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Simon Riley hid behind layers and a mask.
He hid to hide who he was, to adorn a persona that snuffed out everything he thought necessary.
Still before him – bare chested, with his head bowed – Simon looked frighteningly small.
He sat at the edge of his bed, bearing fault lines that threatened to break him apart, setting him adrift. Even now, roused from a crushing nightmare, he stowed away parts of himself in fear that one day those parts may be used against him.
Within the comfort of his borrowed room, in the presence of someone he slowly gifted his trust to, an unease towards the world still shined through, dominating every action.
And Johnny, standing with his heart on his sleeve, wanted.
God, he wanted.
He wanted to take this lonely man’s face between his palms and treasure him like something precious. The very man who saw himself as broken, fractured beyond repair. The scars that told his life story painted every aspect of his skin — a permanent reminder of the hell he went through — and Johnny wanted to take a brush dipped in gold, and fill in those cracks, like a piece of shattered pottery longing to be whole again. He wanted to let Simon know his past wasn’t the end of him. It did not scare him away.
How could he ever let it frighten him, when Johnny MacTavish wanted nothing more than to be allowed to love the Ghost? He craved to hold both parts of who he was in his hands, curled up and protected. He yearned to kiss every inch of every scar that littered his body, hoping to take away any hurt that still lingered.
And yet, Soap didn’t move. He stood frozen, incapable of taking even the smallest step towards his superior. He had flung himself into Ghost’s room without pausing to think about the consequences. The frightened sound of his name being called was enough to send him into a desperate scramble down the hall, and through the door. He had roused the Lieutenant from his tortured slumber, only to scramble back when the man shot up in bed, weapon at the ready.
Soap knew Ghost’s training and instincts were the only reason the knife clutched within one white-knuckled hand wasn’t buried in his chest from an expertly aimed throw.
Ghost had come back to himself rather quickly. Whatever fear that still followed him into the waking world was dispersed with a mere blink. Soap watched as the man controlled his breathing, as he collapsed onto the bed from where he rose on unsteady feet. He settled into the position that he maintained now, not a single word spoken between them.
He didn’t ask Soap to leave. Soap hadn’t asked if he was okay. There was a silence that settled over the room, the only noise being the sound of their soft inhales and exhales. It was a heavy silence. It was waiting for one of them to fold, one of them to break the standstill. But these were two trained snipers. They were taught to be able to hold themselves with stillness, and silence for hours on end. There could be no end in sight, but that was okay. Johnny would wait. He would wait as long as he needed to, until Ghost told him to get out, or until Simon asked him to stay. He would wait until the sun rose, and he would wait until the moon took its place.
He would always wait for Simon, because he was a man worth waiting for. He was a man worth fighting for. He was a man worth dying for. And didn’t that realisation make Johnny feel as if the ground was uneven, threatening to topple him over at the slightest misstep?
He didn’t care.
He… He was ruined. Ghost had ruined him, without ever needing to be anything more than he already was. His selfish self took the man into his heart, without ever asking permission. But Johnny was always an “actions first, questions later” kind of guy. He was just being true to himself, never doing anything by halves. His love for Simon was no gradual thing. It didn’t develop over spans of conversation, through time spent orbiting around each other’s space.
Johnny simply woke up one day, and it was there. The realisation crashed over him like an all consuming wave, threatening to drown him anytime brown eyes landed on him, anytime a deep voice sounded in his ears. He wanted to climb to the tallest building, and scream his emotions out, yelling them to the night sky. But fear of rejection, and fear of losing Ghost will forever keep him mum.
“Are you just gonna stand ‘ere and stare?”
The voice breaking the veil of silence nearly made Soap jump out of his skin. He had sunk into his thoughts, had welcomed the quiet as a sure thing, fully expecting it to stretch and stretch. Ghost’s voice was unprompted, and surprising. He didn’t think it would be the older man to finally cave, but here they were.
“I–,” Soap began, eyes shifting to the Lieutenant’s face. He had lifted his head when he spoke, his brown eyes glinting with the soft light that bled from the hallway through the cracks of the door.
He had to remind himself how to breathe. He had seen Ghost without his mask before, but that was freshly taken off, the black paint smeared and dripping from sweat. The Ghost before him now was simply Simon, his dirty-blond hair curled just the slightest atop his head, dishevelled from the small stint of sleep he got. Soap had forgotten how light his eyelashes were, nearly blending into the canvas of his pale skin, his eyebrows the same shade. One was arched in question, the expression somewhat out of place amongst the scars.
Simon’s face was a marvel to Johnny. He had a scar cutting through one of his eyebrows, reaching down to nearly touch an eye. Another ran the length of his head, from temple to jaw – disappearing into the stubble that ran along his jawline. But the most striking one was the half Glasgow, a jagged line beginning at the corner of his lips that reached to his ear. It was poorly healed, the skin pulled taunt in an imitation of what it was before the injury.
It was beautiful in the way it was uniquely Simon.
“Johnny,” there was that voice again, an exasperated softness in it. The Sergeant had slipped into his thoughts once more, each and every one having the man before him as their focus.
He swallowed, clearing his throat before offering a soft “sorry” as response to the silence. He shifted on his feet, feeling out of place now that Simon's full attention was on him.
“Dinnae mean to frighten ye earlier,” he continued, voice finding its normal tone. “I heard ye havin’ a fit in ‘ere. You… eh,” he licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry.
“You called out for me,” he finally informed, having to avert his gaze away, not wanting to witness the reaction of disdain, or anger, that he thought would surely follow.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
And then…
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Simon admitted, sending a shock that was nearly painful through Johnny, his averted eyes swinging back to the man in bed. Simon met his gaze without falter, slowly rising with a rustle of the sheets. There was the sound of a knee popping, prompting a small grimace, before footsteps creaked against the hardwood concealed by cheap carpet, advancing towards Johnny, causing a spark of fear to light within him – but he snuffed it out, just as quickly as it occurred.
He wouldn’t say Ghost would never hurt him. The man was a master of violence without restraint, having the ability to inflict pain unimaginable, that was for certain. But Johnny didn’t fear him. He didn’t think he ever did, even when rumours were the only thing he knew of Simon Riley. Johnny wasn’t capable of fearing him.
Bare chested scars filled his eyeline, the height difference forcing him to tilt his head back, just to be able to hold their locked gazes. Simon wasn’t slowing down, his feet closing the distance until Johnny could feel the warmth radiating off of him. He had stopped breathing at one point, all his attention and mental capabilities honed in on the presence before him. He was so close, he could finally see his eyelashes even in the dim light. He could see his vague reflection in those brown eyes, shining in a way he wasn’t used to.
Johnny swallowed again.
“Ye called for me before?” He asked, his voice nearly a whisper, as if speaking at normal volume would ruin the moment that he was unexpectedly in. Simon's expression was serious, determination plain in the set of his brows, the slight downturn of his lips. He was having a war with his mind.
Out of the corner of his eye, a hand began to lift, slow in its ascent. The breath in his lungs caught again.
“Ever since Las Almas… Chicago…” Simon answered, the furrow in his brow deepening. “You were almost killed. And I couldn’t do anythin’ to stop it. I’m plagued by scenarios where you do end up dyin,’ and I‘m calling your name, but you don’t get back up,” he explained, as if what he was saying wasn’t heartbreaking.
Ghost was in Soap’s ear that whole mission. He was the main reason the younger man was alive, standing before him. He couldn’t help his morbid curiosity from wondering what the man’s nightmares were like, considering the circumstances. Was he imagining his failure in guiding Soap along? Did he dream of missing the shot that saved him from a fall out of a window?
The hand paused in the air, mear inches from Johnny’s cheek, the action being second-guessed, aborted. That very hand began to lower back to Simon’s side, but the moment was here. The moment was now.
In this damned apartment, in the middle of the damned night, on a damned recon mission – the moment was now.
Johnny’s hand lashed out in a quick movement to seize Simon's retreating hand. Ungloved, he could feel the calluses on heavy-laboured fingers, could see the bruising that never seemed to fade. The man offered no resistance against his hand being drawn up from where it was falling, following the path Simon wanted to take on his own accord.
Instead, brown eyes traced the movement, seemingly never blinking. The small gasp he let out when callused fingers touched the soft flesh at Johnny’s cheek was worth more than the universe could ever offer.
“I’m here Lt,” he assured, adjusting his hold so Simon was cradling his cheek in palm. Johnny further leaned into it, the warmth grounding, intoxicating. “I’m 'ere, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Hesitantly, a thumb began to stroke across the height of his cheekbone in featherlight movements. Fingertips danced along his hairline, the shaved sides beginning to grow in due to the time away from a barber. Brown eyes were focussed on the hand pressed to Johnny’s face, a morbid sadness clouding them.
“You can’t promise that, Johnny,” Ghost claimed, ruefulness lifting a corner of his mouth. “Not livin’ the lives we live.”
The younger leaned into the touch, eyes slipping closed briefly to savour the feeling of a hand made to kill, touching him with such gentleness. He knew Ghost was right. They lived dangerous lives, constantly walking the line between life and death, knowing one misstep, one poorly executed move could send them tumbling off the edge.
That didn’t mean they didn’t deserve this. It was cruel to imagine life outside of the 141, outside of the military. None of them – he, Ghost, Price, Gaz, Laswell – could ever drag civilians into their lives, not when so many had already gotten hurt. Could never think for a moment that they could settle down, retire, and lead a normal life. Johnny knew that, but this… They were in the same occupation. Their impending death draped over their shoulders, settling like a cruel omen. There was no risk of civilians getting caught up in the cross-fire. There was no lying, and hiding what their job entailed. So why didn’t they deserve this? Why didn’t they get to have each other?
His eyes opened, blue meeting brown, hand sliding away from where he brought the other's to his face, his fingers curling around the man’s wrist – comforting. “I cannae promise to make it to old age, Simon.” he took in the sight of the man’s eyes fluttering closed for a fleeting moment when his name left Johnny’s lips.
“But I can promise that I will do everythin’ in my power to stick aroun’. I won’t leave ye, not on my own accord,” he tried to smile, he really did – tried to slip on his signature grin that always got an exasperated roll of brown eyes – but Ghost’s glinting eyes grew dark, the fondness and sadness being tucked away – replaced by cold steel. He was shaking his head, a small movement that slowly built into a vigorous thing.
He began to pull away, his hand leaving Johnny's face – the shadow of his warmth fading – as he took a step back, followed by another. His wrist was still curled within Johnny’s hold, and the Sergeant tightened his grip, trying to halt his retreat.
“Soap, let go,” Ghost urged, his voice clipped and devoid of any emotion. But Soap wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let the man run away. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, couldn’t.
Not here, not now. They had already kicked the ball into motion, and they were rolling down a hill with no end in sight.
“No.” The Sergeant defied. Now it was him closing the distance, following Ghost in his escape. The door to the bedroom was behind his back. There was nowhere for the Lieutenant to go.
“No? That’s an order, MacTavish,” Ghost bit out, but there was an edge of panic creeping in. He was being cornered, unable to make it to an exit. Soap was playing a dangerous game. Cornering Ghost was like cornering a wounded predator. The last, desperate attack trying to reach freedom was always the most deadly, and there was a knife on the bed.
He didn’t falter in his approach.
Please stop. Johnny wanted to say.
Don’t be afraid. He wanted to plead.
You’re everything. He wanted to cry.
“I love you,” is what he said.
The world halted.
There was not a sound. Neither of them breathed.
Apprehension clouded brown eyes.
“You can’t,” Simon’s voice was so small.
“I do,” Johnny’s was firm.
“You can’t, ” the fight was bleeding out of him, replaced by a defeated curl of his body, trying to make himself as small as possible. Johnny took another step forward, continuing when it was clear the other wasn’t going to run.
He looked truly frightened. Brown eyes fleeting over the lines of Johnny’s face, as if looking for answers to questions he hadn’t asked. Fingers dropped from his wrist, in favour of gripping the hand that touched Johnny’s face only moments ago, fingers intertwining. He noted absentmindedly that Simon’s hand dwarfed his. It was endearing.
They were nearly chest to chest when Johnny stopped his advance. It was his turn to raise a hand up, his other still clasping the Lieutenant’s. Eyes framed by blond eyelashes shut tightly, anticipating a touch he wasn’t familiar with.
It began with the barest brush of fingertips along a jawline, feeling the rough stubble there. Simon held himself still, afraid to move. There was no protest, so Johnny adjusted and let himself feel more of the warm skin at hand.
He traced the line of his jaw, feeling the rough end of his vertical scar. He followed the length of it, rising over the curve of a cheekbone, feeling soft blond hairs along his hairline. He moved to trace along the eyebrow with a scar, watching as Simon relaxed enough for his eyelids to not be bunched, allowing the younger man to feather over one. His heart pounded in his chest as he brushed eyelashes he longed to feel.
The older man had started breathing again at some point.
Johnny’s exploration continued. He followed the somewhat crooked line of Simon’s nose, the skin involuntarily scrunching up, earning a small smile from the younger man, before he traced the line back up and to the side, across the cheekbone he hadn’t visited yet.
He was slow, touching the very ends of the scar that made up Simon’s half-Glasgow. He heard a breath hitch in the man’s lungs, but he didn’t pull away, nor voice any protests. Johnny continued, fingers dancing along each jagged line, the skin thin and taunt – the fault line marring nearly half of the Lieutenant’s face.
He thought it beautiful.
The time came for him to reach the older man’s lips. Johnny hesitated, expecting rejection once again – but none came.
Simon’s lips were chapped, both from scarring and lack of maintenance. He guessed the man has never used chapstick a day in his life, but it didn’t deter Johnny. He traced the downturned curve, urging silently for the man to release the frown his face had been stuck in. He shifted direction, trailing over his top lip, dipping at his cupid’s bow.
“Johnny,” Simon’s voice was breathless, broken. He whispered the name like a prayer to a god he no longer believed in. When his name failed to make him stop, his fingers moving to the jawline he started with, brown eyes opened.
The fear was gone, replaced by that hesitant fondness he got a glimpse of earlier.
“Johnny,” Simon tried again, his voice a bit stronger now, and the younger finally met his gaze, his ministrations halting. At some point, he had started leaning into the touch, his head tilted to the side.
“Simon?” Johnny answered, bringing his other hand up slowly, allowing the older man time to refuse the advance, but no protest came.
His fingers splayed on both sides of Simon’s face, cradling. A shuddering breath left the man, but he didn’t pull away.
“Why?” It was a question he should’ve expected. It was a question he was prepared for.
“Why not?” Soap replied, earning a sneer that was all Ghost. He responded by shifting his hold, his fingers curling just around Simon’s ears, his feet going on their tip-toes to make better eye contact.
“To be honest wit’ ye, I cannae explain in detail. It just happened. I woke up one ‘ay and there it was, in bright flashin’ lights. ‘I love Simon Riley,’ it said. Swears it,” he took the light-hearted approach, hoping to ease into the conversation, but Ghost was Ghost, and his expression didn’t falter.
“Ye ever get to feel somethin’ that just feels right? No other explanation, ye sit back and decide that it’s where you’re supposed to be? That’s how I feel. Ye just feel right. From the moment I met ye, there was somethin’. Ye got all these rumours surroundin' ye, tellin’ even the bravest recruits not to fuck wi’ the Ghost, and that’s fair. You’re bloody terrifyin’ Simon, but you dinnae scare me.”
Johnny stopped in his speech to catch his breath, and wet his lips. His mouth was terribly dry, his nerves starting to catch up to him. He couldn’t lose wind now, the threat of Ghost forcing his way to a retreat still a possibility.
But the lapse into silence did wonders. God, did it do wonders. There was a hand touching his waist. It started small, barely there, a presence akin to a shadow. When Johnny didn’t shift away, that hand pressed firmly against the curve of his waist, fingers gliding just under the fabric of his t-shirt. The heat of skin-on-skin threatened to make his knees give out.
He pushed on.
“You never scared me. You’re never gonna to scare me. I will take you at your best, and at your worst, Simon and Ghost,” there was a flutter of eyelashes again, Simon’s eyes remaining closed this time. There was that furrow of his brow making its reappearance, which Johnny was finally recognising as a look of pain stemming from disbelief.
Simon didn’t believe what he was saying, and that was fine. That was something they could work on.
“You are a marvel to me,” Johnny started anew, taking note of the way Simon’s hand at his waist curled in, wanting to pull him closer, unsure if he was allowed.
Johnny closed that last remaining distance between them, his chest meeting the bareskin of the other's. Tension sang up from the hand at his waist, body going rigid at the touch. Brown eyes sprang back open, a mouth parting to take in a gasp of breath. Hands held treasure between their palms, and Simon held at his waist the dragon to protect it.
“All your scars, both physical and mental. All your burdens you dinnae want to share. All the distrust ye have towards the world, and all the care ye have for those very few. Let me love you, and all o' it. Let me, Simon.”
That steady hand held tight, holding Johnny close to a warm chest littered with scars that each had a story.
“I don’t deserve it. None of it,” Simon said, his free hand reaching to wrap around one of Johnny’s wrists, in a mirror of their position earlier. “You’d be wasting that heart o’ yours on someone like me.”
“That’s my choice,” Johnny said, firm and sure. “It’s my choice to make, Simon. I’ll cut out my heart and give it to ye in a box if I gotta for ye to believe it’s not a waste. It’ll never be a waste. Not if it’s ye.”
Simon’s hand dropped from his wrist in favour of joining his other at Johnny’s waist. Those strong hands pulled, trying to wrangle the two of them closer. Johnny’s hands slid from Simon’s face, moving to wrap around his neck as his feet left the ground.
It was the safest he’d ever felt in an embrace. The size of Simon dwarfing him, those hands holding tightly. A hand found purchase in dirty blond hair, the slight curls just as soft as they looked. He splayed his hand through, letting the silk run through his fingers.
“You’re wasting everything on me, Johnny,” Simon’s voice was hushed where his mouth was pressed to Johnny's shoulder. “But dammit, I want you to. I want you.”
“Ye have me.”
It happened so quickly. His feet hit the floor, and those hands were gone in favour of cupping his face in warmth. Simon’s lips were surprisingly soft for how chapped they seemed to be, pressed firmly against his own. It wasn’t much of a kiss, instead it was asking for permission. Johnny had no problem granting that wish, his mouth moving. Simon responded in kind, parting his lips and allowing the kiss to deepen.
Time stalled, and the room dropped away. It was the two of them, chest to chest, in an apartment that was not theirs, on a recon mission that was pushed to the backburner. Simon’s tongue flicked at his bottom lip, asking a question that Johnny readily answered. Those hands were gone from his face – always on the move – and Johnny left his feet again. Legs wrapped around hips, large hands holding his thighs.
Johnny lost track of where he ended and Simon began. They slotted together not quite perfectly, but nearly there. In some cultures, it was okay for a piece of pottery to be imperfect. It told a story all on its own, in gold lines stretching across porcelain, in scars marring flesh. Beautiful in its flaws.
Johnny MacTavish wanted to hear those stories.
He wanted to hear about the gold, and the Ghost.