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Simon wakes up slowly, a languid grasp for consciousness as the warmth that surrounds him makes a valid effort to pull him back under. The soft morning sunlight is streaming in through Johnny’s bedroom window and it’s resting gently all around him as Simon takes in the sight of Johnny, fast asleep and drooling on his chest.
It’s a nice view, all things considered, just not one he’s used to.
Ghost cranes his neck and kisses Johnny’s head, and stays like that for a moment, just taking everything in, just one moment before everything becomes real again. Because he’s not allowed softness like this, he’s not made for it, he’s too jagged and rough. Too broken to be worth putting together.
But the universe doesn’t allow him the small mercy of stopping, and Johnny stirs and lifts his head up slightly, just enough to meet Simon halfway. The kiss is sweet, early morning and warm, and Ghost is left battling down how much Simon craves this closeness, how much this tender moment pulls at his insides.
He knows they're going to have to talk about this, about what they are, if even to tell their team. Ghost is not looking forward to that conversation, he has a feeling it’ll go in a direction he can’t handle.
He feels a stab of hot shame at the thought: apparently he’s the only one allowed to reject people now.
Almost on queue Johnny starts pushing away from him and panic floods Ghost’s veins at the thought of this small frame of domesticity ending, at the thought that now he has to say something, convince this beautiful, wonderful person that Ghost can learn how to be softer.
That though sometimes Ghost forgets how to feel things, he’s here now, and him being here now sometimes relies on that absence, that sometimes Ghost will forget what being human feels like, but that he will never forget to be Simon with Johnny. Johnny helps him remember, in a way, he helps to keep him grounded, allows a little of Simon to pull through, enough for that part of him to function and feel real.
And as he tries to tally all the reasons Johnny shouldn’t kick him out, he realises all he can come up with are reasons he’s too broken to be worth the effort.
He never had to give anyone his heart before, never trusted anyone with Simon’s fist sized muscle, always sure that it wouldn’t matter in the end. He’s not sure he knows how to love someone, he’s never developed the muscle memory for it, but Johnny is the closest thing he’s felt to comfort. He thinks if he were ever to love someone it would be Johnny.
Simon already does, in his own way, in that way where he’ll drown in it before letting himself reach for it. He knows he’s not allowed kindness, so he sucks up all he can fit in his tiny little chest cavity that once resembled a beating heart and bites whoever tries to take it away. After all, Simon’s heart is already on fire, has been burning for this loudmouth ass since Las Almas.
But right now he’s not Simon.
Right now he’s Ghost, and his heart is not on fire, but it feels soft, bruisable. It feels like he’s preparing for a fight, a cold analytical discussion about the pros and cons of workplace fraternisation. Simon can’t argue this case, not really, he has too much on the line. The last thing Ghost wants is for Simon to blurt out some inane love confession and ruin the one good thing he hasn’t managed to lose yet.
He doesn’t realise he spaced out until Johnny comes back to the bed and kisses the top of his head in the same soft way he kissed him last night, and Ghost doesn’t know what face he’s supposed to be making to avoid looking as terrified as he feels.
“You alright?”
The question catches him off guard, he was expecting John to go in for the kill, show the same unrelenting determination to settle whatever this is that he displayed last night. He was not expecting concern.
Ghost doesn’t know what to do with concern. Especially when he’s expecting a fight and instead is being gently cradled by the centre of his universe. These feel like the wrong steps being taken, that half fall when you expect there to still be ground under your feet.
“Yeah,” he breathes, “Just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” this earns him a half hearted glare, “What’s got your pretty little head in a twist?”
What are we is what he wants to say, how long can I trust you to be patient with me.
How long are you willing to keep me around, feed the feral animal in hopes of getting something back other than growls and bites.
He doesn’t say anything like that because Simon is not the one running the show and Ghost is not in the habit of waxing poetic out loud.
“Not a word of this to the team,” he says instead. “Have to deal with enough already with you talking back, I’m not in the mood to be losing any more face.”
The hand that had made its way to his cheek stills and pulls away, and another surge of panic travels up Ghost’s spine, because being a prick isn’t the best way to keep someone from leaving. He realises with no small amount of dread that he has no idea how to talk to Johnny now, their dynamic has shifted, and his brain is pulling a blank on how to go on.
“Is that really what you think of me? That I’d hold this over your head? Steamin’ Jesus, Simon,” he says this in a light tone, but it’s not hard to notice the tightness in his throat as he speaks the words. He’s hurt.
Yes, Ghost wants to say, of course you would, why else would you want me?
No, Simon cries, I know you wouldn’t, you’re a better man that I could ever hope to be.
Ghost stays silent, the knot in his throat very nearly choking him.
“Look at me Simon,” he tries, but Ghost refuses to look up. He’s not crying twice in the span of a few hours around the same man. He’s not about to let his soft belly show just yet, not without knowing just what sort Johnny is.
“Please.”
Tears prick at his eyes and he curses the fact his heart is not as cold as he claimed. There’s a part of him that’s so close to just snapping at Johnny, but that won’t make him stay. A dog that bites gets put down, not comforted, and he’s got a history of biting the hand that feeds until his jaw is bleeding.
Showing his throat never got him shit aside from more pain, but when Johnny goes to lift his head to face him he doesn’t offer resistance.
“Why do you do that?” Johnny asks, in that funny little way he’ll just fucking notice shit.
“Do what?”
“Close off,” he’s still looking at him, but the hurt on his face has turned into something closer to a soft concern. “Last night it’s like you kept switching between being two different people. It’s like you can’t allow yourself to fully be Simon.”
Suddenly Ghost feels frozen solid. There are teeth around his throat and they are so close to biting down.
“Si?”
“He’ll fuck it all up,” he says for some reason, like it makes sense, like anyone who is not in his brain would ever understand. “He’s too weak, too soft.”
And then, because apparently he’s gone insane, “You’ll tear him apart when you leave.”
“Si, you’re the one that left,” his voice cracks in his throat and comes out like jagged shards of glass that fall miserably at their feet. And all at once the hole at the centre of Ghost’s chest collapses in on itself, catching on everything else and pooling out with the remains of his shattered heart.
Johnny takes a few shaky breaths and looks up at the ceiling, and Ghost can see him try to blink back the tears in his eyes.
“I’m not a good person Johnny,” he reminds him, though his voice betrays how he’s close to tears himself, soft belly torn into and spilling all around them.
He’s shaking, and John can definitely tell, but he can’t bring himself to tear the walls down, to switch and be Simon again.
“I don’t need you to be, I just want you to stop making decisions for me.”
“I’m not!”
“So when you ignored me after I got shot that wasn’t you choosing for me if I was pissed at you?!”
I was by your side while you were unconscious, Ghost thinks but can’t bring himself to say, isn’t that enough?
“I apologised for not taking the shot sooner!”
“I didn’t need you to apologise! I needed you to stay!”
The silence that falls over them just adds to the oppressing weight on Ghost’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” Johnny backtracks, “You’re allowed to leave, I just- Ghost, why did you come back? If you wanted to ignore last night and move on you could have left for good.”
“I did stay,” Ghost says quietly, an admission of guilt, a confession he never thought he’d make. “At the infirmary, I- held your hand, but when the medic mentioned you’d wake up I couldn’t- I couldn’t stay when you woke up. But believe me when I say I’m trying, I just don’t know how to be here with you yet.”
This seems to take Johnny aback for a moment, because he’s looking right at him again, but this time his face shifts into something indiscernible.
“You held my hand?”
“I couldn’t stop thinking you died.”
“The pulse thing you do, right? You’re still checking I’m alive.”
This emotional push and pull is jumbling up Ghost’s grip on this conversation, Johnny is moving past things with an alarming speed and Ghost can’t help but think he’s building up to something, to a final confrontation.
He feels he’s laid out on a table and the guts he thought he’d spilled on a forest floor are pinned all around him like butterfly wings. He doesn’t like feeling like he’s being studied.
“So sometimes you’re Simon and sometimes you’re Ghost and sometimes they both like me enough to care that I’m alive. Am I piecing this together enough?”
“We always care. Simon is just better at showing it,” Ghost knows he’s probably not making much sense, he’s only tried to explain this once to a therapist and the look it got him was enough for him to vow to never speak of it again. But for some reason Johnny is buying it, for some reason he’s not fighting him on it.
“Do you always know which one you are?”
“Sometimes yeah, other times we don’t think about it enough to figure it out.”
“Is that what happened last night?” Johnny sits on the bed beside him and gently reaches for his hand. He’d never admit it, but the closeness helps ground him, he always gets a bit spacey when he has to think about Simon and Ghost.
It’s weird to have to talk in third person, but if this is what gets Johnny to understand, if this is what gets him to stay, he’d tear his own ribcage open to help with the vivisection. Another pair of hands to spread all his dark materials in plain sight for Johnny to study, to prick and prod to his satisfaction.
“Ghost was fighting Simon on what to do, so they were both there for all of it.”
“And where were you?”
The next words are like pulling teeth, because Ghost doesn’t like thinking about it too much, and it feels like he’s pretending when he goes to elaborate, because it’s never really right. What ends up falling from his mouth is always the closest approximation.
“I’m both of them and I’m what happens when neither is there. You don’t know me, you know the parts of us we’re letting you see.”
“Okay,” to his credit, Johnny is taking this better than Ghost thought he would. He’s processing the information, taking it in carefully and thoughtfully. It’s nice and Ghost’s heart warms up at the thought that he’s trying.
“And you like me, right?”
Ghost gives a small smile, “Yeah, we like you.”
It’s like the winter sun has decided to make itself a home on Johnny’s face, a warm soft thing that doesn’t feel like it’ll burn, but it’s bright enough to make some of the frost melt. He’s so beautiful, and Ghost’s heart burns anyway.
“And you held my hand when you thought I was dying.”
“Price tried to tear me away multiple times to get me to eat, but I wouldn’t budge. Johnny,” the memory alone makes his eyes wet again, “You have no idea how many close calls you got. I was sure- even when you did make it through I kept thinking you would die. And I wouldn't be there.”
“And that explains the phone calls.”
Ghost can feel the blush travel up his neck at that. He’s not proud of the phone calls, but watching Johnny die over and over was not a nightmare he needed added to the repertoire of images that his brain likes to plague him with. Hearing Johnny’s voice, even over the phone was the most grounding experience he’s ever had, the immediate reassurance, Johnny's all consuming concern that persisted even though Ghost refused to acknowledge it.
“I needed to hear you.”
Johnny shifts on his knees, gets closer to him, Hands moving to cradle his face like he’s something precious, like he’s something fragile. Ghost feels fragile, he realises, he feels so close to shattering again, only this time he’ll make sure his shattered pieces embed themselves in this room, in Johnny’s chest. One last selfish act before he fades away for good.
He’ll haunt this flat, howl and snarl at night like some twisted cursed thing. Let Johnny see him all bared-teeth and still hold him through the night.
He wants him in a way he’s not sure he’s ever wanted anyone before.
“You don’t need to make yourself into some fucking martyr,” Johnny says, like they’re sharing thoughts, like they’re sharing a heart, “I’m not worth you tearing yourself apart. I just need you to be here. Take what you need, but please don’t leave again.”
Ghost covers one of his hands with his own, nuzzling into Johnny’s wrist and pressing his lips to the vein. He widens his legs to let Johnny get closer, lets him climb onto his lap.
He lets himself be kissed, something soft but desperate, lets Johnny take from him for once, a steady hand on the man’s waist that he hopes says I’m not going anywhere, I want to be just as yours as you want to be mine.
Maybe this is what learning how to love again feels like: a fledgeling taking flight for the first time, a monster not slain or tamed, just held. Holding each other just for the sake of being close.
Johnny pulling back to grin at him before kissing him again.