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Their squad was not among the most typical. They existed outside of the realm of normalcy for their posts. They were too close, for brothers in arms. Interpersonal relationships within the SAS were generally a private affair. Professional and to the point. This team, though, had been through hell and back together, and figured that they deserved what moments of peace they could eke out amongst the chaos. Moments of tenderness that really had no business existing in their proximity.
Some signs are more subtle. The way their favorite drinks and snacks always appeared in the weekly supply shipments, or a warm blanket always lay draped over the couch in the Captain’s office. A silent invitation to join him, on those long, sleepless nights that came for them all (inevitable with all they’d seen and experienced). A promise to be an ear, unwavering and unjudging, as he steadily worked away at the stack of paperwork that sat perpetually on his desk. Price was always the best when it came to that, those little unspoken gestures that always seemed to come when they didn't even know they needed it.
Others were brazen. Gifts thrust in their faces with little fanfare and no expectations, just something that sparked a thought of them in the moment, impulse decisions aimed to please. Invitations to accompany him, anywhere and everywhere. It was heartwarming, a testament to how Garrick always seemed to have them on his mind, always wanting to be in their company.
It was all the sort of affections that Simon had become fluent in, the little barely there gestures. Ones that spoke as clearly as actual words of affirmation if they were noticed. He’d learned to lean into the mystery behind his callsign, a Spector drifting around base and leaving small offerings in his wake. Trying to prove something that he didn’t want to fully face on his own. That these men, the strongest men he’d even known, were deserving of tender love and care. That maybe he was also just as deserving, despite his past.
Johnny was the outlier. Even brazen propositions and gifts weren’t enough to soothe his need for affection. There was no one else who seemed to settle that bone deep ache in his bones, like the Sergeant. Fists pushed into shoulders, fingertips brushed against the small of his back in passing, legs pressing flush from knee to hip for the duration of those long flights between exfil and base. It was always simple, surface level, never lingering for more than anything but proper, friendly contact. Never pushing those preconceived boundaries, set in place for exactly this reason. Every point of contact buzzed like the static in an old tv screen, threatening to shock them if they dared to reach out directly. The silent intention behind it all burned Simon’s skin, even through layers of clothes and gear- all strategically placed as a barrier, meant to keep those exact feelings at a safe distance.
Every night when he slept, Simon found himself back in that grave. Body pinned between damp, rotting wood, and the half skeletonized remains of the man who’d taken the lives placed in his care, and sold them out. Led them to this moment. Both of them, buried beneath six feet of dank earth, and only one left alive to suffer through this horror.
Every foot of dirt he ripped his way through, buried another piece of him. Simon Riley had been buried alive, and he’d never made it out. Memories of warmth and security cradled to his mother’s chest had begun to fade. Of roughhousing with his brother, bruises formed not with malice, but an unspoken connection. Of soothing his young nephew’s scraped knees with murmured words and lips pressed to cracked skin. They belonged to the body in the ground, not to the Ghost who’d burst his way into the rainy night, caked in filth and retching until his gagging turned to agonized screams.
Sometimes, he could still see it. If he looked hard enough in the mirror, leaned in and let his eyes focus on features that were more scar, than skin, he could still see the rot. The way his flesh bubbled and shifted, threatening to slide right off of his aching bones. It had infected him that night, and he knew with sinking certainty that it wouldn’t stop until it had consumed every piece of humanity he had left. Would spread and infect and ruin everything he held dear. Everyone .
So, Ghost covers up. Mask and layers and gear, gloves. Keeps his distance, contains his emotions. Does all he can to protect his team, condemn himself to silent suffering in order to preserve what little good he has left in this world.
Every little touch, mindless bump or teasing jab from Johnny makes him want to topple. Strip off his gloves, be selfish and feel. Place his hand against the side of his Sergeant’s neck and feel the heat of his skin free of barriers, the roughness of his stubble and the curdled scars. More than anything, he wants to feel the strong pulse thumping away beneath that strong flesh. Remind himself that good things still exist in the world. Ghost wouldn’t describe himself as a good man- decent, even, is pushing it. But he won’t allow himself to be selfish, when it could very well result in the very sun being tainted. Shadowed.
“Good advice, L.t. I wanna be like you when I grow up.”
“You wanna be better than me, Johnny…”
Conversations about trust and betrayal run round and round in circles. Unstoppable, inevitable, unfortunate. Important.
“And you left me?”
“I’m used to working alone.”
His life in Ghost’s hands, the outcome of this situation dependant on his guidance. Aching to get closer, to shield him from these never-ending cycles. Everything was on the line, no time for mistakes.
“So you do like me?”
“I like you alive…”
These actions will have consequences; a long path set in motion from a singular moment in time.
“With me, Ghost?”
His eyes lift, tracking the movements as a shoulder brushes his, already walking on without waiting for an answer. Trusting, anticipating. Not a second of doubt in the Lieutenant’s abilities to cover him. Ghost should stop things here, before it went too far and ended just like how everything in his life did. Spare his Sergeant the fate awaiting him at the end of the story.
Ghost was a selfish man.
“Always, Johnny."