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Ever since signing the retirement papers, never once did Ghost raise his voice.
Would seem beyond belief to anyone who knew Ghost back then, spilling blood, shouting orders, sitting through tedious red tape briefings, driving rookies mad with fear and exhaustion. And yet.
Ghost never raises his voice anymore.
Even when Johnny and him fight over stupidest shit like scattered shoes, forgotten laundry or a munched cheese sandwich carelessly shoved into the fridge. It’s never more than huffs, rolled eyes or snarky remarks, which is as natural to them as breathing. Ghost thinks it’s possible they both derive some comfort from it too, from the mere idea that those are the most crucial problems they have to face these days.
When Johnny daringly poks him in the chest, the blue of his eyes darkened with irritation, the only thing on Ghost’s mind is to grab his hand and spin them both, pressing his defiant man to the nearest surface, which never fails to steer the heat into a more pleasurable direction.
For the first time, he feels at peace. They both do. It overwhelmed him at first, but Johnny was there for every step to keep him afloat. It’s a constant, one of the few in Ghost’s life – was then and is now. Even when nightmares come for one of them, the other one is close, tucked under the blankets, quick to offer warmth and reassurance of safety.
Never once he raised his voice. Nor he or Johnny, it was the rule they had agreed on from the start. No matter what it takes, they will be better people. Better parents.
One more thing they’ve found out – Ghost is the most patient dad too.
He treats their baby like the most precious being in the world. She is to him, both her and Johnny. Two people he has, to breathe, to keep moving, to live for. It's crazy to him sometimes, how they managed to create something so beautiful, so pure and sweet. Well, he doesn't have doubts on Johnny’s part. Mostly thinks of his own contribution.
It’s something close to magic, how much of them he can see in her. How she squints and wrinkles her little nose when giggling – it’s all Johnny. How watching a lone bug making its way through the grass can enthrall her for hours – it’s Simon when he himself was a kid.
He repeats the same gentle “no” when she attempts to soothe her teething on unfit things, petulant from all the discomfort. In a store, his attention never strays when Johnny asks her for the hundredth time if this is the dress she likes. She prefers purple over yellow and dogs over cats. When she spills milk while pouring him a glass for the first time, and absolutely floods the kitchen floor, Simon offers her a cloth to wipe it up together.
He used to think peace was just a state of being hollowed out, with nothing more to feel, give or want. The respite of the blankness that comes after too much pain, when the body simply refuses to be.
He has yet to learn a lot of things.
Having Johnny rest his head in the crook of Simon’s arm, his stubble coarse against bare skin. Watching him coo with their daughter in the cramped sun-lit kitchen. Brushing her curls that bounce right back into ringlets, silky and soft in his rough fingers. Feeling her hiccup into his chest after she cried herself to exhaustion when the book happened to be too sad for her liking. Him and Johnny conspier afterwards in hushed whispers, making a promise to alter the story along the way the moment her eyes become cyan with unshed tears.
In her mind, even dragons and big scary wolves must be given their own happily ever after.
Simon has yet to learn some things, but now he knows that peace is when you wish for tomorrow to come sooner before you fall asleep.