Work Text:
The operation had gone smoother than anyone dared to say against. It was a clean sweep: minimal noise, no civilian interference – just in, out, and done in one surprisingly swift run-through. That night was the kind of night that should’ve ended with a debrief and an early bed, but somehow, the team had been swept up in a local celebration that bled into the air around their temporary base. It’d been some Independence Day or a festival Soap couldn’t pronounce, but it didn’t matter; the town was alive with color and laughter, and for once, no one was shooting at them.
Price had given them leave to wander for a bit, muttering on about something with “team morale” as he lit a cigar. Gaz had already disappeared into the crowd, and Ghost – mostly Simon – had retreated to his usual post just outside the noise, standing in the shadow of a half-collapsed wall like he was guarding the place himself.
Soap found him there, exactly where he knew he would. Of course he did. Ghost was predictable like that: always keeping one foot out of the light, like stepping too close to joy might burn him where the scars already ran deep. He was the kind of man who mistook solitude for safety, and Soap – well, Johnny, on the other hand, was built for chaos. He was born of noise and laughter and bad decisions that somehow always worked out, a chaos that drew life toward him like a magnet. He had a beer in hand, two more tucked carelessly under his arm, and a grin that refused to fade even when the smoke from the fireworks curled low in the air, stinging his eyes and catching in his throat. There was something poetic about it: the two of them were framed by ruin and light, one trying to disappear while the other tried to drag color back into the world.
“Christ, Si,” he muttered, setting one bottle down near Ghost’s boot, the glass clinking faintly against the stone. “Y’know, yer’ allowed to take off the mask and enjoy somethin’ once in a while?”
His tone carried that familiar teasing warmth, half challenge and half invitation, like he was daring Ghost to meet him halfway in being human for five bloody minutes.
Ghost didn’t look at him; he rarely did when the world around them felt too alive. But he just tipped his head slightly toward the sky, where blue and gold streaks burst open above them like veins of light splitting in the dark.
“Enjoyin’ it fine like this,” he said, finally, his voice even and low, flat but not unkind, and softened by the faintest trace of hidden amusement. Soap huffed under his breath, the sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh, and leaned beside him against the wall.
The world below was a blur of sound and color: kids shouting in the streets, dogs barking in joyful panic, someone playing a stubbornly out-of-tune guitar while firecrackers cracked against the cobblestone. The sharp whistle of another firework shot through the air, spiraling up before it burst into a shower of yellow sparks. Yet up here, above it all, there was a stillness that didn’t feel empty – a kind of hush that came with knowing the noise couldn’t reach them unless they wanted it to. Soap took in a slow drink, the bottle cool against his fingers, and let his gaze stretch out over the horizon. The longer he stared, the more everything blurred together – the lights, the laughter, the dark – until he felt himself trapped in a quiet sort of daze, half spellbound, and half amused at the rare peace pressing against his ribs.
“You ever think,” he began softly, his voice more a thought than a question, “That this is what it’s supposed to be like? I guess – just quiet?”
Ghost didn’t answer right away. His hand flexed once over the strap of his rifle, a habit he probably didn’t even realize he had, before relaxing again.
“Not really built just for ‘this,’ Johnny.”
Soap chuckled quietly at that, his own name rolling off Ghost’s tongue like something almost delicate, fragile even — something that could break if said too loudly. The sound of it pulled at him in a way he wasn’t ready to name.
“Maybe,” Johnny replied at last, turning his head just enough for the light from the fireworks to glance off his face. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t try, yeah?”
His tone was casual, but there was a trace of genuine feeling woven into it; that quiet, stubborn hope he held onto like armor.
He took a small step forward, the crunch of gravel under his boot barely audible over the distant laughter. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, glancing back at Ghost over his shoulder, eyes catching the faint colored flare of another explosion overhead. An unspoken question hung between them, it being fragile and bright as the sparks still falling through the dark sky.
“C’mon, there’s food, music, and actual people who aren’t tryna kill us. Be a shame to waste it.”
Ghost stayed silent, his eyes hidden behind the black paint and shadow. Then, after a pause, Johnny heard the faintest sigh – the kind that meant a fight had already been lost. There was an almost teasing look on Johnny’s face as he stared at him, trying hard to bite back a sarcastic reaction; his voice was lighter now as he spoke once more.
“You comin’, then, lad?”
That was when Ghost looked up, the fireworks painting his face in fleeting shades of orange and blue. For a second, Johnny forgot to breathe. It wasn’t the explosions or the noise; it was the way Simon looked under the light, something almost soft breaking through the soldier carved out by too many years of war.
Simon didn’t smile, not really, but his voice carried a quiet warmth when he finally answered, “Yeah. I’m comin’.”
They walked back together, shoulder to shoulder, neither in a hurry. The night air smelled like smoke and salt and cheap beer, a form of scent that would stick to their clothes but not their minds. When they reached the square, the music had gotten louder, laughter spilling between stalls and rooftops. Johnny bought them both something grilled and unidentifiable, handing Simon a skewer like it was a peace offering.
“Not bad, aye?” he said, taking a bite with a satisfied hum. Simon eyed it, then the crowd, then Johnny – and took it anyway.
For a long while, they didn’t speak. They just stood there, watching bursts of color shatter across the sky, the glow catching in Simon’s eyes. Johnny felt the weight in his chest ease – not disappearing, but softening – and when he glanced over, he swore he saw the faintest curve beneath the mask, a shadow of something real. Maybe it was the light. Maybe not. When the fireworks reached their peak: bright, wild, and almost impossible, Johnny turned his head toward him again, his grin lazy and full of a quiet triumph.
“See?” he brightly grinned, “Told ya’ it’d be worth it.”
Simon let out a slight chuckle without a verbal reply, but the look in his eye that he gave was already a solid answer in itself. It lingered for a long moment, steady and unguarded, before he looked back at the sky.
“Maybe,” he murmured. “For once.”
Johnny laughed at that, a soft, breathy sound that melted into the air around them, barely audible beneath the echo of fireworks still lingering in the sky. He leaned back on his heels, shoulders brushing Simon’s for just a second too long before he shifted again, pretending it hadn’t happened. Simon didn’t move away this time. The crowd had then begun to thin as the hour stretched later; the air grew cooler and quieter, the kind of calm that came after everything loud had already been said. Somewhere, a child’s laughter trailed off into a yawn, a dog barked at the wrong sound, and the smell of burnt paper and smoke still clung to the night like a memory refusing to fade.
Simon found himself breathing more slowly. Not because he meant to, but because the world had stopped demanding he stay on edge. His eyes followed the last of the sparks drifting down like dying embers, then shifted – unwillingly, unconsciously – back to Johnny. The other man’s expression was soft in the glow of a nearby lantern, face slightly turned toward him, his eyes bright and open in a way that made something in Simon’s chest tighten. Johnny had always been like that: full of life, full of noise, full of every damn thing Simon had spent years convincing himself he didn’t need anymore.
He told himself it was the drink, the air, or even the leftover adrenaline bleeding out after a clean op. But when Johnny turned to him further, smiling like the night itself was something to be proud of, Simon felt that lie crumble like ash.
“Y’know,” Johnny said, nodding toward the emptying square, “I think this might be the first time I’ve seen you not look ready to shoot someone.”
Simon’s head tilted slightly, the ghost of a smirk hidden behind the mask. “You look hard enough, I still might.”
“Ah, there he is,” he said with a pure, emitted laugh, nudging him gently with his shoulder. “Knew I’d get some life outta ye’ sooner or later.”
“You’re pushy,” Simon replied. But there wasn’t an edge to it, no bite, no distance. Just something easy, something almost fond.
Johnny shrugged. “Aye, well, someone’s gotta make sure ya’ remember yer’ not a bloody ghost all the time.”
Simon went quiet again, but this time the silence didn’t sit between them like a wall. It wrapped around them like a blanket instead, fragile, warm, and completely honest. He could feel the heat of Johnny’s presence beside him; he could hear the way he breathed when he was finally still. For a man who talked endlessly, Johnny fell into silence in a way that felt deliberate, respectful even. He didn’t fill the quiet; he just shared it.
And that was when Simon realized how much that mattered.
He’d gone years without this – the kind of company that didn’t ask, didn’t pry, and didn’t need to understand everything. Johnny didn’t want to fix him; he didn’t even try. He just showed up, night after night, with a grin and a joke and a patience that shouldn’t have survived the kind of life they lived. It was slow, steady, and completely real. It was everything Simon hadn’t known he missed until right then, when the noise died down and all that was left was the sound of Johnny’s breath mingling with his own.
He felt something twist in his chest, not sharp or with the ache of fear or loss, but something heavier and deeper. It was the sort of realization that made him go still, the way he did before pulling a trigger or walking into a fight. But there was no fight here. There was only Johnny.
“You alright, big man?” Johnny asked softly, tilting his head to look at him, a sliver of concern slipping through his usual humor. “You’ve gone quiet.”
Simon blinked once, slowly, then let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.
“Just thinkin’,” he said, his voice noticeably lower than before.
“Dangerous habit, that,” he teased, though his tone was gentle.
Simon almost smiled, a slight huff leaving his lips. “Seems that way.”
Johnny grinned again, that easy, disarming grin that always seemed to undo Simon’s better judgment. He reached for his beer, tilting it in Simon’s direction before taking another sip. The motion was simple, unthinking, but Simon’s gaze followed the line of it, caught stubbornly on the way the light brushed against Johnny’s knuckles, the faint scar there from a mission months ago – a scar Simon remembered patching himself. His stomach turned at the memory, not with pain, but with a weight that felt too close to something he didn’t want to name yet.
They stayed like that for a while, just two soldiers standing too close under a sky that had stopped pretending to be bright. The last of the fireworks faded, the smoke thinned, and soon the only light came from the dull orange glow of streetlamps and the flicker of a food stall closing down for the night.
Johnny finally stretched, setting his empty bottle down with a quiet clink.
“Guess that’s the end of the show,” he murmured, looking up one last time.
Simon nodded, his voice soft when he replied. “Yeah. Shame.”
Johnny turned to look at him again, and for a second, neither of them moved. The air between them hummed with something unspoken – not tension, not exactly, but a kind of awareness that made Simon’s pulse slow and race all at once. Johnny’s eyes flicked briefly to the edge of his mask, then back up again, and Simon felt the question there without it being said. Can I see you?
He didn’t answer. Not yet. Not tonight. But something in him shifted – the smallest, quietest surrender.
When they finally started walking back toward the base, Johnny kept close beside him, their arms brushing every few steps. Simon didn’t pull away; he couldn’t. The world felt too open, too strangely safe, and for once, he didn’t want to retreat from it.
By the time they reached the barracks, the night had settled into a soft calm. Johnny paused at the door, turning to him with a faint but caring smile.
“It was worth it, aye?”
Simon studied him for a long moment, his gaze tracing the lines of his face, the laugh still lingering at the corners of his mouth. He thought about saying something – anything – but the words never came. Instead, he nodded once.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It was.”
With a playful, half-salute, Johnny headed inside, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Simon alone under the fading glow of the last lantern. He stayed there for a while, staring at the empty spot where Johnny had been, feeling the ghost of his warmth like an aftershock in his chest. He thought about knocking, imagining the slight confusion on Johnny’s face before he invited him inside, wanting desperately to end the night with him on his mind.
That was when he finally understood.
The realization didn’t come like a spark; it went like the slow rise of dawn: soft, inevitable, and terrifyingly real. He was in love with him. Somewhere between gunfire and laughter, between silence and the smell of smoke, he’d fallen in love with John MacTavish.
He swallowed hard, the thought almost a reasonable response for his aching mind, before he slowly stepped from the door, letting the unsettled feeling in his stomach dissolve until he was certain they were real.