Work Text:
Ghost doesn’t do pop songs.
That’s what he tells everyone, anyway.
In reality, the speakers in his tiny bunk are turned up just enough to drown out the distant hum of generators. A synth beat pulses through the room, bright and shamelessly catchy. Simon Riley stands in the middle of the floor in sweats and a battered black t-shirt, mask shoved up to the bridge of his nose, scars and stubble on full display.
And he is absolutely, unapologetically, swinging his hips.
He’s got a knife in one hand, the handle pinched between thumb and forefinger like a makeshift mic. The sharp edge gleams under the weak ceiling light as he leans into the chorus of Golden by Huntrix, mouth forming every word like he’s sung it a hundred times in private.
He has.
He’s on the best part now, shoulders rolling, boots tapping out the rhythm.
"We're goin' up, up, up-"
He sings as he manages a little half spin as he mouths the high note, eyes closed, just for himself.
The door hisses softly as it opens. Johnny stops dead in the doorway, one boot inside, one out, breath catching in his throat.
For a split second he thinks he’s walked into someone elses bunker. Ghost....Simon...is in the middle of his bunk, dancing like a bloke at a club he swears he was dragged to, mask riding high enough to show a hint of a smile. Knife microphone held to his lips. Hips going. Big shoulders swaying like he’s forgotten how tall and muscular of a trained killer he is.
"It's our moment. You know together we're glowing." Simon continues to sing.
Johnny’s mouth falls open.
His hand moves on instinct, phone out, thumb on the camera app. It’s a miracle he doesn’t cackle right then and there.
The recording starts.
Simon hits the end of the chorus with a little flourish, dragging the handle of the knife down, tip hovering dangerously near the sharp point as he improvises a goofy mic drop. He even throws in a hip pop to the side.
Johnny bites his fist to keep quiet, shoulders shaking.
"Gonna be, gonna beeee goldеn!!!"
Simon half turns in a careless little step as he sings, and....
Freeze.
Johnny and Simon lock eyes.
The music keeps playing for one more beat, then another, before Simon’s thumb finds the pause on the wireless remote clipped to his pocket with a harsh click.
The room drops into thick, stunned silence, only broken by Johnny’s sudden wheeze of laughter. Simon slowly, deliberately, lowers the knife and sets it on the desk. He drags the mask back down over his mouth with one practiced tug, the familiar skull snapping into place. When he speaks, his voice has dropped to that low, gravel.
“Johnny.”
Soap loses it.
He leans against the doorframe, one arm wrapped around his stomach, phone held aloft in his other hand, already recording the aftermath. “Steamin Jesus!" he chokes out between laughs. “Golden, Si? Really? Look at ye- swingin’ those hips like yer auditionin’ for Britain's Got Talent."
“Give me your phone. Now." Simon says, very calmly.
Johnny snorts, still recording. “No.”
“Johnny.” There’s a warning there now, thick as storm clouds.
He lifts the phone higher, angling it just so. “Think I’ve just found my new lockscreen, L.T.”
Simon takes one step forward, broad shoulders filling the room. “If you value your life, knobhead,” he rumbles, voice even lower, “delete that.”
Johnny’s grin is blinding. “Make me, Si.”
For a heartbeat, neither of them moves.
Then Simon charges.
Johnny yelps and spins, bolting down the corridor. The camera jerks wildly, the video catching a dizzying view of the bunk’s ceiling before snapping around to Johnny’s face as he flips it to selfie mode while sprinting.
His cheeks are flushed pink, eyes bright with mischief. Behind him, the unmistakable thunder of Ghost’s boots shakes the metal grating.
“OI, L.T.’S GONNA KILL ME!” Johnny howls into the camera, laughing.
Down the hall, a door opens. “What the bloody hell is that noise?” Price’s voice cuts in, distant but unmistakable.
Gaz’s voice follows as he stands next to Price. “Sounds like Soap pissed off the grizzly bear again.”
Laswell stands next to Gaz, sipping from her mug of tea. “If Riley’s roaring, I don’t want to know why.” She says nonchalantly.
Johnny cackles, still running, turning the phone so the camera catches a blurry shot of the black clad with a skull mask shape hurtling after him. “Witnesses! I’ve got witnesses! I die, everyone will see!!"
“JOHN MACTAVISH!” Ghost bellows from behind him.
Johnny screams, far higher pitched than he’d ever admit to and dodges around a corner. The camera smears everything into streaks, concrete walls, exposed pipes, a quick glimpse of Price’s deeply unimpressed face as Johnny sprints past.
“Jesus Christ-" Price mutters off camera. “Muppets. I’m in charge of muppets.”
“Run faster, Soap!” Gaz calls, voice echoing from somewhere unseen. “He’s gaining on you, mate!”
“He’s bloody huge!” Johnny wheezes into the phone, turning it back to selfie mode. His grin has gone slightly panicked. “Si, mate, love of my life, we can talk about this-”
The frame jolts as a solid weight slams into his back.
“FUCK–!”
They go down hard. The video whips around in a blur of grey and black, Johnny’s feet kicking up as Simon tackles him to the ground. His phone nearly flies out of his hand, but manages to keep a tight grip around it.
The recording is nothing but a tumble of motion and the sound of Johnny screaming like a terrified teenage girl at a haunted house. There’s a strangled bark of laughter that might be Gaz, Price swearing in the distance, Laswell not leaving anymore commentary becsaue she was just done.
Then the image freezes on a blurry shot of the ceiling as Simon’s gloved hand covers the lens.
The video ends.
Johnny is flat on his back, the breath half knocked out of him. The concrete is cold through his shirt, and his heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his fingertips. Simon is kneeling over him, one knee between Johnny’s legs, one hand braced on the floor by his head, the other wrapped around Johnny’s wrist. His wrist that is very much still holding his phone.
Johnny is still laughing, helpless little hiccups breaking through the adrenaline. Simon’s skull mask looms above him, close enough that Johnny can see the faint lines of strain at the corners of his narrowed eyes.
“Gimme." Ghost says, deceptively quiet.
Johnny clutches the phone to his chest with both hands. “No!" he gasps, eyes shining. “That was-fuckin’ priceless, that was-”
Simon doesn’t bother arguing. He simply pries at Johnny’s fingers, methodical and unhurried in a way that screams, I am hanging on to my temper by a thread. Johnny fights him, wriggling like a cat being forced into a bath.
“Yer only makin’ me want to keep it more." Johnny laughs, twisting.
Simon abruptly shifts his weight, pinning Johnny’s wrists above his head in one rough, efficient movement.
Johnny’s breath catches for an entirely different reason.
Ghost pauses. Just a second. Brown eyes narrow behind the mask again, like he’s suddenly remembered they’re not just teammates rolling around in the corridor anymore. The air between them turns electric.
“Stop fightin’ me." Simon mutters.
“Not my fault ye look so good dancin’ to-”
“Don’t." Simon warns as he interrupts him. His grip tightens just for emphasis.
Johnny grins up at him with a stupid smug look, flushed and delighted and absolutely unstoppable. “Golden." he sing songs softly. “Yer my wee secret pop princess, that what ye are?”
“Johnny.” Simon’s voice is low, but there’s a thread of embarrassment running through it that Johnny finds utterly adorable.
“Alright, alright.' Soap breathes, still grinning. “Fine. Take it.”
Simon releases one wrist just long enough to snag the phone. He rolls off Johnny slightly, still close enough that their shoulders touch, and squints at the screen. The video is still open on the last blurry frame.
He scrolls back, thumb hovering as he watches himself. The mask pulled up. The hips. The knife microphone. Johnny’s off screen laughter.
Simon groans deeply, a quiet sound of pure suffering.
“Wha' was tha'?” Johnny teases. “Did tha big, bad Ghost just groan?”
“I’m going to bloody murder you." Simon mutters. But there’s no real heat in it now. Just mortified resignation.
He taps the delete icon with ruthless efficiency. The video vanishes. He exhales slowly, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “There. Problem solved.”
Johnny snorts. “Ye sure that’s how phones work, old man?”
Simon pockets the device anyway, just to be safe, then looks down at Johnny.
They’ve ended up in a quiet side corridor, half lit and empty. Footsteps and voices echo far off, the rest of the team deciding, wisely, to stay out of it. In the sudden hush, Johnny becomes very aware of Simon’s body heat seeping through his clothes, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the tiny scuff on the edge of his mask where the paint’s wearing away. Johnny’s laughter softens into something gentler.
Simon’s eyes trace his face, checking, always checking, for real hurt, for fear, for even a hint that this went too far. It’s an old reflex, and Johnny loves him for it.
“I was gonna delete it on my own, ye know." Johnny says quietly.
“Didn’t look like it.” Simon replies, but the edge is gone.
Johnny huffs a little laugh. “Wanted to see ye blush first.”
“Can’t see me blush, Johnny. Mask."
“Ah, but I know ye did.” Johnny reaches up, fingers brushing the rough fabric. “’Sides, I can fix that.”
Before Simon can protest, Johnny hooks his fingers under the lower edge of the balaclava and lifts it just to the bridge of Simon’s nose again. Pale skin, a dusting of stubble, scars, the faintest hint of pink on his cheeks. There it is. Proof.
Simon swallows, suddenly looking much less like the terrifying specter of the 141 and more like a man caught dancing in his underwear. Might as well have been.
“You’re a menace." he murmurs.
Johnny beams up at him. “And you-" he says, softer now, “are fuckin’ gorgeous, ye know that?”
Simon doesn’t answer right away.
Johnny leans up, just a little, and presses his mouth to Simon’s. It’s a gentle kiss, at odds with the rough tumble that led them here, soft lips, the faint taste of coffee and mint, and the hint of a laugh shared between them.
Simon exhales against his mouth, the last of his annoyance dissolving. Somewhat. His free hand comes up of its own accord to cradle the side of Johnny’s head, thumb brushing light over his temple.
They stay like that for a moment. Tangled on cold concrete, wrapped in stolen warmth and bad pop music still faintly echoing in Simon’s ears.
Johnny breaks the kiss with a final peck, grinning up at him blearily.
“Love ya, ye big beautiful, weird bastard." he says, voice full of fondness.
Simon huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Yeah.." he murmurs. “Love you too, trouble.”
He pulls the mask back down, sealing that soft expression away, then stands and hauls Johnny up with him.
“Now..." Simon says, all businesslike again, “I’m keeping your phone until I’m sure you’re not going to pull any more shite like that.”
Johnny dusts himself off, rolling his shoulders. “Joke’s on you, L.T.,” he smirks.
Simon narrows his eyes and arches a brow under the mask. “Why.”
Johnny just wiggles his eyebrows and taps the side of his head. “Cloud backup.”
It takes Simon a second.
Then his eyes widen.
“MAC TAVISH—”
Johnny’s already sprinting again, laughter echoing down the hallway.
Somewhere, far away in a secure server, a blurry video sits in a hidden folder. It ends with Soap screaming like a girl, Ghost tackling him, and everyone else that were in the corridor bearing witness.
Johnny figures he’ll show Simon one day.
Maybe after he catches him dancing to that song again.