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Ghost wasn’t a man of words. He didn’t say much, ever, to anyone, only what was needed and never anything more. He was a silent hunter. He was a ghost – the Ghost and being among the living was probably the only thing which kept him sane.
Being among the living. Being among them, the 141… Gaz, Soap, Roach.
And himself.
John knew that Ghost cared about the muppets, in his own, distant way.
But Ghost was not only a silent hunter, he also was a silent friend - and a silent lover.
John didn’t remember the day or the moment when it had changed between them. All he remembered were those rare moments of passion flaring up between them, when John hadn’t been the captain, when he had caught a glimpse of Simon under Ghost’s ice-cold mask, when John had become weak and foolish, ignoring all of the warning signs to simply stop.
“Seems like we’ll be locked in here for longer than anticipated.”
John huffed, getting annoyed and searching for a cigar or at least a cheap cigarette in the various cupboards of the safe house they were in.
He didn’t find any, but one appeared – right in front of him, quiet and inviting. Ghost held a cigarette between his fingers, offering him quietly. Through the dark mask a pair of whiskey brown eyes peered directly into John’s soul and the shudder running over his spine was another warning sign John ignored.
Perhaps it had been this stupid cigarette. Or perhaps it had been the night Simon had fallen sick, stubborn enough to not tell John he had a fever, or the time when Simon had acted against his direct orders, not leaving him behind.
His leg hurt and he couldn’t move. John knew it was dire, and he glanced to the heli, glad that Gaz kept Soap inside it, even if forcefully on the shoulders.
But one was still here and John felt his heart clenching in an unhealthy, very physical way. He glared and barked, out of pain and fear.
“Ghost, you muppet – get the fuck out of here!”
Simon’s eyes briefly flared up under Ghost’s mask. It was only a moment before Ghost concentrated on the hostiles again.
“No. No one gets left behind.”
Ghost was a silent friend, and an even more silent lover. One mustn’t expect a confession from him, or a label. Never.
Not that John expected this. Not that John dared to hope for this.
Hope was a dream. And John had seen enough of this world, enough of this hell they were living in to believe in any more dreams.
The only dreams he had were those which were seeking him out at night, falling over him like a feral beast and wake him up sweaty and scared.
John let out a deep, long sigh, but he tried to be as quiet as possible. His fingers gently brushed once over the vest they were resting on – Ghost’s vest.
The man was soundly asleep - finally -, his head bedded on John’s leg. The man had cuddled closer to him only after falling asleep, unconscious about the situation and himself.
Ghost’s turn to take over his watch was long due. But John didn’t mind, one hand resting on Ghost’s shoulder, gentle and careful to not stir the man’s unsteady sleep.
It was moments like this which counted.
When John allowed himself to confess – to himself, at least.
Simon loved differently, from a distance. He didn’t do emotions. Publicly at least.
John was only slightly different in this regard. While he sometimes carried his heart on the sleeve, shouting out for his boys, worried sick if they got hurt, he could be angry as well. That didn’t happen easily, but on occasions, someone managed.
Real emotions though?
John rolled his cigar between his lips, taking a long, relaxing puff out of it.
He wasn’t a man of confessions as well. John was a professional man, or at least he used to be. Before he had tasted Simon’s lips, before he had traced the scars on his skin under the blanket of the night…
But John didn’t do confessions.
He shouldn’t. He couldn’t.
Life was hell and he had seen plenty of it. And so John chose to… care in another way.
But when no one was there to watch, when it was dark and your emotions could be hidden behind the cloak of shadow and the night, John dared to look at Simon with a warm gaze in his eyes, with a smile on his lips, with a yearning which shouldn’t be.
There was a rule against fraternization for a reason.
And Simon was-… hurt. Vulnerable. He deserved the best. He deserved sunshine in the endless night he was walking in, he needed someone who spread life to pull him out of his grave, finally.
John?
John couldn’t offer him that.
John would pull him back on the battlefield, again and again and again, because that was what he did.
He didn’t fight so that the world would remember him. He didn’t fight to survive. To retire, and live happily ever after.
He fought so that there would be a world to remember.
He fought for his boys.
Simon stirred and it took a few, unsteady breaths until he blinked himself awake, almost immediately reaching for his knife. John stayed calm, slowly breathing out a wave of smoke, while steel-blue eyes stared into whiskey-brown, a silent confession between them.
It ended as abruptly as it had appeared. Ghost sat up within a single, quick movement, adjusting the mask on his head. John didn’t move and instead watched the man quietly.
He could say it.
Three words and it would be done.
It would be done.
But John wouldn’t say it. Not now and not anytime soon and if he held enough sense in his mind, then he would never say it.
“You should have woken me. It’s nearly dawn.”
Hiding the smile in the darkness was easier than on the day. John averted his gaze nevertheless, playing with the cigar between his fingers and didn’t answer.
That was confession enough.
For one short moment, Simon looked at him. John felt the intense gaze, looking up and locking eyes. The distance was short, but wide enough and before anyone could do something they’d regret later, John pulled in his hat, letting out a deep sigh.
“Try to get Soap on the radio. I wanna hear if the muppet burned the whole base down in the meantime.”
Simon turned around and Ghost got up without a further word.
And it was better this way.