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Simon "Ghost" Riley doesn't have any furniture.
Ok, he has furniture. He just doesn't have any soft furnishings in his flat. No cosy cushions at each end of his second hand, slightly worn grey sofa. No knitted blankets, lovingly-made by an elderly family member and draped over the back of it. No rugs on the laminate plank flooring to soften his footsteps as he thumps around his little flat on his time off.
The closest he got was an extra blanket tossed across the foot of his bed, to accompany the single layer of pillows at the other end.
He had no photos or art on the walls. Hell, it was a miracle he had a lampshade on the ceiling light in the bedroom (a light which he almost never used because the bulb was too bright and he was never home long enough to remember to switch it out).
In short, Simon Riley's flat was entirely devoid of any character or colour that indicated someone lived there.
When Simon (finally) stoked up the courage to invite Johnny out for a drink when they were next on leave, he offered his sofa as a spot to crash instead of paying for a hotel room. Johnny's visit was entirely innocent; just two friends having a drink together while off the clock. Why should Johnny fork out £100 for a hotel in the centre of Manchester, when Simon had a perfectly good sofa and a pub a few streets away from his flat in Cheetham Hill?
Simon had picked Johnny up from Salford Central station and driven them back to his place to drop his bags off and put his feet up for a bit before they headed back out. Johnny had immediately made himself at home, kicking off his shoes, dropping his rucksack at the side of the sofa and plopping down unceremoniously onto the worn cushions.
Simon just rolled his eyes and ducked into the kitchen to rummage in the fridge for a beer.
"How long ya lived here?" Johnny called across the flat.
"Three years." Simon huffed back from behind the open fridge door.
"Huh." Johnny frowned. By the time Simon came back, two open beers in hand, Johnny was peering around at the empty walls.
Across the room, a large TV perched on a table far too small for it. There was nothing in between, no coffee table, no footrest. Just a sofa and a TV in an open plan kitchen-living room of a small flat in an apartment block on the outskirts of Manchester.
"What?" Simon gruffed as he held out one of the bottles to Johnny.
Johnny wiped the frown from his face. "Nah nothin', s'nice.."
Simon said nothing. He pulled the black cloth mask from his face to sip at his beer. He knew from experience that the best way to get Johnny to talk was to give him a long silence to fill.
"It's just.." Here we go.. "There's nothing in it."
Simon chuckled. "I don't come home often."
Stumbling through the door of his flat at 1am with Johnny tucked under his arm, Simon realised three things.
One, he quite enjoyed the weight of the Scot against his side. Normally when Johnny was pressed against his side like this, they were hauling ass to an exfil and one of them was hurt. This was more comfortable, more familiar.
Two, his flat was absolutely freezing. The auto timer hadn't been set for the central heating in months and he'd forgotten to click it on before they'd left for the pub.
And three, he needed another drink.
"Fuckin' hell, Si, it's fuckin' freezin' in 'ere!" Johnny bitched as soon as he was pushed through the threshold and into the tiny corridor.
Simon grinned and reached across to the thermostat by Johnny's head. "Give it 20 minutes then."
Clearly, that wasn't long enough for Johnny. The shorter man slipped his arms around Simon's waist, holding him in place. "M'cold now.."
"Don't whinge.." Simon muttered and reached behind himself to unhook Johnny's grip. "You're drunk."
As desperately as Simon wanted to pull Johnny closer, and had done for a long while now, Johnny was far too drunk for any advances. They both were. They swayed slowly as they both stood their ground in the hallway. The alcohol in their respective bloodstreams was playing havoc with their balance. Johnny pouted as Simon gently pulled his arms away.
"M'not.." He grizzled and shuffled sideways out from where he was semi-pinned to the wall by Simon and through into the living room. Johnny plopped down onto the sofa, flat on his back.
Simon hung back in the doorway and smiled softly at the other man making himself at home.
Could get used to this..
Simon shook the thought away. He was pushing his luck this evening as it was. Johnny was drunk. Johnny was his responsibility in the field. Johnny was his friend. And so, Johnny was off limits.
A small wave of nausea hit Simon in the gut. Maybe that extra drink was a bad idea. He glanced back to where Johnny was on the sofa.
"Bedtime, aye?" Johnny rolled his head sideways to look at Simon.
"Yeah.." Simon breathed and kicked himself away from the doorframe. "Yeah, I'll go get you bedding." He turned and crossed the hallway to his bedroom.
Shit. Simon realised he didn't have anything for Johnny to sleep under. He had the spare blanket on the end of his bed, but that was barely enough to keep Johnny warm in his cold little flat. Instead, Ghost shoved the blanket out of the way and scooped up the thicker duvet, along with the fluffier of the two pillows on his bed. He remembered how much Soap would complain back at base about the thin pillows they had in their quarters, and how Soap would always shove a balled up jumper under his head or use his folded arms as pillows on long transports. The Scotsman liked to be comfortable wherever possible. Simon grabbed the second pillow for good measure.
By the time Simon had shuffled back to the living room, arms laden with bedding, Johnny had folded his arms behind his head and was on the verge of falling asleep.
Maybe skip that extra drink... Ghost chuckled quietly at the now-dozing Sergeant.
"Here." Ghost gruffed and unceremoniously dumped the armful of bedding onto Soap's middle.
"Aye, ya fucker!" Soap groused.
Despite his grumblings, Soap wriggled about to spread the duvet over himself and settled both soft pillows under his head.
"Thanks, Ghostie.." Soap mumbled as the alcohol caught up to him and he settled into his makeshift sofa bed.
Simon smiled from behind his cloth mask. "You're welcome, Johnny. Night."
What Simon didn't see as he turned to go to bed was Johnny burrowing his nose into Simon's duvet as he drifted off.
Johnny's visits became a habit.
Every time they went on leave, Ghost would offer up half an excuse of an invitation ("Any plans for leave, Johnny...?" was how most of them started), and the two would arrange for a trip to Manchester.
The first two times, it was just a few hours in a pub and crashing out at Simon's flat. Having learned from the first time, Simon made sure he had an extra blanket for himself, so that Johnny could have his duvet. He even went out and got two brand new pillows and pillowcases. He daren't sleep on them. He stashed them in his airing cupboard for Johnny's use and Johnny's use alone.
By the third visit, Soap had started making noise about actually seeing something of Manchester that wasn't the inside walls of Ghost's local.
Problem was, Simon hated the city centre.
It was full of people; students, tourists, people on food delivery bikes that came at you with a deathwish (or murderous intentions), little oiks on e-scooters with equal deathwishes (or murderous intentions), and so many charity workers trying to get your attention and sign you up to something or other.
There was just way too much happening at once for Ghost's comfort that the closest he ever really got to the city centre was the Aldi in the shopping centre just inside the ring road.
But Johnny had batted those thick, dark eyelashes at him and practically begged to go and do something.
And Simon couldn't find it in him to refuse.
"Something quiet, though, yeah?" Ghost had compromised, and Soap had happily agreed.
Which is how they found themselves 45 minutes across town, staring directly up at a massive whale skeleton suspended from the ceiling and surrounded by fairy lights.
Well. Johnny was looking up. Simon was too taken by how the fairy lights reflected off the blue of Johnny's eyes to care about some carefully curated bones.
"Dinnae realise whales had fingers.." Johnny muttered, keeping his voice quiet to match the relative peaceful hush of the museum.
Simon snickered. "They're not fingers."
Johnny's gaze snapped to Simon. "What are they then?!" He grinned, ready to argue that those absolutely were fingers, look it even has knuckle bones. Simon just chuckled and put a hand in the small of Johnny's back to move him on to the next display.
On their way out from the museum, of course Johnny had to look around the gift shop. He gave Simon some nuts about it being "the law when you go to a museum." Had it been anyone else, Ghost would have told them they were talking complete shit and to leave the building before they were forced. But Simon's softness for Johnny was getting worse, and he let his massive frame be led through the narrow displays of knick knacks and books the museum had on offer.
When Ghost wasn't looking, Soap started picking up random bits; a set of bee coasters, a dinosaur skeleton tea towel, two candles in jars made to look like the apothecary bottles from one of the exhibits. Simon finally caught him when he turned round to find Johnny trying to balance a throw pillow on top of his little pile of stuff.
Simon plucked the throw pillow from Johnny's arms. "You can't possibly need all these," He smiled and reached out to relieve the sargeant of one of the candles before it toppled to the floor. "You know Price will give you a bollocking about fire hazards if you have smelly candles in your quarters."
"They're no for me," Johnny huffed. "They're for your soulless flat, ya bampot."
Ghost froze. "I don't need-
"Aye, ya do." Johnny grinned. "Come on!" Soap turned and started his way towards the tills.
Flipping over the price tag on the cushion he was holding, Simon almost swallowed his tongue. He wasn't used to anyone buying him anything, let alone someone buying him premium priced items from a gift shop on a whim. "Johnny, I can't let you pay £44 for a cushion for my flat..."
"Consider it a donation to the museum, then." Soap plucked the cushion from Ghost's hands and passed it to the cashier to ring through. "They let ya in for nuthin' here, may as well give them something back."
Ghost opened his mouth to argue it some more, but stopped when Soap shot him a pointed look and tapped his debit card on the card reader. After thanking the cashier and wishing her a good afternoon, Johnny turned and held out the bag to Simon, grinning.
"Besides, I've missed a few birthdays because ye refuse to tell anyone when it is."
"Price knows when it is..." Ghost grumbled, gripping the handle of the large paper bag.
"Aye, from yer personnel file. Hardly counts." Soap wrapped an arm around Simon's shoulder. "So happy birthday for the past, like, 4 years."
Ghost just leaned into Johnny's side and muttered a thank you.
On the 6th visit, Johnny had made his own way from the train station to Simon's flat and let himself in with the spare key.
"You may as well have the spare," Simon had held the key on a, predictably, empty keyring. "In case something happens and you need somewhere to stay, or I need someone to look after the place."
Simon's roundabout way of saying 'I care about you and I want you in my space.'
Soap had almost immediately made a woven keyring out of a bit of paracord.
As Soap stepped into the living room, he burst into laughter. Simon was sat in the exact centre of the room, surrounded by bolts, screws, hex keys, and a few large pieces of wood. His maskless face was scowling at a large piece of creased up paper.
"Ok, what happened?" Soap chuckled.
"Fuckin' instructions make fuck all sense..." Ghost grizzled, gripping the paper a little harder.
"What is it meant to be when it's finished?"
"New TV unit." Ghost waved at the TV, which was now placed on the floor, with the old too-small table nowhere to be seen. "Was meant to have it done before you got here. Fuckin' hate flatpack shit."
Johnny toed off his shoes in the entryway and stepped over the various bits of table scattered about the floor. "Here," he sat himself down directly opposite Simon. "Let me look."
Simon let Johnny pry the instruction sheet from his hands, and let himself be ordered about. It made a change, Soap giving him directions. In their professional lives, Ghost was the superior officer dishing out orders and instructions to Johnny like he was a faithful mutt. Simon was more than happy for the roles to be reversed for once.
After 25 minutes of Johnny translating the instruction booklet and Simon dutifully piecing the bits of flatpack together, the two pushed the new unit into place and set the TV back on top of it.
"Perfect." Johnny grinned with his hands on his hips, admiring their work.
"Thank you, Johnny." Simon turned and smiled softly.
"Anytime. You still need a coffee table in here though."
Simon groaned. "No."
"Why not?!"
"Because I refuse to build any more fuckin' flat pack!" They bickered back and forth.
Falling silent, Johnny whipped his phone from his back pocket and peered at the screen for a few minutes before announcing; "Get yer shoes on."
By Johnny's 8th visit, the once soulless, empty flat on the outskirts of Manchester had been filled with things.
The coffee table they'd found in a charity shop; an old, solid thing with character that came as one piece so Simon didn't have to put up with any more flat pack.
The soft bedding they'd picked out from a quirky little independent shop Johnny just had to duck into on account of a leather footrest shaped like a highland cow (which also now stood guard by the sofa). Johnny had complained the duvet set he had been sleeping under was getting worn out, and was horrified to find out it was Simon's only set.
The new lightbulb in the ceiling light in the bedroom.
Lamps with plain grey lampshades.
The rugs. One big one covering the floor in the living room, the runner rug in the hallway, and the soft one at the foot of the bed.
Johnny had even gone as far as plants. Simon hadn't let him bring real plants in ("Really, Johnny, who's gonna water them when we're on deployment?") but relented when Johnny picked up a fake echeveria in a skull plant pot in TKMaxx. Before Simon knew it, Johnny had added 5 more fake plants to the collection.
But Simon's absolute favourite was the huge canvas Johnny had turned up with. That day, Johnny had insisted Simon pick him up from the train station, and he'd found the Scot dragging the massive thing wrapped in bin bags up the stairs from the platform. When they'd got it home, Johnny had beamed as Simon had unwrapped it. It was a huge landscape painting of Loch Lomond which Johnny had painted for him, full of colour and tone and texture.
Simon had immediately hung it up above his bed.
"Ya know, I meant for that to go in the living room." Johnny muttered, resting his chin on Simon's bare chest as he looked up at the wall behind them.
Simon wrapped his arms a little tighter around Johnny's waist and stretched down to press a kiss to his forehead. "Well I wanted it in here."
Just before they went on leave, a particularly brutal mission that injured Price and almost put Gaz in medical for a long time had forced the two together. The same night they had landed back at base, Ghost had stormed his way into Soap's quarters, locked the door and pulled him into the most heated kiss either had experienced. The very next day, Price announced leave for all four of them, and the two had immediately raced to Manchester to fall into bed together away from the prying eyes and ears on base.
Simon stroked his fingers through Johnny's soft hair. The younger man sighed and laid his head down on Simon's chest.
"Y'know," Johnny murmured. "I reckon you could do with new curtains in here."
Simon laughed.
"I'll take you shopping tomorrow."