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Ghost refused to let himself love. Between the abuse of his father and the forced loneliness of the kids at school, something as soft as love seemed a hard thing to find. It was barely present in the crevices of that old house, less when he dared to take even the slightest step away from the world for some escape. Tommy, he knew, struggled on a worse scale. Grappled with the notes of his older brother fighting with a man less than capable of care, then rushing off to the army for even the lightest escape. It was a place of strange respite; love and care were the furthest things expected in such a place, with barking voices that he constantly reminded himself meant to build him up, not tear him down from what worse words his father let scream for his "betterment". This was a controlled state of such hatred, whittling down the edges of what softness remained, hardened him enough to send him into the worse lines there were; the front of secrecy and harsher bullets, keeping what trouble came to the world far from any battered or bettered home.
It was the sort of thing that barely bought him time to come home, watching through scattered leaves as things fell apart. It took time for Tommy to take his hand- one of comradery in the worst of days -and dare to push back. Push through what things tore them apart, bridge the distance with the potential of a better life. Even if he had no room for softness, Tommy was more than capable; always the better one of the two of them, and absolutely deserving of the good he got. Beth was a blessing as well as the little tyke of Joseph, a slice of softness in a crueler world. A place where a distant man of war could come to rest and be happy, see some light between the bodies he buried.
It was a place that promised a better life, a place he held close in his mind even through the blood that Roba spilled, the faces of smiling members turned into the determination that dragged him out of that earth and crawling back to the land of the living. It was the solace he prayed for with bloodied bandages, a tattered body and bruised throat, mind scrambled enough to get him on edge, but never to break completely. That perhaps he might match the snow with white bandages, be soft enough to hold Joseph to readjust the star on the tree. To be the uncle he was, the brother and in-law of a broken family, the safety that sheltered itself from the world.
Only to stare at bloodied baubles, evergreen blended with crimson, intestines hanging with silver garland as his brother laid on the floor. His mother with her hand speared with a knife, body barely hanging onto the countertop. Sweet Beth and little Joseph, her head splattered and stained against the wall, Joseph practically cut into quarters. Glistening greens horribly painted by dark reds, pooled, running between the cracks of the hardwood floor. Golden lights that shone them all in wretched glory, splayed and slaughtered, his safety stolen from under his feet at the worst time of year.
That was enough to shatter what meager softness lay in his soul, buried alongside every body he forced to fall, soaked in a different layer of colder blood. Forced into a simple skeleton of a man, a husk of what once was, trudging forward with the only thought being an early death before his retirement. Perfectly placed, planned, a time he promised himself for the right time. For when all other beasts had been laid to rot, when he might know that some family with a better life could live in the safety he once brought for his brother.
So he hid himself behind bullets and barricades, concrete barracks barely enough to keep his midnight screams away from others. Restless nights that became so normal that he'd practice throwing knives against the wall. Let his kills be quick and merciful, an oppressive silence over every mouth he kept from breathing, a butcher that knew every point to carve away. An exactness that he made an art, far from the hell he'd seen, his only mercy.
It was the very thing that made a myth of the mask he wore, a writhing fear that made every man stand straight in his presence. He was far from a soldier; he was a machine, built of bones and blood, made to tear out the hearts of weaker men. His words were few, exact, little more than what was needed. An accuracy hovered wherever he went, knowing that those that dared stand under his view would fall to the end of his gun, far from the solace that a proper graveyard would give.
It was the sort of state one would expect to terrify anyone willing to approach the man. Price did, Gaz barely, but both held their own notes. Neither were men to be underestimated or truly controlled; they were dogs on the sled, but no man in his right mind would dare to be pulled by them. They were harsh, they were dangerous, they were the last line of the front to be seen by the hostiles. It was the place that Simon was rightfully laid to rest, where Ghost kept the mangled face and pushed forward against all that came at them.
So it was a rightful strangeness when MacTavish arrived. Bright blue eyes, a mouth that barely toed the line between light and tactical. A man who balanced that very line, damn near blistering to stand too close to. And far from any of the others for his boldness; quips, notes, things that found Ghost standing in silence instead of walking away. Intoxicating him with sickly-sweet notes, capturing the flavor of a softness long lost. He was disturbed to find himself taking even the lightest breath by the man, tense muscles relaxing when he managed to catch his gaze or the subject of his speech. A wretched thing that lightened some part of him, left him watching as Soap left the room, the bright energy he held lingering for longer than it was ever supposed to. And God, did Soap's soft notes bring a warmth to his chest, things he tried to swallow down too often to count. There was a point he slipped, far too comfortable to keep the reigns tight, his soft allowance of sweetness out to the world. Johnny, a name, a simple thing that he'd tear himself apart for even speaking in the slightest. Johnny didn't seem to mind it, and in his attempt to cover up the truth of it, he started using it more. The nickname that brought him to hope, oh-so horribly hope that maybe the man would like to have something in return.
But all he saw was Johnny. Johnny, who'd drink more than any drunk could and still stay upright, flirting with men and women outside of their team's hold. Not even a glance to him with sapphire eyes, their luminous ocean depths empty for him. It was enough to force what small feelings had come by back into their cage of bone and marrow; what person would want a man as shattered and scarred as he was, marked by more than what any world should give? Johnny, the cotton-candy eyed man of so much good, deserved more than what some broken body could give. Every night seemed to hold some level of pain for him, reminding himself with claw marks and bites that he was far from any person Johnny would love. That anyone could love. Left bleeding so much that he stole supplies from the medbay, let stained bandages rub his skin raw under thicker clothes. He tore at his chest, as if ripping that thawing heart might do some good, throw it in a tundra and watch himself fall back to his reality. Plaster himself with thin scars, reminders that pained him with every step, forced grunts from him when he twisted the wrong way. Never enough for anyone to notice, only enough to count in their silence of how many times he stole a glance of a man too good for the world he lived in. Biting his tongue so hard it bled when he had a one shot too many of that bourbon, drowning in the words his heart wanted to say, falling apart in his throat when the social bug Johnny was wound up talking with better people. No simple statement he crafted stood to the star that Johnny was, blinding his heart, yet leaving him to close his eyes and pray nobody saw his tears.
But stars always burned out, and Johnny just had to go with a bang. Just one note, one thud, and all the world was dark. His eyes were open for a sight far too close to those old baubles and bones, his place in the world forgotten between the slick blood on the floor, the shallow note of his chest. He didn't dare to hear the shouts of anyone outside his mind, his name on his lips as bloodstained gloves marked his neck, finding little more than a shallow pulse. He barely registered as the medics rushed for them, as Price and Gaz held him back as they carted the unresponsive man away. It was a fight of its own to get him anywhere near base to not arrive like he'd slaughtered the light himself, and an abandoned note when they got the number. He rushed to find Johnny silent on the bed, clad in the horrid white of a ruined snow, the monitor barely heard besides his breathing. Shallow, constant, enough to live but never to wake. He didn't feel his knees hit the floor, clawing at his neck with gloved hands that the men stronger than him could manage to move.
It took longer than it should've for him to get moved into a chair, sitting beside Johnny to watch him, everything too far away for him to touch. He didn't hear a word Price said to the nurse at the door, nor whatever he noted to him on it. He sat until they left and watched the door close, there by Johnny's half-living body, waiting in a horrid silence.
The days melded together more as he stayed there, watching Johnny in the day, catching what little sleep he could at night. Nightmares kept him screaming and sobbing when he woke, visions of Johnny with his family on that day. Smiling, playing with Joseph, Beth giving them hugs, Tommy getting him to relax enough for a chuckle. All crashing down when he was restrained and the four of them cut to pieces in front of him, always clutching Johnny's bleeding body as he screamed for him to stay. Blue eyes glossed over, skies gone grey forevermore. Every single night chiseled away at the work he'd done to silence himself even the slightest, barely with a few minutes rest every night, the rest spent choking on himself for the half-death laying beside him. Price called him sometimes for updates on his leave, bleeding away years of work for a man who didn't love him. He didn't dare to think of leaving Johnny alone; he'd figure out some way to stay, even if it mean shooting himself somewhere to have the same room. He needed Johnny, the man who'd warmed a heart long gone cold, even if the man didn't need him.
It was early one morning that he jolted from another nightmare, scream half-stolen by the tears already in his throat, drowning him out as he tried to call out. The world was dim against his eyes and ears, the early morning light of lamplights crashing against his eyes, the soft sounds of his gasps and hitched breaths barely reaching his ears. His chest tightened with each second he dared to stay awake, glancing frantically around the polished room, the distant cries of worse patients and overwhelming stench of bleach enough to turn his stomach. He clawed at his mask to tear it down, coughing for every bit of air his closed lungs would take, his heart pounding in his chest to steal every damn molecule for its own purposes. He clasped his shirt, sweat catching on his brow as he choked on his screams, noises that were far quieter than he'd ever want them to be. Thoughts of suffocating cradled him in further panic, burning the heat in his lungs and dry patches of his throat in a rhythm both consistent and horrifying, worsening with every weak cry that echoed from him.
He jumped as something moved beside him, whipping with halted breath to stare at the solemn man in the bed, arm shifted slightly, eyes-half lidded and scarcely focused on him. Air flooded his lungs as he damn near dove at the man, burying himself in Johnny's shoulder, heaving heavy sobs to a man that didn't need to hear it. He flinched when Johnny's hand slowly rested on his back, the slick syrup of sleep still thick against his bones, yet he fought it like the battles good soldiers leapt in to die for. He barely heard the weak voice against his ear, a soft G that he'd known for far too long, slurred like thirty shots without the smell of a sweeter drink on his lips. He shook his head, coughing as water clogged his throat, fighting it for the hoarse rasp that crept past his lips in fast fear, as if Johnny would go back under with a name far from where his mind was.
"Si'on," he panted, every bit of his voice rough in the pitiful cry. " 'Ts Si'on, Jo'nny, please."
He heard as the other man managed a quiet noise, something between a sigh and a huff, paced between the hiccupping whimpers his lieutenant was caged in. He felt as the man's other arm slowly wrapped around him, holding him even over the bed, barely whispering the first syllable of the name. A mantra that slowly brought him down from his quiet wails, breath still hitched but drowning less than before. The thin hospital gown damp with his tears, yet the man they covered so soft in his embrace. He barely turned to see those gentle seas staring back at him, calm despite the ruined storm that was his waking, caught in the moment of comforting his commanding officer instead of focusing on his own waking. His chest tightened with another sob at the thought of it- how weak was he, unable to set aside his breakdown for the man that nearly died in his arms?
He gently pushed away, mutters of apologies on his lips, rising to his feet to pace to the door and leave. He barely registered the halls he drifted down, faraway screams and cries dragging him back to that bloodied day, the soft garland hung in the halls for minor festivities- things he hadn't noticed in his obsession with the sergeant, things that only stained his half-hearted actions further. He managed his way to the lift, standing with his hand over the button for a second. He was hesitant; there wasn't a place open at this time of night, not beyond bars that he'd get drunk at and come crawling back from. Johnny didn't need that. Yet he couldn't manage to tear himself from the lift button for several minutes, not until one of them startled him with a ding and opened door, a disgruntled nurse passing him by entirely for her midnight work. He stared at the door as it kept open, the mechanisms hissing as it clattered closed, cables raising it somewhere out of reach.
It still took him an hour to make his way back to the room, ambling along like a half-living shell, staying out of sight of the wandering nurses that made their rounds across the floor. By the time he shuffled his sorry ass back in the room, Johnny was sitting somewhat upright, watching for him at the door. Bright blue eyes watched him as he strayed to his chair, practically collapsing against it. He didn't dare to give those sapphires watching him more than an occasional glance, watching either Johnny's hands or his own, fiddling with his fingers as his chest stayed tight. He tensed as Johnny raised a hand toward his, carefully reaching for the lieutenant's mangled flesh and bones. His reach wasn't enough, clearly trying to reach Simon without overextending himself. He softly hesitated before raising his hand for Johnny, aptly surprised at the strength that the man had in his grip, bringing him with softer palms to the safety of the bed. His breath hitched softly as Johnny rubbed his knuckles, the Scot softly cooing at him as his chest tightened again.
"Am no' goin' anywhere, Si." He whispered, his voice torn with soft disuse. "Promise me ye won't?"
His breath caught in his throat for a second longer than it should've, hot tears burning his vision back to blurriness. He barely tightened his hold on Johnny's hand, the other man gently reciprocating the act.
"Promise." He mustered after a moment, shifting closer to the bed so he could lean against it.
He felt Johnny shift to be closer to him, shoulders touching as they stayed there, watching the window. Snow drifted down after a little while, noting its own harshness as it occasionally blew. And yet, despite the punishment that was outside's freeze, he couldn't help but feel the warmest he had in years.
Something he'd mark himself a hundred times over for, but a peace that let him at least glance at the garland and see just the gold, not what crimson laid upon it years ago. For the phantom blood on his hands to lift, if just for a moment, and let him be. Together with Johnny in the dead of winter, hands intertwined, a bullied and battered hope wishing for more if Johnny was willing to give it.