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Ghost was away on a solo mission for just over three weeks — just over two weeks longer than he was supposed to be gone. It was around day six, when things were supposed to be wrapping up, when everything went wrong instead.
The base lost all communication with Ghost. No one knew where he was, whether he was hurt — whether he was alive or dead.
Soap, to his credit, handled it well at first. He had the utmost faith in his lieutenant; more than likely, Ghost would show up unscathed in a few days, having gone dark to complete the mission if things had gotten hairy. It was the enemy who should be worried, not the 141.
After a few days had gone by, Soap started to think Ghost actually had been injured. The mission was taking too long; he must be struggling.
Still, he'd be fine. A broken bone, some bruised ribs, nothing more. Ghost was the most capable soldier Soap had ever met. He'd come home, and he'd be fine. He had to be fine.
It was a week after their last contact with Ghost that Soap really started to worry.
He was rarely gone this long without getting word to the 141. What had happened out there? Should Soap go after him?
He started pestering Price to send out a retrieval team, insistent that he would lead, but Price shut him down.
Clearly, Price was trying to maintain the stoic facade of an unaffected captain, but Soap could tell he was worried too. There was something in his soft gray-blue eyes, something in the twitch of his ridiculous mustache, that told Soap he was getting nervous about Ghost's absence. And something that said he was worried about Soap as well, though Soap couldn't quite say why.
The heavy hand on his shoulder, the gruff "He'll be alright, son" — neither did anything to comfort Soap, to quiet his racing thoughts. Ghost was MIA, and there was nothing he could do.
It was a week and a half after Ghost had disappeared that Johnny stopped sleeping. His mind kept him up through each restless night, going over everything that could have happened to Simon.
He pictured him broken and bleeding and alone, he pictured him cuffed and beaten and tortured, he pictured him cold and stiff and lying in a coffin he couldn't crawl his way out of anymore.
He pictured his own life without Simon in it, and it made him sick to his stomach.
After being bothered one too many times, Price had forbidden Soap from asking about being sent out after Ghost again. He promised he would find Johnny as soon as he had any information, and left it at that.
He also clearly asked Gaz to keep an eye on him, because he hardly left Soap's side. Gaz did everything he could to be there for him, but Soap refused to acknowledge his own sorry state. He brushed off the bloodshot eyes, the shaky hands, the endless cups of coffee that kept him on his feet. He was fine. Really, he was.
---
It was just over two weeks since his last contact with the 141 when Ghost came back home.
It had been a straightforward mission until it wasn't, when his confrontation with the target left him stranded in the woods, surrounded by enemies and without any supplies or communication.
He had stalked through the woods like a shadow, picking them off one by one, relying on his survival training to get by with what little he had. And now the ordeal was finally over, and he was back where he belonged.
He arrived at the base in the small hours of the morning, when most of it was quiet and sleeping. Medical cleaned and bandaged his (relatively minor) wounds, and Price insisted he get some rest; debrief could wait as long as he needed.
He was exhausted and bruised and bleeding, but all things considered, his injuries were nothing serious. He'd be ready for action again after a week or so of solid rest. And rest he would — he felt like he could sleep for days — but before he could sleep, he needed to get cleaned up.
He was still covered in the dirt and grime of the last three weeks, and he could cry just thinking about finally having a shower. But before he could shower, he needed tea. He almost did cry thinking about finally warming his bones with a hot cup of earl grey, finally sitting in a soft chair instead of on the cold hard ground.
In fact, there was only one thing Simon missed more than relaxing with a cup of tea while he was stranded away from civilization, and that one thing was waiting for him on the ratty old couch in the lounge when he went to boil the water.
Johnny was lying curled up on one end of the sofa, grumbling quietly in his sleep, his brow furrowed. He was wearing an oversized hoodie, his hand tucked tightly under his chin, nose buried in the fabric of the collar.
A wave of calm ran over Simon the moment he saw Johnny, like something inside him was missing and had finally been replaced. Like getting back to the base wasn't coming home, but this was.
He silently stepped closer, noticing the embroidery at the top left of the sweatshirt Johnny had on, and his chest immediately flooded with an overwhelming warmth. There, just above Johnny’s heart, was written, “Lt. Riley.”
All thoughts of tea and showers had left Simon's mind. His thoughts were entirely consumed by the sight in front of him, by Johnny wearing his sweatshirt. It was one of his favorites, and he never wanted it back.
Carefully, hoping not to wake him, Simon sat down next to Johnny, unable to tear his eyes away. Of course, Johnny stirred anyway the moment the sofa shifted, his head snapping up and eyes fixing immediately on Simon.
He blinked twice, looking as if he couldn't decide whether to trust what he was seeing.
"...Si?"
"Hey, Johnny."
There was a pause, and then suddenly Johnny was in his arms, gripping Simon like a lifeline. Simon squeezed back, both grounded and overwhelmed by the touch at the same time.
“You’re back.” The words were muffled by the way Johnny had buried his face in the crook of Simon’s neck.
“I’m back.” Simon’s words were quiet, soothing.
"Ye scared the shite outta me, ya big bastard." Johnny's voice trembled as he spoke, and it was the quiet sniff that followed that told Simon he was crying. The realization squeezed Simon’s heart like a vice, and he pulled Johnny closer, as close as he could.
“Didn’t mean to. Got back as fast as I could.” He rubbed up and down his back, resting his head against Johnny’s.
“Yeah, well.” Another sniff. “Guess ye’re forgiven.”
They held each other a moment longer before Johnny pulled back and scanned Simon’s body with still-teary eyes. Simon didn’t let him go far, keeping him safe in his arms.
“Are ye alright? Did ye get hurt?”
“Nothin’ serious.” Gently, lovingly, he wiped the tears from Johnny’s face. “Are you alright?”
Johnny gave a wet chuckle. “I’m fine. Just get a wee bit emotional when I’m tired.”
Simon hummed in response. “Y’know, beds are usually more comfortable than shitty communal sofas.”
“Aye, well, my bed and I aren’t on speakin’ terms at the moment.”
“Haven’t been sleeping well?” Simon’s voice was soft, another question hidden beneath the one he had said aloud.
Johnny hesitated, searching Simon’s eyes with a deep vulnerability in his own. “...No. Couldnae sleep at all lately.”
“Sorry to hear it.” Simon’s hand lingered on the side of Johnny’s face and Johnny covered it with his own, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.
“Should be. ‘S yer fault,” Johnny mumbled quietly.
“Thought I was forgiven?”
“Mm,” he hummed noncommittally.
“That why you broke into my room? To settle the score?”
Johnny’s eyes flicked open. “What?”
Simon poked the embroidery of his name on Johnny’s chest. “Pretty sure this was in my closet last time I checked. Using your lockpick training for evil, Sergeant?”
Johnny pulled away, blushing furiously. “Aye, well…I, uh…it was cold, and all my jumpers were in the laundry. So.”
Simon smirked. “Sure. Makes sense.”
“I’ll give it back, I just-”
“Don’t. It looks good on you.”
Though Simon didn’t think it was possible, Johnny turned an even brighter shade of red. God, he was adorable like this. He smiled at him, his gaze impossibly fond.
“Tell you what — I still feel a bit bad for ruining your sleep. If you haven’t been sleeping well in your own room, why don’t you stay in mine tonight? You obviously know how to get in.” He smiled as Johnny’s gaze snapped to his own. “‘Sides, I could use the company. Been alone long enough.”
“You — uh,” Johnny sputtered. “I — yeah, okay.”
“Okay?” Simon rested a hand on Johnny’s thigh, gaze impossibly fond.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Good.” He moved to stand, but stopped when Johnny grabbed his arm.
“One condition, though.”
“Hm?”
“Ye gotta take a shower first. Ye’re fuckin’ rank.”
Laughing, Simon pulled Johnny up and started walking toward the door. “Wasn’t planning on getting in bed like this, Johnny. I try not to get blood on my nice sheets.”
“Do ye get the fancy ones when ye become a lieutenant? Maybe that’s why I havnae been sleepin’, we sergeants just get the cheap synthetic crap.” The two fell into step and their usual banter without a second thought, voices echoing down the hall behind them. “What are yours? Cotton? Silk? What’s the thread count on ‘em?”
The mug Simon had gotten out for tea sat forgotten on the counter. It wasn’t needed; he already felt refreshed, warmed down to his bones.
And when was finally clean and comfortable, tucked into bed with Johnny is his arms, he had never felt more at home.