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Soap makes a point of taking care of himself after a mission. No matter how tiresome or grueling the assignment, he sticks to his routine. He showers, washes his face, slips into his softest, most worn-out pajamas, and tries to sketch what he can before he passes out.
Nowhere in that routine is the incessant ringing of his phone or the ensuing mad dash to fish out said phone from his nightstand before the call is sent to his very serious, very professional voicemail. Certainly not in his post-mission routine is the raging voice of his father blaring through his speaker.
Soap’s so surprised by the onslaught that he doesn’t even register who’s yelling at him for a moment. The difference between the relief he felt upon entering his quarters and the panic now rushing through his body jarring enough to stun him into silence.
It isn’t until he hears a scoff and a furious ‘Well? Do you finally have nothing to say?’ that reality crashes back down around him, and his fingers scramble to hang up. His hands are shaking as he drops his phone back into the drawer, and his breath comes in unsteady puffs as he stumbles to his bunk. The satisfaction of sinking into his bed after a mission is overshadowed by the rising sense of dread that seems to steal the air from his lungs. He turns onto his back and counts the cracks in his ceiling until his breath evens out, and he counts them again until the ringing in his ears stops. He rolls back towards the wall and wraps his arms around his knees when the lightheadedness fades, and he ignores the dryness in his eyes and the wetness on his cheeks.
He falls asleep with the lights still on.
—
Soap never thought about the similarity between his alarm and his ringtone before, but as he shoots awake drenched in his own sweat, he considers changing it.
He’s swinging his legs over the side of the bed and swatting at his bedside table before he’s fully aware, and has to remind himself how to breathe once the beeping stops. Actually looking at the clock tells him he’s up earlier than usual after not snoozing through his first alarm, and he figures he might as well use the extra time he has to shower again.
So much for his routine.
By the time he makes it to the mess, the line for breakfast is long enough that he contemplates settling for a coffee until his stomach reminds him how awful that would be with a grumble, and he nearly shakes his head at the thought. His hair is still damp but the food in front of him is still warm when he sits down at an empty table, so he’ll count that as a win.
‘Small victories’ and whatnot.
The mess buzzes with activity around Soap, and he doesn’t think about how his father ripped into him less than 12 hours ago. He doesn’t think about how the first words he's heard from any of his family in years were full of disgust and vitriol and thrown at him through his shitty standard-issue phone. He doesn't ask how his father learned his number or if he knows what base Soap’s stationed on or when his next leave is. He doesn’t remember slamming doors and crashing plates when a group of recruits across from him gets a little too rowdy for 0500 on a Tuesday. He doesn’t feel the burning in his scalp or the ache in his knees when he sees the glint of a Private’s cross as they walk by. He doesn’t flinch when Ghost sits down next to him, silent as ever, and brushes against his shoulder in greeting. And he doesn’t feel the guilt bubble in his throat when he sees the concern flash across Simon’s covered face, as quick to leave as it appeared.
“Up early,” Simon’s voice is pleasantly gruff in the morning. It’s rare that Johnny’s up early enough after a mission to hear that gruffness mixed with the usual rasp that comes with barking orders and cracking jokes for hours at a time.
Soap soaks it up readily. Commits it to memory before it’s too late, and glances over in time to see his lieutenant pull up his balaclava enough to shove a forkful into his mouth.
“Cannae be slackin’ off now, lt.” He goes for an easy-going grin, but he can tell from the squint of Simon’s eyes that he isn’t buying it. He can feel how the tension clings to his shoulders and how his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Time to lay on the charm.
He leans in close to Ghost and tilts and turns his head so they’re as close to being face to face as they can get while seated like this and relaxes as much as he can, “Unless there’s something ye’d rather me be doin’?” He punctuates the question with a light brush against his lieutenant’s arm.
Ghost simply stares down at him. Which is a strange reaction given that any amount of public affection usually has Simon flustered in a way that makes him blink his pretty lashes while he looks around before he inevitably leans into the touch.
Instead, he’s got this focused look in his eyes. That same look he gets when a mission throws them a curveball, and they have to start improvising.
A tactical retreat it is.
Soap is leaning back and grabbing his tray as abruptly as he leaned in. He’s got an excuse about helping Gaz with recruits on the tip of his tongue, but Simon places a hand over the one Soap still has against his arm and squeezes lightly. He then surprises Soap further by bringing the hand in his grip to his still uncovered mouth and gently kissing his knuckles before letting go with another squeeze. There’s a different look in his eyes now, a soft and understanding thing that has Johnny’s stomach twisting and twirling, as well as a glint that tells Johnny he’s been figured out.
All language has left Johnny’s mind when he stands. He pats Ghost on the back as he passes, coughs to clear the new lump in his throat, and barely remembers to return his tray as he plots how to avoid the man he usually spends every waking breathing moment with.
—
He is incredibly unsuccessful in avoiding Ghost. It’s about as embarrassing as it is unsurprising in hindsight. He’s a damn SAS operative, for fuck’s sake. He’s trained for years on how to blend in and evade detection. He knows how to use his enemy’s (enemy?) blind spots and how to divert attention from himself to make a clean get away. He should know better than to try and hide from Simon.
Frankly, they should dishonorably discharge him for even thinking he could lose Ghost.
Ghost hasn’t even done anything to warrant avoiding him. He hasn’t tried to bring up breakfast–whatever that was. He hasn’t tried to get Soap alone to talk like he normally would if there was something on his mind. He’s barely spoken to Soap at all, actually. He’s just been hovering in Soap’s peripheral. All day, Ghost has had the perfect excuse to enter every room 10 minutes after Soap has and leaves 10 minutes after Soap’s left.
The sergeant is training recruits with Gaz? Something’s come up, and the lieutenant is generously covering for him.
Soap’s doing inventory after the last mission? Ghost needs to return his extra supplies.
MacTavish is finishing his reports for Price? Riley is waiting on a briefing with him.
John’s opted to eat lunch outside? Simon’s opted for a smoke break.
Johnny’s somewhere? Si’s ten steps behind.
He’s following Soap like a damn mark, and Soap is starting to think he’s been holding out on him if it was this easy for Ghost to stick around the entire time.
He’s even been initiating more contact. Soft brushes here and steady pats there. A gentle hand on the small of Johnny’s back during a rare moment alone. He held Johnny’s hand during lunch! Just walked up to sit next to Johnny and intertwined their fingers like it was nothing!
Simon’s behavior has been so atypical that Johnny’s almost forgotten the whole reason he’s avoiding him in the first place. He’s been too focused on figuring out what kind of bizarre shit Simon’s going to pull next to think about anything else. Occupied with catching glimpses of Simon leaned against the back wall, a fence, the lockers, and anything else that can reasonably hold him up, looking entirely too comfortable for a bastard whose been stalking Soap all day. And Soap would believe he was actually at ease too if it weren’t for the slightest furrow of his brow that sets in when Simon doesn’t think he’s looking and the quick way his eyes find Soap’s when he does.
—
So Soap’s not surprised when he slips out of the mess early after dinner and finds Ghost waiting by his door.
He’s already dressed down, having traded his usual kit and fatigues for comfortable-looking sweats and a well-worn hoodie, and dawning a plain balaclava instead of one of his many skull masks.
Soap just nods at him and opens his door. He sits on his bunk and braces himself for the incoming barrage. He doesn’t look up when the questions don’t come. He starts unlacing his boots when he hears Ghost’s quiet footsteps and the soft click of his door locking, and Ghost waits patiently by the door until both of Soap’s boots are off. He makes small shuffling noises with his own boots the entire time, and his steps are purposefully audible as he makes his way to sit next to Johnny.
Soap closes his eyes as he does so. He tenses beside Ghost, but Simon only leans to bump their shoulders together. Johnny can feel the warmth radiating off Simon even through his hoodie, and it’s easier to relax next to Simon like this. It’s easier to lean back into his touch and just exist. It’s easier to lay his head on Simon’s strong shoulder and breathe in his familiar scent–gunpowder and military-grade detergent and the vanilla body wash Johnny bought him for his last birthday.
And when Simon leans his head down to rest against his own, it’s easier to let himself fall apart.
He feels the sobs build in his throat, and he lets them tumble out of his mouth as he reaches up to cling onto Simon’s hoodie with both of his trembling hands. He feels arms wrap around him as he presses his nose to Simon’s pulse point, and he lets out a guttural sound between them when he feels Simon hold him close. He feels a clothed mouth press against his hair, his forehead, and his temple, and he thinks that maybe–maybe it’ll be easier to put himself back together this time because he’s in Simon’s arms–he’s safe now.
Simon’s hands rub his back in broad circles as he cries himself hoarse. Simon’s breathing stays steady as his sobs peter off into hiccups and then again into sniffles. Simon’s heartbeat remains strong and constant in his ears as his eyes dry, and he pulls away from the ruined hoodie with a grimace. Simon’s arms give away easily when Johnny moves to wipe at his tear tracks, and they envelop him just as easily when he takes his place leaning back against Simon’s side.
He keeps rubbing tender circles into Johnny’s arm as his breath evens out, and he keeps quiet when Johnny finally stills beside him. He doesn’t say anything, even though Johnny can tell the questions are already bubbling to the surface. Johnny can tell from the way that Simon keeps clenching and unclenching the arm around his shoulders in small, almost imperceptible, movements. Johnny can tell from the way Simon’s breath stutters on every exhale now, and he can tell from the distinct feeling of Simon’s gaze on him.
He knows the questions Simon is holding back, and he’s all the more grateful for the silence. He knows that Simon is waiting for Johnny to speak first, letting him control the conversation that has to follow this, even if it’s just to shelve it for a time when he hasn’t just cried his eyes out. He knows that Simon wants desperately to ask what’s wrong, what happened, what can he do. He can feel the questions crawling in his own throat, so he knows that the silence is Simon’s way of letting him answer on his own terms. The ball’s in his court.
Johnny takes a deep breath and lets it out. He takes another and another and another until his skin feels big enough for his body, and then one more for good measure before he opens his mouth.
“Ma Da called me…” His voice sounds small and distant to his own ears. Just admitting it out loud brings another crash of emotion that makes him want to cry again. He’s too tired, and he doesn’t think he has any tears left, so his body settles on a wave of nausea that he knows won’t go anywhere.
He feels Simon bristle against him. The arm around his shoulders stiffens, the hand around his bicep tightens, and from what little Johnny knows about Simon’s home life he can tell they’re treading alarmingly close to what he likes to call Simon’s ‘Pre-Ghost Trauma’. The thought makes him huff to himself, but he doesn’t make any noise other than that. Lets the ball roll back to Simon's court and closes his eyes.
“What’d he say?”
They’re really doing this, huh?
They’ve helped each other through more than enough breakdowns at this point. Johnny can’t count how many hours he’s spent holding Simon through his own nightmares, but he notes distantly that they’ve never talked about them afterwards.
He knows that he doesn’t have to answer–he could nip that conversation topic in the bud right here and now and Simon would never mention it again–but he finds that he doesn’t mind sharing this part of himself with Simon. Just a little bit, just between the two of them.
He opts to bury his face back into Simon’s neck, and is only kind of grossed out when he finds the area crusty from his snot and tears and whatever else came out of his face earlier. He makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat and feels Simon deflate a little, “Ah dinnae ken.” His voice is muffed through Simon’s hoodie, enough that he tilts his head away to be understood, “Jus’ yell’d at me till Ah hung-up.” Johnny tightens his grip on the fabric in his hands. He hears stitches pop under his fingers, “Ah didnae even ken he had ma number. Nev’r called or nothin’ after Ah left.”
Simon moves his hands to rest over Johnny’s, easing them out of their death-grip on his hoodie and guiding them to his bare face. He must have taken off the mask while Johnny was busy bawling his eyes out, but it really could have happened at any point between closing his door and now, and Johnny would never know. It makes him realize he hasn’t looked at Simon once during this, and know that he is he can’t help but stare. He runs his thumbs over Simon’s cheeks and watches as brown eyes gaze back at him.
“Right bonnie lad, you are Si,” They way he whispers Simon’s name is the closest he’s come to prayer in years, and he can’t help but close his eyes like he was taught. He’ll kick himself over it later, but for now he has the faintest smile back on his face and it feels right. He’s sure he’ll get another chance to stare at Simon’s mug later.
Simon’s hands are still holding his when he speaks, “We’ll get you a new number in the morning,” Johnny can feel the way his jaw moves as he talks, swears he can feel the vibrations of his voice through his fingertips when he says, “And we can ask Price to look into how he got your contact information. Alright?”
“Aye.”
Simon moves away from him at his agreement, and Johnny worries that he’ll leave now that they have a plan. Simon must see it on his face because he’s quick to placate him with the explanation of grabbing a change of clothes.
He watches as Simon rummages around his dresser drawers, tossing a pair of sweats back before crouching down next to where Johnny keeps a case of water bottles for moments like this, and he’s already changed into his new pants when Simon presses an opened bottle into his palms with a short, “Drink,” and backs away again.
Johnny remembers how much he cried with his first sip and proceeds to down the entire bottle in one go. Water spills down his chin, and he’s only mildly disgruntled when something soft hits him in the face. He makes a noise of protest and pulls the thing down from his head to glare at his attacker. He finds Simon staring back unamused and distinctly hoodie-less, and Johnny’s face lights up as he realizes what hit him.
He isn’t embarrassed at how quickly his shirt and bottle find their place crumpled on his floor as he slips into warmth and comfort, and he isn’t embarrassed by the satisfied sound he lets out, nor the content smile he knows accompanies it as he makes himself at home. He isn’t even embarrassed by the overly fond look on Simon’s face as he makes his way over and maneuvers them into as comfortable a position as Johnny’s too-small-bunk will afford
Johnny finds himself smushed against the wall with his arms around Simon’s waist and their legs intertwined. His ear rests over Simon’s heart, and this time Johnny really can feel the rumble in his chest when he asks,
“What do you call an alligator in a vest?”