𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴
Ghost helps Soap - part 1
“Poor Scottish boy gives more care than he receives… he’s like the regiment’s personal therapist.”
Gaz sighed and took a swig of his drink. Ghost watched from his peripheral vision. He had been invited to Price’s room to drink by Price and Gaz, and had been unable to find an excuse fast enough to say no. He didn’t mind having a drink, that’s for sure. It calmed his tense nerves and even tenser body. And… he couldn’t complain about their alcohol stash. He hadn’t really been paying attention until he heard Gaz say the word ‘Scottish’. He knew then he was talking about Soap.
“Poor boy. I wonder what goes on in his head. He’s so young. Young at heart. I was surprised when I saw him get into the special forces at such a young age.”
Price drank too. Ghost knew what Price was saying was true. Price had been Soap’s mentor. His teacher. What he hadn’t known up until recently was that Soap had been the youngest in Britain to get into the special forces. It was rather impressive.
Ghost lifted his mask above his lips, drank a large gulp of his Kentucky, then pulled the mask back down as his teeth gritted from the burning sensation.
“His attitude… i can tell it’s a facade.”
This got Ghost’s attention fully.
“I’ve seen it. At meal times if he’s not sitting with us he’s staring into the distance with a frown. Sometimes when he’s alone he just covers his ears… poor thing…”
Ghost chimed in. “So why do you not care for him the way he cares for us?”
Ghost had his fair share of meltdowns, both by PTSD and by sensory overload. Soap had somehow been there each time, and he somehow knew exactly what to do. Whether it was to just be in his presence, to fetch his headphones, or to hug him, he had been there. Why was no one doing that for Soap?
“He refuses to admit he needs the help. He puts on his brave face. It’s convincing, that face.”
Ghost rolled his eyes, drank the last of his glass, and tensed his jaw. He cared for Soap. A lot. He had been there and willingly listened to his jokes, he would gladly chat to him for hours on end. Hell, Ghost would willingly stay up all night just to talk to him. The fact that Soap helped so many and no one lifted a finger to help him made his blood boil. Maybe it was the alcohol.
“I see him helping you out a lot, Ghost.”
No response. Ghost’s brain was ticking in its thoughts about the injustice of Soap never being helped.
“What’s going on with you and Soap anyway? You two seem to sp-“
“That’ll do!”
Ghost put his glass down, surprised it didn’t break from the force. He stood up and looked down at Price.
“Thanks for the whiskey, Price. But I have other things to do.”
“He’ll just pretend like he’s okay…”
“Too bad. If no one here will help him, I fucken will.”
samuel drew a smoll ghost and soap, PLEASE 😭
he’s too cute, he deserves the world (ghostsoap canon 100%)
Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.
Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.
Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.
You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.
As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.
Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.
This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.
A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.
