Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Price was nothing if not insistent, a stubborn old bastard who never knew when to back down. Ghost ground his teeth together and tried to stem the flow of disparaging thoughts about his commanding officer as he stormed out of the office, trailed by a much lighter Soap, to break the news to their squad. They’d be on leave in two weeks’ time. Two months of leave.

Ghost had tried to argue. That was a long gap of time for a whole squad to be out, especially when those people were highly trained. Price shut him down there— highly trained didn’t mean in high demand, and they’d been working on this model of rotating leave for a while.

When that wouldn’t work, Ghost tried a different angle. He understood the benefits of leave for his men, but he would stay behind to help train the new recruits that would soon be arriving. Price stonewalled him there, too, saying it’d already been assigned to a different team, and Ghost could apply for the training billet next cycle. Bloody paperwork.

Then Soap had cut in and said it sounded like a much needed break, and Price herded them out of the office, and Ghost was facing down the impending approach of his worst enemy: idleness.

“I know you like to be in the field, but even you have to know you need a break sometimes,” Soap said to him later that night. They were in the hallway outside Ghost’s quarters, well past TAPS. The only noise aside from their conversation was the buzz of the electrical light above the doorway.

Ghost watched a grey moth slam itself into the plastic casing of the light over and over and tried to think of a way to verbalize the vulnerability, the nightmares, the boredom, the anxiety that came with being off duty. Soap waited patiently. The kindness of it rubbed at Ghost unpleasantly tonight. “Leave is for other men, Johnny,” he settled on. Soap’s mouth twisted like he wanted to disagree. Ghost had hoped he’d be disarmed by the use of his name, as he usually was, but apparently this was something he cared about enough to push past.

“I don’t do well out of the field.” Ghost added, trying to stave off a lecture. It felt like a confession. It was just the facts. “Most of these men have family or friends to return to. I don’t even have a permanent leave address. I’ll be living out of whatever shithole they assign me, bored out of my mind.”

Soap stared at him for a moment before breaking the tension with a chuckle. “Really trying to sell it, huh, Ghost? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you string that many sentences together outside a mission brief.” Soap started to move past Ghost, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll put my address on your leave form. Save you the money from the housing stipend. You’re not gettin’ outta this one, Lt.”

Ghost stared at his retreating form, feeling wrong-footed. The annoyance from earlier surged and coupled with disorientation. Johnny treated him like an equal, like someone deserving of the kindness that came so naturally to him, and so stiltingly to Ghost.

These would be an unbearable two months.

He ended up next to Soap on a military flight to Scotland. It felt odd to be in civvies, even if it was similar to the gear he’d wear in his downtime around the base. The context changed everything. He wasn’t wearing a hoodie because it was cold on the trek from his quarters to the gym, he was wearing it because it would be comfortable in Soap’s house. He wasn’t wearing a balaclava because it was more breathable for his morning runs, but because the mask would draw too much attention. Don’t get him started on the jeans— he couldn’t remember the last time he had even touched something denim.

Soap, of course, was passed out next to Ghost, adaptable as ever. His head was lolling slightly towards Ghost’s shoulder, who took a moment to consider him. A warped rectangle of sun splashed across his face through the small window on the plane. Careful not to touch Soap, Ghost leaned over and slid the window shade down.

Soap made a soft sigh HONKMIMIMIMI in his sleep, a spot of turbulence jostling him slightly closer to Ghost. These planes weren’t built for men of their size; Soap’s knees were angled outward so they wouldn’t press against the back of the seat, which caused them to press against Ghost’s leg instead. He didn’t know if he would shove the man off or let him rest if he slumped over completely, but he had the unpleasant feeling they’d find out before the flight was over.

Ghost closed his eyes and just focused on his breathing, following one of the calming exercises he’d been taught by another sniper ages ago. It lowered the heartrate, focused the mind, and steadied the hands; off the field, it usually helped him slip into a meditative state, letting time pass by easier. Every so often he would catch the rhythm interrupted, though, his breathing unconsciously mimicking Soap’s. But a sleeping man’s breathing worked well enough, and soon the plane was hitting the tarmac, jolting Ghost awake before he’d ever realized he’d fallen asleep.

Soap was both capable and willing to fill the silence between the two of them on their ride from the airport to his house. The Uber was more spacious than the airplane, but part of Ghost missed that tiny sliver of contact he’d had with the other. When they’d stood to shuffle off the plane fifteen minutes earlier, the place where Soap had pressed against him was cold even through his jeans in the absence of the other’s warmth.

The AC in the car rattled, setting Ghost’s teeth on edge. He really was a man of few words, though he didn’t scorn those that were the opposite. It made for an easier time, he’d long since realized. If Soap would contribute a solid 85%, then Ghost would only need to account for 15% of the conversation, and that was easy enough. A few half-hearted noises of affirmation and ‘hmm’s carried him through the entirety of the car ride, until they pulled up to a one-story house just outside the city.

In all honesty, Ghost was cautiously anticipatory of seeing Soap’s home. Maybe there would be something in the timbers and joints that could tell Ghost why he’d felt so immediately at ease with the sergeant. There might be a hint in the shadowed cracks of his home that would explain their relationship to Ghost, like secrets and answers could pile up in the corners like dust.

Soap’s voice shook Ghost from his reverie. “It used to belong to my grandparents, but they left the home to me when they passed. It’s a bit old, but it’s not like we need much when we’re rarely off duty, eh Ghost?”

Ghost grunted in response, eager to stretch his legs and, admittedly, curious to see where Soap lived. He grabbed their gear from the trunk and tossed Soap’s duffle to him.

It was a small place, maybe two bedrooms and a bath, guessing from the outside, but well maintained. The door was painted red. Not obnoxious, not blood-red, just a rich, warm colour. Soap swung it open and traipsed inside with little fanfare.

The entryway was tiled in small, dark hexagons. A bit dated, but useful—Ghost could imagine the mud and mess that would come with spring rains. As he stepped inside, he couldn’t miss the faint smell of citrus beneath the stale air of a home left empty for too long.

Ghost followed Soap’s lead and knelt to unlace his boots, while the sergeant dropped his bag on a low wooden bench that looked like it doubled as shoe storage. He was struck by the reasonable domesticity of it. Was it something his grandparents had owned, or something Soap had installed? The fact that Soap was a homeowner at all was admittedly shocking to Ghost, who’d expected something closer to a bare flat, maybe with a long-dead houseplant on one windowsill.

The open kitchen caught Ghost’s eye first, situated to the left. It reminded him of the kitchen his mother used to have. They used to bake together when his father was away for work, when the house was as quiet and close to peaceful as any place with that many ghosts could be. Simon swallowed around the knot of memories in his throat, blinking away the phantoms of long-dead recollections.

The living room had a decently sized television, a stuffed bookshelf opposite the fireplace, a pullout sofa, and a dinner table.

He caught his reflection in the blank screen of the living room television. A spectre, looking for ghosts even in someone else’s home. He looked away guiltily, moving further into the house under the pretense of looking for the restroom. The living room rug was plush beneath his socked feet, a nice contrast to the coolness of the wood flooring that spanned the rest of the visible parts of the house. He stooped to inspect the stuffed bookshelf that faced across from the dormant fireplace. Lots of history books, war books. The lower shelves were crammed with sci-fi and fantasy, titles both familiar and foreign; an eclectic mash of leather-bound books and ones with a simple paper spine, so creased and rubbed down that the title was no longer discernible. He’d never really given thought to how Soap may spend his free time. It was easy to assume, from his excitable nature, that the man would be unable to sit still for a moment. But then Ghost reflected on the times he’d seen him go quiet and contemplative, the intense focus he could hold when faced with something intriguing. The fact that the most intriguing thing to Soap was typically a ticking bomb was just a disguising factor.

“I’ll be taking the couch,” Soap said from behind Ghost, as if it wasn’t his house. Ghost dropped his kit on the sofa in defiance and turned to the other man, daring him to say something. “Or not,” the Scotsman muttered, rolling his eyes and saying something unintelligible under his breath. Ghost hated how fond he was of the foul mouth and sarcastic attitude that was always directed towards him whenever he did something Soap didn’t like. Hated how he was even fonder of the fact that, despite all his grumbling, Soap always deferred to his decisions anyway.

“Bathroom’s on the left, down the hall. Take the first shower while I make us a quick lunch. I asked the neighbours to bring some groceries by for us before we got home.” Soap was already moving toward the kitchen, opening cabinets with familiar ease, clearly glad to be home once more.

Ghost watched him for a moment longer, drinking in the domesticity of the scene, before he found his way to the bathroom with a set of fresh clothes in hand. The counter was occupied with an organized array of products, as was the shower. Ghost smirked as he recalled Soap telling him not to worry about bringing toiletries. This explained it.

Ghost could appreciate the sensation of washing the airport off of himself, even if that was replaced by the smell of shampoo that was overwhelmingly Johnny in nature. He was no fool, and had no business lying to himself about the fact that his sergeant was an attractive man. Doesn’t mean he has to feel any way about it, he reminded himself firmly. He sighed heavily. He’d anticipated leave being difficult for him, but not like this. Not like trying to find a way to decipher every glimpse of insight into his sergeant’s personal life, the softer sides that were, by necessity, hidden away during their missions.

Ghost towelled off and pulled on his clothes, weighing the balaclava in his hand before deciding against it. Soap had seen his face before, and it would only draw attention in public. It felt odd, going without, but Ghost could always pull it on later. Besides—it had never been only about hiding his face. It was about distancing himself from the world when he needed to stay distanced; about being a symbol when he didn’t have the strength to be a person. He didn’t need to keep Soap at an arm’s length, nor did he need to represent anything other than a man trying to make room for himself to breathe.

Ghost folded the mask carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his sweats.

The door creaked as he swung it open, the character of old hinges; a wooden floorboard protested his tread. Soap was clearly attuned to the tells of the house, turning to face Ghost before he’d even appeared at the mouth of the hallway. Ghost smirked at the way Soap almost did a double take before he visibly caught himself.

“Soup’ll be ready in a minute. Find everything alright?” His voice had a bit of a waver to it. Charming.

Ghost hummed in amused agreement, enjoying the way Johnny was visibly flustered. He didn’t know if his sergeant had imagined Ghost would stay masked the entire time, or if he simply hadn’t considered that inviting Simon into his home bred a certain level of intimacy. Either way, he was certainly enjoying the internal struggle as the other fought between playing it cool and drinking in the sight of the normally closed-off man who now lounged, bare-faced and barefoot in a tank top and sweats, against the surface of the kitchen island.

“Cool. Great. Yeah, well, um, there’s a plate of sandwiches if you could take them out to the table in the living room. I’ll join you in a moment,” Soap rambled. Ghost grinned, knowing the other was turned firmly away from him and wouldn’t see— though Ghost had full view of the flush splashed across the back of his neck.

Teasing Johnny had always been fun, knowing he could give as good as he got, but this was more than simple fun. It was satisfying, the way that he could rile Johnny up so easily just by the simple act of not wearing a mask.

Maybe Ghost could have a bit of fun with this leave, after all.

Chapter Text

Maybe not.

Ghost clutched at his chest, heaving in great panting breaths.

He tried to reign in his breathing, tried to focus on what was around him to ground him, reel him back into the present. Sheets beneath him, spread out over the leather cushions of the couch. The light weight of a soft cotton blanket above, with a heavier quilt stacked on top. The room was dark, but less in the way that would make shadows stretch and more in a quiet, calm sense. A steady ticking filled the room; a metronome for the slowly evening beat of his heart.

The clock on the mantle read 2:37.

Ghost thought he’d have longer before the nightmares started up. This one wasn’t too bad, at least. That fucking snake again, pushing past his lips, slithering into his throat. The afterimage of his father, blurred by phantom tears, lingered behind his eyes. He sighed.

Still better than Las Almas. Still better than Roba.

He got up and slipped a handgun from his kit, wedging it beneath the couch. The proximity of the weapon soothed a small part of him. Maybe Soap wouldn’t be pleased about having a firearm stowed away in his house, but Ghost doubted it. Even if it bothered him, he’d understand. He knew what it was like to be on the field, always looking over your shoulder; knew what it was like to be on base, a schedule set for you, food made for you and practically hand-fed, directions on how to sleep and clean and make your bed all laid out in tiny black print in a handbook somewhere.

And he knew what it was like to be cut free from all that blessed structure and expected to just let the tension bleed out of you.

Ghost fished around in the blankets for his phone. The glow of the screen lit up the room and he squinted, adjusting the brightness, before he set a silent alarm to vibrate in an hour and fell back on the sheets, exhausted. This routine wasn’t new, he reminded himself. No need to be disappointed by the expected.

But still. First night in and he was already plagued by his past. Fucking leave. Not for the first time, Ghost cursed Price in his head. Two months. Ridiculous.

It took just four days for Soap to notice something was wrong. Or rather, it took him four days to confront Ghost, which meant that he’d already known for at least a day and ran through all the possible causes and consequences before actually asking Ghost about it.

The alarms had been doing their job—every hour, the phone would vibrate from where it was resting in his hand, on his chest, or thrown somewhere else in the tangle of blankets that seemed to grow every night. And every hour, Ghost would wake up sluggishly, hating the fact that he had to do this, hating the fact that he’d still found no other way to stave off the nightmares. He’d turn off the alarm, get a glass of water or stare at the ceiling for a few minutes, and drop back into sleep. He’d perfected this long ago, the art of derailing his REM cycle and heading off the nightmares. He knew on average how long it took him to fall asleep, how long it took him before he started dreaming, how long he had before the dream turned into a nightmare.

He also knew how he would begin to lag in ways that a man on leave shouldn’t be lagging, and that he didn’t have stressful mission parameters or stims to hide behind. Was intimate with the way his eyes would ache and then sting, how they would grow sensitive to even the filtered light, how his skin would feel too tight and feverish.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re moving like you just slogged through a bog or am I going to have to figure that out myself?” Soap asked, standing above where Ghost was sitting with a book. He could tell that Soap was trying to be lighthearted so as not to make him uncomfortable, but it wasn’t wholly successful. There was a strain of tension woven beneath the words and a hint of concern that Ghost had seen, over and over, as Ghost ducked his med-checks post-mission.

But Soap couldn’t change this, and Ghost didn’t want his concern, so all he said in reply was, “No clue what you mean, Soap.” He could feel it, though, the bone-deep ache that came with nights on end of little to no sleep.

“You’ve been reading that page for the last twenty minutes, Ghost.”

Ghost glanced up at him. “Been watching me read for that long, then?”

Soap was looking aggressively domestic with a dish towel slung over one shoulder and a soft-looking sweater concealing the variety of scars on his arms, which were crossed in annoyance. He plucked the book—some memoir that centred around the decline of Gaelic speakers in Scotland due to various factors, not something he had actually been paying attention to—from Ghost’s loose grip and set it aside. “If you were half as good at talking your way out of conversations as you are at fighting your way outta them, you wouldn’t be on leave in the first place. And believe it or not, I’m harder to talk circles around than Price is. So fess up or face the consequences.”

There was something in the sternness of his tone that made Simon want to squirm and apologize. Ghost didn’t squirm.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Soap.”

Soap shifted back on his heels a bit and tilted his head, getting a better look at Ghost. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was being analyzed, read, but he stared back emotionlessly under the scrutiny.

No matter how exhausted he was, he wasn’t going to just roll over and let someone else take the reins that easily.

“Okay,” Soap said after a moment. “How about this, then. One round of ground fighting. First on their back loses. If you lose, you tell me what’s been eating at you. If you win, I’ll drop it.”

Ghost scoffed. “You can’t beat me on your best day.” Which, for the most part, was true. But this wasn’t just Ghost versus Soap, this was Ghost on a bad day against Soap with something to prove, and that slimmed his odds significantly.

“I’m the only one who comes close,” Soap replied easily, hooking a hand under the dinner table and dragging it away to clear a space in the centre of the living room. He knelt in the centre, gesturing for Ghost to take his place opposite. Ghost tried not to display his reluctance. To turn him down would be more of an outright admission than potentially losing, so he’d have to take his chances.

“Count us down, big boy,” Soap said with a grin as Ghost settled into a kneel. Ghost glared at him, but began to count from 3, settling into a loose position with his arms half raised.

At one, he surged forward, intending to knock Soap flat with his bulk. It seemed he’d been expecting that, though, because he twisted out of the way easily, then grabbed Ghost’s arm and hooked an ankle around his knee and flipped him onto his back.

It felt like his brain was moving a quarter speed, his eyes too tired to track the other’s motions, limbs responding on instinct but still weighed down by lack of proper rest.

“Win,” Soap said. He didn’t sound happy about it, maybe even a touch concerned. Laid back on the rug, Ghost was overcome by the urge to press his thumb into the crease between his brows and smooth it out.

Soap rocked back and then stood, heaving Ghost up off the floor. “Look, the fact that I was even able to do that is evidence enough that something’s up. What’s wrong, Ghost? Talk to me.”

Soap still had one forearm clutched in his hand, the other resting on the back of Ghost’s upper arm where he’d rested it for balance when he’d gotten Ghost to his feet. He could count every long, soft eyelash from this close, see the faint pinprick freckles and the pale scar across his chin, see his own unfamiliar face reflected in the earnest shine of Soap’s eyes. His hands were impossibly warm, leeching under his skin and chasing away the deep chill that always chased Ghost.

He took a step back, out of range of all the things he didn’t deserve.

“Nightmares. I’ve been setting alarms to keep me from going too deep into ‘em, and it’s messing with my head. That’s it.” His voice sounded strange, rougher than usual.

Soap didn’t look sympathetic, thank whatever gods existed. Ghost couldn’t bear to be pitied. He just looked considering, always trying to find solutions. “Try taking the bed for a few nights.”

Ghost huffed, not willing to repeat the earlier conversation. “This is your house. I’m not taking your bed.”

“You think I’d leave you in my bedroom alone?” Soap joked, before sobering. He drew himself up slightly, made it harder for Ghost to dodge eye contact. “We’ve bunked together in worse places in the field. No nightmares then, for either of us.”

Of course Ghost knew that. Those dreams—those memories—were sometimes worse than the nightmares. With the nightmares, he could wake up and be glad they were over. With the dreams… it was hell, sometimes, to wake to the phantom of a body pressed against his own, of steady breathing from someone who wasn’t there.

“That was the field,” Ghost shot back, trying to latch onto the conversation again, trying to stay focused long enough to make his point. But… ‘for either of us’, Soap had said. Did he suffer from nightmares too, then?

“Just try it.” Soap was using the same tone as the one he used when he’d decided on something, the same time he’d used when he demanded Ghost spend their leave together. Authoritative and self-assured.

He’d already moved back into the kitchen and began putting dishes away, clearly signalling that the decision had been made.

Ghost wanted to yell.

Ghost wanted to follow orders.

Ghost wanted to tear through his own skin and find whatever soft thing resided within him that urged him to give in.

He helped Soap put away the dishes.

The room was mostly dark when Ghost came in. An orange street lamp filtered in between the blinds faintly, striping across the corner of the bed. Soap was breathing steadily, but not asleep yet. Ghost stood for a moment beside the closed door and simply watched the way the covers moved in tandem with the steady rise and fall of his chest. His hair was growing out a bit on top, leaving it to coil softly against the pillow. Ghost liked the way it curled when Soap didn’t use product to keep the mohawk in regs.

Soap rolled onto his side to face Ghost, eyes sliding open just a crack. He didn’t rush Ghost, content to let the other man come to him at his own pace. The implication of such easy acceptance settled low in Ghost’s gut, coiling up neatly next to the unnecessary kindnesses and unbelievable warmth and the savage way Soap smiled when they met with victory in the field.

Ghost wanted to break something.

Ghost wanted to go back to base and forget all the things that he was forced to realize when he wasn’t holding a gun in his hands.

The sheets were warm with the heat of Soap’s body.

They were the same soft cotton as the ones that had been used to make the couch into a bed, but here they smelled more strongly of Johnny. The clean scent of soap, something citrusy and a little bit peppery.

The other man curled a little closer to Ghost, not enough to crowd but just an acknowledgment of closeness. His breathing remained even as his eyes slipped closed again. It was hard to make out his features in the lightless room but Ghost was certain he could map out Soap’s face even if he was blind.

“‘Night, Ghost,” Soap drawled, voice thick with oncoming sleep.

The feeling of conflict roiled in Ghost’s stomach. He hadn’t wanted to be on leave in the first place, much less to find himself in Johnny’s bed. But was it that he didn’t want it, or that he didn’t think he deserved it? Would it be weak to give in now, or foolish to keep stubbornly clinging on to the false belief that he wasn’t pliable to his sergeant’s every whim?

“It’s Simon, like this,” he replied. He didn’t clarify what he meant; like this as in on leave, or off the field, or when they were curled close enough that Ghost could nearly taste the mint toothpaste Soap had used earlier? Soap smiled faintly all the same, relaxing further.

“Goodnight, Simon.”

Sleeping with Soap didn’t stop him from waking up in the earliest hours of the morning, hands pressed over a long-healed wound. He could feel the tacky wetness of blood that he knew wasn’t real, but was seeping through his shirt all the same. Roba’s men were laughing and someone was sobbing and Simon couldn’t stop shaking long enough to breathe.

Someone was hurt, making these choking whimpers, and Simon cringed away but still couldn’t escape the sound. Fuck, that was him, wasn’t it, keening out those noises? He tried to stop, to suck in a breath, to listen and ground himself.

There was a hand at the back of his neck, a thumb running small circles into the soft skin just beneath his ear. He took one steady breath, but the next juddered out uselessly. He curled in on himself, on the phantom pain, skin sliding against soft cotton sheets that couldn’t be real if the pain was real.

Another successful breath. The thumb below his ear. The palm against his neck. Repetitive noises, soft and sure. His forehead was pressed up against something.

Johnny. Johnny’s sheets, the weight of the comforter above them. Johnny’s chest, braced against his head. Johnny’s arm, pulling Simon in. Johnny’s voice, saying—something.

Simon couldn’t make out the words over the pulse thudding in his ears. He tried to breathe more evenly, desperate to know what he was saying.

By the time he had calmed enough to be aware of what he was hearing, Soap had stopped talking and was humming something instead.

“You’re worse than bagpipes,” Ghost said. The words were rough, slightly slurred.

“Am not,” came the reply. “Used to be in the choir at church. Best voice of the lot.”

Banter. This was safe. This was familiar. This was after Roba, which meant the dream wasn’t real.

“A real altar boy,” Ghost rasped.

He felt the vibration of Soap’s laugh through his chest. This was real. “Too much blood on my hands for the pearly gates, I fear.”

Ghost pulled away slightly from Soap, who let him go easily. They lay on their sides, facing one another. He was too exhausted to be ashamed.

“‘S it usually like this? I can see why you don’t want to go too deep.”

Ghost grunted in acknowledgement. Soap’s eyes roamed over his face in the dark. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he slowly reached out to curl his hand over the curve of Ghost’s neck once more, shifting them closer. Fingers brushed through the strands of ash-blond hair at the base of Ghost’s skull, and he let his eyes slip closed under the weight of the sensation and the respite that it promised.

“Back to sleep, then.” It carried all the authority of an order given by a general, but with none of severity.

He heard fabric rustle as Johnny carefully slid his free hand between Ghost’s ribs and the bed, rolling them over and closer so that Soap lay on his back, Simon folded over him with his head pillowed on the other man’s chest. Sleep marched closer to them both with each steady beat of Johnny’s heart.

Chapter Text

Johnny woke before Simon did, though the feeling of him wriggling out from beneath the taller man was enough to rouse him to semi-consciousness. He was vaguely aware of Soap’s hand brushing through his hair as he sank into the warm depression that Johnny left in the mattress.

Clues to Johnny’s actions filtered like snapshots through his sleep-heavy mind. Footsteps, retreating. The creak of a floorboard. Running water in the bathroom. The occasional clanking from the kitchen that had the infrequency characteristic only to someone trying very hard not to make noise and failing.

By the time Ghost had dragged himself out from beneath the covers, he could smell breakfast meat cooking and hear the crackle of frying eggs.

Soap was lit up golden by the sunlight streaming through the window above the sink. He looked impossibly soft here, hair undone and t-shirt rumpled as he leaned over the skillet on one hand. Ghost felt that uncomfortable twist in his gut that had become worryingly familiar as he watched Soap try (and fail) to flip the spatula in the air and catch it.

Soap turned around, muttering something disappointedly under his breath, and yelped when he caught Ghost staring at him from just outside the kitchen.

“Get that smirk off o’ your face, you ass,” he grumbled, waving the spatula at Ghost. “Acting like it’s funny that I didn’t hear you creep up behind me.”

He’d been taking careful note of the noisy floorboards and creaking doors, and it seemed that had begun to pay off. “Nice trick,” Ghost deadpanned. An embarrassed flush spread across Soap’s face and he spun back around to face the stove. It spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears in an alarmingly endearing manner.

“There are some berries in the fridge. Make yourself useful and wash them up,” Soap directed, though in a far less strict tone than the one he used when he was actually ordering Ghost around. From this angle, he could see that the back of his neck was bright red, and Ghost was struck by the horrible urge to place his hand on his neck just to feel the heat of the blush.

Instead, he threw out a mocking “yessir” and stepped into the kitchen. The fridge was clean and well stocked, a surprising number of the contents labelled as organic. Soap didn’t seem the type to be picky about what he ate or where it came from, based off of the way he indiscriminately devoured anything in sight on base and in the field. Maybe it was different on leave, though.

Ghost pulled a container of strawberries and blackberries from the produce drawer and set them by the sink—a deep, farmhouse-style thing with a stainless steel basin and a spray nozzle. He tried to imagine Soap as a kid, washing off his dirt-smudged hands in the sink before a meal.

“Strainer’s in the cabinet above and to the side,” Soap said distractedly. “How d’you want your eggs done?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ghost replied, opening the cabinet to the left of the sink. “Anything’s better than the powdered shit on base.”

Inside the cabinet were hand-labelled tubs of coffee in Soap’s spiky handwriting and, nestled in one corner, a tin of very expensive loose leaf tea. “What do you have this for?” Ghost asked, pulling it down. “I thought you didn’t drink tea.” It was the brand Ghost bought when he really wanted to treat himself, though a blend he hadn’t tried before. From the corner of his eye, he saw Soap glance over, then do a double-take.

“I meant the other cabinet,” he said shortly. “And I don’t.”

“Evidence suggests the contrary,” Ghost shot back, replacing the tin and closing the cabinet. Sure enough, the other side was the one that held a few types of strainers, sifters, splatter guards, and a set of measuring cups that looked older than he was. “‘S alright if you secretly want to be like us distinguished gentlemen.”

“I’m allowed to have guests over,” Soap said, sounding affronted and… something else. Embarrassed?

He shot the man a quick glance over his shoulder as he pulled the strainer down. Soap was staring resolutely at the pan of eggs in front of him, pointedly not looking at Ghost.

Ghost hummed doubtfully, running the fruit under the tap’s stream and gently rinsing them. Why else would Soap have tea, though? His genuinely disgusted reaction—whether for the flavour, or for the fact that tea was so intrinsic to the British lifestyle, Ghost wasn’t sure—each time he was offered a cup indicated that he wasn’t lying about it not being for him.

A clatter drew him out of his thoughts as Soap set down two plates, serving the eggs, sausage, and toast on them before handing Ghost a bowl for the berries.

Ghost took the bowl, shook the water off the berries, and poured them inside. It was a plain white ceramic thing–contrary to the plates, which were ringed in varying shades of blue–with a chip on one side. The red and dark purple of the berries shone wetly inside the bowl.

They ate at the coffee table, though it only came up to their shins; Ghost eventually gave up and balanced the plate in his lap. The morning news ran in the background as they ate their first few bites before Ghost realized that Soap was looking at him intently.

“Can I help you?” He asked.

Soap drew in a breath, as if bracing himself. “Last night,” he began. Ghost tensed slightly and shifted, fearing the worst. He didn’t exactly want to try to have Soap try to pull the armchair-psychiatrist routine on him, or go through a whole emotional debrief.

He caught the way Soap’s gaze flickered over him, noting the change in posture. “We don’t need to talk about it,” he reassured, despite the fact that they were, in fact, currently talking about it. “I know you won’t talk to me about it, and I don’t expect you to. I just need to know that you’ll tell me if I go to far.”

“You think I can’t stick up for myself now, just ‘cause you saw me have a nightmare?” Ghost shot back. There was offense, but there was something underneath it, too. Something that warmed at the way Soap never pushed his boundaries too far, the way he knew Ghost, the care in his voice. Ghost resented the flood of affection and leaned more heavily on the feeling of being offended.

“No,” Soap said patiently. “I just know that you were out of it last night. And if you aren’t okay with me manhandling you into a bear hug, but your mind’s not with your body, you won’t be able to tell me that. So I’m asking you to let me know if I go too far.”

Ghost regarded him through narrowed eyes, searching for any flicker of pity or deceit. Soap stared back, unflinching and genuine. Eventually Ghost huffed and leaned back. “Fine.” He stabbed at a piece of egg with more aggression than necessary.

Soap responded with a blinding grin. “Good. That’s all I wanted to say. ‘Course you would make it difficult.” And they were back to ribbing each other, the tense atmosphere expertly diffused by the demo expert.

For the first time since they’d been on leave, Soap mentioned the need to run errands.

“You’re more than welcome to come along with, but don’t feel obligated,” he said after they’d cleaned up the breakfast mess. Ghost had nodded absentmindedly before he’d realized what he’d agreed to, and Soap’s face lit up. It’s not like he could back out now.

The early November weather called for warm clothes— much warmer than Ghost had brought. Aside from running, he tended to stay indoors on leave. Groceries delivered, crowds avoided, identity dilemma averted— it was just better overall. As such, he hadn’t thought twice about packing nothing but loungewear, simple longsleeved shirts, jeans, and a jacket.

“You’re gonna need more than that,” Soap laughed as Ghost appeared from the bathroom. “It’s a cold one today— high’s only 5°. I have some sweaters you can borrow, if you give me a minute to go find them.” He pushed past and into the bedroom. “I set some stuff on the table for you, too,” he called over the sound of dresser drawers sliding open.

Ghost fought the urge to sigh, regretting his decision to tag along.

On the table were a pack of black facemasks, a scarf, and two beanies. Ghost picked up the masks, opening the plastic wrapping and pulling one out.

“For your face.” It was Soap who had snuck up on Ghost this time, cradling a bundle of pale green fabric in one arm and clutching a leather jacket in the other. “Figured you’d probably like this more than your typical getup—more clandestine.” He leaned on the last word, as if it were a joke, and shot a grin at Ghost.

Ghost grunted in response, but only tucked the mask into his pocket before reaching out for the sweater Soap held.

“It might be a bit tight, but this jacket’s always been big on me, so it should fit you fine.”

Ghost tugged the sweater over his head first. It was a bit snug, but in a way that (judging by the appreciative glance Soap shot him) seemed flattering. The jacket came next, a comforting and heavy weight over Ghost’s shoulders that reminded him why he loved wearing tac vests. He snagged the scarf that was on the table next and looped it around his neck.

“Well, are we going?” He prompted Soap.

Soap scooped up one of the hats and tugged it on, then headed out the door, Ghost just behind him.

It was cold out, and Ghost instantly regretted not grabbing the other hat. His hair was growing out, but it still wasn’t long enough to cover his ears, which quickly pinked in the chill. He tucked his chin down into the scarf before realizing that was a mistake, too.

It smelled like Johnny, and more. He used the same citrusy detergent on base as he did in his house, apparently, and Ghost’s head swam with it. There was something like cinnamon and pepper, too, and he recalled seeing Soap hang small pouches in his closet on base. He’d never asked what they’d been for or what was in the pouches, but he’d bet they’d contain the same mix as the ones here.

His heart clenched at the way Soap blurred the lines between who he was on duty and who he was on leave, all the little traditions that carried over when one didn’t feel the need to separate themself into two.

Another part of Simon wondered if he’d smell like something that belonged to Soap when they returned to duty. If the other men would catch the smell of orange and spice and be able to tell that he’d spent two months with Johnny, wearing his clothes and curled in his sheets. The thought made him a little dizzy.

“Ghost?”

“Hm?” He muttered, distracted.

Soap laughed. He did that a lot, on base and here. “I was just letting you know that I wanted to stop in here before we continue on.” He was on the stoop of a small, dark shop that Ghost could see was crowded with plants despite the cold weather.

Ghost nodded, and Soap ducked inside, a bell ringing to herald his entrance. Ghost slipped in behind him.

Despite the plants, it looked to be a stationery store. The cashier (owner?) immediately recognized Soap and there was a sudden flurry of barely decipherable Scottish slang that was volleyed between the two.

The woman behind the counter leaned over to clap Soap on the shoulder before producing a basket from one of the shelves and sliding it over to him, who exclaimed something in response. Ghsot drifted over, curiosity piqued.

She said something to Soap that was too quiet and fast for the taller man to hear, nodding at Ghost as she did so. He frowned.

Soap shot her a sly look and said, “Aye, wish that it were, but no.”

The woman laughed, then turned to Ghost. “A quiet one, then? Please take good care of Soap. He’s one of my best customers.”

“I do,” Ghost stated.

“An Englishman? With an accent like that, I’d keep quiet too,” she teased.

Soap laughed at that, swaying towards Ghost. “He keeps me safe, alright. Watches me from on high— a right guardian angel.” He looked at Ghsot as he said it, eyes creasing in humor at the irony of his own poor joke about Ghost’s usual altitude as sniper. Ghost barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

As Soap checked out, he looked curiously over the items that had been in the crate. What appeared to be two journals and three slim boxes, each a dark, earthy tone, came out to a total that almost had Ghsot cringing. Soap took it in stride, though, and was beaming when they exited the shop.

They turned the corner and suddenly there were throngs of people and two rows of tents lined up on the street.

“Farmers’ Market,” Soap explained, unprompted. “Usually it’s a good mix of art and local products. Too cold for it today, in my opinion.” Despite this, Soap still lingered at a few of the stalls as they made their way down the street. Ghost didn’t have much interest in the handmade quilts or local breweries’ beer, but he did enjoy watching the way Soap’s eyes crinkled at the edges or the way the cold brought colour to his nose and cheeks.

They were close to the end of the row of stalls, Soap drifting back over to Ghost with a sample of cheese dip, when something caught Ghost’s eye. He only hesitated for a moment, but Soap knew how to read the minute tells of his body and followed where his gaze has lingered briefly.

“Those are gorgeous,” Soap said, angling towards the stall. Ghost trailed him reluctantly. It was a metalworker’s tent, with figurines on the tables and chimes suspended from the inside of the roof. Soap went straight for a set of necklaces on a rotating display, the same ones that had drawn Ghost’s eye.

“Omens of death in these parts,” said the owner of the stand, nodding at the silver cat skulls. They were almost dainty, no bigger than Ghost’s thumbnail, the hinged jaw gaping as Soap lifted one for a better look.

Ghost escaped the stall when the man started to go into detail about the metal casting process.

He had barely even looked over there, said nothing to clue Soap in to the fact that there was something he had wanted. How was Johnny so able to know him? When has Simon let him get that close?

The man in question appeared at Ghost’s elbow. The flush on his face made his eyes look even more blue, framed starkly by his dark lashes. Ghost would never name the fragile thing that he fostered for Johnny, but it swelled every time he looked at Simon like there was nothing else in sight.

“I’m freezing my balls off, Ghost. Let’s get inside.”

Ghost exhaled something that was maybe a laugh or a sigh. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Soap, as Ghost was quickly discovering, valued cleanliness. Not in an obnoxious or overbearing way, but after every meal the dishes were washed, dried, and put away. The floors were swept every night, the bed made every morning.

Soap had taken the borrowed jacket and scarf from Ghost and hung them alongside his own coat on a scratched but well-polished coatrack by the door as soon as they’d stepped inside and lined their boots up on the shoe tray near the doormat. He’d also told Ghost that he’d be running a load of laundry and could add in anything else that needed to be washed. Ghost considered the sweat-soaked nightmares that his sleep clothes had weathered and surrendered them to Soap without complaint.

Ghost may not have been a chef, but that didn’t mean he was wholly inept in the kitchen. He was more than capable of starting dinner while Soap was doing laundry. He poked through Soap’s fridge and pantry, this time with more intention as he tried to decide what to make.

In the end, he settled on pasta. Easy, quick, simple. It looked like Soap had at least 6 different jars of specialty pasta sauces in his pantry, so it was safe to assume he liked the dish. It surprised Ghost how many little details he was learning about Soap. Somewhere along the line Ghost had come to trust Soap beyond just relying on his expertise in the field. It was a dangerous relationship to have when he didn’t even know the man’s favourite colour.

The washer started around the time that the salted water came to a boil on the stove. Ghost tracked Soap’s footsteps from the laundry room through the living room and past the bathroom. The bedroom door creaked open. The walls were thin here. Soap shut the dresser drawer and moved around some more. The shower started and the bathroom door shut.

The noodles were sitting in a strainer, ready to be added to a pan with sauce as soon as Ghost finished cooking the meatballs.

Soft footsteps signaled that Soap was done in the shower. “It smells good out here,” Soap said. He leaned around Ghost to sneak a noodle from the strainer.

“Wait,” Ghost glared, grabbing his wrist before he could reach. “It’ll be done soon.” He turned his head slightly to scold the other man, not realizing how close they were. If Soap was a few inches taller, they’d be nose to nose. As it was, Ghost was treated to the disarming sight of Soap grinning up at him teasingly. There was a trail of water that slipped from the wet ends of his hair down past his collar. Ghost wanted to trace it with his fingers. The air around them smelled dizzyingly of whatever was in Soap’s shampoo.

“Just fulfilling my role as taste tester, Ghost,” he said, winking as he pulled away. Ghost turned back to the stovetop silently.

“Bowl or plate?” Soap asked, opening the cabinet. Ghost made a noncommittal sound, focused on adding the sauce and noodles in with the meatballs.

“We can share one. Lady and the Tramp style. I’ll let you be the lady,” Soap joked.

“Like fuck we will,” Ghost shot back over the sound of Soap’s snickering.

Soap set two bowls by his elbow and brought the utensils out to the table.

They (read:Soap) usually talked through dinner as opposed to turning on the television or something similar, and tonight was no different. Soap told Ghost about the countryside where he grew up, causing trouble in corner stores and barns and the scar he had by his knee from a cow-tipping excursion gone wrong.

He never pushed at Ghost to share information about himself, but Ghost saw the shine in Soap’s eyes everytime he shared some small bit about the times before Johnny had met him.

But tonight wasn’t the night for that, not with the feeling of anxiety pulling more and more taut in Ghost’s chest as nighttime crept onwards, and with it the urge to sleep.

“Are the clothes done?” He asked Soap as they cleared the table.

Soap shook his head. “It’ll be another ten or so minutes. You can start your shower, though. I’ll set them on the counter when they’re done.”

Ghost nodded before slipping down the hall, nudging the door to the bathroom closed behind him. Steam curled over the mirror as he stripped, exhaling a sigh when the hot water touched his skin. Ghost could admit that this was nice; the firm water pressure, the dim lighting, the fact that he didn’t have to wear shower shoes or crouch awkwardly to fit under the spray.

He tilted his head back further to let the water soak through his hair. It was getting long. It’d already been overdue for a trim before they’d gotten word of their impending leave, and Ghost hadn’t bothered to get it trimmed in some act of petty rebellion. Not that anyone would notice except Ghost himself. Still, it hung down far enough to linger at the edge of his field of vision when it was wet like this. He sighed and reached for the shampoo, checking the bottle before he could help himself. Eucalyptus and mint.

Ghost wasn’t sure what to make of how he felt about Johnny. The man was Ghost’s living, breathing definition of security. The only person he would ever trust enough to see him in the throes of a nightmare. He may outrank the sergeant, but something in Ghost wanted to follow him, to earn the reward of a smile, a kind touch, a simple word of praise.

Then there was the man’s looks. Those alone had caught Ghost’s attention, usually afforded to no one in that capacity, the first time they’d met. As he got to know the man better, that initial attention developed, drawing Ghost’s eye to other things, too. His easy confidence. His deep voice. His ability to go toe-to-toe with Ghost than anyone else.

Soap was also one of the most recklessly selfless operators. Ghost could admit to being scared of what he would do if Soap fell in the field.

But, if he was being honest with himself, Ghost would also say that maybe a part of the allure was that, despite the way Soap threw himself into the line of fire, Simon actually didn’t have to worry about taking care of him. He got himself out of any scrape he charged heedlessly into; he was ruthless enough to match Ghost and consistent enough to remain long enough to secure a spot as his second. He could handle himself.

The door creaked open, shaking Ghost out of his reverie. “Just me. Setting some clothes down out here for you. I’ll see you in a few.”

“Yeah,” Ghost croaked in response. Fuck. What was he going to do?

Ghost drew up short when he finally emerged from the shower, towel halfway through its journey of brusquely drying himself off.

The necklace was sitting innocuously atop a pile of clothes; a shirt that was most definitely not his, boxers, and the grey sweats he’d taken to wearing around Soap’s house.

He lifted it up to the low light of the bathroom to inspect it. The jaw was hinged and moved as Ghost manipulated it gently. The chain was long enough that it would sit in line with the bottom of his pectorals, well out of sight if he so chose. The cat skull pendant was small enough that it would be unnoticeable beneath his uniform.

Ghost set it aside as he dressed, trying to sort through the emotions that the sight of the necklace sparked. Embarrassment; the mortifying ordeal of being known. Fondness for Soap’s willingness to buy him something as trivial but well crafted as this. Anger at himself for letting Soap get close enough to make him feel so strongly, and anger at Soap for the gentle way he pushed ceaselessly forward. A lot of anger, which Ghost knew was misdirected. And still, it was outweighed by that other emotion, fathomless and unnameable.

Soap’s face fell minutely when Ghost walked into the bedroom without the necklace on. Ghost let it clink as he coiled it carefully on the nightstand, just to let Johnny know that his gift had not been rejected. “I could break it in my sleep,” he explained.

Soap smiled at him. His tension had drained away visibly, and Ghost wondered what he had been thinking when he bought the gift. The drastic light cast by the bedside lamp caused shadows to pool in the hollow of his throat and below his cheekbones, shading his expressive eyes. He had been writing in his journal before Ghost’d come in. The binding and leather was an exact match to his earlier purchase from the stationery store, albeit marred with blood, scuffs, and dirt. It seemed fitting, now that Ghost knew where it came from, that Soap would carry a piece of his home with him wherever he went.

“I’m almost done,” Soap promised. Ghost said nothing, just joined him beneath the covers in companionable silence, curled on his side and facing away from the other. Speaking was difficult at the moment, like he’d used his daily allotment of words thinking about Soap-based emotions. He brushed his hair away from his eyes.

“Is it bothering you?” Soap asked. His words were underlaid with the even strokes of pen on paper.

Ghost grunted an affirmative, then startled slightly when he felt fingertips run over his scalp.

“We can find a barbershop tomorrow,” Soap promised.

A moment of silence stretched between them as Ghost searched for the words. “‘m not too keen on letting someone that close to me with blades,” he finally said. He’d thought that the somewhat choppy state of his hair, outgrown as it was, would’ve clued Soap in.

“I could do it,” Soap offered, continuing to card through Ghost’s hair. He felt his eyes slip closed of their own accord at the gentle pressure. Blunt nails traced lines of contact through his hair, over and over, pausing occasionally to tug lightly. A shiver worked its way up his spine and he hummed involuntarily, a pleased note that Soap took as an agreement.

The light clicked off and plunged the room into darkness. Ghost was asleep before Soap could settle down next to him.

There was no lid on the coffin, this time, just earth pressing down on Simon’s chest. It was a comfortable pressure at first, until he opened his mouth to breathe and felt soil trickle in.

He thrashed, pushing at the barrier above him. It shifted easily, but closed back around his arms and legs each time he moved them. He tried to suck in more air but instead tasted only mud.

There was something soft beneath him. Despite the crush of the dirt around him, Simon could smell rot and decay and the coppery tinge of spilled blood. The thing below him shifted, a hand closing around his arm to pull him back down into the grave. He lashed out and was met with a bright curse as the hand let go.

“Jesus wept, Simon.”

It wasn’t a voice that belonged beneath the earth.

The dirt above Simon was smooth, shifting but not breaking. He gasped for air. It was dark underground, but there was a warm glow in this dream that was at odds with the terror that filled Simon. He thrashed harder against the weight, and to his surprise it shifted down and away.

Someone was calling his name from above the soil. He reached out for them blindly. It was the sound of safety, of home. His hand fisted in something and he hauled himself upright.

He was sitting in Soap’s bed, sheets wrapped around his legs and comforter pulled off the end of the bed to pool on the floor. The bedside lamp was on. The only sound was his own ragged gasping and Johnny’s steady breaths brushing his ear.

Johnny was stuck in an awkward half-lean over him, held in place by Simon’s death grip on the collar of his v-neck. There were angry red lines along the base of his throat and his collarbones where Simon’s nails must have scratched him as he fisted a hand into the sleep shirt. Johnny’s hands had hesitantly come up to cradle Simon, one hand brushing the elbow of the arm clinging to him and the other curved around his shoulderblade. So gentle. Too gentle for Ghost. Gentle enough not to remind Simon of the weight of the soils pushing down on him as he crawled out of his own grave.

Simon’s throat clicked as he worked it, forcing himself to unclench his hand and lean back. There was a red mark along Johnny’s jaw that matched the dull ache in the knuckles of Simon’s other hand.

“Stay here,” Johnny murmured against Simon’s cheek. He shuddered under the weight of the shame, so blissfully absent the last night, that curdled in his stomach.

He stared at a smudge on the baseboard by the door until it resolved into a missing chip of wood. He wondered how it happened. Was it Johnny’s doing? Had he cringed afterward, terrified of the repercussions? His family didn’t seem like they would do that, but you never knew.

Johnny returned a moment later with a cup of water. It wasn’t one of the glass ones kept in the cabinet, but a heavy duty plastic cup. Dimly, Simon observed the way his hands shook as Johnny pressed the cup into them and thought that was for the best.

It was bright green and had a textured pattern of semi-circular dots across the surface of it. The cool of the ice water within leached through, and then into, Simon’s palm. He took a shaky sip, then a longer pull. Johnny set it to the side when it was empty.

Johnny was knelt before him, eye level with his chest and a hand on each of Simon’s knees. “Do you want to talk about it?” So gentle it ached.

Simon shook his head, but still forced the word “underground” out into the space between them. He didn’t recognize the roughness of his own voice.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” Johnny said. Simon didn’t want to meet his eyes. “I’m going to fix the bed, okay? And we’ll try again.”

Simon leaned forward, not entirely meaning to, carrried forward by the weight of his own exhaustion. His forehead rested on Johnny’s shoulder.

A hand came up to pet at the back of Simon’s scalp. “You’re doing so well,” Johnny whispered. Simon, stripped of his walls by exhaustion and fear and the unusual feeling of acceptance and safety, made a noise that could’ve been a sob if he’d had the breath to expel it.

Johnny maneuvered him to the side and efficiently stripped and replaced the sweaty sheets, remaking the bed. By the time he turned back to Simon, he’d come back to himself a bit more.

“Come on, then,” Johnny prompted. Simon stayed rooted in place.

“The light,” he rasped. Somehow, Johnny understood. He felt himself untense and unspool in the darkness, swaying into Johnny’s outstretched arm.

“If I lay next to you, will it make it worse?” He asked. Simon shook his head.

“The pressure’s usually good,” he admitted. “Just can’t tell when it won’t be.”

Johnny nodded like he understood and shuffled them both back toward the mattress. He ended up curled around Simon, front to back, the only weight being the blankets above them and the arm draped over his waist. He could feel Johnny’s heartbeat through his back, chiselling its way into his ribs. Each soft exhale tickled the back of Simon’s neck and he timed his breathing to it.

Sleep rushed up to greet him once more.

Chapter Text

This time, it was Ghost who woke first.

They’d shifted during their sleep until they were laying face to face, legs tangled together. Johnny had one arm beneath his pillow and the other curled loosely in the space between them. His face was relaxed, cheek smushed against the pillow and drooling slightly.

Simon took the rare chance to actually study him without the threat of being caught. There were fine smile lines branching out from the corners of his closed eyes. He was tanned from so many trainings and field ops in the sun, faint freckles scattered over his nose, which had a slight bump from being broken and re-set. A hint of stubble shadowed the lower half of his face. And his lips—

He was pretty sure he’d never thought so much about another person’s mouth in his life. There was the faintest discoloration in the center of his bottom lip, a shade lighter than the skin surrounding it. A scar? A blemish from birth? Ghost flexed his hand to dispel the urge to press a finger over it.

He slid out of bed and away from the temptation to touch (would he break?) Johnny, grabbing the necklace from the nightstand on his way into the kitchen. In the grey morning light, he clasped the necklace around his neck and weighed it in his palm. So light, so significant. He slipped it beneath his shirt.

Ghost rifled quietly through the cabinets, trying not to wake Soap. In the cabinet by the oven, collecting an offensive amount of dust, was a kettle. Ghost dug it out as quietly as possible and gave it a quick wash in the sink before setting it to boil.

Soap had a French press near the drip coffee maker on the counter. Ghost checked it to make sure there were no loose grounds of coffee in it, then started the coffee maker, before he got out the single tin of looseleaf tea.

It was absurd to even entertain the notion that Soap would do recon on Ghost’s preferred brand of tea, so there had to be some element of truth when he’d said it was for guests. The seal on the tin hadn’t been broken yet, but Ghost was a guest, and it’s not like Johnny would get mad at him for using the tea.

He measured out enough for a cup and dropped the leaves into the French press, pouring the boiling water in before taking a few moments to read over the label. Black tea, with cinnamon and cloves and orange peel. It was reminiscent of the smell of Soap’s clothes. Ghost closed his eyes. Another way he was willing to mark himself as tied to Johnny.

What was he doing? Did he care enough to stop himself from sliding down this slope? Would he even be able to haul himself up if he wanted to?

“Did you make me coffee, Ghost?” Soap leaned against the wall where the kitchen met the bedroom. Ghost noted the role reversal of the previous morning.

He got a mug down and passed it to Soap in lieu of a reply. The man grabbed it and poured a full cup, holding it up to his face and inhaling deeply. “I could marry you right now,” he groaned, tipping his face closer to the steam.

“Price would love that,” Ghost snorted. There was a definite emotional impact those words had that Ghost did not care to inspect further. “What do you think he would tear more hairs out over, the housing issue or getting leave approved for the honeymoon?”

“Making sure there are no casualties over the betting pool,” Soap replied, still soaking in the warmth of the coffee with his eyes closed.

Betting pool. What betting pool? Ghost narrowed his eyes at Soap at the exact same moment as the other’s eyes flew open, brain catching up with his mouth.

“You know how it is,” he chuckled awkwardly, waving a hand in a vague approximation of whatever ‘it’ was.

“Enlighten me,” Ghost deadpanned. His tea was going to oversteep if he didn’t pour it soon, but he couldn’t break the staredown with Soap until the other relented.

He could see Soap wrestle with it, hands curling a bit tighter around the mug. Finally he sighed in defeat. “You know how the enlisted are. They make bets on stupid things to pass the time.”

Ghost turned around to pour his tea into the waiting mug, confident that Soap would continue with the story. “Go on.”

“Someone started a guessing game about whether or not you had anyone to, hah, go home to on leave.” Soap glanced at him almost apologetically. “Granted, you aren’t exactly the most forthcoming of people, so then people started to debate whether you were into gals or blokes or anyone at all.”

“Who started it?” Ghost asked.

Soap took a sip from his mug mulishly, which was about what Ghost had expected. Protective bastard. As of Ghost would really do anything too bad to one of his own men.

“How many people know about it?” He tried instead. The way Soap grimaced told him most of what he needed to know.

“The whole squad.” Five people. “A few others from our platoon overheard.” So essentially the whole platoon knew; twenty or so people. “A few others.” Soap looked guilty, so Ghost continued to stare at him until he muttered “Bravo Team” into his mug.

“All of them?” Ghost pressed.

Soap winced.

It was a little odd that just under 30 (known) people were betting on who he liked, but Ghost wasn’t exactly surprised. He wasn’t new to the whims of the military, and when everyone was living out of each other’s pockets, rumors and discourse ran rampant.

“Gaz may have told Alejandro,” Soap admitted.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost said, but with humor in his voice. Soap grinned at him, hopeful.

“Wanna help me place my bets on the right pony, Lt?”

Ghost scoffed. “Not a chance, Johnny. I don’t play favourites.”

Soap cackled at that, clearly relieved that Ghost hadn’t taken the news of the bets poorly. “That’s the only joke you’ve said that I’ve ever laughed at,” he said.

“I wasn’t joking,” Ghost protested. Soap just rolled his eyes and took a pointedly long drink of coffee. Ghost fought the urge to acknowledge the blush that he knew was reddening his face at the (accurate) implication that Soap was his favourite.

He took a drink of his tea to distract himself from the turn the conversation had taken. It was good, unsurprisingly. Citrusy with a hint of spice. His go-to was usually a plain black or earl grey, but this blend may have claimed a spot as Ghost’s favourite.

He closed his eyes to savor the flavour a bit more and opened them to see Soap gazing at him with some open, but indiscernible, emotion in his eyes.

“Anyways,” Soap said, finally relinquishing his grip on the mug of coffee, “I was thinking about the bedroom.”

Ghost cleared his throat. “What about it?”

“For cutting your hair,” Soap said, as if it was obvious that he would remember the throwaway offer from last night, that he would plan to act on it. “Let’s face it, my bathroom isn’t big enough for me to be able to move around in it with the both of us in there. I could just lay out a sheet on the bedroom floor and we could do it in there.”

Ghost simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak. A jittery feeling was consuming him. Not quite anxiety, not quite excitement.

“I’ll get it set up, then,” Soap said, finishing off his coffee and rinsing it before setting it in the sink to be washed later.

“What, now?” Ghost asked.

“Why not?”

Ghost didn’t have a good answer for that, so he just watched Johnny grab a spare sheet from the linen closet in the hall and make his way into the bedroom.

Ghost finished his drink before he followed.

The sheet was laid out on the floor, a pillow in the center, and a cluster of tools were on the bedspread.

“You okay with kneeling?” Soap asked, apparently busy with changing out the guards on the clippers.

“Yeah,” Ghost said, voice rough as he lowered himself until his knees were resting on the pillow. He could taste the remnants of orange and cinnamon and sugar on his tongue when he exhaled.

The lights were on. The sun was out. This was just like when he allowed Soap to hold him at night, except for in all the ways that it wasn’t. There was no way to blame this on a need to sleep. They wouldn’t be horizontal; Ghost would be lowering himself in front of Johnny in an act of blatant submission. It wasn’t just palms on skin, it was pure vulnerability. It was trusting Johnny to alter Simon’s appearance. For Simon’s sake, yes, but—

Soap’s hand came down to rest on his shoulder, gently applying pressure. Simon rocked back to settle into a fully kneeling position.

He was eye-level with Soap’s abdomen in this position. A part of his brain was trying to offer alternative scenarios where Simon might find himself knelt at Johnny’s feet, but he quieted that side of his brain. It didn’t have a place here yet.

“This good?” Johnny checked, squeezing his shoulder gently. Simon nodded, and Johnny’s hand travelled up and over to rest over the hair of his neck. “Good,” he praised. There was no way he didn’t feel the tremor that ran through Simon at the praise, but he at least had the decency not to comment on it.

“I’m going to use the clippers on the back and sides, here,” he said, tracing out the mentioned areas on Simon’s scalp, “and trim the top with scissors, up here.” He tugged gently at the hair hanging in front of Simon’s face, eliciting another shiver. “Does that all sound okay?” Johnny asked, circling around to stand behind Ghost.

“‘S fine,” Ghost confirmed, feeling the words catch and slur on his tongue. Even though he was asking questions, Johnny’s voice had gained that slight edge he used whenever he was presenting a plan of attack; all confidence and command. Simon realized suddenly that he hadn’t needed to make a single decision since coming to Glasgow. Sure, he made small choices for himself. But for the most part, Johnny had folded himself around Simon and drawn him in. Their daily schedule was dictated gently by Soap’s own routine. He usually cooked for the both of them, or gave Simon suggestions on what they had the ingredients to make if the other was cooking. The other day he had chosen Ghost’s clothes, for fuck’s sake.

And no matter what emotional turmoil Simon was confronting, letting Johnny take control had been—nice. Freeing. Secure. He trusted him with his life and each detail in it. He wanted to—fuck. He wanted to let Johnny take care of him, didn’t he?

Soap ran his hand through Ghost’s hair one more time, unaware of the other man’s turmoil, and Ghost let himself sway with the motion before Johnny turned on the clippers.

Johnny moved him carefully, but dictated his motions all the same. Either with a hand on his jaw or chin, tilting his head for easier access, or gathering the grown-out hair on top to move it out of the way or, on one particularly notable occasion, to tug his head to the side for a better angle. His fingers traced over the freshly buzzed hair, a gentle counterpoint to the firm, consistent hum of the clippers.

There was a scar along the side of Simon’s head from a bullet graze years ago that had healed shiny and cut a clean line through the rest of the hair. Johnny brushed over it with aching gentleness. A caress. So caring, even in something as mundane as this.

Simon didn’t deserve to be handled so softly, but oh, how he hungered for it.

By the time he’d switched the clippers off, Simon’s eyes were stinging. The first tear broke free when the first lock of straw-straight hair fell from the scissors to the sheet below them, and didn’t stop until Johnny had finished.

He brushed through Simon’s hair to dislodge any clipped strands and then tilted Ghost’s face up towards him.

“Sweet thing,” he breathed when he caught sight of the tear tracks on Simon’s face. Ghost felt that those words couldn’t possibly be for him, but Johnny had said them, so they must be true. He smoothed them away with a thumb and then lightly brushed the long fan of Ghost’s eyelashes. “C’mon, up we get,” he said, hooking his hands beneath Simon’s arms to hoist him up.

“You’ve done so well, Si. Let’s just go back to bed for a bit, yeah?” He coaxed, guiding Simon, stumbling, to the edge of the bed. Johnny circled the bed to close the curtains and slide in on the far side, arms reaching out for him and pulling him in close until Simon’s face was cradled against his neck. He smelled like coffee and citrus and spice & pepper and shampoo.

He smelled like home, Simon realized desperately, miserably, hopelessly. Like home.

Chapter Text

Simon rose to wakefulness at the sensation of fingertips trailing over his skin. Years of training and experience allowed him to mimic the breathing pattern exactly as he had when he was asleep while he tried to get his bearings.

There was a hand on his lower back, slipped beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt and tracing meandering patterns directly across his skin. Another hand was anchored over the back of his neck, thumb splayed out to brush just below his ear. The heat seemed to sink directly into his spine, warming him throughout. He was sprawled atop something firm and warm that moved rhythmically beneath him. The steady beat clued him in to the fact that it was a chest— Johnny’s chest. Each breath caused Simon’s necklace to dig lightly into his skin, but not enough to be unpleasant. He wondered if he could just lay here for the rest of eternity, Johnny’s breath tickling the short strands of his freshly trimmed hair and melting into the man below him.

He eased his eyes open a crack. The curtains were drawn, but light still leaked around them, painting the room shades of dark and darker.

The hand on his neck dragged up until it rested on Simon’s skull. Johnny’s fingers roamed through Simon’s hair with just enough pressure to coax his eyes shut once more.

He drifted there for an indeterminable span of time, tethered to consciousness by nothing but Johnny: his hands, above him; his breath, below him. If Simon didn’t know that he’d end up in hell at the end of all this, he could have mistaken this for heaven. Maybe he could find redemption here, in someone else’s embrace. Maybe he could leave the blood on his hands at the door of Johnny’s home.

Simon’s lips parted on a breath when Johnny smoothed circles into his temples, producing a full-bodied tremor. He hesitated for just a moment, clearly surprised that Simon was awake. Simon frowned slightly and pressed his weight into Johnny a bit more firmly in complaint of the pause. The gentle touches restarted with a chuckle.

“What time ‘s it?” Ghost asked eventually.

He could feel Johnny shrug beneath him, draped over him as he was. “Around noon, I think. You’ve gotten a few solid hours of sleep; that’s good.” His voice sounded fond. Simon rocked his face further into Johnny’s chest to escape the feeling bubbling up inside him.

“Are you getting hungry?” Soap asked, trailing a hand from Simon’s head to the top of his spine, down to the space between his shoulder blades, and back again. He would be embarrassed about the pleasant shivers that it created later, but for now he just made himself even more pliant beneath Johnny’s hands. If that was what he wanted from Simon, he had no qualms about delivering.

“Okay,” Johnny murmured, ever-so-skilled at reading the spaces between Ghosts words and actions. “We can stay here as long as you’d like.” And he said it so calmly, so assuredly; like he would really let Simon curl into him for years, for decades, until the heat-death of the universe. As if he would provide refuge for Simon from the world. As if he would always save this place for Simon in his arms.

A wave of fear swept through him suddenly and he tensed. What would Simon do if—

His mind shuddered, struggled.

What would he do if Johnny—

The body beneath him shifted and his hand shot out, clenching into Johnny’s shirt desperately as he heaved in a breath. It was fine. He’d just repositioned them so that Simon was laying a little higher on his chest. He gasped in another breath.

“Simon? Talk to me, Si,” Johnny said, twisting worriedly so he could see Ghost’s face.

He shied away from the gaze, pressing his forehead into the crook of Johnny’s neck. Hiding. His fingers cramped from where they were fisted in his shirt.

“Tell me what to do, Simon. Simon. C’mon, check in with me.” His voice was anxious, his hands stilling in their motions and instead pressing Simon closer to him.

“Don’t leave,” Simon gasped out against Johnny’s collarbone. He could taste salt on his tongue. “Don’t leave me, Johnny. Please.” He wouldn’t survive Johnny, Simon knew. He would be his end.

He shattered at the realization; the acknowledgment that he had rebuilt all the human parts of himself around Johnny. Without even realizing, he had taken Johnny into himself; the star at the centre of his being that kept his edges from fraying away.

“Oh, Simon,” Johnny sighed against his temple. “I won’t leave. Not you.” Fingers in his hair, between his shoulders, pulling him closer. Simon sobbed wetly, tears flowing freely for the first time since Ghost had become.

Johnny was his key, unlocking this untapped well of emotion; terror and sorrow and a love of a dizzying magnitude.

“Whatever you need, I’ve got you.” A brief press of lips to his hairline. Johnny ducked his head to press his forehead to Simon’s. He could feel Soap’s hand come up to fit against his cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone soothingly.

“Look at me, Simon.” He could feel the air of the words brush his face, cool against the hot tear tracks on his cheeks. He cracked his eyes open to meet Johnny’s unwavering gaze. The shine of his own tears was reflected in the other’s eyes, unshed and shining.

“I’ve got you,” he repeated. “I’m not going anywhere. Until we’re both buried six feet beneath the ground, I’ve got you.”

Simon took a hitching breath, then another. He timed each inhale and exhale to the sound of Johnny’s reassurances until he was calm again. He unclenched his hand, reached out, and brushed the feathery spread of Johnny’s dark lashes. Pressed his thumb to the scar on his lip. Traced the bump of his nose, the rasp of his stubble, the jut of his cheekbones and the hollows of his eyes. And Johnny just let him. Knowing how bloody his hands were, how tainted his past was. He let Simon search his face, and when he was done, he caught Simon’s hand and brough it to rest over the beat of his heart.

Simon felt his eyes droop closed, exhausted and unacquainted with the drawback of the emotional outpour. Johnny pressed his hand into his chest, a silent stay there, and resumed the gentle wandering of fingers over Simon’s skin.

They clung to each other beneath the covers, hidden from the sun and the outside world, finding solace.

“I’ve got you, Simon,” Johnny promised.

I’ve got you.

Chapter Text

Simon woke in bed, alone. His eyes felt gummy, his mouth dry. He rolled over.

The bedroom door was open a crack, light from the kitchen stretching down the hall and painting the floor just outside the door.

There was something in his chest that ached every time he breathed.

Simon knew he was a broken-glass sculpture; fragile only if you could bear the pain it took to touch it. He felt like Johnny had reached into the core of him and nudged something out of alignment. It tore at him with every inhale and exhale, every thud of his heart. It ached.

Soap had cleaned up the clippers and the bedsheet, and the floorboards were cold beneath Simon’s bare feet.
The idea that the moment of vulnerability could be swept away so easily, could be stowed out of sight, rocked Ghost. What was he doing, allowing himself to become so vulnerable like this? Did he not know it was dangerous? And Soap—what right did Soap have to pry at the tenuous way that Ghost had reconstructed himself? Calling him sweet, pitying him and domesticating him.

So what if Ghost was spiralling? He should have never put himself in this situation to begin with. If Johnny had kept his distance, then Ghost wouldn’t be able to hurt him.

The metal of the catskull necklace clinked as Ghost tugged it off and dropped it on the nightstand.

Johnny beamed at him when he darkened the doorway of the kitchen.

“Hungry yet?”

“What,” asked Simon quietly, dangerously, “exactly, is it that you think you’re doing?”

The confusion and hurt that splashed across Soap’s face inititially at the unexpectedly harsh tone faded into something glassy-smooth and guarded.

“It’s nearly 1900. I need to eat. You must be hungry. I’m cooking us dinner.”

There was something desperate in Simon, now clawing at his chest, fed and fostered by all the kind touches turned cruel that he had suffered his whole life. Why didn’t he remember that they were always like this in the beginning, his father and all the rest? So sweet when Simon hadn’t yet let them know that he would never meet their expectations.

He had let Soap in too close.

“You think you can just swoop in and, what, fix me?” Ghost asked. “You haven’t earned the right to do that.”

“To touch you?” Soap’s voice was beginning to lose its carefully measured, unreadable edge. “To help you?”

“I never asked for your help.”

“You never had to!” Soap’s eyes were bright, mouth set in a harsh line. His shout rang out like a gunshot in the room.

“You don’t get to just swan in and do whatever you want. You don’t get to coddle me and act like you’re doing it just because you want the medal for fixing the Ghost!”

“I never said I was!” Soap snapped back. “God, why are you so fucking stubborn? Open your eyes, Simon; no one’s twisting my arm here!”

Ghost stepped into Soap’s space, making himself bigger.
He knew this wasn’t the way to solve it but—he had to get out before it got worse. He felt trapped, here in the heart of Soap’s home. He felt like he wouldn’t be strong enough to leave this stronghold by himself, to turn his back in the care and comfort so intrinsic to Soap. He needed— needed Johnny to make him leave. So he pushed further.

It was never that Ghost spoke little because he was incapable of finding the words. Every part of him was fractured glass, a sharp edged weapon. He had been taught by the best how to cut deep with his tongue just as well as any other weapon.

“You always do this. Every stray you see, your eyes fill with pity and you have to stop and try to nurse it back to health. But I’m not a fuckin’ lame dog, sergeant. I don’t have broken leg for you to splint or scrape to put antibiotics on. You’re getting nowhere here.”

“What is your problem? Simon, I’m not—“

“Ghost,” he cut Soap off coldly. “It’s Ghost, to you. Simon is dead. You can heal all the wounds you want, but you can’t bring the dead back to life.”

Soap shouldered past him roughly, with enough force to actually rock Simon back a half-step.

“I need some air,” he announced, shoving his feet into his shoes and slinging a jacket from the coatrack over his shoulders. The door slammed behind him.

The house was colder, instantly; as if Johnny had taken all the warmth and light with him. Ghost had intended to make Soap tell him to leave, but the end result was still the same. There was nothing for him here, no home now that Johnny had left. Nothing could keep him here.

He packed his duffel with the efficiency of someone used to his problems chasing him. After a moment’s consideration, he doubled up on the long sleeve shirts and threw an extra set of sweats on. He slid on the medical mask he’d saved, and pried the gun from beneath the couch.

He hadn’t needed it, in Soap’s room, because he didn’t need to protect himself. The nightmares still came, but in Johnny’s arms, nothing real could harm him. He checked over the handgun to make sure it was still in prime condition.

The metal of the barrel was far colder than Johnny’s touch. It was more familiar, though, absolute and predictable.

Familiarity still didn’t make it any warmer.

He walked to the bus station. It was dark out, and mostly still. The chill seeped through the layers as if they weren’t even there, and Ghost had to forcibly relax his jaw to keep his teeth from clattering together. He paid the teller at the window for a ticket and ignored the way her eyes lingered on his half-bare face.

Four hours later, he was in a small town outside of Manchester. It was well past midnight, now. No one paid him any mind as he left the small bus station and walked 15 minutes to a small cemetery and hopped the fence.

His gravestone was covered in lichen, and a long crack ran through it— the kind that came from something heavy hitting it suddenly, not at all the small, gradual wears of time.

Simon let the duffle fall from his shoulder and hit the soft earth before he followed. The chill of the earth seeps up through the soil, the grass, the cotton; to his skin and deeper, to chill muscle and bone and something further still.

A Ghost visiting his own grave.

There are stars overhead.

Simon closes his eyes.

Soap, the first day they’d met, promising to save him a seat.

Soap, bantering with him as he clawed his way across Las Almas.

Soap, sitting next to Ghost at debriefs.

Soap, bringing Ghost a cup of poorly-made tea when he was buried in mission reports.

Soap, backing Ghost up in everything on the field and off.

Why had he only noticed now? Why did Soap have to choose him, unloving and unlovable?

He played back the look of hurt that had overtaken Soap’s face when Ghost snapped at him.

A fresh wave of hurt rose up in him again.

He just wanted to bask in the memories a little longer, the memories that were more Simon than Ghost. To indulge just a bit, before he baptized himself again and left Simon at the grave once more, and Ghost walked free, unimpeded. Just like he had done before.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, flinging it aside and patting at it, made clumsy but the cold. The ringtone silenced, and he returned to watching the stars, and the plume of his breath, and the memories of Johnny.

His eyes slipped closed.

Chapter Text

“—ou fuckin’ kidd—“

“—t up—“

“—n’t want to go to—“

“—come on—“

There were warm, warm hands on his face, searing into him. Someone was talking, their tone harsh. Ghost reached up to press one of the warm hands closer, the he felt uncoordinated and stiff.

“—ost—“

He was heaved up into a sitting position, then up again. Now the hands were on his back as he leaned heavily into something warm beneath him.

More of that voice, sounding slightly more worried now. He was being moved, dragged unsteadily. It was so, so cold. It wasn’t as cold when Ghost just let go, let himself slip away. The hands pulled something over Ghost’s arms and the weight of it settled against him.

The sound of a door opening, and he was being manhandled up into a seat. It was warm, wherever he was. A car, maybe. Yes, a car— that was the vibration of an engine.

Why was he in a car? He had been with Soap.

His head felt so heavy. Maybe he could just…

“-ost, I swear to god, if I have to drag your ass all the way to the house I’m letting you freeze in the driveway.”

Ghost cracked his eyes open with monumental effort. Soap hovered in front of him, angry and concerned.

“What?” Ghost asked. His tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth. He had been—he’d made it to the cemetery, hadn’t he?

Beyond Soap’s shoulder, a porch light illuminated the distinctive red of his doorway.

Disorientation crashed over Ghost like a tidal wave, and he shivered violently. He didn’t feel cold, but he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering lightly.

“Come on. Inside.” Soap half carried Ghost through the door, the other man too uncoordinated to support his weight.

Soap dropped him on the sofa and started tugging at his clothes. A flash of panic burst in Simon’s chest and he tried to push his hands away. Soap swatted at them angrily.

“I’m just getting you under some blankets, you ass.” His eyes were narrowed, the furrow between his eyebrows reading angry and concerned.

This was Soap, Ghost reasoned. He wouldn’t—he wasn’t like Roba’s men. Another shudder wracked him. He let himself be arranged by Johnny, whose movements were brusque but not unnecessarily harsh.

Between one blink and then next, Soap stepped away, then returned with an armload of blankets that he began to wrap around Ghost. One of them was already warm—electric. Simon relaxed into it.

“What happened?” The words we’re still slightly slurred, but he was beginning to feel his brain come back online.

“You left,” Johnny stated. His matter-of fact tone didn’t hide the hurt that lurked there. “By the time I came back, you were halfway to Manchester. I called you, but you didn’t answer. So I left to get you.”

He left the sofa, then, and moved behind Ghost into the kitchen. There were the sounds of water running, the kettle being set on the stove. “I called you when I saw that you were in some graveyard, but you weren’t coherent.” The sound of a forcefully heavy sigh and release. “Ghost, you were nearly frozen to death. I should have taken you to a hospital.”

Johnny reappeared, then settled himself on the coffee table across from Simon.

“Why did you do that?” He asked. He had one hand wrapped tightly around the other wrist, squeezing in rhythmic pulses. “I thought—You told me that you would tell me if I went too far.”

Simon’s throat worked as he tries to find an answer, pinned in place by Soap’s gaze. “If you left,” he began. “If you did that on your own…” he trailed off, restarted. “I could make you leave, and that would be my decision. I’d be the one holding the knife. But if you left on your own, you’d be the one… hurting me.” The words were a pale, stumbling imitation of the gaping expanse of panic and pain that the thought brought.

The kettle whistled, and Johnny sighed. “I’ll be right back. I just—let me think about this for a few minutes.”

Simon shrank into the blankets. The heat of them was bringing feeling back into his body, but the pit of his stomach still felt ice-cold. He examined the pile around him, just for something to do.

Some were once-bright quilts, others a loose crochet of fluffy, bright yarn. There was a sky blue patterned blanket with the Spider-Man logo splashed across it in red. The ones he could feel closest to him were microfleece.

He painstakingly extracts an arm from beneath the mound when Soap reappears with a gently steaming mug. It smells rich, and sweet. He takes a careful sip of it, and the taste of cinnamon and chocolate hits him harder than its warmth.

Soap copies him, reclaiming his place on the table.

“I get that, Ghost. I know it’s been just you for the longest time. But it’s my choice, if I stay or leave. Look at us. You did your best to get me to go, and we’re right back where we started.

“I meant it when I said that I’ve got you. I want to be there for you. I don’t want to leave you. I know you don’t understand why I feel this way, but I promise you I’m not just doing this for your sake. It’s not out of pity or hopes for recognition.” He sighs again, sets the mug aside. “I don’t know how to put it into words, but I’m not doing this selflessly. When you let me close, when you let me make sure you’re taken care of—I get something out of that. You give me purpose; you make me happy. I’m paying you back for all the world has unfairly kept and taken from you not only because you deserve it, but because I want to.

“You’re on my mind constantly. When I wake up, when I go about my day. Simon. That’s all there is for me, anymore. Just you. And I’m never going to leave that.”

Simon is crying, he knows. Soap leans forward and brushes away the tears before they can reach his chin. He clutches the mug harder, trying to focus on the physical sensations and not just the emotional.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, shakily. “I don’t—I’ve never had this before.”

“I’m still mad,” Soap admits. “I don’t know if I’ll fully understand, but you can’t just run off and freeze yourself every time you slide back into that lonely mindset.” His eyes well up and he squeezes his eyes shut. “I found you, cold and still, on your own grave, Simon.” The sentence hangs between them for a moment. “The gun beneath the couch was missing, and I thought—“ Johnny cuts himself off and takes a sip of his drink.

“You knew about that?” Was the only thing Simon could say as he processed how Johnny might’ve seen things.

“Ghost, I’ve vacuumed that rug at least 3 times since we’ve been here. Of course I knew about that,” he says around a wet laugh. “I didn’t want to pry.”

“I can’t—I won’t promise that I won’t do that again.” Ghost admits.

“Try to push me away, or run off into the night?”

Ghost half-laughs, but it hurts. “Push you away. But I’ll try.” He hesitates. “For you.”

Soap shakes his head gently. “Do it for yourself, Simon. But trying is all I ask of you.”

Ghost nods, and closes his eyes when Soap leans in again to swipe away the new tears.

“I’m going to make us something to eat, and you’re going to stay here and warm up. And then we’re going to watch The Lion King, because I’m still mad and you’re trapped on my couch.”

The space between them is still heavy, but only in the way that the air is after a thunderstorm.

After Johnny makes the food, he queues up the movie and settles on the couch next to Simon, adjusting them slightly so that he’s leant against Johnny’s chest.

He drifts, for most of the movie. He can feel Johnny untensing beside him, and there’s a hand stroking through his hair that’s applying just the right amount of pressure.

He’s almost disappointed when the movie ends, but Soap urges him up, guides him to the bedroom. The air is cold, and he has nothing on but boxers, but Johnny is a concentrated line of heat at his side.

“Can I touch you, tonight, before bed?” Johnny asked as they cross the threshold. He pulls away, sits on the bed. “You don’t have to. I just want to make sure—“ He cuts off. “I was really scared.” He can’t make out Johnny’s face in this lighting.

He can see the shadow of him, though, and the uncharacteristically unmade bed. Simon felt overheated. He could say no, that it was too much for today, and Johnny wouldn’t push. He could still leave. These options meant nothing. There was no world in which Simon would deny him the only thing he ever asked for.

If he wanted Simon’s trust, then it was his. It was owed to him.

No, not owed. Simon wanted to give it to him. Do it for yourself, Simon, he’d said.

The shadow moved, an arm reaching out, palm-up. Simon mirrored it.

Their fingers brushed, and he cringed. He could imagine the fit of Johnny’s hand in his, picture how the callouses and crooked fingers would align.

For all the times that Soap had offered his hand—getting up off the training mats, standing from being locked in a prone position all mission, pulling him to the top of a wall—Ghost had never taken it.

He offered him his wrist instead, the pulse fluttering wildly beneath paper-thin skin. And with it, he handed over himself. Johnny could take it from here, could guide him where he wanted him, could take all he needed from him.

He didn’t know how to say it, as Johnny tugged him to kneel on the bed. They were so close like this. Surely he could feel it, the way that Simon was his?

Johnny laid him down and arranged him meticulously, like he was a piece of art. Something to be admired.

Simon felt Johnny’s weight settle across the backs of his thighs and focused on staying relaxed. Whatever happened here was out of his hands, and he knew Johnny would take care of him.

It still hurt, when he traced the first scar with aching gentleness.

It didn’t stop hurting when Johnny moved onto the next one, and that scar ached too. Like his touch was awakening some long-dormant nerves. Simon’s skin buzzed with sensation, growing in intensity as Johnny felt all the places where he had been hurt and lived through it.

Nothing was as devastating as this gentle treatment.

Maybe. Just maybe. Johnny could be the one strong enough to both break him apart and reform him, again and again, until Simon was close to whole again.

Hands traced over new lines, following the path of old tattoos across his side and back that had been ruined by deep scars. Exploring. Fingers, brushing against the secrets of his past but never grasping, never taking. Waiting for answers to come to him. Simon shuddered at the intimacy.

Johnny shuffled forward over him, sliding the full contact of his palms up Simon’s back, dragging trails of warmth behind each finger.

His hands came up to brush against his cheeks, the angle made awkward by the downward tilt of Simon’s face into the cradle of his folded arms.

It wasn’t until Johnny’s hands pulled away and the cool air rushed back in that he realized he’d been crying once again.

Johnny rested his forehead against the back of Simon’s skull.

“Thank you,” he whispered. The exhalation of air summoned a shiver from Simon. Johnny’s lips brushed across the nape of his neck with the formation of the words.

“Thank you, Simon,” Johnny repeated, sweeping his hands across Ghost’s shoulders, setting the long-healed scuffs and scars alight.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

Chapter Text

Simon slipped out of bed early the next morning. The air had a bite to it, despite the home’s heater, and the press of the floorboards to the soles of his feet sent a cold and unpleasant shock through him. He tugged the covers over Johnny a little higher.

The kitchen was less daunting now than it was when Ghost had first stepped foot into Johnny’s house, but he’d only ever cooked in it. As he rifled through the cabinets and pantry for ingredients, he thought about the first time he’d baked scones with his mother. They’d come out hard and slightly burnt, over sweet from the sugar and chocolate chips that he’d studded them with.

His mother had made a plain cup of strong earl grey and dunked the poor attempt at a pastry into it, sighing in dramatic contentment. “It may not be the best on its own, but try it like this—“ and she’d held out a dipped corner of the scone to Simon.

The tea softened the hard exterior, the strong steep tempered the oversweetness, balancing it out as he chased the crumbs down with a stolen sip from the mug.

Simon hadn’t had chocolate since he joined the service, before last night. He didn’t think he could handle trying it again this morning.

So much time had passed since he’d baked anything, but he fell back into the rhythm as if he’d stood at his mother’s hip only yesterday.

The slightest touch of sugar, baking powder, garlic powder, salt, pepper. He only bothered to measure out the flour; though his palms were rougher and broader than they’d been as a boy, he could intuit just as well. Simon tried not to focus on the ever-growing catalogue of scars across his knuckles and forearms as he selected and cut the chives that grew in a little glass jar on Johnny’s windowsill, or added the ham and cheese into the mixture— some pasture-raised sharp cheddar from what seemed to be a local farm. Another Johnny-thing to file away.

Simon didn’t know if Soap even had a cheese grater, much less where it would be kept, so he used one of the knives in the butcher block to thinly slice a stick of frozen butter in a vague approximation of the work a grater would do.

The slivers were cold and unpleasant between his fingers as he kneaded it into the dough mixture. He ignored what that must mean, that he preferred the hot, firm act of taking a life over the cold process of making. Here, in Johnny’s kitchen, his only job was to bake. All other responsibilities were left at the threshold.

Soap didn’t have buttermilk, understandably, so Ghost mixed some whole milk and vinegar instead, starting the coffee pot as the substitute soured.

It was a trick he had learned from his mother, the first time they’d made pancakes. Simon never tasted them, in the end; his father had pushed him from the kitchen with a wild look and a belt, and Simon had tasted nothing at all that day except the blood from where he’d bitten through the skin on the inside of his cheek.

That was okay. He preferred those cheap toaster waffles, anyways.

By the time the coffee had finished brewing, he’d mixed the dough and cut it into triangles, the oven preheated and the timer started.

Ghost leaned against the island that split the kitchen, staring out of the window above the kitchen sink.

What was it about baking that stirred such emotions in him? Was it the fact that it was dough, not blood, that caked under his nails? Was it that the dust brushed across his knuckles was flour and not gunpowder? Was it the act of creating for the sake of sustaining another contrasted so directly with the last breaths that he stole from countless foes in the field?

He becomes abruptly aware of a presence at his back, lurching him out of his reverie as he sees Soap from the corner of his eye. The other man is leaned against the counter next to him, close enough that, over whatever length of time he’d been standing there, the heat from his body had radiated to warm Ghost’s arm.

Johnny exhales and tips his head to rest on Simon’s shoulder. “Where are you right now, Simon?” He asks, voice soft.

Without thinking, Simon tilted his head to rest atop Johnny’s. “I’m right here, Johnny.” He’s surprised to hear his own voice, thick with unshed tears.

“Thought you’d left again,” Johnny confessed into the air before them.

“As long as I’m welcome here,” Simon said, letting his eyes slip closed, “I’ll always come back.”

They both knew he couldn’t promise to never leave, but this— this was something that he could agree to.

“You’re always welcome home, Simon.”

His father had always said ‘Simon’ like he’d meant to say ‘disappointment’.
His brother had always said ‘Simon’ like he’d meant to say ‘weak’.
His mother had always said ‘Simon’ like she’d meant to say ‘lifeline’.

He had been a boy, once; undeserving of the contempt of cruelty or responsibility of any of the roles that he’d been forced into.

Johnny, now and always, said ‘Simon’ like he would never even think of saying any other name.

Simon turned and stooped, pressing his forehead into Johnny’s, whose hands came up to scratch gently across the buzzed hair at his nape.

“The world’s biggest cat,” Soap teased.

“A right tiger,” he agreed, smiling softly.

The moment was interrupted by the most unfortunate timing of Ghost’s stomach rumbling, loudly.

“And he growls, too.” Johnny’s eyes sparkled in the morning light as he pulled away, and Ghost shoved at him lightly.

“It’s from all the hard work I put into baking you breakfast, you ass.”

“Mm, yeah— coffee,” Soap groaned, tearing himself away from the other to pour himself a mug. Ghost watched him a moment, amused, before tugging the baking sheet from the oven just before the timer went off. They were perfectly shaped, golden brown. By the time the pair had finished fixing their coffees, Ghost deemed the pastries cooled enough.

“Try,” he said, picking up one to test for himself. Soap leaned down and took a bite from the one in Simon’s hand, untamed mohawk falling messily into his face as he bent down.

“‘S good,” he managed through a mouthful, oblivious to the effect the action had on Simon. “Really good. Where’d you learn to bake like that?”

“My mother,” Simon replied, gaze fixed to the stray crumbs that had caught on the corner of Soap’s mouth, and then the path that his tongue took as he licked his lips.

“Tell me about her?” Johnny asked curiously.

Simon cleared his throat, dropping his gaze to the cup of coffee in his hand. “Not—not today.”

Johnny nodded, his face devoid of any hint of judgement. “Some other time, then.” He stole the rest of the scone from Simon’s hand and took another bite, closing his eyes in satisfaction.

Simon huffed a laugh at that, grabbing a fresh scone from the cooling rack.

Savory and soft inside and warm. A perfect creation, in this shared space; a perfect memory, in this shared moment.

Chapter Text

Fed and satiated, Soap and Ghost stood shoulder to shoulder, handwashing the breakfast dishes. Suds covered Johnny’s arms up to the elbow in the messiest display of cleaning Ghost had ever seen.

“All done,” He said, passing Johnny a towel to dry his hands on.

Soap blew a handful of suds at Simon, laughing at the way the other recoiled. “Is the big bad soldier scared of some bubbles?” He teased.

“I’ll get you back for that,” he threatened, hooking an arm around Johnny’s waist and tugging him off balance. He flailed, and they both went down, Simon twisting to cushion the fall and protect their heads.

Johnny took advantage of the jolt that went through them both at the contact, turning to face Ghost and shove his shirt up. Cool, damp hands dug into Simon’s ribs, forcing an unintentional laugh from him as Johnny ran ticklish fingers across his sides.

“The great Ghost, brought down by tickling— what do you have to say for yourself?” Johnny demanded. As soon as his focus let up, though, Simon pounced; he flipped them over again so that Johnny was on his back, knees pinning him by the hips and wrists kept above his head by one of Simon’s hands.

“One chance to back down,” he offered graciously.

Johnny laughed and tugged at his wrists. “I’ll never surrender.”

“Hm,” Simon huffed, not bothering to hide his grin. “Prepare to eat your words, then, Johnny.”

“Okay, wait— wait-,” Johnny laughed, squirming under Simon’s fingers.

“No way,” he shot back. “I said one chance, you didn’t take it.”

“Please, mercy,” Soap begged, breathless. Simon paused to look at him— really look. At the dimples in his cheeks and the crinkled smile lines around his eyes. The stretch of his lips— red from being bitten to stifle his laughter—around a helpless grin, the way it made that little scar show up just a bit more. The way that his tan did nothing to conceal the bright blush that had spread across his face and down to the patch of chest revealed by the deep v-neck of his t-shirt. The swell of his biceps beneath the thin fabric. The way his hair splayed across the tiles. The way his bright blue ORBS traced over Simon’s face and tracked the gentle sway of his necklace between them, something fond blooming in his gaze.

I want to kiss him, Simon realized. I actually want to kiss him, here on the floor of his kitchen.

Simon had wanted far worse things than Johnny. Maybe he only deserved those terrible things, but he was being offered this. Selfish and greedy as he was, he took it with both hands, cradled it to his chest. He could live with wanting Johnny.

A part of him wanted to bolt at the feeling curling inside him, to run from this—security and vulnerability at once, personified.

He released Johnny’s wrists instead, still hovering over him, and cupped his cheek with a hand. “Next time, don't pick a battle that you know you'll lose.” He watched the way Johnny watched him, so open and unguarded.

“The only fights I ever lose are the ones where I’m against you, Simon.” The words are so wholly genuine that it takes Ghost aback for a moment. He could feel his back of his neck and the tips of ears heat with a bright red blush.

Ghost’s necklace hung between them, jostled out of his shirt by the tussle, the silver pendant catching the light and glinting into their eyes.

“Then we’ll just have to make sure I’m always on your side.” A confession and a promise in one. Johnny beamed at him, settling his hands at Simon’s waist.

The moment stretched between them, growing heavier with every millisecond. The sunlight, the hard press of the tile, the heat of Soap’s hands on his hips. Too much.

Johnny read the discomfort on Simon’s face, and even that rankled, though he appreciated the fact that Johnny dropped his hands to his own stomach, no longer touching Ghost. Allowing him to retreat. Despite knowing Simon disturbingly well, Johnny had never once used his knowledge against him.

Ghost stood soundlessly, helping Johnny to his feet with a firm hand around his forearm. And Johnny let him, content with the progress.

“Do you wanna go out?” Ghost asked abruptly.

Johnny cocked his head. “Where to?”

“I’m not exactly the local, here. I’m sure there’s something you could come up with, though.” He wasn’t sure what had brought him to say this, just that there was a sudden itching desire to step away from being surrounded by the walls that were so intrinsically Johnny; like maybe, outside, his feelings would have a chance to expand enough so that he could identify what they truly were.

Johnny considered for a moment, hip cocked against the kitchen island. “Well, there are the botanical gardens, I guess. It’s November, so it’s not exactly the most popular spot right now, but there’s an enclosed portion that’s open year round.”

Simon nodded in acknowledgement, ignoring the way his heart clenched at the blinding smile Johnny sent his way, and turned to get dressed.

The air was freezing, but the indoor gardens themselves were warm and protected by a shield of glass. It was quiet, only a few couples and a family of three present while Simon paid for their admission—he’d insisted, it’d been his idea, though Soap had fought him on that.

Kibble Palace—the indoor portion of the gardens—was lush and sprawling. Ghost had enjoyed his time outdoors as a kid, away from the cruelty of his father and the mean streak that accompanied most siblings at Simon and Tommy’s age. The woods of his childhood hadn’t been this cultivated or bright, but he’d always loved nature all the same.

An indoor vendor was selling hot cocolates and water bottles, and Johnny bought them both hot cocoas; tiny, overpriced things that were dwarfed by the men’s grip and tasted far too sweet for Simon’s liking. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from sipping the steaming drink, especially not when Johnny clicked their paper cups together and said “cheers” with a bright grin.

Ghost might begin to associate Johnny with chocolate, if he wasn’t careful. He huffed a silent laugh at the thought.

They wandered aimlessly for a while, reading the identification plaques and talking idly. Johnny stopped every once in a while to take photos of a particularly good set of plants, cursing himself each time for not bringing his journal with him. It was endearing, as much as Ghost hated to admit it.

Johnny was leaning against the railing at one point, half turned toward Simon, when a shutter clicked and a flash went off. Immediately, both men’s attention fixated on a teenaged girl standing farther down the path, holding an older model Polaroid camera.

She froze under both of their stares, and Soap straightened and demanded, “Hand it over.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I—you both just looked very happy,” she said meekly, passing the undeveloped film over.

“You don’t just take pictures of people,” Soap snapped. He sounded—protective. He was mad for Ghost’s sake. He knew the lengths Ghost went to avoid photos and had demanded people delete them, before; this was no different.

Except—

“It’s alright,” Ghost said, laying a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. He glanced at him, uncertainly, but relaxed at the assurance. “If you take another, I’ll pay you for them.”

The girl nodded quickly, maybe a bit anxiously, taking a step away and raising the camera again.

“Simon, are you sure? We don’t have to—“ Soap protested, but Ghost cut him off.

“It’s fine. Smile for the camera, Johnny.” Simon wrapped an arm around his neck, tugging him closer, and looked at the camera. He didn’t smile, but he allowed himself to let go of that hard edge to his gaze that he found himself carrying so often.

The camera flashed and spat out another sheet. Simon dug some cash out of his wallet and passed it to the teen.

“It’s sweet, that you’re so protective of him,” she told Johnny earnestly, before smiling at Simon. “You seem to be in good hands.”

“I am,” he replied. Soap seemed to be struck momentarily speechless, so Ghost said the necessary pleasantries and watched her make her way down the path.

“She thought we were dating,” Soap said, after she had turned the corner.

“So?” Countered Simon, unwilling to unpack the flurry of emotions that phrase brought forth.

“Doesn’t bother you, then? Liking men?”

Simon sighed heavily. “Are you asking for yourself, or for the betting pool, Johnny?”

Soap laughed and shoved at his shoulder, wandering a little further down the walking path. He didn’t answer, though.

They walked for a little longer in companionable silence before Johnny brought out the now-developed Polaroid. Captured in it was Johnny, unbearably bright, leant over and beaming at Simon, who was looking back at him with a fondness that had him surprised at himself. He didn’t know he could still look like that.

“Trade you,” he said, plucking the photo from his fingertips and replacing it with the second one. Simon, who had been caught staring at Johnny in the moments before he’d thought the photo had been taken; Johnny, hand curled around the elbow on his shoulder with a hesitant smile.

He watched Johnny smooth a thumb over the pair of them before tucking it away. “Not worried someone will see your face?”

Ghost grunted, unconcerned. “Just make sure to keep it close, then.”

A few more steps, then a quiet, “Thank you, Simon.”

Ghost cleared his throat before he spoke next. “The last time someone cut my hair, before you, I was a prisoner for Manuel Roba.” He tipped his head back to see the peaked glass ceiling, far above.

“The drug lord?” Johnny asked for confirmation, voice unreadable.

Simon hummed in acknowledgment. “It had been a couple of months since I had been captured, and it was getting too long. Falling into my face during sessions, hiding my expression. They didn’t like that.”

Johnny was quiet next to him, listening. Fake birdsong filtered through strategically placed hidden speakers. Simon paused for a moment to wrap one hand around the cool metal fence along the walking path and brushed the backs of his fingers across a broad, smooth leaf on the other side.

“They tied me to a metal chair in the center of the room and poured cold water over my head. Told me it was the salon treatment. I always hated that. The water was shit, but it was the only means I had of getting clean there. Hope a bucket of ice water would get splashed on me and carry away some of the blood and grime.”

The green of the foliage was vivid against the pale skin of his hands, scarred and slightly crooked. Johnny breathed steadily just off his right shoulder.

“They used a knife to cut it. Probably too lazy to find scissors, and it was already in the room.” He didn’t need to address the implications of that; Johnny could figure it out. He was smart like that. “They got close enough to the scalp that if I moved, the knife would cut me.”

He took a measured breath, dropping his other hand to the railing. “They gave me plenty of reason to move, while they did it, but I only moved once.”

He could feel Johnny move behind him and resisted the urge to flinch when his fingers brushed against the scar he knew rested at the base of his skull.

“This one?” He guessed.

“That one,” Simon confirmed.

The fingers trailed over again, more firmly. “And others,” Johnny said, more statement than question. He touched the bullet graze along the side of Simon’s scalp, the knife nick on the side of his neck, the raised stab wound on his shoulder that was just barely covered by the collar of his shirt.

“And others,” he replied.

Johnny stepped beside Simon, laying his hand on the handrail and overlapping their pinky fingers. Ghost’s lips twitched faintly at that; it was such a Johnny MacTavish move that he had to smile.

He twisted his head to face the other, who was looking at their hands with a slight frown. “I’d have to say, you did a much better job. Could’ve even asked for a tip.”

Johnny’s gaze snapped to his for a moment, then he rolled his eyes. “You can’t keep ruining the moment with your bad attempts at humor, Simon.”

“What d’you mean, bad attempts? My sense of humour is great,” Simon protested.

He was met with just a groan as Johnny pushed away from the boundary. “Come on then, I’m getting hungry. And each of your bad jokes is a strike against you. Three strikes and you’re paying for lunch.”

“Hey, Johnny?”

“Yes, Simon?”

“Where do cats go when they die?”

“I don’t even want to know, Simon. Keep it to yourself.”

“Purrgatory.”

Chapter Text

When they returned home after spending the remainder of the day getting lunch and running errands, Ghost split off to go wash up. It was hard for him to look at himself in the mirror, harder than it was to look at photographs of himself. He ducked his head to wash his face, but when he tilted his head up again, he met the gaze of his reflection. The thing in the mirror moves like him and at the same time as he does, but it doesn’t resonate in him as an extension of himself. How could that be him, with the unfamiliar scar across his cheek, or the washed-out line of his mouth, the hollow eyes?

A knock on the door shakes him out of the unnerving staring contest and he pays his face dry, opening the door. Johnny proffers a change of clothes for after his shower with a smile and Ghost takes them with a mumbled thanks.

Under the heat of the water, he allowed himself to reflect on the day. He’d been ready to share his experiences—a small part of them, at least—with Soap today. But still, it was a fact that he hadn’t talked to anyone about the experience aside from the mandated meetings for psych evals and one tense, hurt-filled conversation with Price. He still could recall with heart-wrenching clarity the way Price had stared at the ugly Y-shaped scars that crawled across his torso, the anger in his voice as he demanded to know where Simon had gotten them.

Soap would be different, he assured himself. This was Johnny, after all. He had seen all of Simon’s scars, and had taken them as the mark of strength they were. To know of Simon’s less visible scars would be no different.

He turned off the spray and toweled off, slipping on the clothes that Johnny had provided. Day by day, the distinction between their two wardrobes lessened as Johnny mixed their clothes in with every wash cycle, folded them and put them in the same drawers. Simon’s shirts hung loose even over Johnny’s frame, and Johnny’s sweats clung snugly to his hips and thighs.

He flicked the bathroom lights off, hung the towel to dry, and slipped into the bedroom.

The shadows seemed deeper, pushed against the brightness of the day they’d had. A peculiar restlessness had nested just beneath the skin of Simon’s palms. It itched to be freed, transferred to some other victim in a burst of aggression.

He slipped under the covers, resting on his stomach, face pressed halfway into the bedding, and eyed the slats of the blinds. The light of the streetlamp outside cast slanted lines across the end of the bed, soothing, lightening the dark. A fathomless well of emotion spread suddenly, like a stinging ache through his chest.

Simon turned his face into the pillow and breathed deeply, willing the unsettling sensation away. Orange and spice from the detergent or cologne, the faint clean undertone of Johnny’s shampoo. No sharp scent of iron or gunpowder here. He rubbed his cheek across the sheets like some overgrown cat, drowning himself in the way the soft fabric smoothed over his skin.

Footsteps signaled Johnny’s return from the bathroom, but Ghost didn’t bother with moving. He curled his hands into the sheet beneath him, wrinkling the fabric and studying the contrast of the dark grey against the paleness of his skin, the knuckles that were permanently reddened, the scar that crossed from the webbing between his ring and little fingers to the inside of his wrist, still somehow paler than the rest of his sun-starved skin.

“Want this off?” Warm fingers traced a line beneath the chain of his necklace.

Simon made a wordless noise of agreement, if only to continue feeling Johnny’s fingers on his skin. He seemed to understand, allowing his knuckles to brush against Simon’s spine as he unclasped it, keeping one palm settled against his neck as the necklace was gently set down on the nightstand.

Instead of walking to the other side of the bed and breaking contact, Soap pushed Simon further towards the centre of the bed and slid in behind him, an arm around his middle holding the two closely together.

“What’s wrong, Si?” The words were hot puffs against the back of his neck, making him shiver.

“I’m not sure.” The words felt heavy in the darkness. If he couldn’t understand himself, how could he expect Johnny to understand him?

“That’s alright,” Johnny reassured him. “Is this still okay, then?” He squeezed just the slightest to indicate that he meant the position.

Simon’s hand sought Johnny’s arm beneath the sheets. He wanted to lace their fingers together, to press them closer. Instead, he just nodded and relaxed back into hold. The conversation from earlier still prowled in his mind, present even despite the light banter he’d shared with Johnny throughout the rest of the day.

He stands over Soap. His gaze is soft and warm, and his arms jerk against the restraints holding him down not like he wants to escape but like he wants to hold Simon’s hand.

Ghost does not want to hold his hand.

He is already holding a knife.

It pierces Johnny just above his umbilicus, slicing upward in a sure stroke. Simon is screaming, but Johnny makes no sound, just stares dazedly up at him.

He cracks open Johnny’s ribcage. Blood coats his hands. There is no sound except his own voice, screaming, and the crack of bone in a steady rhythm.

Finally, he can see Johnny’s heart, beating still. His hand closes around it and he sobs.

“It’s okay, Simon,” Johnny says. “It’s okay.”

He jerks awake with a gasp, face wet with tears. He and Johnny had drifted apart at some point during the night and he reached blindly across the bed for him. His hand brushed Johnny’s chest and he jerked it back as if burnt, following the line of his body to find the pulse in his neck instead.

“Simon?” Soap’s voice is thick with sleep, confused.

“It’s fine,” he said, a touch frantic, more to reassure himself than Johnny.

A hand curled around Simon’s wrist, steadying the fingers against Johnny’s pulse point while he used the other arm to urge Ghost closer to him.

“We’re okay,” he reassured Simon. “We’re fine.” He positioned them so that Simon’s cheek was above his heart, hand against Johnny’s neck.

“I’m afraid.” He didn’t know where the words came from, but he knew they were true as soon as he’d spoken the phrase that he’d long since abandoned, tucked between the cobwebs and unpacked boxes in his childhood memories. Restless, he traced the topography of the veins on Soap’s hand, eyes staring wide and sightless into the shadows.

“That’s okay,” Johnny reassured. “We aren’t alive unless we have things to fear for.”

“I could kill you,” Simon whispered. His fingers continued their restless journey over the mountains and valleys of Johnny’s rough knuckles. He’d dreamt the death of so many people so many times, but never of someone that he cared about like this.

“I would let you,” he replied. “And that terrifies me.”

“Why?” Simon breathed. Strangely, tears pricked at the backs of his eyes.

“Because it’s you.”

The image of a black hole gradually consuming a star rose, unbidden, in Simon’s mind. But that was wrong, that was just a scenario where there was no decision being made, no agency, just the natural process of the universe. This was a knife pressed to a throat with loving hands; this was knowing that a single cut would destroy them both. This was charging recklessly ahead with no care for the consequences, because the consequences would never come for them. This was standing on a tightrope with nothing but the other person there to act as counterbalance.

A perfectly isolated system.

Johnny hooked a leg between Simon’s and rolled slightly so that he was laying half-atop the other man. He sprawled into the contact, twisting to slot front to front with Johnny.

“Goodnight, Simon.”

The arm that had been looped around his stomach was now draped across his back. Simon reached under Johnny’s shirt to drag his hands over the ridges of his ribs. His heartbeat was slow, steady, completely uncaring of the dangerous thing he’d allowed into his bed.

“Goodnight, Johnny.”

Chapter Text

The front door swinging shut was what pulled Simon from his doze. The sun was bright and blinding through the slats of the window shade, likely midmorning. Simon felt heavy and sluggish, the spider-web strands of sleep still clinging to him. He could hear Johnny move around the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, paper bags crinkling as he folded them. Simon should go out and help, should apologize for last night.

The comforters felt like they weighed tons, keeping him in place.

Johnny’s footsteps padded over the floorboards, heading towards the bedroom. The door creaked open, and Simon slid his eyes open to a bare sliver.

“Good morning,” Johnny said quietly, settling on the bed near Simon’s hip.

“Morning,” he replied. Johnny passed him a mug full of tea and Ghost accepted, taking a cautious sip. “This is good,” he commented, surprised.

“I figured I should learn how to make a decent cup at some time,” Johnny replied as Simon took another sip, levering himself up on an elbow for a better angle. “I went shopping while you were asleep, figured we could do with a restock.”

“Can we talk about last night?” Simon asked.

“If you want,” Johnny said. “I’m not sure what brought all that on, and I’d like to know, but you don’t owe me an explanation.”

“I know,” Simon said. And he did—Johnny had never forced anything from him; not touch, not an explanation, not affection. It was probably what allowed Simon to feel so comfortable with him, to know that he could approach and retreat freely, that Johnny would accept him in all things. It was reassuring, and terrifying, and something that, having now experienced, Simon would unravel without.

“I dreamt about killing you.”

Johnny hummed, leaning back a little so that he was resting against Simon’s legs. “I figured. A nightmare.”

“A nightmare,” Simon confirmed, allowing his gaze to drift away from Johnny, to the little cat-skull necklace on the nightstand, waiting for Simon to wear it again. For Simon to choose, again and again, to be Johnny’s.

“Would you actually do it?” Johnny asked.

Simon shook his head slowly. “But I have these… thoughts. They follow me, Johnny, and they won’t be fixed. You can’t fix them. You can’t do anything to get rid of them. They don’t ever go away.”

“We all struggle, Simon. I can live with the knowledge that I can’t solve all your problems.” He laid a hand over Simon’s side, pressing lightly. “I don’t need to solve all of your problems. Just let me help where I can. That’s all I ask.

“Besides. I have enough things that are intent on ending my life without worrying about the person who I know will move heaven and earth to protect me.” Raw honesty flooded Johnny’s tone. He believed what he was saying, and that floored Simon, to be trusted that much.

“Alright,” he said, unable to create a more apt reply. His voice felt raw, throat thick with emotion. Simon risked a glance up to find Johnny staring at him curiously.

“What?” He asked, feeling a touch self conscious, flayed raw beneath the depth of the words passed between them.

“Oh, nothing,” Johnny said, shaking his head quickly.

“Tell me,” Simon pressed. Johnny was so often an open book; to catch a glimpse of him showing some unknown emotion was unusual. Now that he was thinking of it, though, he had seen that look before. Across rooms, during missions, when he’d sparred for training. Like he was trying to memorize the lines of Simon’s body, the tilt of his shoulders, the shape of his hands.

“I was just thinking… you’d be lovely to draw like this,” Johnny said, a flush spreading across his face at the admission.

Ghost knew that Johnny drew—the messy caricatures and childish joke drawings that were traded around the 141 like collector’s items belied a level of familiarity and skill—but he’d never been treated to Johnny’s actual art, pieces that housed intent and effort and soul.

“I don’t mean to say that after such a heavy conversation, it’s just that I enjoy knowing that you’re comfortable here. That you’re okay to talk about things like this in my home,” he broke off in a wry chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I was expecting, when I brought you with me, but I know what I wanted, and it was this. I know you aren’t big on your face being documented or whatever, so—I’m not asking to, you know. I don’t want to make you—”

Ghost cut him off. “If it’s just you,” he said. “If it’s what you want, and it’s just for you… I could be okay with that.”

“Are you sure?” Johnny asked, a hesitant, hopeful smile breaking out across his face.

“What do you need me to do?” Simon asked, draining his cup.

“Nothing, just get comfortable I suppose. I’m going to go grab some things,” Johnny said. He couldn’t smother the thrilled tone in his voice, lips twitching downward in a useless attempt to hide his delight. Simon hid a private smile, sinking back into the bedding.

He wasn’t wrong—Simon was comfortable here. Maybe even as comfortable as he was on base.

Johnny came back with an armload of supplies– a folded, stained sheet, an easel, the earth-toned boxes that Simon recognised from the small shop they’d gone to early on in their leave. “You can sleep, if you want,” Johnny assured him. Simon hummed sleepily in response, watching as Johnny spread the sheet on the ground and set up the easel and canvas on top. He was still exhausted, the emotional toll of the past day and night hooking into his bones. But he could rest here.

He watched through lidded eyes as Johnny opened one of the boxes, taking out a little glass jar. It was full of a dark powder, and for a moment, Simon thought it was gunpowder. He sprinkled it into his palm and gently blew it onto the canvas. The powder left dark smears across his hands as he used his fingers to press the dust into the canvas, and Simon realised belatedly that it was charcoal dust.

He knew little of art, especially with a less common medium like charcoal, but he could see the focus in his eyes as he applied a variety of tools to the canvas. A thin wedge-shaped tool wrapped in padding, sticks of charcoal that left dark streaks across his hands, a fluffy paint brush that looked like it had served years of use in Johnny’s capable hands. At some point, Simon drifted off, lulled to sleep by the soft susurrations of Johnny’s actions.

He awoke to the bed dipping beside him beneath Johnny’s weight. Sunlight streamed in perfectly from the window in front of him, bathing his face in gold. Simon’s breath caught, still stuck somewhere between wakefulness and dreaming. Was there ever meant to be a distinction when it came to Johnny? The light caught on the spread of his lashes, and shadows pooled where his overgrown hair curled into his face. His eyes were crinkled at the corners slightly, a dark and captivating blue. The ocean could never hope to be as warm or deep as those eyes. If Simon could wake to those every day, then each night would be worth braving; each day worth living.

“I’ve finished,” Johnny murmured. His hands were still coated in charcoal, held carefully away from the bedspread. Simon twisted to look at where the canvas had been taken down and propped against the legs of the easel, facing the bed.

It was breathtaking, more flattering than Simon could express. There was love in the way that Johnny had drawn the slope of his nose, the crest of his cheekbones. His light hair fell across his forehead, fair eyelashes surely accentuated in their length as they fanned softly across his cheeks. The constantly bruised hollows of his dark circles looked artful in contrast to the sharp divot of his Cupid’s bow, mouth just slightly parted as if he had been captured mid-breath. The scars that marred his face were carefully highlighted, each crooked line lightened as if they were cracks that some sacred inner glow seeped through.

“I accidentally smudged it, here, when I was moving it,” Johnny said apologetically, pointing out a slight smear of misplaced charcoal along one cheek.

“Fix it, then,” Simon ordered quietly, catching Johnny’s wrist in a hand and bringing it up to his face. Johnny’s brow furrowed slightly before he parsed Simon’s meaning. Reverently, he pressed his thumb to the jut of Simon’s cheekbone, dragging a line across it.

“Again,” he said, voice bordering on a plea, tugging Johnny closer.

Eyes fixed on Simon’s, Johnny cupped his face, smudging a mark over the corner of his lips, the bump of his nose, the ridge of his brow.

Simon fisted a hand into Johnny’s shirt, tugged down as he surged up, almost knocking his hands away in his fervor. “Please,” he breathed against Johnny’s lips.

To kiss Johnny was not earth-shattering or life-changing. It was an inevitability, it was the final piece made to fit, it was finally coming home. Comfortable and right, the truth that they’d both always known deep in themselves.

Johnny swung a leg over Simon, kneeling over him atop the blankets. “Johnny—I love you,” Simon confessed, voice cracking under the weight of this great thing that had loomed over him for so long, never addressed.

“I know,” Johnny replied, dragging a hand from his neck to the hollow between his collarbones. “And I swear upon all things holy and sacred to me, I love you too. Simon, I love you too.”

He tugged at the hem of Simon’s shirt, and he leaned up to help Johnny pull it off. They crashed together again as Johnny pushed him to the mattress again, pressing kisses across the routes his hands travelled. He trailed over Simon’s neck, across the outline of each rib. Hands pressed lightly against the slight dip of his waist, lips against the raised tissue of each scar. Johnny drew new constellations between the marks of past pain, soothing the ache in Simon’s heart, anchoring him to his body.

Simon caught him once more by the wrists and pulled him close for another kiss. “Stay with me,” he spoke into the space between them.

“Nothing could take me from you, Simon,” Johnny swore. He pressed a palm over Simon’s heart, pressing there. “I’m here, always.”

“You’re here,” Simon repeated, allowing his eyes to fall closed. He wrapped a hand around the back of Johnny’s neck and pressed their foreheads together. “You’re here.”