Work Text:
“If ye don’ get yer arse the fuck back in bed,” Johnny pokes his head out from under the covers just to squint at him incriminatingly. “So help me God.”
“You wake up at five in the morning,” Simon mutters. Johnny opens up the covers with an arm, holding it above their heads as Simon sets a glass on the nightstand. “Was grabbing water, s’all.”
He rolls in lazily, before Johnny’s onto him— clambering on top of him like a house cat trying to sleep on your chest. But Johnny’s not really a house cat, he's more like a.. two hundred pound large cat, like a tiger, that has decided Simon’s chest is its bed. He's too big to fit, but he decides he doesn't really care. Johnny finds his spot quickly, arms and legs sprawled every which way with his cheek pillowed in Simon’s neck.
“Jesus,” Simon grumbles, like he's upset— but they both know he's not, just by the way his hands find Johnny’s back, his nape, his fingers skimming the muscle. “Could give me a fuckin’ second.”
Simon can hear the roll of his eyes. His words are exhausted. “Go to sleep.”
Johnny is curled up by his side when Simon’s eyes flutter open. One large arm of his is twisted around Johnny’s shoulders, resting on the curve of his waist— Johnny’s cheek is pressed against Simon’s chest.
Basking in the gentle rise and fall of Johnny’s heart, Simon lets himself think— there's not much time they get like this together. They're normally on the field, with high-stakes, and too many close calls, and sometimes one of them will go solo for six weeks or a few days and gets home late—not to mention their recent mission with killing Makarov, how Ghost almost lost him—and then Simon will never get to see Johnny like this.
Gentle for a man who never gets to be. Gentle for a man who is not. Sleeping soundlessly on his stomach, his limbs astrew because he knows he's not going anywhere, he knows he's safe here, that Simon won't let anything happen while he's out. He’s drooling onto Simon’s shirt. Johnny’s mohawk tangled and curled over his forehead. Johnny picks that moment to yawn, shifting in place, readjust his tired muscles, his eyes flutter, but Simon swipes a thumb under his lashes, his hand cupping his cheek. Johnny’s lips fall into a little smile, almost nuzzling his palm, before his eyelids close again.
It's something that comes so easy. How Simon’s eyes grow heavy. He sweeps his hand over Johnny’s face, the bridge of his nose, covering his eyes momentarily. Johnny relaxes ever so slightly into him.
The world will never have this. They'll never have Johnny and Simon. The SAS can have their Ghost and Soap , but they'll never be given this.
Today is one of those days they get to do absolutely fuckin’ nothing. They could lay in bed all day and it wouldn't matter at all. Could shower, lay together on the couch, put on a movie they'll never pay attention to.
“Simon,” Johnny murmurs. He reaches up a wrist, sleepily rubbing off the drool from the corner of his lip, pillow creases imprinted on his arms. “Mornin’.”
He stretches like a cat, curling himself up like a pretzel as he reaches his arms out on top of Simon. Or, not really on top entirely, since they're so tangled it's hard to tell who starts and who ends. “Lemme up, ya big bastard.”
Simon grunts, rolls over so Johnny can pull himself out of bed as he yawns. So fucking unfair how pretty he is, running a hair through his mohawk, petting at the healing wound on his temple. Simon grants himself a long look at the rest of his body, his bare torso, the portrait of scars and tears down his muscles. Particularly the recent ones. From the bed, his cheek smushed against the pillow, Simon reaches out an arm and gently sets a hand on Johnny’s hip. “Pretty,” Simon murmurs, coyly.
Johnny looks down at him over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah?”
“Uh huh. Go brush your teeth.”
Johnny grins. “Want your kisses, hm?”
“Johnny,” Simon says, bluntly.
Johnny straightens, probably out of habit, at the tone. “Sir?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
His resulting giggle follows him as he turns to walk into the bathroom, skin almost glowing. Simon huffs, before tearing the blankets off himself, and follows right behind him. Yawns, hooking his chin on Johnny’s shoulder, eyeing him as he brushes his teeth, placing a hand on his waist. Johnny grins around the brush, and spits in the sink.
Simon brushes his own teeth quickly, polished and careful in his movements. Johnny’s forehead rests against the carved blades of his back, nosing against him, his breath hot against warm skin. Johnny’s lips skim him, before he murmurs, “Want a smoke.”
Meeting his eyes and glaring at him in the mirror, Simon mutters, “Thought I told’ya to quit that.”
“Aye,” Johnny sighs, his chest pressed up against Simon’s back, arms wrapped around his waist from behind, pads of his fingers skimming the planes of Simon’s stomach. “Jog might do us good.”
“Mm.” It's a noncommittal response. Neither of them make a move to do anything about the proposed jog, Johnny’s hands playfully toying with the strings of his sweatpants, cocky and teasing. Pushing and pushing, see if Simon’ll bite.
Simon does not. “Watch yourself.”
Johnny bites his shoulder, tugs the strings tight. “Sorry,” he pouts, jutting his lip. Simon arches an eyebrow.
He leans back into Johnny, which is a little amusing, ‘cause Johnny is several centimetres shorter than Simon himself, his head barely reaches Simon’s chin. Johnny is in no means small—and he'd certainly say that himself, it's just that Simon is fuckin’ huge. Quick to please, Johnny reaches up and sinks his fingers in the tangled scruff of Simon’s hair, scratches his undercut, tugs gently at the curls above. Simon sighs.
“Feel good?"
“Always,” Simon murmurs. “Keep goin’.”
Johnny listens promptly. He shifts every few moments, behind his ears, back of his head, his scalp, but it makes him dizzy with sleep. Simon never feels so relaxed at work, but Johnny grants him this, always. Sometimes Johnny’ll lean his head on his shoulder on long flights during deployment, doze off without a thought, and Simon refuses to move ‘till he wakes back up. Across from him, Gaz’ll bump Price’s shoulder, teasingly, and a flicker of a smile will crawl on the Captain’s face.
“Fuck that jog,” Johnny rumbles behind him. “Shower?”
Simon flexes his shoulders, releases a long breath. A shower sounds really, really nice right about now. “Fuckin’ hell, yeah. Yeah, c’mon.”
Simon gets in first, turns the water real hot ‘cause Johnny goes all boneless and quiet in a nice, steamy shower. It hasn't warmed when he climbs in, but Johnny follows suit right after, yelps when the water is icy to the touch. “Fuck, that's cold!”
He's got one foot in, one out, reflexively dodging the water. Johnny squints at him suspiciously. “Christ Almighty,” he grumbles, “The hell’s wrong wi’ ye? Standin’ in a fuckin’ blizzard? Tryin’ to turn yourself into a popsicle?”
Raising his head to face the showerhead, allowing himself to be rained on. The cold is grounding, however temporary. He leans back, makes room for Johnny. “Get in.”
Johnny complies, easy. Steps in wary, but knows that Simon’s already turned the temp so it'll warm for him soon.
“Poor baby,” Simon allows himself a smile as he watches Johnny slink away from the showerhead. “Poor thing needs his showers all warm.”
“Shut it.”
Dipping his head directly under the water, cold as it is, it falls down him in sheets, freezes Simon to the bone. He leans his head back up and shakes his head like a dog, droplets flying everywhere. Johnny flinches backwards, still avoiding the spray of water like the plague when Simon accidentally hits him. Simon gives him a private little grin when Johnny glowers at him, a pout pulling at his lips, rubbing his arms for warmth.
He uses a hand to feel the water again. “S’ warm now,” Simon assures, and crooks a finger at Johnny, tilting his head. “C’mere.”
A picture, really. How Simon’s curls plaster to his face, small droplets clinging to his blond lashes, all the scars criss-crossing up abdomen.
Johnny swallows. He inches forward, before Simon reaches up an arm, grasps his nape, and tugs him directly under the warming water. Johnny gasps, immediately yanking away from Simon’s grip, his mohawk, the front of his chest, his face completely soaked. He splutters, “Fuck off,” giving Simon a dirty look as he snickers to himself.
“You're so proud of yourself, aren'tcha,” Johnny grumbles, yet despite himself, eases himself under Simon’s palms, letting himself be (this time) gently moved underneath the water. Simon reaches for the shampoo. “So fuckin’ proud, ya bampot.”
Showers during deployment are graces they don't always get, coming few and far in-between when they're usually on the business ends of hundreds of rifles and their hygiene is low on the priority list. At least, till they're back at base and Ghost is bumping their shoulders, shoving a hand in his face, and muttering, Go take a shower. You fuckin’ stink.
Oh, sure, LT, Soap sniffed, uptight, You smell just like a bed of roses yourself.
And then it was scrubbing the dirt, the residue off his skin, the blood and the sweat and the smell of bullets and dead bodies and gunmetal. Violently skittering his fingers through his mohawk, dragging at it till it's all clean, but besides that, he doesn't pay too much attention to it.
Steadying him with a firm grip on his chin, squinting at Simon as the water drips down over his eyes, Simon rubs shampoo very gently into his mohawk, tugging at the curls, kindly enough that Johnny feels drowsy. Johnny hums as Simon washes it out, before cleaning it with conditioner.
“Smells good,” Johnny says.
“Coconut does it for you, huh?”
“Eh, well. Don’t like the tropics.”
Simon bites down a smile. “A barbarian.”
Johnny grumbles a reply, huffing and puffing to himself even as Simon cups his hands to gather water, before dribbling it onto his hair. “Who are you ta call someone a barbarian…”
The heat of the shower seems to lull them to sleep. They stand there, Johnny resting his head on Simon’s shoulder, pressing his lips against his collarbone. Simon lifts his head, and his mouth skims the healing, jagged dip on his temple. A shot that narrowly missed. So close to blowing his brains right out of his skull, splattering the subway pavement. Simon sets his hands on his waist—Johnny hums. But once their skin is rubbed raw and red, their hair completely plastered against their foreheads, Simon twists the faucet and grabs a towel from the rack. He wraps one around his waist, hands one to Johnny.
Not even bothering to brush through and dry his mohawk, he throws on some sweatpants and faceplants right into his pillow, flat on his stomach. So much for a jog. Simon could go for a tea, though. He pats Johnny on the arse. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
Johnny turns his face to the side so he can hear him. “Thanks, babe,” he grins, “Know me so well.”
Simon rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh.”
Setting Johnny’s coffee—his favorite, mind you—and his tea on the nightstand, Simon crawls in next to him. Efficiently and quickly, Johnny wraps an arm around Simon’s waist and slots them together. “Missed me, hm?”
Johnny sighs into his neck. “Let me enjoy this.”
No wonder neither of them wanna go for a jog, much less get out of bed. Johnny's warm, the heat of the covers overwhelmingly so, but these moments are so fleetingly rare, Simon will never tell him no. Tired and exhausted but they share that sentiment together, curled as they are.
Minutes later, Simon idly running his fingers through Johnny’s damp mohawk, a memory pops in his head. “Johnny,” he rumbles.
“Hm?”
“Thought of somethin’ just now,” Simon pets behind his ear, and Johnny exhales. “Remember when I saw you as a rookie. Didn't even have this—” Simon pulls at Johnny’s hair for emphasis, “—disaster just yet. Running drills.”
Johnny’s quiet against him, before turns, and noses at the patch of pale skin beneath Simon’s ear. “You remember that?”
“You're hard to forget.”
A pause. Like he's blinking. Before Johnny huffs and shifts against him, ducks his head under Simon’s chin like he's flushed red and oh, Simon could get used to that. “Alr’ght, you can just fuck off,” Johnny hides behind the accent, trailing off into incoherence, or Scottish, “Bleedin’ bastard..”
He doesn't let Simon relish it. Maybe to change the subject, Johnny grunts, “Up.”
Simon blinks, promptly lifting his hips up so Johnny can wriggle his fingers underneath the span of his muscled back, fingertips digging into his ribs. Before he can open his mouth he's being flipped around, Johnny smothered underneath him, and Simon sprawled atop him like a weighted blanket.
Brushing into his mohawk, Simon says, “Feel better now?”
“Oh yeah,” he says simply, smug, with a mean tip to his mouth. “Got you.”
At least now, now he does. They both can still remember the days where they'd toe that line, push and pull, a never-ending tug-o-war to see who broke first. Soap did, of course, because Ghost can torture himself with making himself want as much as he pleases. Soap had kissed him right after deployment, high on all that adrenaline—completely fucking fried after the on-field banter, or more accurately describing as flirting.
He gave Ghost this look. You know—with big eyes, pupils flitting downward to his lips, or at least the approximate placement of his lips underneath the balaclava. Ghost let him have it, yanking off the mask like a man starved and kissing him for all that it was worth, Soap immediately getting his hands on his cheeks—then it was ripped away. Ghost pulled back, neatly placing that damned mask right where it was, going on with his business.
Soap, shocked with his jaw ajar, shaky on his feet. His hands achingly empty.
Just for a moment—Ghost let him have it. Ghost gave him a small taste, and god. They could've been doin’ that shit all along?
Fuckin’ bastard. Ghost fucking knows, of course he does. Of course he knew. Putty in his hands, to mold, to craft into whatever he wants, and he'd go along willingly. Ghost is observant, standing in the dark corners of rooms, overlooking interrogations if he's not the one performing them. Watching fucking everything. Everything includes Soap. Soap, and his stupid needs of feeling that jaw of Ghost’s on his bare skin. Christ knows Ghost intimately recognizes Soap’s eyes on him.
“That you do,” Simon lets his whole body fall flat against Johnny, suffocating him the way he’d like.
Jokes on him, though. Simon’s got it just as bad—or else Ghost wouldn't have kissed him. Wouldn't have put a pause on his own, self-inflicted torture. Just for a taste.
Johnny curls into him, the weight—his chest so bare he can see right through that ribcage. Such a lucky bastard, he is. Digs his face right into the crook of Simon’s neck, lets himself be something to mold. Such easy work.