of Simon so exposed, so unabashedly raw, sent a thrill through him that he couldn't hide.  His excitement was obvious, tenting the towel that clung precariously to his hips.  It strained against him, revealing the outline of his arousal, a testament to the effect Ghost had on him.  Soap's silhouette was striking, carved from muscle and desire, completely transfixed by the show, entirely captivated by what Simon dared him to witness, unable to resist the pull.

     “Didn't mean to interrupt.” Soap said, his Scottish brogue thicker than usual.  He made no move to turn away, enjoying the spectacle of the amazing specimen of man before him slowly sliding his hand up and down his sweat slick cock.

     Ghost smirked beneath his mask.  “Then why are you still standing there?”

     Soap hesitated, then stepped inside, letting the door close behind him.  The sauna suddenly felt smaller, charged with electricity that had nothing to do with the heat.

     “Thought Ah was alone down here.” Soap said, though he made no move to leave.

     “Clearly.” Ghost continued stroking himself, watching Soap's eyes track the movement.  “Price and Gaz enjoying the slopes?”

     “Aye.” Soap swallowed visibly.  “Said they'd be back for dinner.”

     Ghost chuckled.  “Plenty of time, then.”

     Soap shifted his weight, the towel around his waist doing little to hide his own growing interest.  “For what, exactly?”

     “Whatever you want, Johnny.” Ghost tilted his head, his voice dripped rough and sweet.  He studied the other man through the eyeholes of his balaclava.  “You can watch.  You can leave.”  He paused deliberately.  “Or you can join me.”

     Soap's pupils dilated, dark against the blue.  His chest rose and fell with quickening breaths. “Is this how ye welcome all the new guys to the team?”

     “Only the ones who can hold their own in a knife fight.” Ghost's voice dropped lower.  “Only the ones who don't back down.”

     The tension between them stretched taut as piano wire.  Ghost could almost hear Soap's internal debate.  The professional boundaries were being weighed against the primal pull between them.

     Finally, Soap moved forward, dropping onto the bench opposite Ghost.  Not joining, not leaving.  Watching.

     “That's it?” Ghost taunted, increasing his pace slightly.  “Just gonna sit there sweet’eart?”

     Soap's jaw tightened.  “Not sure what the protocol is for when yer lieutenant starts wanking in front of ye.”

     Ghost laughed, the sound rough with desire.  “There isn't one, love.  We're making it up as we go.”

     The heat in the sauna seemed to intensify, sweat rolling down Ghost's temples, beneath his mask.  He kept his eyes on Soap, noting the flush spreading across the Scotsman's chest, the way his hands gripped the edge of the bench.

     “Yesterday,” Ghost said between controlled breaths, “when you had me pinned in the snow.  Ah've been thinking about that.”

     Soap's eyebrow arched.  “Have ye, now?”

     “Mmm.” Ghost nodded, slowing his strokes to prolong the moment. “ You're good with a blade.  Quick.  Strong.”  He deliberately looked Soap up and down.  “Wonder what else you're good at.”

     The invitation hung in the steam-thick air between them.  Soap's resolve visibly crumbled.  He stood, towel tenting obviously now, and closed the distance between them in two steps.

     “Ye're a right bastard, ye kin that?” Soap growled, dropping to his knees between Ghost's spread legs.

     Ghost's laugh turned into a groan as Soap's hand replaced his own.  “Been told that once or twice.”

     Soap's touch was different, rougher, more demanding.  His calloused palm created exquisite friction that had Ghost's hips lifting involuntarily.

     “Keep the mask on.” Soap ordered, surprising them both with his boldness.  “It suits ye.”

     Ghost's amber eyes narrowed behind the skull face.  “Giving orders now, Sergeant?”

     “Just suggestions.” Soap replied, but his grip tightened in a way that made Ghost's breath catch.  “Unless ye'd prefer Ah stop?”

     In answer, Ghost's hand shot out, gripping the back of Soap's neck and pulling him closer.  “Don't you fucking dare.”

     Their lips met through the thin fabric of the balaclava, an odd sensation that somehow heightened everything.  Soap tasted like chlorine from the hot tub and something uniquely him filtered in through the sweat and cotton.  Something Ghost immediately wanted more of.

     The kiss deepened, grew hungrier.  Ghost's other hand found its way to Soap's towel, yanking it free.  Skin against skin, the heat between them had nothing to do with the sauna now.

     “Anyone could walk in.” Soap murmured against Ghost's masked mouth.

     Ghost grinned wickedly.  “That's half the fun.”

     In a fluid motion that caught Ghost by surprise, Soap reached for the knife on the bench.  His fingers closed around the hilt with practiced ease, the weight familiar in his palm.  Before Ghost could react, Soap had him pressed back against the wooden bench, the bigger man's own blade now hovering at his throat.

     “So ye liked how Ah handle my weapon, ay?” Soap breathed, his accent thickening with arousal.

 Ghost's knees rose instinctively, surrounding Soap's hips in a powerful vise.  The position brought their bodies flush together, Ghost's impressive erection trapped between their slick abdomens.  Soap felt the hard length twitch against his stomach as he deliberately shifted his hips, teasing his own throbbing cock along the cleft of Ghost's ass.

     The moan that escaped from behind the skull mask was positively obscene.  Deep, guttural, and hungry.  It vibrated through Soap's chest where they pressed together, sending a jolt of pure desire straight to his groin.

     “Fuck.” Ghost hissed, his amber eyes blazing through the mask's eyeholes.  “That's playing dirty, Johnny.”

     Soap kept the knife steady, applying just enough pressure to remind Ghost who was in control.  “Ye started it.” he murmured, rolling his hips again.  “Thought Ah'd finish it.”

     Ghost's hands came up to grip Soap's waist, fingers digging into muscle hard enough to bruise.  “Then finish it.” he challenged, voice dropping to a dangerous register.  “If you've got the balls.”

     Soap could feel sweat trickling down his spine, pooling in the small of his back.  The wooden bench creaked beneath them as Ghost shifted, spreading his legs wider in blatant invitation.

     “Dinnae take ye for the submissive type.” Soap remarked, dragging the flat of the blade along Ghost's jawline, just beneath the edge of the balaclava.

     Ghost's laugh was dark and knowing.  “There's nothing submissive about me, sweet'eart. Just enjoy a man who knows how to take what he wants.”

     The air between them crackled with tension, thick with steam and the musky scent of arousal.  Soap lowered his head, pressing his lips to the fabric covering Ghost's neck.  He could taste salt and something uniquely Simon through the thin material.

     “And what if Ah want to take everything?” Soap whispered against Ghost's throat, the knife still held steady.

     Ghost's head fell back, exposing more of his neck.  “Then take it.”

     The wooden door to the sauna creaked.  Soap froze, knife still at Ghost's throat, both men breathing hard.

     “Occupied!” Ghost barked, not moving an inch from his position beneath Soap.

     There was a moment of silence, then the sound of retreating footsteps.  Soap exhaled.

     The tension snapped.  In a heartbeat, Soap seized Ghost's wrists, slamming them hard against the wooden bench above his head.  The lieutenant's eyes widened behind the mask, a flash of surprise quickly replaced by dark hunger as Soap drove forward in one powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

     Ghost's back arched, a strangled sound escaping him as his body yielded.  The heat between them was blistering now, sweat slicking every point of contact.  Soap held still, his chest heaving, savoring the tight heat enveloping him, the subtle tremors running through the larger man's powerful frame.

     "Fuck." Ghost hissed, his voice strained.  "Move, damn you."

     Soap brought the knife up, pressing the flat of the blade against Ghost's throat.  “Patience.”

     With his free hand, Soap deftly sliced through the bottom of the balaclava, exposing Ghost's mouth without removing the mask entirely.  The lieutenant's lips were surprisingly full, parted slightly as he panted.

     Soap crashed his mouth against Ghost's, tongue demanding entrance.  Ghost met him with equal fervor, tasting of salt and something darker.  Cigarettes and whisky and dangerous promises.  Soap groaned into the kiss, beginning a slow, deliberate grind that had Ghost straining against the hands pinning his wrists.

     “That the best you can do?” Ghost taunted against his lips, voice rough with need.

     Soap responded by angling his hips, driving deeper, hitting that spot that made Ghost's entire body tense.  “That better?”

     Ghost's laugh dissolved into a moan as Soap established a rhythm, each thrust precise and devastating.  The bench creaked beneath them, the sound nearly drowned out by their ragged breathing and the occasional hiss of water hitting hot stones.

     “Fuck, Johnny.” Ghost groaned, testing Soap's grip on his wrists.  “Didn't know you had it in you.”

     Soap nipped at Ghost's exposed lower lip, drawing a bead of blood that he licked away.  “There's a lot ye dinnae kin about me yet.”

     He released Ghost's wrists to grip his hips instead, changing the angle again.  Ghost's newly freed hands immediately tangled in Soap's hair, pulling him down for another bruising kiss.  The knife remained at Ghost's throat, a constant reminder of the precarious edge they balanced on.

     “Harder!” Ghost demanded, his accent thickening with each thrust. “Like you mean it.”

     Soap obliged, driving into him with enough force to slide them both up the bench.  The wood burned against his knees, but the pain only sharpened his focus, heightening every sensation.  Ghost's legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.

     “Fucking take it!” Soap snarled, driving deeper with each thrust.  Every time Ghost tried to demand more or dictate the pace, Soap responded by pinning him harder against the wooden bench, asserting complete control.

     Ghost's head fell back, a guttural groan escaping through the cut in his mask.  His hands scrambled for purchase on the sweat-slicked wood, finding none.  “Jesus Christ, Johnny…”

     Soap silenced him with another brutal thrust, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot that made the lieutenant's entire body jerk.  “Did Ah say ye could talk?”

     The more Soap dominated him, the harder Ghost became.  His cock strained between them, leaking and angry red, twitching with each punishing stroke.  Soap could feel Ghost's inner muscles clenching around him, gripping him tighter with each withdrawal as if begging him to stay buried deep.

     “Fuck, ye're tight.” Soap growled against Ghost's exposed lips, tasting salt and desperation.  The friction between their bodies sent electric shivers through him, each point of contact slick with sweat.

     Ghost tried to reach between them, desperate for relief, but Soap caught his wrist again, slamming it back above his head.

     “No!” Soap commanded, voice dropping to a dangerous register.  “Not until Ah say.”

     A whimper, an actual fucking whimper, escaped Ghost's lips, the sound so unexpected from the hardened lieutenant that it nearly pushed Soap over the edge.  He slowed his pace deliberately, drawing out each thrust with agonizing precision.

     “Johnny.” Ghost gasped, voice cracking.  “Please,”

     “Please what?” Soap demanded, nipping at Ghost's exposed throat, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his lips.

     Ghost's pride warred visibly with his need, his amber eyes blazing through the mask's eyeholes.  The struggle only made Soap want to break him more completely.

     “Say it.” Soap commanded, grinding his hips in a slow circle that had Ghost arching beneath him.

     “Please let me cum.” Ghost finally whispered, the words barely audible over their harsh breathing.

     Soap smiled against Ghost's throat, satisfied with the surrender.  “Since ye asked so sweetly.”

     He released Ghost's wrists, bracing himself on the bench instead, changing the angle to drive even deeper.  His hand wrapped around Ghost's neglected cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

     Ghost's reaction was immediate and violent.  His entire body tensed, muscles locking as he came with a strangled cry that echoed off the sauna walls.  The sight of the lieutenant completely undone, completely at his mercy, pushed Soap over the edge.  He buried himself to the hilt one final time, his own release tearing through him like a bullet.

     For several moments, they remained locked together, breathing hard, the sauna's heat pressing down on their overheated bodies.  Soap's arms trembled with the effort of holding himself up.

     As their breathing slowed, Soap slumped forward, his forehead coming to rest against Ghost's shoulder.  The intensity of what had just happened washed over him in waves, leaving him momentarily speechless.  The wooden bench creaked beneath their combined weight as Ghost's powerful arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

     Soap felt himself being guided down, Ghost's hands surprisingly gentle as they maneuvered him until their positions were reversed.  Soap now beneath the larger man, looking up into those amber eyes still visible through the skull mask's eyeholes.

     “Didn't take ye for the cuddling type.” Soap murmured, his voice hoarse.

     Ghost said nothing for a moment, just studied him with an intensity that made Soap's skin prickle despite the heat.  Then, with deliberate slowness, Ghost lowered himself fully onto Soap's body, their sweat-slick chests pressing together.  The lieutenant's weight was substantial but not crushing, a solid presence that anchored Soap to the moment.

     “There's a lot you don't know about me yet.” Ghost whispered, throwing Soap's earlier words back at him.

     Before Soap could respond, Ghost's arms tightened around him, pulling him into an embrace that felt strangely protective.  Their lips met again, but this time there was no aggression, no battle for dominance, just a slow, sensual exploration that caught Soap completely off guard.  The tenderness in it was unexpected, almost vulnerable, and all the more powerful coming from a man who projected such lethal capability.

     When they finally broke apart, Ghost was smiling, a cocky, self-satisfied grin visible through the cut in his balaclava.  His eyes crinkled at the corners, hinting at the expression hidden beneath the skull pattern.

     “Welcome to the team, Johnny.” he said, his Manchester accent rolling the words like they were sharing some private joke.  “Think you'll fit in just fine.”

     Soap couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing off the sauna walls.  “That yer standard recruitment package?”

     “Only for the special ones.” Ghost replied, shifting his weight to lie beside Soap on the narrow bench.  Their shoulders pressed together, both men staring up at the wooden ceiling.  “Though Ah've gotta say, you exceeded expectations.”

     “High praise, coming from the Ghost himself.”

     “Don't let it go to your head.” Ghost's hand found Soap's, fingers interlacing casually.  “Price would have my arse if he knew Ah was corrupting his golden boy on day one.”

     Soap snorted.  “Hardly my first rodeo.”

     “Clearly.” Ghost's thumb traced lazy circles on Soap's palm.  “Though Ah'm curious where you learned knife skills like that.  Not standard SAS training.”

     “Ye kin, classified.  May have ta spend some time, practicing together, though.” Soap grinned at him, oddly content to lay right there in his arms all night if he could.

--

     The clinking of crystal and the low murmur of conversation filled the intimate dining room of Le Chalet Rouge.  Amber lighting from ornate fixtures cast a warm glow over polished wood and white tablecloths, creating an atmosphere that felt oddly mismatched with the four military men occupying the corner table.

     Soap adjusted his collar, still feeling the ghost of Ghost's teeth against his neck from earlier.  The restaurant was unexpectedly elegant, all dark wood, crystal glasses, and waiters who looked like they'd been born in pressed black shirts.  He'd managed a clean button-down and his least wrinkled pair of jeans, but he still felt underdressed.

     “Quite the place.” he muttered to Ghost, who sat right beside him, knee pressed deliberately against his under the table.

     Ghost smirked, the upper half of his face visible now that he'd swapped his tactical balaclava for a simple black face mask that covered just enough to maintain his mystery. “Too fancy for you, MacTavish?”

     “Just wondering if they know what they're in fer.” Soap replied, eyes lingering on the lieutenant's exposed lips.  The memory of how those lips felt against his skin sent heat spreading through his chest.

     Price cleared his throat from across the table.  “If you two are quite finished, perhaps we could order?”

     “Sorry, sir.” Soap said, not feeling sorry at all as he reached for the leather-bound menu.

     The waiter approached, a bottle of red wine already in hand.  “Gentlemen, may I suggest the house Bordeaux?  It pairs excellently with our steaks.”

     “Perfect.” Price nodded, watching as the waiter poured a tasting portion into his glass.

     Ghost waved off the wine.  “Whiskey.  Kentucky bourbon if you have it.  Neat.” He glanced at Soap.  “Make it two.”

     “Actually.” Soap interjected, his hand briefly touching Ghost's forearm.  “Ah'll have Scotch. Macallan if you've got it.”

     “Savages.” Gaz murmured, accepting his wine with a gracious nod to the waiter.  “In a place like this, and they're drinking like they're in some Belfast pub.”

     Ghost leaned back in his chair, stretching his arm along the back of Soap's seat.  “Some of us have taste that doesn't come from a wine magazine, mate.”

     “Oh, is that what you call it?” Price asked, one eyebrow raised as he swirled his wine.  “And here I thought it was just a stubborn refusal to try anything that doesn't burn on the way down.”

Soap felt Ghost's fingers brush against his shoulder, the touch casual but deliberate.  “Some things are better with a bit of burn.” Ghost said, his voice dropping to a register that sent a shiver down Soap's spine.

The waiter returned with their drinks, placing the amber liquids before Ghost and Soap. “Are you gentlemen ready to order?”

     They selected their meals, rare steaks for Ghost and Soap, something more refined involving sauce and vegetables for Price and Gaz.  Soap barely registered the details, too distracted by the way Ghost's leg pressed more firmly against his with each passing minute.

     “So,” Price began once the waiter had departed, “quite the first mission, Soap.  Not exactly the training exercise we had planned.”

     Soap nodded, taking a sip of his Scotch.  The liquid burned pleasantly, warming him from the inside.  “Aye.  Not how Ah expected to meet the team.”

     “You handled yourself well.” Gaz offered, raising his wine glass in a small salute.  “Price wasn't exaggerating about your skills.”

     “He's full of surprises.” Ghost added, the double meaning clear in his amber eyes as they fixed on Soap.  The surgical mask was pushed up now, revealing those plush lips he’d tasted only an hour ago sending shivers up the new guy’s spine.

     Soap felt heat creep up his neck.  He deliberately placed his hand on Ghost's thigh under the table, a possessive gesture that made the lieutenant's eyes widen slightly.  Two could play at this game.

     “Ah've had excellent training.” Soap replied innocently, giving Ghost's thigh a squeeze that was anything but professional.

     Price narrowed his eyes, glancing between them.  “The authorities are handling the cleanup. They've identified three more victims from the cave system, bringing the total to twelve over the past eighteen months.”

     “Twelve?” Soap's grip on Ghost's thigh tightened reflexively.  “Christ.”

     “Local law enforcement is searching for any accomplices.” Gaz added, taking a careful sip of his wine.  “Though they believe he worked alone.”

     “The couple you rescued is stable.” Price continued.  “They're being transferred to a hospital in Geneva tomorrow.  They've asked to thank you personally before they leave.”

     Ghost shrugged.  “Just doing our job.”

     “Speaking of jobs,” Price fixed Ghost with a pointed look, “you two seem to be getting along better than expected.”

     Soap felt Ghost tense slightly under his hand.  “The lieutenant's not as much of a prick as advertised.” he offered with a straight face.

     Ghost choked slightly on his whiskey.  “Doesn’t know me too well, does he?”

     The other two laughed at the understatement.

     The waiter arrived with their appetizers, something French involving pastry and cheese that Soap couldn't pronounce.  Ghost immediately stabbed his with a fork, ignoring the delicate knife provided.

     “For God's sake,” Price muttered, “it's not a combat operation, Ghost.”

     “Everything's a combat operation, sir.” Ghost replied, popping the entire appetizer into his mouth at once.

     Gaz shook his head, meticulously cutting his into precise bites.  “This is why we can't have nice things.”

     Soap watched as Ghost deliberately licked a crumb from his lower lip, amber eyes never leaving his.  Heat pooled low in Soap's belly.  He reached for his scotch, taking a larger swig than strictly necessary.

     “So,” Gaz turned to Soap, “how are you finding the accommodations?  Resort's not bad, eh?”

     “Better than a tent in the snow.” Soap agreed, trying to focus on the conversation rather than the way Ghost's thumb was now tracing circles on his knee.  “Though the rooms are a bit cozy.”

     “Cramped, you mean,” Price corrected.  “Military budget doesn't stretch to luxury suites.”

     “Ah don't mind sharing.” Ghost said casually.  “MacTavish is surprisingly neat for a Scot.”

     “Only been roommates one night.” Soap countered, sliding his hand higher up Ghost's thigh in retaliation.  “Might change my mind if ye keep leaving yer wet towels on my bed.”

     The corner of Ghost's mouth twitched giving away his amusement.  “That was an accident.”

     “Sure it was.” Soap murmured, just loud enough for Ghost to hear.

     Their main courses arrived, the waiter presenting each with flourish.  Soap's steak sizzled on the plate, perfect and rare as requested.  Ghost immediately cut into his, ignoring the array of silverware to use just the basic knife and fork.

     Price and Gaz exchanged a look as they delicately arranged their napkins and selected the proper utensils.  Soap glanced down at the intimidating array of silverware before following Ghost's lead, going straight for the standard knife and fork.

     “Outside in, gentlemen.” Gaz advised, gesturing to the silverware.  “Work your way inward with each course.”

     “Life's too short, only need one.” Ghost replied, already chewing a piece of bloody steak.

     “One’s a bit of a stretch.  Ye could use yer hands.” Soap cut into his own steak, the knife sliding through the tender meat.  “Food's food.  Gets to the same place.”

     “Heathens.” Price muttered, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice.  “Both of you.”

     The conversation flowed more easily as they ate, touching on the mission, future operations, and carefully edited stories from past deployments.  Soap found himself relaxing, even as Ghost's touches became more deliberate under the table.

     “We ship out day after tomorrow, local authorities allowing.” Price announced as they finished their main course.  “Back to Credenhill for debrief, then we've got something brewing in Kazakhstan.”

     “So soon?” Soap asked, surprised.  He'd expected more downtime after the unexpected turn of their training mission.

     “The 141 doesn't sit still for long.” Gaz explained.  “You'll get used to it.”

     Ghost drained the last of his whiskey, signaling the waiter for another.  “Gives us one more day to enjoy the amenities.”  His eyes flicked to Soap.  “The sauna's particularly nice.”

     Soap nearly choked on his scotch.  “Is it now?”

     “Very...  invigorating.” Ghost continued, his voice dropping to that dangerous register again.

     Price's eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “Something I should know about, Lieutenant?”

     “Just team bonding, sir.” Ghost replied smoothly.  “Getting to know the new guy.”

     Gaz snorted into his wine.  “I bet.”

     The waiter arrived with dessert menus, but Ghost waved his away.  “Just the check for me.  And another round for the table.”

     “Turning in early?” Price asked, accepting his menu.

     Ghost stretched, his shoulder brushing deliberately against Soap's.  “Long day.  Thought Ah'd hit the sauna again before bed.”

     “Sounds good.” Soap said quickly, pushing his own menu away.  “Think Ah'll join ye.  For the...  recovery benefits.”

     Gaz rolled his eyes.  “Subtle.”

     Price sighed, looking between them.  “Just remember we're shipping out at 0600 day after tomorrow.  I need both of you functional.”

     “Always functional, sir.” Ghost replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that did things to Soap's insides.

     “And Ghost,” Price added, his voice taking on a warning tone, “try not to break my new sergeant, would you?  Good ones are hard to find.”

     Soap felt heat creep up his neck again.  “Ah ken handle myself, sir.”

     “I'm counting on it,” Price replied dryly.  “Go on then, both of you.  Gaz and I will settle the bill.”

     Ghost didn't need to be told twice.  He stood, dropping his napkin on the table.  “Appreciate it, sir.  Coming, MacTavish?”

     Soap nodded, rising to follow.  As they wove between tables toward the exit, he felt Ghost's hand settle possessively at the small of his back, guiding him through the crowded restaurant.

     “Sauna, is it?” Soap murmured once they were out of earshot.

     Ghost leaned closer, his breath warm against Soap's ear.  “Unless you'd prefer the hot tub.  Or the shower.  Or the bed.”

     “All of the above,” Soap replied, his voice rougher than he intended.

     Ghost's low laugh sent a shiver down his spine.  “Ambitious.  Ah like that in a man.”

     As they stepped into the elevator, Soap caught Ghost's wrist, pressing him back against the mirrored wall.  “Just so we're clear,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “this isnnae just a one-time thing.”

     Ghost's eyes darkened behind his mask.  “Staking your claim already, Johnny?”

     “Problem with that?” Soap challenged, not backing down.

     The elevator doors closed, sealing them in together.  Ghost's hands came up to frame Soap's face, surprisingly gentle.  “Not at all, sweet'eart.  Not at all.”

     As the elevator began its ascent, Soap decided that joining the 141 might just be the best decision he'd ever made.

--

     The elevator chimed, doors sliding open to their floor.  They stumbled into the hallway, Ghost's hand already fumbling with the key card while Soap pressed against him from behind, lips trailing fire along the exposed skin at his nape.  He reached around, sliding his greedy hand over Simon’s thick bulge, squeezing enough to throw the larger man off completely.  Fuck he was big, and so fucking hard.  There was no way Soap was slowing down if this was his response.

     “Hurry the fuck up.” Soap growled, his patience evaporating with each passing second.

     Ghost's fingers trembled slightly as he swiped the card, the lock flashing green.  The moment they crossed the threshold, Soap kicked the door shut and slammed Ghost against the wall, pinning him with his entire body.  He crushed their mouths together, tongue demanding entrance, which Ghost eagerly granted.  The taste of whiskey, the remaining hints of smokey meat and Simon flooded his senses.

     Soap bit down on Ghost's lower lip, drawing a groan that vibrated through both their chests.  He moved lower, teeth grazing along the pulse point at Ghost's neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks above his collar.

     “Fuck, Johnny.” Ghost panted, grinding his hips forward, hands roaming everywhere.  Sliding under Soap's shirt, gripping his ass, tangling in his hair.

     Soap felt Ghost pushing back, using his superior size and strength to walk him backward.  He allowed it for three steps before twisting suddenly, using Ghost's momentum against him.  Ghost's eyes widened as Soap flipped their positions, shoving him down onto one of the double beds.

     “Not so fast.” Soap breathed, climbing on top of him.

     Ghost's amber eyes darkened with lust as Soap straddled him, pinning his wrists above his head.  The lieutenant could have broken free, they both knew it, but he stayed put, chest heaving beneath Soap's weight.

     Soap released one wrist to tug at Ghost's belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a satisfying hiss.  Ghost watched, transfixed, as Soap unfastened his own belt next, the metal buckle clinking in the quiet room.

     “What are you planning?” Ghost asked, voice rough with anticipation.

     Soap didn't answer, instead methodically stripping away Ghost's clothes piece by piece.  The mask came off first, revealing the strong jaw and features Soap had only glimpsed before.  He took a moment to drink in the sight, committing it to memory.  He had to be the absolute most fucking beautiful man Johnny had ever encountered.  High cheekbones, beautiful whiskey brown eyes, crinkling just enough to challenge.  He was a man who knew exactly how attractive he was, as Simon’s hips rose beneath him, reminding him of his own excitement.  There were scars.  Thank fucking God there were scars.  It made him strong, rugged, handsome.  Without them, he’d be too pretty for words.

     “Like what you see?” Ghost smirked.

     “Shut up.” Soap ordered, binding Ghost's wrists to the headboard with the belts.  He tested the restraints, making sure they were secure but not too tight.

     Ghost tested the bonds, muscles flexing impressively against the leather.  His smirk faded as Soap's expression turned predatory.  For once, the lieutenant seemed at a loss for words.

     Soap worked his way down Ghost's body, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp bites that left red marks across his chest and abdomen.  Each bite drew a gasp or moan, Ghost's body arching beneath him.

     “Jesus, Johnny.” Ghost breathed as Soap's teeth sank into the sensitive skin where neck met shoulder.

     Soap silenced him with another bruising kiss, one hand sliding up to encircle Ghost's throat.  He applied just enough pressure to restrict breath without cutting it off completely.  Ghost's eyes widened, pupils blown with arousal.

     The heat between them built to unbearable levels.  Soap broke away long enough to grab supplies from his bag, returning to find Ghost watching his every move with an intensity that made his skin burn.

     When Soap finally sank into him, it was with none of the gentleness from earlier.  He grabbed Ghost's hips, driving forward with enough force to make the headboard slam against the wall.  Ghost strained against the belts, unable to do anything but take what Soap gave him.

     “Fuck, right there.” Ghost gasped as Soap found the perfect angle.  “Don't stop.”

     Soap increased his pace, sweat beading on his forehead, muscles burning with exertion.  The restraints kept Ghost from moving much, giving Soap complete control over their pleasure.  He reveled in it, in the power of reducing the feared lieutenant to a writhing, moaning mess beneath him.

     “Nobody gets to see ye like this.” Soap growled possessively.  “Nobody but me.”

     Ghost's response was lost in a strangled cry as Soap wrapped a hand around him, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts.  The lieutenant's entire body tensed, muscles locking as he approached the edge.

     “Johnny, Ah'm gonna…”

     “Do it.” Soap commanded, tightening his grip.  “Come for me.”

     Ghost's release hit him hard, his body convulsing beneath Soap's.  The sight of the lieutenant completely undone pushed Soap over the edge seconds later, his hips stuttering as pleasure crashed through him in waves.

     For several heartbeats, they remained locked together, breathing hard.  Soap carefully untied Ghost's wrists, massaging the skin where the belts had left red marks.  To his surprise, Ghost pulled him down into a gentle kiss that contrasted sharply with their earlier ferocity.

     “Not bad for a new recruit.” Ghost murmured against his lips.

     Soap collapsed beside him, limbs heavy with satisfaction.  “Ye're not so scary after all.”

     Ghost chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest.  “Don't tell anyone.  Bad for my reputation.”

     “Ye’re daft if ye think Ah’m sharin’ this.” Johnny laughed.  “Yer secret's safe with me.” he promised, tracing lazy patterns on Ghost's chest.

     They lay in companionable silence for several minutes, the only sound their gradually slowing breaths.  Ghost's arm curved around Soap's shoulders, pulling him closer in a gesture that felt oddly protective.

--

     Back in the restaurant, Price watched the retreating figures of Ghost and Soap with a mixture of amusement and concern.  He turned to Gaz, who was still staring after them, mouth slightly agape.

     “Close your mouth, Gaz.  You'll catch flies.” Price said, signaling the waiter for another round, switching his own choice to whiskey.

     Gaz shook his head slowly, turning back to face his captain.  “Did you see that?  I've never...  I mean, Ghost was practically drooling over him.  Actually flirting.  In public.”

     Price chuckled, his mustache twitching as he reached for the dessert menu.  “I've seen stranger things.”

     “Like what?” Gaz challenged, leaning forward.  “In all the years I've known him, I've never seen Ghost look at anyone like that.  He was practically undressing MacTavish with his eyes right at the bloody dinner table.”

     The waiter approached with fresh drinks, and Price ordered a chocolate soufflé without consulting the menu.  Gaz, still distracted by what he'd witnessed, absently requested the same.

     “You think it's a problem?” Gaz asked once the waiter had departed.  “Fraternization and all that?”

     Price took a thoughtful sip of his whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat.  “Been a few years since Ghost showed interest in anyone.  Not since...”

     “Mexico.” Gaz finished quietly.

     “Aye.” Price nodded.  “After that mess, I thought he'd never let anyone close again.”

     Gaz swirled his wine, watching the crimson liquid catch the light.  “And now this.  With the new guy, of all people.”

     “Your new guy.” Price corrected with a small smile.  “You were the one who insisted we needed fresh blood.”

     “I meant tactically.” Gaz protested.  “Not as...  whatever's happening between those two.”

     The desserts arrived, delicate soufflés that seemed almost too pretty to eat. Price dug in without hesitation, shattering the perfect dome.

     “I just pray it doesn't blow up on us.” Price said after a moment.  “The team can't afford another Mexico.”

     Gaz nodded, tasting his own dessert.  “Still.” he said, expression lightening.  “I like MacTavish.  He's solid.  Handled himself well with that psycho in the mountains.”

     “He's good.” Price agreed.  “One of the best I've seen.  Figured he’d pair well with Ghost.” he laughed.  “Guess a little too well.”

    “And did you see how he didn't take any of Ghost's shit?” Gaz grinned.  “Most men would be intimidated, but MacTavish gave as good as he got.”

     Price raised an eyebrow.  “Sounds like you've got a bit of a crush yourself, Gaz.”

     “Piss off.” Gaz laughed, throwing his napkin across the table.  “I'm just saying, I've got a good feeling about him.  About both of them, actually.”

     “Even with Ghost trying to get in his pants before he's even officially on the team?”

     “Especially because of that.” Gaz said.  “When was the last time you saw Ghost genuinely smile?  Not that scary grimace he does to frighten the new recruits, but actually smile?”

     Price considered this, memories of the past few years flicking through his mind.  Ghost had been effective, lethal, reliable – but never happy.  Not once since Mexico.

     “Fair point.” he conceded.  “But if it goes south.”

     “Then we'll handle it.” Gaz said firmly.  “Like we always do.”

     Price nodded, raising his glass in a small toast.  “To the 141, then.  God help us all.”

     “To the 141.” Gaz echoed, clinking his wine against Price's whiskey.  “And to whatever the hell is happening in that sauna right now.”

     Price nearly choked on his drink.  “Christ, Gaz, I'm trying to eat here.”

     Gaz laughed, the sound warm and genuine in the elegant restaurant.  “Just saying what we're both thinking, sir.”

     As they finished their desserts and ordered coffee, Price found himself glancing occasionally toward the exit.  Perhaps Gaz was right.  Perhaps this unexpected development was exactly what Ghost needed, what they all needed.  A reminder that even in their line of work, there was still room for something beyond the mission.

     “Another round before we turn in?” Gaz suggested as the waiter cleared their dessert plates.

     Price checked his watch.  It was still early, and tomorrow was their last day of downtime before heading back to the grind.  “Why not?  We've earned it.”

     As the waiter brought their drinks, Price raised his glass again.  “To new beginnings.” he said quietly.

     Gaz smiled, understanding immediately.  “To new beginnings.” he agreed.  “And to whatever chaos comes next.”

     Outside, snow began to fall again, gentle flakes drifting past the restaurant windows.  Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but for tonight, at least, all was well with the world.

--

     Moonlight poured through the hotel window, painting silver lines across the rumpled sheets.  Johnny leaned over Simon, his breath catching as their lips met again.  It was ridiculous how much he craved this man he'd known for barely a day.  Each kiss felt like falling from a great height.  It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

     “Stay right there.” Johnny whispered against Simon's mouth, pulling back just enough to see those amber eyes watching him.  “Don't move.”

     Simon's eyebrow arched, amusement playing at the corners of his lips.  And fuck if it wasn’t the most beautiful smile Johnny’d ever seen.  Oh this was not good.  “Giving orders again, Sergeant?”

     “Aye.” Johnny traced his thumb along Simon's jaw.  “And Ah expect them to be followed.  Ah'm getting us drinks.”

     He slid from the bed, feeling Simon's eyes tracking him as he pulled on his jeans.  The room wasn't cold, but goosebumps prickled across his skin anyway.  Something about the way Ghost looked at him, like he was calculating the most efficient way to take him apart.

     “Don't go far.” Simon called after him, stretching languidly across the bed, all lean muscle and dangerous promise.

     “Just down the hall.” Johnny replied, slipping through the door.

     The hotel corridor was deserted, the hour late enough that even the most determined partiers had retreated to their rooms.  Johnny made his way to the small refreshment area near the elevators, finding it unmanned but well-stocked.  A quick scan revealed no open bar, but there was a selection behind the counter.  He leaned over, snagging a bottle of whiskey that looked decent enough.  Simon had a preference for whiskey.  One of many things he’d learned today that he was tucking away for future reference.

     His mind wandered back to the man waiting in his bed as he collected glasses, water bottles, and filled a bucket with ice.  How had a training mission turned into this?  Not that he was complaining.  Ghost, Simon, was unlike anyone he'd ever met.  Lethal and precise one moment, surprisingly tender the next.

     When Johnny returned, he paused in the doorway, half-expecting to find the bed empty.  Instead, Simon lay exactly where he'd left him, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes gleaming in the low light.  He seemed relaxed, unguarded.  Something about that warmed him to no ends.

     “Ye actually stayed put.” Johnny said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

     Simon's mouth curved into a lazy smile.  “You asked nicely.”

     Johnny set the glasses on the bedside table, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into each.  The ice clinked as he dropped cubes into the glasses, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room.  He handed one to Simon, their fingers brushing in a way that sent warmth spreading up his arm.

     “To unexpected partnerships.” Simon murmured, raising his glass.

     Johnny clinked his glass against Simon's.  “Aye.”  A blush flooded over his cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

     The whiskey burned pleasantly as it went down, warming him from the inside.  Simon took a slow sip of his own, eyes never leaving Johnny's face.  There was something intimate about sharing a drink like this, more intimate somehow than what they'd done in the sauna.

     “Come here.” Simon said, voice low.

     Johnny set his glass aside and moved closer.  Simon's hand came up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted of whiskey.  It was slower than before, more deliberate, as if they had all the time in the world.

     When they broke apart, Johnny found himself tracing a long, jagged scar that ran from Simon's collarbone to his shoulder.  The skin was raised and puckered, the wound old but significant.

     “Kandahar.” Simon offered without prompting.  “Shrapnel.”

     Johnny nodded, not pushing for more as his fingers moved to another scar, this one a neat surgical line along his ribs.  Simon's body was a roadmap of violence survived, each mark telling a story he might never fully hear.  It didn't matter.  The scars were part of what made Simon who he was.

     “And this one?” Johnny asked, touching a circular mark near Simon's hip.

     “That's classified.” Simon replied, but his eyes crinkled at the corners, softening the deflection.

     Johnny leaned down, pressing his lips to the scar.  Simon's breath hitched, his hand coming up to tangle in Johnny's hair.  The gesture was surprisingly gentle, almost reverent.

     They traded sips of whiskey and lazy kisses, hands exploring with unhurried curiosity.  Johnny discovered a spot just below Simon's ear that made him shiver, while Simon seemed fascinated by the tattoo on Johnny's shoulder blade, tracing it with callused fingers.

     “Never thought Ah'd end up here.” Johnny admitted, his voice quiet in the darkness.

     Simon's hand stilled on his back.  “Having second thoughts?”

     “No.” Johnny said quickly, propping himself up to look Simon in the eyes.  “Just...  it's not how I expected my first or second day to go.”

     The tension in Simon's shoulders eased.  “Best second day ever, if you ask me.”

     Johnny laughed, the sound filling the space between them.  “Aye, cannae argue with that.”

     Simon pulled him down for another kiss, this one deeper, more demanding.  Johnny responded in kind, marking a path down Simon's throat with his lips, teeth grazing just enough to make the larger man groan.  He could do this for hours.  Learning every inch of Simon's body, memorizing what made him gasp and what made him growl.

     “Your turn.” Simon murmured, flipping their positions with surprising ease.  He loomed over Johnny, eyes dark with intent.  “Let's see what makes you tick, Sergeant MacTavish.”

     Simon dipped his head, pressing his lips to the hollow of Johnny's throat.  The touch was feather-light at first, a whisper of contact that sent shivers racing across Johnny's skin.  Then Simon's mouth opened, hot and wet against his pulse point, and Johnny couldn't help the low groan that escaped him.

     “Like that, do you?” Simon murmured against his skin, moving lower.

     Johnny's reply caught in his throat as Simon's tongue traced the contours of his collarbone, dipping into the shallow valley before continuing its journey downward.  Simon took his time, mapping every inch of Johnny's chest with deliberate attention, as if committing it to memory.

     “You ever been with someone like me before?” Simon asked, his breath ghosting over Johnny's right nipple.

     “Not exactly.” Johnny managed, his voice strained.  “Been with men, but not, ah!”

     His words dissolved into a gasp as Simon's mouth closed around the sensitive bud, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through him.  Simon's hands slid to Johnny's hips, fingers digging in with enough force that Johnny knew he'd have marks tomorrow.  The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through him.

     Simon looked up, his amber eyes meeting Johnny's through a fringe of blonde lashes.  The raw emotion there caught Johnny off guard.  Something deeper than lust, something that made his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with physical pleasure.

     “Top or bottom?” Simon asked, his voice rough as he released Johnny's nipple with a wet pop.  “What do you prefer?”

     Johnny swallowed hard, trying to focus through the haze of arousal.  “Versatile.” he admitted, watching as Simon lowered his head again, this time to the left side of his chest.  “But Ah enjoy.  Christ!”

     Simon's teeth sank into the muscle just above his heart, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.  The sting faded to a dull throb as Simon soothed the spot with his tongue.

     “Position?” Simon continued his interrogation, moving lower, tracing the ridges of Johnny's abs with his lips.  “What gets you off the hardest?”

     Johnny's hands fisted in the sheets as Simon's tongue dipped into his navel.  “Face to face.” he gasped.  “Ah like to see...  to watch...  Fuck.  Ye’re beautiful, coming on my cock.”

     Simon hummed his approval, sucking another mark just below Johnny's navel, lower than the last.  His hands maintained their bruising grip on Johnny's hips, holding him in place when he instinctively tried to arch upward.

     “When was the last time?” Simon asked, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable despite the commanding way he held Johnny down.  “The last time someone touched you like this?”

     “Never like ye.” he whispered.  The stark honesty in it frightened him.

     “Had sex?” Simon persisted.

     Johnny hesitated, not because he couldn't remember, but because something in Simon's tone made the question feel weighted with meaning beyond simple curiosity.

     “Six months.” he finally answered, his voice barely above a whisper.  “Maybe a year.”

     Simon's hands made quick work of Johnny's jeans, unfastening them with practiced ease.  A cool rush of air hit his skin as the denim slid down his thighs, followed by the warm press of Simon's palms against his newly exposed flesh.  Johnny barely had time to register the loss of his pants before Simon's mouth was on him, engulfing him in wet heat that sent lightning up his spine.

     “Christ.” Johnny gasped, his head falling back against the pillows.

     Simon hummed around him, the vibration adding another layer of sensation that made Johnny's toes curl.  His tongue worked masterfully, tracing patterns that had Johnny fighting to keep still.  Each long, slow pull of those plush lips had Johnny growing impossibly harder, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

     When Simon finally pulled away, Johnny nearly whimpered at the loss.  But then Simon was moving up his body, straddling his hips with powerful thighs.  Their eyes locked as Simon positioned himself, one hand braced on Johnny's chest for balance.

     “Want to watch me, sweet'eart?” Simon murmured, his voice like gravel.

     Johnny could only nod, words failing him as Simon began to sink down, taking him in inch by torturous inch.  The tight heat enveloping him drew a strangled moan from deep in his chest.  Simon's eyes never left his, those amber irises burning with intensity as he seated himself fully.

     “Fuck.” Johnny breathed, his hands finding purchase on Simon's hips.

     Simon began to move, setting a languid pace that had Johnny's pulse racing.  He rolled his hips with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how good he looked, how perfectly he moved.  One hand wrapped around himself, stroking in time with his movements.

     Johnny was transfixed.  Simon was magnificent above him, all rippling muscle and dangerous grace.  Sweat glistened on his chest, catching the moonlight as he arched his back.  The sounds he made.  Fucking hell, the sounds.  Low, rumbling moans that Johnny could feel vibrating through his own body where they connected.  If he never heard another sound for the rest of his miserable existence he would die a happy man.  Right here underneath his new lieutenant, he knew if he died, he would die happy.

     “You like this view?” Simon asked, his voice thick with pleasure.  He twisted his wrist on an upstroke, his rhythm never faltering.

     “Ye're fucking perfect.” Johnny managed, unable to tear his gaze away from the behemoth of a man riding him with such devastating skill.

     Simon leaned forward slightly, changing the angle in a way that made Johnny see stars.  “Touch me, Johnny.” he commanded softly.

     Johnny's hands slid up Simon's thighs, across the hard planes of his abdomen, exploring every inch of skin he could reach.  He marveled at the contrast.  How someone so lethal, so dangerous, could feel so good against him, around him.

     “Not gonna last if ye keep that up.” Johnny warned, feeling heat building at the base of his spine.

     Simon's lips curved into that dangerous half-smile.  “Then don't.”  

     His movements grew more intense, his pace quickening as his hand worked furiously over his length.  His head fell back, exposing the column of his throat as his entire body tensed.  Johnny watched, admiring his own claiming marks littering Simon, mesmerized by the sight above him.  The powerful body trembling on the edge of release, those amber eyes half-lidded but still locked on his.

     “Fuck, Johnny.” Simon gasped, his voice breaking on the name.

     With a deep, guttural groan, Simon's body convulsed.  Hot ropes of release painted Johnny's chest and abdomen, the warmth spreading across his skin.  Simon's body clenched rhythmically around him, the pulsing pressure sending waves of electric pleasure through Johnny's core.

     The sensation was too much.  Johnny's hips bucked upward of their own accord, his fingers digging into the flesh of Simon's thighs hard enough to bruise.  The pressure that had been building exploded through him, white-hot and all-consuming.

     “Simon!” The name tore from his throat as he shuddered beneath the larger man, his release pulsing deep inside him.  Johnny's vision blurred at the edges, every nerve ending alight with sensation.

     Simon continued to rock against him, drawing out every last tremor until Johnny lay boneless and spent beneath him.  Only then did Simon lean forward, bracing his weight on his forearms as he lowered his head.  His tongue traced a hot, wet path through the evidence of his pleasure that marked Johnny's skin, starting at his navel and working upward.

     The sight of Simon lapping at his chest sent another jolt of arousal through Johnny, despite his spent state.  There was something primal about it, possessive in a way that made his heart race.  Simon's tongue was thorough, cleaning every drop from Johnny's skin with deliberate attention.

     When he'd finished, Simon moved higher, his face hovering just inches above Johnny's.  Their breath mingled in the space between them, warm and intimate.  Simon's eyes searched his, something vulnerable flickering in their amber depths before he closed the distance, capturing Johnny's mouth in a kiss that tasted of sweat and whiskey, heady musk.  An amalgamation of their coupling.

     Johnny's hands came up to frame Simon's face, holding him there as the kiss deepened.  It was different from their earlier kisses.  Less desperate, more searching.  He happily sucked the remnants of Simon’s spend from his tongue.  When they finally broke apart, Simon rolled to lie beside him, one arm draped possessively across Johnny's chest.

     “Well,” Simon murmured against his shoulder, “that's one way to welcome you to the team.”

     Johnny chuckled, the sound rumbling through both their bodies.  “If that's standard procedure, Ah'm surprised ye have any vacancies.”

     Simon propped himself up on one elbow, studying Johnny's face with unexpected seriousness.  “Nothing standard about this, Johnny.”  His fingers traced idle patterns on Johnny's chest, circling the marks he'd left earlier.  “Nothing standard about you.”

     The words settled between them, heavy with implications neither was ready for what they may come to mean.