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As Ghost steps onto the roof, he forces himself to let the heavy door behind him slam closed on its own instead of following his instinct to ease it shut. There is no need for stealth on this particular mission, he reminds himself.
“You left in an awful hurry,” he calls out to the figure currently leaning against the ledge at the far end of the rooftop. Said figure visibly startles at the sound of Ghost’s voice. So much for announcing his presence.
“LT,” the figure—Johnny—sighs out under his breath, not bothering to turn around. He just slumps back into a relaxed posture, seeming to trust his superior officer to come to him instead. And Ghost does. A part of him would have once bristled at the thought of being beckoned with such ease, but by now he’s gotten quite used to going along with the sergeant’s whims during their scant downtime.
“The boys all wondered where you’d gone off to.” Ghost sidles easily up to where Johnny is leaning with his elbows resting on the concrete lip of the short wall. “Looked like you saw someone shoot your dog and piss on the corpse.”
Just earlier in the evening, Ghost had been reluctantly coerced into a night out at the pub with a visiting squad along with Johnny, who had acquiesced much more readily to the request. Even still, barely two hours into the night out, Johnny up and left without even a word goodbye, leaving those in the party who noticed his departure with questions.
“And yet, yer the only one who came looking for me,” Johnny retorts with a bemused scoff, a faintly bitter smile tugging at the corner of that clever mouth.
Ghost would be hard-pressed to admit it under any conditions short of torture—and even then, he might choose to die before letting it slip—but Johnny’s smile is one of his favorite things about the man; that even when clearly miffed, he seems to not be able to help cracking a smirk.
“Nah, just the only one who knows where to find you when you get pissy.” Ghost pulls just far enough out of his appreciation for Johnny’s face to cobble together an answering jab. It still rings far too tender for his liking, but it works to pull a small chuckle from the man. “Here.”
Ghost reaches over to Johnny with a closed fist. Johnny raises an eyebrow with a pointed glance, but holds out an open hand all the same. Ghost lets the lighter he had stashed in his pocket fall into the waiting palm. “You left it at the pub.”
Johnny doesn’t respond right away, instead staring at the lighter with something like confusion crossing his features. He nods then, schooling his expression into a placid sort of agreeability that is very much at odds with the tension still rolling from him in waves. “Cheers.”
Ghost doesn’t push him for anything more than that. He likes to think that he knows Johnny well enough by now to know when the man needs silent company, and Ghost is more than able to be that for him. He tries not to examine why almost everything seems to come so easily around him, why the mere sight or sound of Soap MacTavish can buoy him when most everyone else gets so grating after too long.
He knows what answers he’ll find if he puts more thought into it, of course. He’s not blind to his own emotions, and he’s too competent to miss something so blatant about himself. But that doesn’t mean he can’t ignore it for the time being. Here’s hoping “the time being” is the rest of his life.
Johnny chooses that moment to break the silence after pocketing the lighter. “Are you gonnae ask why?”
He sounds almost ashamed at the question, or at least self-conscious. Like he’s bracing himself for the answer.
“Why what?”
“Why I left.” No, self-conscious isn’t the right word. He sounds resigned. Like it’s an inescapable fate that he’ll need to explain himself.
Ghost takes a beat to scan Johnny’s face where he’s resolutely not looking at Ghost, gaze fixed stubbornly somewhere in the distance. “Figured it was need-to-know.”
Something softens in Johnny at that, a real, albeit small, smile creeping onto his face as he breathes out a chuckle, barely audible. “Practical as always.”
Ghost feels his own smile crinkle the corners of his eyes. Johnny would see it if he looked over. Ghost doesn’t know if he wants him to, comfortable with his taking pleasure at the sight of the other man go unnoticed. “Someone’s got to be.”
“That’s for sure,” Johnny laughs quietly.
Ghost’s gaze trails downwards away from those damn eyes, across Johnny’s stubbled jawline and the cords of muscle wrapped around his throat, the edge of a farmer’s tan peeking out from under the collar of his tee shirt. His eye catches on a glint of metal, different from the dull silver used for their tags.
“When’d you start wearing that?” Ghost finds himself asking as soon as he registers the gold cross hanging around Johnny’s neck, resting just below the hollow of his throat.
“What?” Johnny finally looks at him then, and Ghost meets his gaze steadily, genuinely curious. He would have noticed something like this, surely.
“The cross,” he nods to the pendant.
“Oh,” Johnny begins. He looks almost bashful. He shrugs, gaze darting away. “Mam gave it to me last leave. Figured I’d wear it, if only for her sake.”
The gold clashes with his eyes.
“Didn’t know you were religious,” Ghost says, forcing his tone casual. Truth is, he doesn’t really give a shit if Johnny believes in God, or Hell, or any of it. But against his better judgement, he has grown to learn plenty about him. And he knows that anything he does to try and appease his frigid family tends to only leave him miserable.
“Raised Catholic,” Johnny clarifies, as if it isn’t obvious from the everything about him.
“My condolences,” Ghost says dryly before he can stop himself. Luckily Johnny seems to feel similarly, a muffled guffaw spilling out from behind that mouth.
Ghost takes a moment to bask in the easy silence that follows, taking a break from staring at Johnny’s still-smiling lips to look out over the tree line jutting up against the fence surrounding the base. He can see the faint movements of a bird flitting between branches in the light from a nearby building. The warmth of Johnny’s shoulder brushing his bicep makes the rest of him feel that much colder.
“Not sure how much of it I believe in anymore,” Johnny breaks the silence, scratching absently at the nape of his neck, just below where his mohawk ends.
“Having doubts?” Ghost hates few things more than discussing religion. But these days, he always seems to have a common exception for those many little rules he’s set for himself.
“Questions, more like.” Johnny sighs. He doesn’t look like he particularly wants to have this conversation either.
But Ghost is a weak man, and anything he can learn about Soap, he’ll gladly take.
“And does He answer?”
Johnny turns to face him then, and Ghost forces himself to meet his searching gaze. Johnny looks torn between resignation and a genuine sort of hurt, a part of him bristling at the possibility that’s he’s being mocked.
“Course not,” he finally says, still staring up at Ghost. “Does He ever answer you?”
“I’ve never asked Him.”
Johnny deflates a little at that, as if Ghost was the only reason he kept any faith at all. His gaze flickers to the rooftop door before landing once again on Ghost.
“Why’d you come looking for me, Simon?”
There’s a desperate edge to his voice, dark and cutting. Ghost gets the distinct feeling that he’s really asking a different question entirely.
“It’s my job,” Ghost settles on. “To look after my men.”
He feels pinned under the weight of the other man’s stare. Like nothing he says, short of the absolute, naked truth, will ever hold up upon closer inspection. He feels unmoored in a way that is decidedly unpleasant.
“Just doin’ yer job then, are ye?” Johnny’s voice dips lower, almost teasing but still with a hint of that same rawness.
“You’d do the same for me.” And Ghost knows it’s the truth, even if it’s all just deflection on his part.
Johnny takes a step closer, entirely in Ghost’s orbit. Ghost fights the urge to step back in kind, his skin buzzing with the proximity in a way that he can’t decide whether he likes.
Johnny’s head tilts to the side, all earnestness and intense eye contact. “Never said I wouldn’t.”
“I needed to know you’re safe,” Ghost nearly whispers, the admission feeling like pulling out a tooth, all stubborn roots and raw nerves left suddenly exposed. He wonders how Johnny’s tongue would feel against the empty socket.
Johnny smiles fondly, just a flash of affection that Ghost feels himself soak up desperately like a neglected houseplant before his face falls towards insufferably cherubic once again. “I can take care of myself, LT.”
Ghost tries to convince himself that Johnny’s eyes don’t flicker down to his masked mouth. “I don’t want you to.”
Johnny’s brows furrow at that. Ghost realizes his misspeak a moment too late. Before he can correct himself or, more appealingly, find the nearest wood chipper to swan-dive into, Johnny’s mouth splits into a blinding grin, all sharp teeth.
He looks like the cat that caught the canary, and for a brief, ludicrous moment, Ghost feels a spark of fear kindle low in his abdomen.
“Don’t know how to give up that last little bit of trust, is that it?” Johnny takes another step, further into Ghost’s space. This time, Ghost does take a step back in kind, the curve of his spine hitting the edge of the shallow wall at the perimeter of the rooftop.
“Or,” Johnny continues, all but pressing himself against Ghost’s front. Ghost feels his skin burn at the near-contact, even through their combined layers of clothes. “Do you just want to be the one to hold my life in your hands?”
Ghost realizes too late the turn this conversation has taken. Some parts of him are more on-board than others. His heart jackhammers behind his ribs and it’s all he can do to keep his white-knuckle grip on the concrete slab currently digging into his back. He barely remembers that he’s expected to respond to what Johnny has just said.
“I want anything you’re willing to give,” comes out in a rush. Smooth.
Ghost’s mind screams at him that this is all wrong, that this is too fast. But as soon as Johnny’s hand comes to rest so gently against his cheek, his head is silent for the first time in what might just be years.
He fights down embarrassment when he promptly presses further into the touch and makes Johnny chuckle fondly.
Johnny’s gaze turns serious then. “Tell me I’m reading this wrong. I’ll stop right now.”
“Please don’t,” Ghost croaks out.
Johnny gifts him another beautiful smile before he’s leaning in and pressing his mouth against where he guesses Ghost’s must be beneath the balaclava, eyes falling closed.
When Ghost doesn’t reciprocate, rooted to the spot as he is, Johnny pulls away, concern etched in the furrow of his brow. He looks bashful and thoroughly unsure then, as Ghost fights to get his body to do anything except stare down at him.
Finally, just as Johnny looks ready to turn tail and run, his limbs cooperate. He hurriedly rucks up the mask and pulls Johnny back in by the back of his head, crashing their mouths together in what could charitably be called a kiss.
He sees Johnny’s eyes go wide at the forceful meeting of lips, before he melts into the touch.
Ghost is the first to pull away the second time, feeling exhilarated and terrified in equal measure.
It must show on his face, because Johnny cradles his now-bare face in a way that is equally grounding and soothing, thumb stroking lightly over the scar that cuts from the top of his cheekbone across the bridge of his nose.
“Alright?” Johnny asks the question gently, like he knows just how close Ghost feels to shaking apart entirely.
“I’ve never done that before,” Ghost mutters out, still slightly mortified by the while ordeal.
Johnny tilts his head again with a lopsided grin. “What, kissed a man?”
“Kissed anyone.” Ghost feels his face heat up in what is surely a blazing flush.
But Johnny offers no judgement. He just smiles softly, arms wrapping around Ghost’s shoulders and tugging him close.
Ghost lets himself fall into the embrace, feeling his mouth curl into its own smile as he nuzzles into the top of Johnny’s head.
“We’ve got all the time in the world to figure this out, then.”