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Normally a non-maiming bullet wound would see them on a brief bit of downtime before once more tossed back into normal routine. John wasn’t just a normal soldier; the 141 couldn’t be jeopardized or held back over a flesh wound. Scans indicated he was fine and more than fit to return to the field. Price thought otherwise.
Two weeks of light duty and PT to make sure there was no lasting nerve damage.
Soap appreciated his captain’s concern but he was beyond bored. He could sit and watch the greenies on the training pitch, could make notes on areas of improvement, but he couldn’t show them properly. Idling around frayed his already tense nerves. Makarov’s involvement with Konni would come at the cost of innumerable innocent lives. Not even rotting away in a gulag prevented him from moving his pieces on the world stage. John could fight through a little pain and discomfort if it meant being on the hunt for a rabid dog like the Russian terrorist; he’d suffer in silence and say thank you if he worked with his team to put the bastard six feet under.
He didn’t spend forty-eight hellish hours slogging through the pain to be sidelined by what was otherwise a non-issue. Yes, it still throbbed every now and again, especially when he’d sneakily tried to exert some effort in private exercises to combat the doldrums. That was to be expected.
But no. Paperwork and supervision. Price argued that the downtime was necessary, at any rate, due in part because Makarov was a slippery cunt and pinning him and his operation down took careful planning.
He’d finished PT late in the afternoon when Gaz came trotting over. “Oi, Soap!” His cheeks dimpled slightly with how broad he smiled. Johnny found himself smiling back. “Plans for the night?”
Soap limply waggled his arm. “Know damn well I’m grounded.”
“Not tonight.” Gaz smiled impossibly wider. “Got us a pass off base. Let’s get to Ray’s before we miss kickoff!”
Ray’s Pub was a popular joint for enlisted and vets. Its owner and proprietor served and, after struggling with returning to ‘polite’ society, sought to build a temporary haven for those still battling. The pub was nice. Low-key, good food, better discounts. Normally John leapt at the chance to head off for a pint or two. “Gaz, you know Pri-”
“Don’t start talkin’ rubbish.” Gaz waved him off. “B’sides, Ghost said it’s fine.”
“LT’s coming?”
Soap knew if he was a dog, his perked up ears and tail would give away his excitement. He’d tried not to let his voice pitch higher in his moment of weakness.
As it stood, the beaming grin spreading across Gaz’s face betrayed everything. “Nah. Gave us the clear for leave though. Only rule is not to get pissed.”
Of course Ghost wouldn’t join them. Outside of not being one for social affairs, he also couldn’t follow his own advice. With everything going on, Price had more on his plate than he could manage. Which means their SIC stepped up. Not that the lieutenant kicked up a fuss. Ghost volunteered more often than not. Like Johnny, he hated not being busy. Whether he was skimming over field reports or reviewing classified docs and footage he technically shouldn’t have, Ghost worked. And he worked hard. John fondly recalled how he’d fallen asleep on the sofa in the 141’s lounge to the sounds of those deft fingers tapping away on the keyboard, only to wake up in the wee hours of the early morning to Ghost watching combat footage of some new drone.
Most folks, Soap concluded, simply didn’t understand Ghost enough to see beyond the veil. Admittedly, he had been one of them. Prior to Verdansk, he’d viewed the lieutenant as the stone-cold specter of the 141. He’d not believed the wild rumors spread by the greenies, but he’d never thought his CO would be…so endearing. Took ages to worm his way beneath that hard shell. John devoured the soft moments between missions, seeing Simon at his most…human. Grumbling over running out of tea or the biscuits being too stale for his liking. The glint of mirth in those beautiful eyes when Johnny sneakily caught him watching silly animal videos on his phone.
The silly jokes he’d mutter under his breath that had Soap groaning if only to keep himself from laughing.
Yeah…John knew the feelings developing for the man stretched beyond the camaraderie of battle buddies living shared experiences of a spec-ops unit.
The subtle, expectant tilt to Gaz’s head drew him back into the present. Couldn’t spend all day in the hall, fantasizing about his superior.
“If LT we said can, suppose we better hustle.” John checked his watch. They’d still probably miss the start of the game but a few hours of just being…normal…would be recompense enough.
They weren't completely pissed when they returned to base. A few shots, a couple beers...nothing too inhibition shattering. The halls may have felt a few meters longer as they stumbled along, but neither seemed to mind. Most of the night was spent cheering and razzing one another over footie. Conversations strayed only infrequently back to work. Gaz voiced his worry over Farah and Alex. Hadir’s actions still haunted him. Price kept them all abreast of the situation and it was growing increasingly dire. Officially, his hands were tied…but their captain wasn’t one for caring about bureaucracy and red tape.
Soap wouldn’t mind volunteering. Dive right back into the action. Seeing Farah and Alex again would do him some good, too. He’d mentioned as much to Gaz, voicing his concerns and stating he’d happily partner with his fellow sergeant to help their friends if called upon.
Thoughts of the future and what could be tapered off as a melody in the present reeled him back in. The sound stopped them cold in their tracks. Soap tilted his head. "...music?"
Gaz shrugged. "Let's check it out."
The light inside the small common room set aside for the 141 was on. Soap, more brazen than usual given the liquor in his blood, shot his companion a look before easing in. Normal rank and file didn’t transgress inside the 141’s areas unless invited. No one wanted to be the FNG that disrupted Price or Ghost’s quiet time.
But soldiers being foolhardy and adrenaline junkies, it wouldn’t surprise either of the sergeants if a dare involved someone sneaking in and intentionally making themselves at home.
Both froze, no doubt struck with the same sudden urge to flee. Simon sat on the sofa, plucking the guitar strings like a pro. Of course he played well; he's Ghost. Not one to half-ass anything. He didn't recognize the song, but he could listen to those chords for hours. Soap felt the smile curling his lips as he watched and listened. On the table at his side sat a bottle of Woodford and a glass half full of the amber liquid.
Ghost was the one to give them orders to shove off for the night and relax. At first the gentle sting of annoyance flickered in his chest. They could have passed the evening at the bar together but his superior declined. Petulantly, Johnny feared it was due to the man not wanting to spend time with them- his friends.
Those childish thoughts deserved no place in his head. He had no claim to the lieutenant’s private time. Soap felt guilty for those greedy thoughts- Simon must have needed his own time to relax. Alone . Alone with nothing but a fine bottle of Kentucky bourbon and whatever music his fingers plucked to life. They’d spent too much time practically attached at the hip since the mission but he never complained. Well, never in a way that was intended to be taken seriously.
Knowing the man’s sharp senses must have given away their presence, the pair of sergeants stood a moment longer and dared not to intrude. When no gruff command to piss off arrived, Soap seized the opportunity as an invitation. As he took a step further in, Gaz's grip tightened on his arm. A relaxed Ghost in his element felt like the ultimate intrusion. Gaz's wide brown eyes were equally mesmerized. Unlike his companion, Gaz’s sense of self-preservation was strong. Waltzing right into firefight or, god forbid, another helo ride with Nikolai was preferable than violating the lieutenant’s personal space. Soap shook him off and moved. Ghost didn't look up at him as Soap plopped down on the floor at his feet. Gaz made a jerking motion with his head but Soap was so lost he didn’t notice. Not wanting to risk the ire of his superior, Gaz hastily made himself scarce.
Not Soap. Never Soap, when it came to Ghost. Blue eyes mystified, the sergeant peered up at Ghost. The man cast him only a cursory glance before finishing the melody currently being plucked to life by the guitar strings.
"What was that, Si?" Soap breathed in awe.
"Frank Turner."
"Play another?" Soap offered hopefully. "Do ye sing?"
"No." Ghost huffed derisively.
“Ach, come on, Si.” John needled childishly. "...at least play one more? For me? Never heard Frank Turner before. Please?"
Those bourbon brown eyes were so full, so beautiful. Soap wanted nothing more than to stay there on the cold floor, immersed in anything Ghost offered. After a few moments, Ghost sighed, took a leisurely swallow of his whiskey, and began strumming the guitar again. He'd stop a moment to tune, ever the perfectionist. Ghost played a few chords and scowled beneath the mask, seemingly trying to determine which song to play next. Finally he huffed and began strumming in earnest. Perked up by the sound, Johnny found himself adoring the plucky beat immediately. What followed only solidified everything culminating within his heart.
"Just give me one fine day of plain sailing weather and I can fuck up anything.
It was a wonderful life when we were together
And now I've fucked up every little goddamn thing"
Nothing stopped the smile from curling his lips. Getting to witness his lieutenant so relaxed was always something, but seeing Simon just...like this...
"Amelie lied to me. This was supposed to be easy
I found the one damn person to help me fall asleep in the night
But sleeping gets tiring"
Johnny was sure that this moment would forever reside in his mind, engraved into the very fabric of his being. If he lived to old age and all else failed him, he'd always cling to this moment. Words tattooing themselves along his veins; the siren melody forging a new tempo into his heart. Simon's hooded gaze, the glimmer in those brown eyes in the low light as they lingered…away from him.
"Dark reminds me of dying
And as long as this feeble heart is still beating
You will find me rushing through every room
Switching on all the lights"
He was man enough to admit that Simon averting his gaze during yet another precious moment of vulnerability stung. Johnny wished he had more to hide just so he could tear open his heart and put everything on display for his Ghost.
"The problem with falling in love in late-night bars
Is that there's always more nights, there's always more bars."
In just a few short breaths Soap was certain of two things: Frank Turner just became one of his favorite musicians and he was utterly and hopelessly in love with Simon Riley. Never had such a life altering emotion come in so gently. He'd never anticipated this feeling of being warm and whole, for starters…
Of falling for his superior. Never once did Johnny stop to think about love and all its tender barbs and snares.
"The problem with showing your lover your scars-"
Simon's full brown eyes shifted to his at last but not before they flickered to his right arm. The arm Simon dug the bullet out of. Soap would have inhaled sharply if he weren’t already holding his breath. Johnny basked in the pure intimacy of it all. Basked in the heat of them boring into his skull.
"Is that everybody's lover is covered in scars.
So give me one fine day of plain sailing weather…"
Simon Riley. Ghost. A living dead man living a life of secrets. All the trappings of a walking legend melted away from the veneer, revealing the vulnerable existence of a man that simply…was. And Johnny loved him. Never anticipated how it would feel…
“I felt faithless
At that moment just before the dawn when everything falls apart
But baby I didn't mean it
For things to get desperate
I let slip my guard, I let go of the rudder
Now we're drifting in the current away from one another.
Give me one fine day of plain sailing weather
and I can fuck up anything.”
...Expected love to be a hassle, a struggle- some dramatic revelation that shattered his world. But no...as Soap sat and stared at the man he trusted with more than just his life, he knew the act of loving this man was easy. Life, their jobs, the knowledge that any mission could be their last made things hard, but not impossible. Johnny knew living in fear of all the 'what-could-be' scenarios was no life to live at all. Living to love Simon, regardless of the perils...now that was a life worth living. Loving Simon could never be difficult.
The tempo changed. It felt less like Simon was singing, now, and rather speaking the lyrics. Softer, more delicate.
“I've been skirting round the rim
Of doing something brave
Not just standing but jumping in
Of making circles into squares
Of laying down the bare facts
Like a burden I can't bear
And I can almost find the words
But I can see the way you'd
Fold your hands
Speak my name like a curse
Upon your pretty lips
The pressured white behind your fingertips.”
Soap gazed up at him in reverent wonder. A sudden possessiveness clenched inside his chest. John was so glad Gaz didn't join him. Seeing the lieutenant like this felt so sacred. More than seeing his bare face…this right here was another facet of Simon , buried beneath the walls constructed by countless years of violence and destruction, faded from prolonged abuse and neglect. Soap didn't want to share this part of him with anyone else. Maybe one day but not now, not tonight.
Whoever Frank Turner was couldn’t hold a candle to Simon Riley. All the imperfections of missed keys meant nothing. Those deft, scarred fingers plucked the chords to life, the melody changing along with Simon’s voice. It was rougher, more coarse yet still harmoniously melodic. Simon wasn’t quite shouting the lyrics, as Soap guessed happened in the actual song. But there was a rawness there now. Less a song and more a declaration. Simon purposefully averted his gaze. The cracking of his voice triggered a tight restriction in Johnny's own throat.
“When you see me for all that I am
I couldn't make mistakes to make a difference any more
I'd throw myself down on my knees at your hands
Beg you for forgiveness for my fuck ups and my faults
And maybe you'd relent and return my hope for our forever
Lift up your precious hands and bring yours and mine together
So just give me one fine day of plain sailing weather.”
Something so viscerally raw peeled away the edges around his heart. John’s pulse raced like he’d run a triathlon. So enthralled he’d not even felt the tears brimming the waterline of his eyes until he blinked them away. Simon’s lopsided smile shone on him like the sun as he leaned forward and thumbed the moisture from his face. Crazy bastard hiked his mask up and licked the thumb before tragically hiding his lips again and bringing to life another rendition of a song Soap would have to ask him about later. It would have to be later- he’d not dare risk interrupting the private concert.
The night bled away around them and Soap wasn't sure how long he'd sat there. As the liquid in the glass diminished, John would sit up and offer to pour a little more. Simon would nod but cut himself off when he emptied the glass a third time. Best not to drink the entire bottle in one go. Ghost continued playing and occasionally singing. When Soap recognized a few, he'd hum along, encouraged by the crinkle to the lieutenant's eyes denoting the smile beneath the mask. Johnny could live the rest of the night, his life , at Simon's feet like this and never complain.
The clock on the wall ticked away, its gentle whisper reminding them of how far past lights out it was. After Ghost eased the guitar to the side, Soap found himself surging forward.
It didn’t matter that his knees creaked in protest.
It didn’t matter that the numbness from sitting transfixed for so long left his lower extremities tingling with each movement.
All that mattered was closing the distance between himself and the man he respected and adored. The man he knew he loved.
His lips pressed to the point of the mask he knew Ghost's would be. By the mercy of all the saints and Mother Mary above, Simon didn’t recoil or immediately shove John back down.
"...I..thank ye for the concert, Si."
Simon reached up and peeled the mask from his head. As if by instinct, Soap's eyes shot down. Since Las Almas, he'd only seen Ghost's bare face twice. He respected the man far too deeply to stare even if he longed to etch every inch of that holy visage into his mind. Calloused fingers caressed through his mohawk and down his nape, circling around to cup his chin and lift his face. That lopsided smile...those plush lips. There was a light in those amber eyes that, if anyone asked Soap, he would say was the very light of Heaven itself. Simon inched forward and placed his lips tenderly to Soap's forehead. "...go to bed, Johnny."
"With you?"
The laugh . Simon’s voice was scratchy from the impromptu singing but his laugh was indelibly warm. Soap's jaw fell as he witnessed the mirth so freely. Simon shook his head incredulously. "Are you drunk?"
"On you." Soap babbled, earning himself another crooked smile. "...no. Dinnae have much. Please, Si..."
Ghost stood and stretched from the couch, pulling Soap up from the floor. "Sent you out with Garrick so you could relax and remember that it's not all gunfights and bloodshed." His hands were still on him and Soap dared to melt in just a little closer, pressing his ear to Simon's chest. The rumble of a soft chuckle triggered a swarm of butterflies to unleash inside his stomach. Ghost was skimming his fingers along the shorter man's neck. "He was worried about you."
"'m fine," Soap muttered. "...please. Just wan' stay like this."
Ghost hummed noncommittally. "Is that so?" Those deft fingers coiled through the longer strands of his mohawk, tilting his head back so their eyes could lock again. "Sure you're sober, sergeant?"
"Got the receipt in my pocket, sir." Soap beamed. "Frisk it out. You'll see."
"Trying to get me inside your pants?"
The shiver pulsed down his spine.. Ghost had to be aware of the effect his voice had on him. "Thought I was making my intentions abundantly clear, sir."
"Johnny." Cold panic doused any further flirtatious invitations. Oh God. What if Ghost wasn't into men? What if Johnny was overstepping, trying to seduce his CO? What if he just ruined the best friendship he'd ever had with a man he- "...going to give yourself a migraine, thinking that hard." Simon pressed their foreheads together. "What's wrong, Johnny?"
Soap swallowed hard. "I...shouldn't've. Dinnae ken if yer even...Shite. Here ye were, try’na enjoy some time to yerself and I barge in and demand ye entertain me and throw myself on ye like some randy hen and yer my best frien’ and here I am stamping all over yer boundaries." He was a ruthless soldier and effective killer, so why were tears suddenly prickling his eyes.
Even still, Simon peered down at him with such welcome attention. “Breathe, Johnny. We both know if you weren’t welcome, I’d have tossed you out on your arse before you and Garrick even approached the door.”
Point taken. "...'m still sorry, Si."
"...for what?"
Warm, muscular arms folded around him. Soap closed his eyes. Words left unsaid wouldn’t make them any less painful. Better to face the rejection head on, maturely. "...think I'm in love wit' ye, Simon." Regret strangled the words into a sheepish whisper. Every intention to bury the words before breathing them to life ruined by the coaxing fingers plucking the strings of his heart as effortlessly as he had the guitar. Denial would never make them less true. John braced himself for the push, anticipated the blow to come.
What he received instead was the vibrating rumble of a chuckle and arms squeezing him ever closer. "I'm the one that should be apologizing in that case, Johnny. I'm sorry you fell for someone like me." Simon nestled into Soap's neck before kissing his way slowly along his jaw. "Could have had anyone. You're too good, Johnny. And yet you...want me."
"I do." Those beautiful lips hovered just over his own. Soap felt himself drowning. Nothing made him feel safer than being right here in Simon's arms. Nothing ever made him feel so complete. "Want you, Si."
“Sound so sure.”
John eased back only enough so their eyes could meet. What he found left him floating. Simon’s face smiled down on him- features softened against the backlight of the room. Fond tenderness illuminated his eyes. "I am. Think I've been fallin' for ye for a while now. I...I love you." Simon's handsome visage blurred. The warm stream of tears trickled shamelessly down his cheeks.
"Johnny..." Simon's voice cracked anew. "You're the best of me, Johnny. The best thing to ever happen to me." He thumbed the tears away and planted soothing kisses to his brow. "What we have...what we are..." Ghost didn't mince words but that didn't mean he was always adept at expressing him. Just as John prepared to shush him, the man descended upon him in the most life-affirming kiss he'd ever felt. It was languid and easy, gentle with every ounce of affection shared between them. "Fuck...fuckin' love you, Johnny."
The embrace lingered- neither willing to part from the other. Ghost eventually guided them back down onto the half-worn cushions of the sofa. Fond glances and feathery soft kisses, whispered affirmations of the bond solidifying between them. Until their breathing synced and the heavy droop of their eyelids ushered them into slumber. Wreathed in safety and love, where for a moment in time they existed solely as Johnny and Simon.
Price and Gaz discovered them still there the following morning, sleeping soundly and coiled together beneath one of the flimsy knit blankets.
Neither had the heart to wake them.