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The line barely moved.
It hadn’t moved in twenty minutes, maybe more. Hard to tell with the sun swallowed behind smoke and the floodlights doing most of the work. The metal barricades rattled every time someone shifted their weight. No one spoke unless they had to.
At the front stood a man in black.
Mask. Gloves. Tactical vest. No visible skin except around his eyes. A skull mask rested atop the fabric like a warning.
People didn’t look at him for long.
He didn’t look at them at all.
“Next.”
The voice carried clean through the yard. Low. Distorted slightly through the mask. Not loud — just final.
John stepped forward when the man in front of him was pulled aside.
Boots scraping gravel. Breath steady. Hands visible.
A clipboard waited in gloved hands.
“Name.”
The word wasn’t a question.
“John MacTavish.”
The man wrote it down without comment.
“Age.”
“Twenty-seven.”
Another mark of ink.
“Address.”
John gave it. What used to be it, anyway. Glasgow felt like another planet now.
The masked man didn’t react to the accent. Didn’t react at all. Just continued.
“Occupation.”
“Sergeant. Before.”
That made the pen pause.
Not long. A second at most.
Then it resumed.
The masked man stepped closer. John caught the faint smell of disinfectant and gun oil.
“Arms out.”
John complied.
The inspection was thorough. Gloves running along sleeves, down ribs, checking neck, wrists, behind ears. Clinical. Impersonal. Efficient. The kind of touch that wasn’t meant to be felt as touch at all.
Most people trembled through it.
John didn’t.
He met the man’s eyes once. Dark. Unreadable. Assessing.
There was nothing feverish in John’s skin. No tremor. No glaze in his pupils. No telltale stiffness.
The clipboard was marked.
Clean.
The man’s head tilted slightly, as if recalculating something invisible.
“Quarantine.”
John blinked. “Thought I passed.”
“You did.”
That was all the explanation he got.
Two guards stepped in immediately, not rough but firm, guiding him toward a gated section of the compound where plastic sheeting hung from metal frames and fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
John glanced back once.
The masked man had already called for the next survivor.
BREAK
Quarantine smelled worse than the yard.
Bleach layered over sweat and fear. Cots arranged in neat rows. Clear curtains dividing each space like ghosts of privacy.
John was handed a thin blanket and pointed to an empty cot.
“How long?” he asked the medic.
“Minimum seventy-two hours. If you spike a fever, you’ll know.”
Comforting.
John sat. The cot creaked under him.
Across the aisle, a woman stared at the ground. Further down, a kid coughed into his sleeve. The lights never dimmed.
After a few minutes, John rubbed a hand down his face and sighed.
“Well,” he muttered, not to anyone in particular, “could be worse. At least it’s not raining in here.”
A few heads lifted.
No one laughed.
Yet.
He saw the masked man again that evening.
Ghost.
That was what one of the guards called him under their breath when he passed.
“Lieutenant Ghost, sir.”
Ghost moved between the cots without speaking. Checking. Observing. A predator pacing the perimeter.
When he reached John’s cot, he stopped.
John looked up.
“Evening.”
Ghost didn’t respond.
He checked John’s temperature with a handheld scanner. Normal.
Pulse. Normal.
Eyes. Clear.
“You feel any different?” Ghost asked.
The voice was just as flat up close.
“Bit bored,” John admitted.
A pause.
“That wasn’t the question.”
John gave a small, lopsided grin. “No, sir. I’m fine.”
Ghost held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he moved on.
He came back the next day.
And the day after that.
Always the same routine. Always impersonal.
But John started noticing he didn’t visit every cot as often.
Just some.
John’s fever never rose.
His appetite didn’t fade.
He didn’t cough. Didn’t shake. Didn’t deteriorate.
Instead, he talked.
He asked the kid about football. Shared half his ration with the woman who wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Thanked the med staff every time they passed.
By the second night, someone actually laughed at one of his jokes.
It startled the room.
Ghost was standing near the entrance when it happened.
He didn’t react.
But he didn’t leave either.
On the morning of the fourth day, Ghost stopped at John’s cot with paperwork in hand.
“You’re clean.”
John stretched his arms above his head. “Told you.”
Ghost ignored that.
He looked down at the sheet. There were three boxes printed beside John’s name.
Liquidation.
Quarantine extension.
Survivor Block.
The pen hovered.
Military needed bodies. Science needed subjects. The numbers were already tight this week.
Ghost ticked a box.
“Survivor Block.”
John blinked. “That good news?”
“You’ll wait for evacuation.”
“And that’s better than the alternative?”
Ghost met his eyes again.
“Yes.”
It wasn’t comforting.
But it was honest.
Two guards approached to escort him out.
John paused as he stepped past Ghost.
“Cheers, Lieutenant.”
Ghost didn’t answer.
But he didn’t look away either.
And for the first time since John had stepped into the line, Ghost didn’t need to check the clipboard to remember his name.
The Survivor Block wasn’t much better than quarantine.
It just smelled less like antiseptic and more like people.
The room was wider. Bunks stacked two high against concrete walls. Lockers dented and mismatched. A single barred window too high to see out of properly. The lights dimmed at night here, though — which already made it feel like a luxury.
John was handed a thin mattress roll and pointed toward an empty lower bunk.
“That one’s yours,” a guard muttered. “Evac in twelve days.”
“Twelve?” John echoed.
“Every two weeks.”
Right. Sit. Wait. Hope your name didn’t get redirected somewhere worse.
John dropped his roll onto the bunk and took stock.
Twenty-three people in the room. Different ages. Different levels of hollow in their eyes. A few looked up when he entered, then looked away just as quickly.
No one introduced themselves.
That seemed like a choice.
John sat on the edge of the bunk and exhaled slowly.
“Well,” he said to no one in particular, “better than being dead.”
A man across the room huffed before he could stop himself.
John caught it.
Grinned.
Hook set.
By the second day, he knew most of their names.
Not because they offered — but because he asked.
He helped one of the older men lift a crate of supplies when it was dropped off. Fixed a loose bunk frame with a bit of scavenged wire. Split his ration without making it look like charity.
He didn’t talk about the outside.
He didn’t ask what people had lost.
He just filled the silence with something lighter.
It didn’t fix anything.
But it softened the edges.
Ghost noticed on the third day.
He did inspections of the Block twice daily. Walkthroughs. Headcounts. Silent assessment.
When he stepped inside that afternoon, the noise level dipped automatically.
Conversations thinned.
Postures stiffened.
Except around one bunk.
John was sitting cross-legged on the floor, demonstrating something with a spoon and a cracked plastic cup. A handful of survivors were watching, bemused despite themselves.
“— and if you angle it like this, you can stop it rattling every time someone breathes near it,” John was saying.
It was ridiculous.
It was unnecessary.
It was effective.
Ghost’s gaze lingered.
No fear response when he entered. No scrambling to look obedient. John glanced up eventually — only because someone else did.
Their eyes met.
John gave him a small nod.
Casual.
Like he wasn’t standing in front of the man who decided where everyone in this room ended up.
Ghost continued his inspection.
No comments.
No interruption.
But he stayed five seconds longer than usual before leaving.
By the end of the week, Survivor Block sounded different.
Still tense. Still fragile.
But sometimes there was quiet conversation instead of dead silence.
Someone humming under their breath.
A card game scratched together from cardboard.
John wasn’t leading anything.
He was just… present.
And people gathered around presence.
Evacuation lists were drawn up on day ten.
Ghost reviewed them alone in his office.
Names sorted into columns.
Military.
Science.
Overflow.
He worked efficiently. Detached.
Then he reached:
MacTavish, John.
He paused.
There were open spaces in Military.
Science was short two this cycle.
John was fit. Strong. Former soldier.
Useful.
Ghost leaned back slightly in his chair.
Through the thin office wall, he could faintly hear noise from Survivor Block.
Not words.
Just life.
He looked back down at the paper.
His pen hovered.
Then he wrote John’s name in a separate margin.
Not assigned.
Not yet.
That night, Ghost did his final walkthrough of the Block before lights dimmed.
When he entered, conversation dipped again.
Except this time it resumed quicker.
Adjustment.
Interesting.
John was perched on his bunk, mid-story.
He stopped when Ghost approached.
Silence settled.
Ghost looked at him.
“MacTavish.”
John slid off the bunk and stood.
“Yes, sir?”
“Report to me at 0600.”
A few heads turned sharply.
John blinked once.
Then nodded. “Right.”
No fear.
No pleading.
Just acceptance.
Ghost studied him for a long second.
“You may be reassigned.”
A warning.
An out.
John’s jaw shifted slightly — thinking.
“Understood.”
Ghost waited.
If John wanted to argue, now was the moment.
If he wanted to request relocation, this was the opening.
Instead, John said quietly,
“Have a good night, Lieutenant.”
Not mocking.
Not submissive.
Just… genuine.
Ghost held his gaze.
Then turned and left.
Behind him, the room slowly began breathing again.
The notice about 0600 travelled faster than ration distribution.
No one said it loudly. No one needed to.
MacTavish.
Reassignment.
The word lingered in the air long after lights dimmed.
John was sitting on the floor beside his bunk, back against the metal frame, fiddling with the frayed edge of his blanket when someone cleared their throat.
It was the older man he’d helped with the crate.
“You nervous?” he asked quietly.
A few others glanced over without pretending not to.
John looked up.
“Nervous?”
The man nodded toward the far wall — toward the offices beyond it. Toward where decisions were made.
“You could go anywhere.”
Science.
Military.
Liquidation, if something changed.
Anything could happen between paperwork and morning.
John hummed softly, considering.
Then he shrugged.
“Nah.”
A couple of brows lifted.
“I’m lucky I made it this far,” he continued easily. “If they decide I’m more useful somewhere else, I’ll go.”
It wasn’t bravado.
It wasn’t fatalism either.
Just acceptance.
The room absorbed that.
People blinked.
Then nodded.
It made sense.
There was something steady about it — about him not clinging, not spiralling. The tension in the air thinned a notch.
One of the younger survivors exhaled like they’d been holding it in all evening.
John leaned his head back against the bunk frame.
“Besides,” he added lightly, “I hear the coffee’s better in Military.”
A quiet snort escaped from somewhere near the lockers.
The mood shifted.
Not fixed.
Just… manageable.
And when lights finally dimmed to their night setting, Survivor Block settled faster than it had the previous nights.
Ghost watched the room from the doorway longer than usual.
He hadn’t announced himself this time.
He didn’t need to.
He’d heard enough.
Nah. I’m lucky I made it this far.
Ghost’s jaw shifted slightly beneath the mask.
Most people begged for reassignment away from science. Bartered for Military. Clung to Survivor Block like it was safety.
MacTavish had simply… accepted the possibility.
No fear spike.
No desperation.
Ghost turned and left before anyone noticed he’d been there.
0600 came with frost on the concrete.
The yard was quieter at that hour. Generators humming. Distant gunfire somewhere beyond the walls. Routine.
John arrived two minutes early.
He knocked once on the metal office door.
“Enter.”
He stepped inside.
Ghost was already seated behind the desk. Clipboard in front of him. Roster sheets stacked to one side. A second chair positioned opposite — deliberate.
“Close the door.”
John did.
The latch clicked into place.
For a moment, the only sound was paper shifting.
Ghost didn’t look up immediately.
“MacTavish, John. Twenty-seven. Former Sergeant.”
John stood at ease rather than attention. Not slouched. Not rigid.
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand evacuation is in four days.”
“Aye.”
“You understand reassignment may occur prior.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ghost finally looked at him.
Those eyes again. Assessing. Measuring.
“You expressed no objection last night.”
John didn’t flinch at that.
“No, sir.”
“Why.”
Not accusatory.
Curious.
John considered the question properly.
“You’ve kept me alive this long,” he said. “Figure you’ve got your reasons for whatever comes next.”
The room went still.
That wasn’t blind faith.
It wasn’t surrender.
It was… trust.
Ghost’s gloved fingers tapped once against the desk.
“Science is short this cycle.”
A test.
John’s throat bobbed once. Subtle. Real.
But his voice stayed even.
“If that’s where I’m useful.”
Ghost watched for cracks.
There were none.
Just steady blue eyes meeting his.
Ghost leaned back in his chair.
“You’re not being sent to Science.”
Not a kindness.
A statement.
John exhaled softly through his nose. Not relief — just acknowledgement.
“Right.”
“You may request Military transfer.”
There it was.
The option.
Freedom, limited but real.
John tilted his head slightly. Thinking.
Then:
“I’ll stay.”
Simple.
No hesitation this time.
Ghost studied him for a long moment.
“You understand I have final say.”
“Aye.”
“And you’re choosing to remain.”
“Yes, sir.”
Not forced.
Not coerced.
Chosen.
Ghost picked up his pen.
He marked the roster.
“Survivor Block. Retained.”
He set the clipboard aside.
“Dismissed.”
John hesitated a fraction of a second.
Then, softer than before:
“Have a good day, Lieutenant.”
Ghost didn’t respond.
But his gaze followed John all the way to the door.
And long after it closed.
The next four days were the fastest slow days John had ever lived.
Time dragged in the small ways — the same meals, the same concrete walls, the same dull hum of generators outside.
But evacuation loomed.
And that made everything sharper.
Ghost did his rounds twice daily, as always. Clipboard. Mask. Silence. The Survivor Block had grown again — new faces pulled from quarantine, others redirected from intake.
More bodies meant more questions.
They came to John for them.
“You reckon you’ll go Military?” someone asked on day twelve.
“You’ve got the build for it,” another added.
“Better than Science,” someone muttered under their breath.
John was sitting cross-legged on his bunk, repairing a torn sleeve with thread scavenged from a kit.
He shrugged.
“Anything could happen.”
That didn’t satisfy them.
He looked up, catching their anxious eyes.
“I’m just lucky to be alive,” he said easily. “That’s more than most got.”
The words weren’t dramatic.
Just matter-of-fact.
But they landed.
Because he wasn’t pretending it was fair.
He wasn’t promising safety.
He was acknowledging reality — and still sitting upright in it.
The room settled again.
Someone started a quiet conversation about where they’d go if they were sent to Military.
John listened.
He didn’t speculate about himself.
Ghost noticed the shift.
He always did.
The Block’s tension rose and fell around one constant variable.
MacTavish.
Evacuation morning arrived with a heavy sky and a yard lined in steel barricades.
Survivors were called from the Block in groups.
John joined the line without hesitation.
No special treatment.
No summons.
Just another body waiting to be sorted.
The line moved steadily.
At the front, Ghost stood exactly where he had on intake day.
Mask stark under the floodlights.
Clipboard in hand.
Two guards flanked the exit routes — one toward Military transport, one toward Science containment.
A third gate stood open back toward the base.
Liquidation wasn’t announced anymore.
It just happened when necessary.
One by one, names were read.
Assignments given.
People peeled off in different directions.
Some walked steady.
Some didn’t.
John kept his eyes forward.
When he reached the front, Ghost didn’t look surprised.
He didn’t look anything.
He read from the sheet.
“MacTavish, John.”
“Aye.”
A beat.
The yard felt quieter for it.
Ghost’s pen hovered for a fraction of a second — not indecision. Just procedure.
Then:
“Survivor Block. Retention.”
Same tone as 0600.
Same as the roster.
No flourish.
No explanation.
John nodded once.
“Understood.”
He didn’t linger.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t thank him.
He simply stepped out of line and walked back through the open gate into the compound.
The guards watched him go.
A few survivors in line blinked — subtle confusion, maybe envy.
But the process continued.
Military.
Science.
Retention.
Until the line ended.
Until the transports rolled out.
Until the yard was empty again.
When John returned to the Block, it echoed.
The room that had held nearly thirty now held five.
Four others besides him.
Bunks stripped bare where people had left.
Lockers open and emptied.
The older man who’d asked if he was nervous was gone.
The kid from quarantine wasn’t there either.
John stood in the doorway for a long moment.
The silence was heavier now.
Different.
One of the remaining survivors looked up.
“You stayed.”
John stepped inside.
“Aye.”
He didn’t sound triumphant.
Just… present.
The others shifted slightly, recalibrating.
Smaller group. Less noise.
But he was still there.
That meant something.
John sat on his bunk.
Ran a hand over the thin mattress.
Fourteen days until the next one.
He exhaled slowly.
Lucky to be alive.
Outside the Block, Ghost watched the transports disappear beyond the walls.
His quota had been met.
Science was satisfied.
Military was stocked.
The numbers balanced.
He closed his clipboard.
And without looking at the sheet, he already knew which name would still be there in two weeks.
The Block felt wrong with only five people in it.
Too much space. Too much echo.
John had started pacing in the evenings just to burn the restlessness out of his legs. The others kept close to their bunks now, quieter than before. Smaller numbers meant survival felt more fragile.
Ghost’s rounds didn’t change.
Twice daily. Precise timing. Clipboard. Silent assessment.
But there was less to assess now.
When Ghost stepped into the Block that afternoon, conversation dipped automatically.
Headcount first.
Four.
Five.
All present.
He marked it down.
When he looked up, John was already watching him.
Not wary.
Curious.
Ghost turned to leave.
“Lieutenant, aye?”
Ghost stopped.
He didn’t turn fully. Just enough to acknowledge.
“Yes.”
John hopped down from his bunk and took a few casual steps closer — not crowding, just within conversation distance.
“That’s cool,” John said. “I was a sergeant.”
Ghost’s gaze shifted to him properly now.
“Yes.”
No reaction.
John rocked back on his heels slightly.
“You could’ve been my Lt in a different life.”
A pause.
“Maybe.”
Flat. Non-committal.
John grinned anyway.
“Wouldn’t that be something.”
Ghost waited.
John tilted his head slightly, studying him.
“Y’know my callsign was Soap.”
That did it.
Ghost’s eyes sharpened just a fraction.
“Soap?” he echoed.
There it was.
Interest.
John caught it immediately.
He nodded. “Had the highest speed and accuracy in Close Quarters Battle training. Specifically during cleaning house drills. Could clear rooms in seconds flat.”
The other survivors were pretending not to listen.
John continued, voice steady but proud.
“22nd SAS Regiment at eighteen. One of the youngest to pass selection.”
Silence followed.
Ghost stared at him.
Not sceptical.
Measuring.
Then — faint. Almost swallowed by the mask —
A quiet chuckle.
“Oh yeah?” Ghost said. “Impressive, soldier.”
The word landed between them.
John blinked.
That was the most he’d ever gotten out of the man. Not an order. Not a dismissal. Not a warning.
Acknowledgement.
Slowly, a grin spread across his face.
“Aye! Thank you, Lt.”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“It’s Lieutenant.”
John’s grin only widened.
“Nah. Lt fits better.”
There was a beat where it could’ve gone wrong.
Where Ghost could’ve snapped.
Corrected him sharply.
Reasserted distance.
Instead, Ghost exhaled through his nose — something almost like a huff — and shook his head once.
“Insubordinate.”
There was no heat in it.
John’s eyes gleamed.
“Retained,” he shot back lightly.
For half a second, Ghost went very still.
Then he turned toward the door.
“Lights out at 2100,” he said, defaulting back to routine.
“Aye, Lt,” John called after him.
Ghost didn’t respond.
But as he stepped out of the Block, there was the faintest shift in his posture.
Less rigid.
Inside, John stood there for a moment, absolutely beaming.
One of the other survivors stared at him.
“You’re not scared of him?”
John looked toward the doorway Ghost had disappeared through.
A small, thoughtful pause.
“Nah,” he said quietly.
And this time, it wasn’t bravado.
Ghost’s rounds began lasting longer.
No one commented on it.
No one would’ve dared.
But the pattern shifted.
Where once he’d stepped into Survivor Block, counted heads, marked his clipboard, and left within three minutes—
Now he lingered.
Sometimes near the doorway.
Sometimes by the bunks.
Sometimes near one specific lower bunk.
The first time it happened, John didn’t say anything.
Ghost entered.
Headcount.
Four.
Five.
All present.
He made his note.
Silence stretched.
John was sitting cross-legged on the floor again, back against the bunk frame, idly sharpening a pencil down to nothing with a scrap of sandpaper.
Ghost watched him for a beat longer than necessary.
“You’re restless,” Ghost observed.
John glanced up.
“Used to moving.”
“That’s not movement.”
“Closest I’ve got.”
Ghost considered that.
The others in the room were pretending not to listen again.
Ghost closed his clipboard.
“Soap.”
The word slipped out clean. Automatic.
John stilled.
The pencil stopped mid-stroke.
The other survivors looked up.
Ghost didn’t react to that.
John blinked once.
Then slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Didn’t think that one stuck.”
“It’s your callsign.”
Simple. Matter-of-fact.
John rose to his feet, brushing graphite dust from his fingers.
“We’re not exactly deployed, Lt.”
Ghost’s gaze hardened slightly.
“Callsigns exist for a reason.”
There it was.
Not explanation.
Just doctrine.
Military training didn’t evaporate when the world did.
You used the callsign.
You respected the skill behind it.
You addressed the soldier accordingly.
Ghost felt a faint, unfamiliar discomfort at the idea of calling him John again.
It felt… civilian.
Incorrect.
Soap fit better.
It slotted into place with the rest of him.
He didn’t analyse why.
Maybe it established order.
Maybe it kept things professional.
Maybe it created distance.
Or maybe—
He cut the thought off.
“House clearing,” Ghost said instead. “CQB specialist.”
Soap’s grin widened.
“Fastest in my cohort.”
Ghost tilted his head slightly.
“Speed isn’t everything.”
“Accuracy is.”
A beat.
They held each other’s gaze.
Shared understanding.
The kind you don’t get from paperwork.
“Show me,” Ghost said.
The Block went dead silent.
Soap’s brows lifted. “Show you?”
“You claim speed and accuracy.”
Soap rolled his shoulders once, already shifting gears.
“There’s no live op here.”
Ghost gestured vaguely at the room.
“Simulate.”
It wasn’t a challenge.
It was… curiosity.
Soap glanced around, then nodded once.
“Alright. You’re entry two.”
The words came out easy. Natural. Like breathing.
Ghost did not hesitate.
He stepped into position without thinking.
The other survivors froze, unsure whether to be alarmed or impressed.
Soap moved through an imaginary doorway with precise efficiency, hand signalling instinctively, clearing angles that didn’t exist, checking corners of concrete walls like they hid enemies.
It was controlled. Clean. Fluid.
Ghost mirrored him automatically.
Second entry. Covering sectors. Watching blind spots.
They didn’t speak for several seconds.
Didn’t need to.
When Soap finished the mock clear, he exhaled lightly.
“Room secure.”
Silence.
Then Ghost gave one slow nod.
“Efficient.”
Soap laughed under his breath.
“High praise.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked over him again — reassessing.
Not survivor.
Not civilian.
Soldier.
“Soap,” he repeated.
The name sounded deliberate this time.
Soap’s grin softened slightly.
“Aye, Lt?”
Ghost didn’t correct him.
Didn’t bother.
He turned toward the door.
But he paused before stepping out.
“We run it again tomorrow.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Soap’s eyebrows shot up.
“Training schedule, is it?”
“Idle hands deteriorate.”
A faint challenge in the tone.
Soap’s eyes gleamed.
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Ghost left.
This time, he didn’t immediately move to the next block.
He stood just outside the door for a moment longer than usual.
Soap.
It made sense.
It grounded the interaction in something familiar. Structured.
It wasn’t camaraderie.
It was operational alignment.
Common ground.
Shared language.
Nothing more. Inside the Block, one of the remaining survivors stared at Soap.
“You just did drills with him.”
Soap sat back down slowly.
“Suppose I did.”
“You’re insane.”
Soap smiled faintly.
“Nah.”
He glanced toward the doorway.
“Just speaking the same language.”
The drills became routine.
Every afternoon after Ghost’s second round, he would step into Survivor Block and stand near the open floor space between bunks.
He didn’t call for him anymore.
He just said,
“Soap.”
And Soap would be on his feet instantly.
The others had stopped staring.
It was normal now.
Training.
Better than silence.
It started with room clearing. Then movement formations. Then communication drills. Then it shifted.
“Explosives?” Ghost asked one evening after they’d finished a mock sweep.
Soap’s eyes lit up.
“Aye.”
Ghost crossed his arms loosely.
“Specialty?”
“Demolitions. Breaching charges. Controlled detonations. Improvised if needed.”
Ghost tilted his head slightly.
“Improvised how.”
Soap grinned, like he’d been waiting for that.
“Depends what you’ve got. Fuel, fertiliser, scrap metal. Not much I couldn’t rig into something that makes a door reconsider its life choices.”
One of the survivors choked back a laugh. Ghost didn’t smile — but his gaze sharpened with interest.
“Detonation preference.”
“Depends on objective,” Soap replied easily. “Remote if I can. Timer if I have to. Manual if I’m feeling dramatic.”
Ghost huffed quietly at that.
“Manual’s reckless.”
“Manual’s precise.”
“Manual’s loud.”
“Everything’s loud when it blows, Lt.”
Ghost didn’t correct him.
Instead, he asked, “You ever miscalculate?”
Soap’s grin faded slightly.
“Once.”
A beat.
Ghost waited.
Soap rolled his shoulders. “Not my finest hour. Still cleared the objective.”
That was all he offered.
Ghost nodded once.
Understood.
You didn’t ask about the cost.
The conversations bled beyond drills. Rations. Field packing efficiency.
How to stretch a protein bar across forty-eight hours without hating yourself.
Soap had opinions about everything.
“You’re wasting space with that,” he said one afternoon, gesturing to Ghost’s kit bag when it rested by the door.
Ghost looked at him slowly.
“I don’t carry waste.”
Soap crouched beside it anyway.
“Two redundant tourniquets. You only need one accessible. The second’s buried too deep.”
Ghost stared down at him.
Soap glanced up.
“What? I’m right.”
A long pause.
Then Ghost bent down, adjusted the kit, and repositioned one tourniquet.
Soap beamed.
“Told you.”
“Insubordinate.”
“Retained,” Soap shot back again.
Ghost almost — almost — smiled.
The more Soap talked, the easier the Block felt.
He’d ramble about training exercises.
About selection.
About running drills in the rain until his boots squelched for weeks.
“Worst ration I ever had,” he was saying one evening, leaning back on his bunk while Ghost stood nearby, “was some freeze-dried nonsense that tasted like regret.”
Ghost’s voice was quieter now when he spoke to him.
“MRE vegetable omelette.”
Soap gasped. “Don’t.”
“You asked.”
“That thing was a war crime.”
Ghost’s shoulders shifted faintly.
Agreement.
Soap talked about clearing compounds at dusk. About the adrenaline of breaching. About the rhythm of stacking up outside a door.
He talked and talked.
About everything.
He didn’t talk about Glasgow.
Didn’t talk about family.
Didn’t talk about what he’d lost.
And in the rhythm of military jargon and operational hypotheticals, it was easy to forget that none of it existed anymore.
No regiment.
No barracks.
No command structure beyond concrete walls and quotas.
Just drills in a half-empty survivor block.
Ghost didn’t offer much in return.
Short answers.
Single sentences.
Corrections when necessary.
But he stayed.
Longer each day.
Sometimes leaning against the wall.
Sometimes sitting on the edge of a vacant bunk.
Listening.
Soap filled the silence without pressure.
It wasn’t interrogation.
It wasn’t extraction.
It was familiarity.
Shared language in a world that had stripped everything else away.
One afternoon, after a long discussion about optimal breaching placements, Soap looked at him sideways.
“Miss it?”
Ghost didn’t answer immediately.
Miss it.
The structure.
The clarity.
The defined enemy.
He finally said, “I miss efficiency.”
Soap nodded slowly.
“Aye. That’s fair.”
Not pushing.
Not prying.
Just accepting.
And then he launched into another story about a training op gone sideways because someone misread a signal.
Ghost let him.
Because when Soap talked about missions, about drills, about competence—
He sounded alive.
Not like a man waiting for evacuation.
Not like a civilian clinging to safety.
A soldier.
And Ghost found himself responding in kind.
Small corrections.
Tactical adjustments.
Shared understanding.
Common ground.
It was easier to call him Soap.
It felt correct.
It felt earned.
And when Ghost left the Block that night, the silence behind him didn’t feel as suffocating as it used to.
Inside, Soap stretched out on his bunk and stared at the ceiling.
For a few minutes, he could almost pretend the world hadn’t ended.
Just two soldiers talking shop between operations.
Almost.
The drills continued.
They got sharper.
More technical.
Less theatrical.
Soap stopped exaggerating for laughs. Ghost stopped pretending he wasn’t invested.
One evening, after running through breach formations for the fourth time, Soap dropped onto the lower bunk and wiped sweat from his brow.
“You run this place like a forward operating base,” he muttered.
“It is,” Ghost replied.
Soap snorted. “Feels like one that forgot it’s meant to rotate teams.”
Ghost didn’t answer immediately.
He was standing near the wall, arms crossed, watching the other four survivors settle into quieter activities.
“Rotation stopped,” he said eventually.
Soap looked up.
“Your team?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Soap didn’t push for details.
Just waited.
Ghost rarely volunteered anything. When he did, it mattered.
“They were reassigned.”
That was the official phrasing.
Soap tilted his head slightly. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
The word sat heavy.
Ghost looked past him, toward nothing in particular.
“We need someone scary,” he said flatly. “So the survivors don’t try anything.”
Soap’s brows knit faintly.
“So they stuck you here.”
“Yes.”
Not bitter.
Just factual.
Soap studied him for a long second.
“You don’t like it.”
Ghost’s jaw shifted beneath the mask.
“I prefer operational teams.”
Not babysitting.
Not quota management.
Not standing in a yard deciding who went where.
He missed:
coordinated movement, silent understanding, shared objectives.
He missed Gary.
He missed Gaz.
He missed Price.
He missed knowing exactly where his men were in a stack without looking.
Soap watched something shift behind those dark eyes.
“You miss your lads,” he said quietly.
Ghost didn’t confirm it.
Didn’t deny it.
Silence was answer enough.
Soap leaned back on his elbows.
“Well,” he said lightly, “you’ve got one now.”
Ghost’s gaze snapped back to him.
“This isn’t a team.”
“Could be,” Soap replied.
“You’re a retained civilian.”
“I’m a trained demolitions sergeant who keeps correcting your kit setup.”
That earned him a long stare.
Soap shrugged.
“You run drills with me every day. You correct my angles. You nitpick my foot placement.”
Ghost’s voice dropped slightly.
“That’s maintenance.”
“That’s mentorship.”
A beat.
Ghost didn’t like that word.
Mentorship implied investment.
Implied responsibility beyond quota.
Soap pushed up to sitting.
“You miss having soldiers to oversee,” he said more gently now. “Miss running overnight ops. Miss someone who speaks the same language.”
Ghost’s shoulders went still.
Soap continued, voice easy but steady.
“I’m right here.”
The Block was quiet around them.
Four other survivors pretending not to exist.
Ghost looked at him differently then.
Not as a morale asset.
Not as a retained body.
But as trained personnel in the wrong uniform.
“You’re not enlisted,” Ghost said.
“No.”
“You’re not under my command.”
“No.”
A pause.
Soap’s eyes held his.
“But I could be.”
There it was.
The bridge.
Not forced.
Not demanded.
Offered.
Ghost’s training filled in the gaps automatically.
Operational efficiency improved with proximity.
Drill frequency increased with availability.
Overnight breach simulations required quick response.
Housing a trained asset in general population was inefficient.
It wasn’t personal.
It was logistical.
At least, that’s what his brain supplied.
“You’d relocate,” Ghost said carefully.
Soap didn’t hesitate.
“Aye.”
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
Ghost looked around the half-empty Block.
Five survivors.
Four with no combat background.
One with extensive training.
If something breached the perimeter at night—
Response time mattered.
Chain of command mattered.
Structure mattered.
And he missed having that structure.
“You’d follow instruction,” Ghost said.
Soap’s grin softened, less teasing now.
“I’ve had worse Lts.”
Ghost ignored that.
But he didn’t correct it either.
“We’ll see,” he said finally.
Not a promise.
Not yet.
Soap nodded once.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
Ghost turned toward the door.
But before stepping out, he paused.
“Soap.”
“Aye?”
“If relocated, you’re operational.”
Soap didn’t even blink.
“Understood.”
Ghost left.
And for the first time since his team had been reassigned, something inside him felt… aligned.
Not whole.
Not replaced.
But structured.
Inside the Block, one of the remaining survivors looked at Soap cautiously.
“You volunteering for that?”
Soap lay back on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.
“Aye.”
“You trust him?”
Soap thought about it.
About the inspections.
The drills.
The way Ghost had never once forced him to stay.
“Aye,” he said again.
And he meant it.
Ghost didn’t go to the higher-ups impulsively.
He brought paperwork.
Service history summaries he’d pulled from intake records.
MacTavish, John.
Former Sergeant. 22nd SAS. Demolitions specialist. CQB certified.
He stood in the operations room across from three officers who had never once stepped foot into Survivor Block unless it was evacuation day.
They knew him.
They trusted him.
He met quotas.
He didn’t cause problems.
He was, as one of them had once said—
“The scariest bastard we’ve got. Keeps the civilians compliant.”
One of them flipped through the file.
“He’s retained,” the officer said flatly. “Why bring him up now?”
“He’s trained,” Ghost replied.
“We’re aware.”
“He’s being wasted in general housing.”
A silence.
Another officer leaned back slightly.
“You want him on perimeter?”
“No.”
Ghost didn’t hesitate.
“I want him housed under my command.”
That made them look up properly.
“He’s not active personnel,” one said.
“Correct.”
“So he can’t be added to your roster.”
“I’m not requesting that.”
A pause.
Ghost kept his tone even.
“In the event of a breach, survivors panic. My perimeter team contains the threat. No one contains the civilians.”
They all knew that was true.
It had happened before.
Survivors ran.
Shouted.
Blocked exits.
“MacTavish has rapport with them,” Ghost continued. “They trust him.”
The room went quiet.
He pressed the point.
“He’s trained. He understands command structure. He can act as internal control if we’re compromised.”
One of the officers steepled their fingers.
“And why house him with you.”
“Operational proximity.”
Clean. Tactical.
“He responds faster. Trains more effectively. No delay.”
Another officer gave him a long look.
“This isn’t sentiment, Lieutenant?”
Ghost didn’t blink.
“No.”
And that was the truth as far as he understood it.
They exchanged glances.
He’d never once requested a housing change before.
Never asked for special treatment.
Never deviated from quota.
He’d earned latitude.
Finally, the senior officer nodded once.
“Conditional approval.”
Ghost didn’t move.
“He remains civilian.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He falls under your control.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If he steps out of line—”
“He’s reassigned.”
Military if useful.
Science if necessary.
Or worse.
Ghost understood.
“He is not your soldier,” the officer finished.
“No, sir.”
“But he answers to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
A final beat.
“Approved.”
When Ghost entered Survivor Block that evening, he didn’t linger by the doorway.
He went straight to Soap.
“Pack your kit.”
The room stilled instantly.
Soap blinked once.
“Reassignment?”
“Yes.”
The word hit the room like a dropped plate.
One of the remaining survivors looked stricken.
“Where?” someone asked before they could stop themselves.
Ghost’s eyes flicked toward them briefly.
“Under my command.”
Silence.
Soap studied him carefully.
“For breach protocol,” Ghost added evenly.
Soap’s mouth twitched faintly.
“Aye, Lt.”
He moved without hesitation.
No protest.
No visible nerves.
He rolled his thin mattress tight. Gathered the few personal items he had.
The others watched like they were witnessing something irreversible.
One of them leaned toward Soap quietly.
“You sure?”
Soap glanced around the half-empty Block.
Then back at Ghost.
“Aye.”
He slung his pack over his shoulder.
Ghost turned without waiting to see if he followed.
Soap did.
Ghost’s quarters weren’t large.
Functional. Clean. Sparse.
A desk.
A narrow wardrobe.
One bed.
Soap stepped inside and took it in with a slow turn of his head.
“No bunk?”
Ghost didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he dragged a folded cot from against the wall and set it opposite his own bed.
“Temporary,” he said.
Soap nodded once.
“Understood.”
Ghost faced him fully then.
“You are housed here under operational necessity.”
Soap’s posture straightened slightly.
“You answer to me.”
“Aye.”
“If you step out of line—”
“I’m moved.”
No dramatics.
Just clarity.
Ghost held his gaze.
“This is not Survivor Block.”
“I know.”
“This is not camaraderie.”
Soap’s expression didn’t waver.
“It’s chain of command.”
A beat.
Ghost nodded once.
“Lights out at 2200.”
Soap dropped his pack beside the cot and started unrolling the thin mattress.
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Ghost turned back to his desk.
But the room felt different.
Not louder.
Not warmer.
Just… occupied.
Not empty anymore.
Later, when the lights dimmed, Soap lay on the cot across the room.
Concrete walls.
Distant hum of generators.
He stared at the ceiling.
“Lt?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“You snore?”
Ghost’s voice was flat in the dark.
“No.”
“Good. Me neither.”
Silence stretched.
Then, softer—
“Thanks.”
Ghost didn’t respond.
But he didn’t correct him either.
And across the small space between bed and cot, something had shifted.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Structure.
Proximity.
Choice.
And now—
Shared quarters.
The first few nights were rigid.
Ghost on his bed.
Soap on the cot.
Exact distance between them.
Ghost kept the room cold.
Soap didn’t complain.
They fell into rhythm quickly.
0500 wake.
Perimeter check.
Rations.
Block rounds.
Drills.
Soap adapted to it like he’d never left service.
He didn’t overstep.
Didn’t undermine.
Didn’t soften Ghost’s authority in front of anyone.
But when they entered Survivor Block together, something subtle shifted.
The survivors looked at Soap first.
Not for permission.
For reassurance.
And Soap gave it freely.
The first test came three days in.
Two new intakes had cleared quarantine and been placed in the Block. Young. Shaken. One of them barely sleeping.
Ghost did his usual silent assessment from the doorway.
Soap approached slower.
“Alright?” he asked gently, crouching so he wasn’t looming.
They looked at him like drowning people spotting shore.
“Is it… is it safe here?” one asked.
Soap nodded once.
“As safe as anywhere gets these days.”
“Do they really just send you off every two weeks?”
“Aye,” Soap said evenly. “Evac’s routine. Some go military, some go science. Some stay. Depends what they need.”
“And you?”
Soap smiled faintly.
“I’m useful where I am.”
He didn’t look back at Ghost when he said it.
Didn’t need to.
He helped them unpack. Showed them where rations were kept. Where the water was cleanest. Which corner got the least draught.
His voice stayed warm.
Measured.
Calm.
By the time Ghost stepped forward to give instructions, the fear in the room had dropped from frantic to manageable.
Control without force.
He watched Soap move through the Block like he’d been built for it.
Later that afternoon, one of the perimeter guards muttered quietly to Ghost:
“They listen to him.”
“Yes,” Ghost replied.
“That’s… useful.”
“Yes.”
The higher-ups noticed too.
Reports were filed.
Survivor agitation decreased 37%.
No panic incidents during perimeter drills.
Zero resistance during ration redistribution.
MacTavish listed as “Internal Stabilisation Asset.”
Ghost didn’t react when he saw the wording.
But he kept the report.
Back in the quarters, the cot shifted first.
Not dramatically.
Just a scrape across concrete.
Ghost glanced up from his desk.
Soap froze.
“Draft,” Soap said easily. “Colder over there.”
Ghost studied the angle.
Said nothing.
The cot stayed closer.
Two nights later, Ghost returned from perimeter later than usual.
Soap was awake, sitting on his cot, boots off but still in fatigues.
“You’re late,” he said.
“Breach check.”
“All clear?”
“Yes.”
Soap nodded.
“Good.”
He lay back down.
Ghost stood there for a moment.
The cot was closer again.
Not touching.
But no longer opposite walls.
He didn’t comment.
A week in, there was a scare.
False alarm on the south fence.
Survivors jolted awake.
One of the new intakes started crying, panicked.
Ghost was halfway down the corridor when he heard Soap’s voice.
Low.
Firm.
“It’s protocol. Means the perimeter’s doing its job.”
“But what if—”
“If it was inside, you’d hear gunfire.”
A beat.
“You don’t hear gunfire.”
Silence.
Breathing steadied.
“Lieutenant’s out there,” Soap added softly. “If there was danger, he’d handle it.”
Absolute certainty.
No hesitation.
Ghost stood in the corridor longer than necessary.
When he returned, the Block was calm.
Soap was sitting beside the shaken survivor, shoulder close but not touching.
Grounding.
Steady.
Ghost’s gaze lingered.
Soap looked up.
“All sorted, Lt?”
“Yes.”
Their eyes held.
A silent understanding passed between them.
You were right.
I know.
That night, the cot didn’t move.
Ghost did.
He dragged it himself.
Closer to his own bed.
The legs scraped loudly across the floor.
Soap blinked up at him from where he was already lying down.
“Operational proximity?” Soap asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Yes.”
Soap smiled softly.
“Of course.”
The gap between beds was now narrow enough that if either reached out, their hands would brush.
They didn’t.
Not yet.
But the distance had changed.
Evacuation day came again.
0600 line.
Ghost stood at the front.
Soap reached him.
Ghost held his file.
A beat.
“Retained,” Ghost said evenly. “Under command.”
Soap nodded.
“Aye.”
He stepped out of line without hesitation.
Walked back toward base.
No one forced him.
No one stopped him.
He chose.
Again.
And when they returned to the quarters that night, Ghost didn’t move the cot back.
Neither of them mentioned it.
The space between them had narrowed.
But the power dynamic had shifted too.
Because now—
Ghost relied on him.
And Soap knew it.
The breach alarm had been false.
But it lingered anyway.
In the walls.
In the air.
In Ghost’s chest.
He went to bed later than usual.
Didn’t say much.
Soap didn’t push.
The room was dark. Cold. Still.
For a while.
Then—
Concrete floor. Fluorescent lights flickering. Screams.
Not the Block as it was now.
The Block as it had been.
Smaller.
Chaotic.
Tommy’s hand slipping from his.
His brother shouting something he couldn’t hear over gunfire.
His sister-in-law backing up—
Too slow.
Too slow.
Too—
Ghost jerked upright with a violent inhale, the sound strangled before it became a shout.
He was already reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.
The room was dark.
Not the Block.
His quarters.
But his pulse hadn’t caught up yet.
His hands were shaking.
Across the narrow gap, the cot shifted instantly.
“Lieutenant.”
Low. Steady.
Not loud.
Not panicked.
Soap was on his feet in seconds.
He didn’t turn the light on.
Didn’t close the distance all at once.
Just crouched beside the bed.
“It’s clear,” he said quietly. “No breach.”
Ghost’s breathing was harsh behind the mask.
He didn’t respond.
Soap stayed calm.
“You’re in quarters. South perimeter’s intact. No alarms.”
A pause.
“Listen.”
Ghost forced himself to.
Generator hum.
Distant bootsteps.
No screaming.
No gunfire.
Soap’s voice softened slightly.
“You’re here.”
Another shaky inhale.
Ghost’s hands were still clenched in the sheets.
Soap didn’t touch him immediately.
Didn’t grab.
Just rested his forearms lightly against the edge of the mattress.
Grounded.
Solid.
“Take it slow,” he murmured. “In through your nose. Hold. Out.”
Ghost didn’t obey automatically.
But he did it.
Once.
Twice.
The tremor in his hands eased marginally.
Soap didn’t ask what it was about.
Didn’t ask who.
He knew better.
Some things you don’t drag into the light unless invited.
The silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Just present.
Ghost’s breathing steadied.
His shoulders dropped a fraction.
Soap finally moved, slow enough not to startle him, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Close.
Not crowding.
“If there was anything,” he said quietly, “I’d be up before you.”
A faint, rough huff of breath escaped Ghost.
Not quite a laugh.
But close.
“I’ve got it,” Soap continued. “Inside the Block. You’ve got perimeter. Same as drills.”
Structure.
Familiar.
Predictable.
Ghost nodded once.
Barely visible in the dark.
Soap stayed.
Didn’t speak again.
Just sat there.
After a few minutes, Ghost’s pulse evened out completely.
The nightmare retreated to where it always went—
Not gone.
Just shelved.
Soap finally shifted to stand.
Paused.
“You want me to move the cot closer?”
There was no teasing in it.
Just practicality.
A long silence.
Then—
“Yes.”
Quiet.
Honest.
Soap didn’t comment on it.
Just rose, gripped the cot frame, and dragged it the remaining few inches until it sat flush beside the bed.
Metal touching metal.
No gap.
He lay back down without ceremony.
The space between them now negligible.
In the dark, Ghost stared at the ceiling.
After a moment—
“Soap.”
“Aye?”
A pause.
The words were difficult.
“…Clear?”
Soap understood what he was really asking.
“Clear,” he replied softly. “All of it.”
Ghost exhaled slowly.
And for the first time since the infection took his family, the nightmare ended without him being alone in it.
Soap didn’t fall asleep immediately.
He stayed awake long enough to make sure the Lieutenant’s breathing stayed steady.
When it did—
Only then did the room settle fully.
Metal frames touching.
Two steady rhythms.
No alarm.
No screaming.
Just quiet.
Days folded into each other. The Block felt smaller now—not cramped, but intimate in the way empty space can’t be.
Meals were the first little cracks.
Soap would pass Ghost his ration tray. A casual touch of fingers. Brushed arms. Ghost didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Didn’t even acknowledge it at first. But he stayed closer. Sat closer. Each day, just a fraction nearer until the scrape of shoulders against shoulders was routine.
“You eat yours cold?” Soap asked one afternoon, chewing deliberately.
Ghost grunted, eyes on the tray.
“I don’t mind.”
Soap smiled faintly. “I think it tastes better this way.”
Ghost didn’t respond verbally. But he scooted a little closer anyway.
The night routines were slower now.
Lights dimmed. Generators hummed. Soap settled onto his cot, still a few inches from Ghost’s bed, knees tucked up slightly.
Ghost didn’t move his own bed. Not yet. But he sat on the edge, shoulders hunched, clipboard discarded beside him. Watching Soap. Listening to the quiet breathing, the small sounds of calm.
The proximity was enough.
Sleep became shared in a way that wasn’t acknowledged, but wasn’t ignored either.
Soap rolled over sometimes, just a little closer, back almost brushing Ghost’s side. Not deliberate. Not provocative. Comfortable. Functional. Reassuring.
Ghost didn’t push him away. Not even when the nightmares returned. Not even when old images flared briefly, clenching his chest.
Soap was there.
Shoulder, arm, presence. Solid. Grounded.
And Ghost began to lean—subtly, quietly. Not touching. Not claiming. Just leaning. Letting the nearness anchor him.
Every day they talked a little more freely.
Drills. Procedures. Stories of past operations.
Soap never asked about his family. Never pressed about what he’d lost. Didn’t pry.
He just was there. Calm. Present. Familiar.
Ghost let him. Let himself enjoy it. Let himself… trust it.
The quarters, once empty and sterile, were no longer just a base of operations.
They were a quiet refuge.
Two soldiers, shared language, shared routines, shared silence.
And slowly, naturally, that intimacy threaded through every meal, every drill, every night.
Shoulders brushing. Cots pushed together. Words flowing. Calm and laughter mixing into the spaces Ghost had thought lost forever.
By the end of the week, the air between them was different.
Not confessed. Not named. Not forced.
But it was there.
A bond.
Slow. Steady. Unbreakable in its subtlety.
“A survivor called you a doll.”
Soap looked up from the thin mattress, eyebrows raised. “Aye?”
Ghost nodded. Masked eyes dark behind the lenses. “They’re noticing the change you brought. The shift. You make things easier.”
Soap lounged back, letting one arm fall behind his head, the other draped lazily over his chest. “Well… I’m flattered,” he said, voice easy. “It’s been nice getting to know everyone.”
Ghost dropped his gear by the door: bullet vest, bite protectors, tactical straps—everything except the long-sleeved shirt, pants, and mask he always wore at night. The room felt lighter with the clatter gone.
Ghost nodded, leaning slightly forward. Quiet. Observing. Listening.
“So…” Ghost finally said, voice low, even. “Did you have any hobbies? Before the world went to shite?”
Soap’s gaze flicked up at him, curious. “Hobbies?”
Ghost nodded once. “Things you did because you wanted to. For yourself. Not drills, not missions, not survival.”
Soap tilted his head, thoughtful. “I used to draw,” he admitted. “Always had a sketchbook tucked in my jacket. Landscapes, people… anything that caught my eye. I miss it. Miss having the supplies. Feels like something of mine, you know?”
Ghost’s head tilted slightly. “Art?”
“Aye. Nothing fancy. Just… creating. Keeping a piece of normal.”
Ghost was quiet for a beat. Then: “Photography,” he said finally. “Back when there was stuff to take photos of. Streets. Buildings. People. Things that mattered. I still have some old prints, somewhere.”
Soap’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “So we were both… capturing the world, in our own ways, before it all… went.”
Ghost didn’t respond with words. He simply regarded him. The honesty in Soap’s voice. The faint nostalgia. It made the concrete walls feel a little warmer.
“You ever… draw here?” Ghost asked carefully.
Soap shook his head. “No paper. No pencils. Nothing that survives the Block.”
Ghost nodded slowly. “I see.”
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just present.
“I… like hearing about it,” Ghost said quietly. “Art, photos… things you cared about.”
Soap tilted his head, meeting his gaze. “Aye. I like talking about it too. Makes it feel… not all gone, you know?”
Ghost didn’t answer. But he stayed. Watching. Listening. Learning.
The night deepened. The quiet hum of generators filled the room. Soap adjusted slightly. Just natural. Comfort in proximity.
They talked longer than usual that night. Art. Photography. Memories of things they used to love. Things they couldn’t have now. Soap spoke of pencil lines and shading; Ghost spoke of framing shots and catching light in ruined streets.
The distance between them in the room had shifted imperceptibly. Cots nudged closer. Legs occasionally brushed. Shoulders leaned just a little nearer. Nothing forced. Nothing labelled.
But the quiet intimacy was undeniable.
Soap yawned finally, stretching lazily. “I could get used to this,” he murmured, half to himself.
Ghost didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away either. Just sat back, observing the cot that was no longer just a cot.
Watching the survivor he trusted most, who now quietly trusted him.
And in the hum of the generator, the soft scrape of metal beds, the dim light of the quarters—they were closer than ever.
Small gestures. Shared secrets. Silent warmth.
Slowly, carefully, something more than operational proximity was weaving between them.
It started small.
A hand brushing Ghost’s arm when Soap passed him in the corridor.
A shoulder bump during perimeter checks.
Knees knocking lightly under the ration table.
At first Ghost assumed it was accidental.
Then he noticed it wasn’t.
Soap walked closer than necessary.
Matched his stride exactly, close enough that their sleeves dragged.
When they turned corners, Soap’s fingers would sometimes catch Ghost’s elbow, guiding without thinking.
The first few times, Ghost stiffened.
Didn’t pull away.
But he noticed.
Eventually, during a quieter patrol, he stopped abruptly.
Soap nearly walked into him.
“What,” Ghost said flatly.
Soap blinked. “What?”
“You’re crowding.”
Soap tilted his head, considering that.
Then—grinned.
“Oh.”
Ghost waited.
“I’m touchy,” Soap said simply. “Always have been.”
Ghost stared.
“I noticed.”
Soap rocked back on his heels slightly, hands tucked behind his back like he’d just been caught nicking extra rations.
“I was giving you space at first. You’ve got that whole ‘don’t breathe near me’ vibe.”
Ghost didn’t deny it.
“But,” Soap continued easily, stepping closer again, unbothered, “we’re friends now. So the rules changed.”
Ghost went still.
“We’re… friends.”
“Yup.”
Soap said it like it was obvious. Like it had already been agreed upon in writing.
Ghost studied him carefully.
“When was this decided.”
“Couple weeks ago,” Soap replied. “You just weren’t informed.”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly behind the mask.
“And if I don’t want to be friends?”
Soap shrugged.
Then smiled wider.
“Tough luck.”
Ghost blinked once.
“We’re best friends now. No take backs. Can’t get rid of me.”
There was no challenge in it. No mockery.
Just… certainty.
The kind that didn’t need permission.
Ghost should have corrected him.
Should have drawn the line.
Instead, he found himself saying—
“Best.”
“Aye.”
Soap stepped closer again, shoulder brushing Ghost’s as they resumed walking.
“You sit closer at meals,” Soap added conversationally. “You ask about my hobbies. You let me move the cot.”
Ghost exhaled slowly.
“That’s not—”
“And you didn’t move it back.”
Soap glanced sideways at him.
“Sounds like friendship to me.”
Ghost didn’t respond.
But he didn’t step away either.
The tactile behaviour only increased after that.
Soap would clap him lightly on the shoulder after drills.
Lean in slightly when speaking, voice lower, warmer.
Sit hip-to-hip at the ration table like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And Ghost—
Let him.
The first time Soap laughed and grabbed his forearm mid-story, Ghost felt it like a live wire under his skin.
Not unpleasant.
Just… startling.
Alive.
“Relax,” Soap murmured once, noticing the subtle tension. “If you hated it, you’d have shoved me into a wall by now.”
Ghost considered that.
He probably would have.
“But you don’t,” Soap said quietly.
Their eyes met.
And there it was again.
Choice.
Soap choosing proximity.
Ghost choosing not to stop him.
At night, the cot pressed flush against Ghost’s bed.
Metal touching metal.
Some nights, Soap would turn and his arm would splay out, fingers brushing Ghost’s mattress absentmindedly.
Not reaching.
Just close.
And sometimes—
Ghost would wake to find their shoulders lightly touching.
Soap warm and solid beside him.
He never moved away.
Not anymore.
One evening, after a long day of inspections, Soap nudged his knee against Ghost’s under the table.
“You know,” Soap said casually, “you’re less scary when you’re my best mate.”
Ghost looked at him slowly.
“I am not your mate.”
Soap grinned.
“Too late.”
Ghost held his gaze.
Then, quietly—
“You’re insufferable.”
Soap beamed like he’d just been awarded a medal.
“And yet,” he said softly, leaning in just a fraction closer, “you keep me.”
Ghost didn’t answer.
But he didn’t deny it.
And that silence—
That was answer enough.
Life didn’t stop just because Ghost had grown accustomed to warmth.
Every morning, 0600.
Lines of survivors.
Files in his hands.
Names read like inventory.
Liquidation.
Quarantine.
Survivor Block.
Faces blurred into statistics.
Some cried.
Some begged.
Some stared blankly ahead.
Ghost did not falter.
He sorted them like lambs.
Efficient. Detached. Necessary.
And every day, when it was done—
He returned.
The walk back to the Block had changed.
He didn’t rush.
Didn’t drag his feet either.
But he knew.
The door would open.
And John would look up.
Every single time.
Like clockwork.
Head snapping toward the sound of boots in the corridor.
Eyes scanning until they found him.
There it is.
That small lift at the corner of his mouth.
Not dramatic. Not theatrical.
Just relief.
Soap would straighten immediately, abandoning whatever conversation he’d been in, and fall into step beside him without being asked.
“How bad?” he’d murmur.
“Manageable.”
“Any screamers?”
“One.”
Soap would nod like that was reasonable.
Then the chatter would start.
Endless.
Stories. Observations. Commentary about rations. A terrible joke about the new intake’s haircut.
And Ghost—
Let him.
Meals became something else entirely.
They no longer sat near each other.
They sat pressed together.
Thigh to thigh.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Soap’s knee hooked loosely against Ghost’s like it had always belonged there.
At some point, Soap stopped pretending the touches were accidental.
He clapped Ghost on the shoulder after a clean inspection.
Shoved him lightly when he made a dry remark.
Reached across him for things instead of around.
When Ghost did paperwork in the evenings, Soap would lean over the desk, chin nearly brushing Ghost’s shoulder.
“You’re frowning.”
“I’m working.”
“You frown when you work.”
“Leave it.”
Soap grinned and nudged him anyway.
“We’re best friends now. Get used to it.”
Ghost should have corrected him again.
Should have said something sharp.
Instead—
He didn’t tense.
That was the first change.
His body stopped bracing.
The first week, every touch had been a spark.
Unexpected. Testing.
Now—
It was familiar.
Expected.
When Soap’s hand landed on his shoulder, Ghost didn’t stiffen.
When Soap leaned against him during drills, Ghost adjusted automatically to support the weight.
When their arms brushed in the corridor, he didn’t move away.
Sometimes—
He found himself anticipating it.
Waiting for it.
The clap on his back.
The nudge at his side.
The casual drape of Soap’s forearm across his shoulders when he laughed.
And when it didn’t happen—
He noticed that too.
One evening, after a long inspection day, Ghost entered the Block later than usual.
Soap was mid-conversation with two new survivors.
He looked up instantly.
Eyes locking onto Ghost.
And the conversation just… tapered off.
Soap excused himself without thinking and crossed the room.
“You’re late,” he said softly, falling into step beside him.
“Yes.”
“Long day?”
“Yes.”
Soap studied him for a second longer than usual.
Then—
Without a word—
He bumped their shoulders together.
Solid. Grounding.
I’m here.
Ghost didn’t look at him.
But he leaned back into it slightly.
Just enough.
That night, when they lay down, the cots already touching—
Soap shifted closer on instinct.
Their shoulders pressed fully now.
Warm through thin fabric.
Ghost stared at the ceiling.
Didn’t move away.
Didn’t tell him to stop.
A deeper part of him—
One he hadn’t examined too closely—
Had started to crave it.
The contact.
The proof of life beside him.
The steady breathing.
The weight.
Soap murmured sleepily into the dark,
“You didn’t shove me today.”
Ghost’s voice was low.
“You weren’t in the way.”
A soft huff of laughter.
“See? Growth.”
Silence settled.
Then, quieter—
“You don’t look as tired when you come back now.”
Ghost didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t know how to say:
I come back to you.
Instead, he let their shoulders remain pressed.
Let the warmth linger.
Let the craving settle into something steady and undeniable.
Routine had become comfort.
Comfort had become need.
And Ghost—
The scariest bastard in the compound—
Had gotten used to being touched.
Worse.
He expected it.
By the time they returned to quarters, exhaustion had settled in quietly.
Soap kicked off his boots.
“Another thrilling day in paradise.”
Ghost removed his gear with the usual precision.
“Lights out.”
“Aye, Lt.”
Metal frames already touching, cots flush together. The routine had become muscle memory.
They lay down.
Silence.
Generator hum.
Steady breathing.
Sleep.
Ghost woke first.
Not from a nightmare.
Not from an alarm.
From warmth.
It took him a second to register what felt different.
His arm was pinned.
There was weight against his chest.
Something solid and warm curved into his side.
He looked down.
Soap.
Fully latched on like a particularly determined octopus.
One arm slung across Ghost’s torso.
Leg thrown half over his thigh.
Face buried into his shoulder like it had always belonged there.
Ghost went very still.
Soap’s breathing was slow. Deep. Warm against the fabric of his shirt.
They had rolled at some point.
Or Ghost had.
He wasn’t sure.
What he was sure of—
Was that he hadn’t woken up panicking.
He hadn’t jerked away.
He hadn’t shoved him off immediately.
He just… lay there.
Soap stirred a moment later.
Blinking slowly.
Eyes adjusting.
Then realising.
A slow, lazy grin spread across his face.
“This is nice,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “You’re so warm.”
Ghost reacted on instinct.
He shoved.
Hard.
Soap tumbled off the cot with a spectacular crash.
Metal rattled.
There was a half-choked screech from the floor.
“Shut it, Johnny.”
The nickname slipped out effortlessly.
No hesitation.
No correction.
Just there.
Silence.
Then—
“…Johnny?” Soap echoed from the ground.
A grin audible in his voice.
Ghost was already on his feet.
Already pulling on his vest.
“You were crowding.”
“Cuddling,” Soap corrected cheerfully, still sprawled on the floor. “Very different.”
Ghost didn’t look at him.
“You were in my space.”
“Oh, we’re pretending that wasn’t mutual now?”
Ghost tightened the straps on his vest with more force than necessary.
“Johnny,” Soap sing-songed, pushing himself upright. “That’s new.”
Ghost paused for half a second.
Then continued dressing.
Soap scrambled up, laughing outright now.
“You’ve promoted me.”
“Don’t push it.”
Johnny grinned wider.
“You like it.”
“Get dressed.”
“But you said it so easy.”
Ghost turned toward the door.
“Johnny.”
Soft warning this time.
Soap beamed.
Ghost didn’t correct him.
Didn’t take it back.
Didn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.
He just walked out.
But as Soap followed him into the corridor, still chuckling under his breath, he noticed something subtle.
Ghost didn’t increase the distance between them.
Didn’t step away.
Didn’t avoid his shoulder brushing against him as they walked.
And when Soap bumped him lightly on purpose—
Ghost didn’t shove him this time.
The shift was small.
But monumental.
They had woken up tangled.
Ghost hadn’t panicked.
Hadn’t lashed out beyond the theatrical shove.
And he’d given him a name.
Not MacTavish.
Not Soap.
Johnny.
Something softer.
Something personal.
And Soap—
Knew exactly what that meant.
The rest of the day was ordinary.
Which, in this world, meant survivable.
Ghost moved through quarantine with the same measured detachment he always wore. Faces blurred into paperwork. Temperatures checked. Symptoms logged. Decisions made.
No hesitation.
He was efficient.
He always was.
But today—
His mind kept catching on a name.
Johnny.
It had slipped out so easily that morning.
Too easily.
He found himself replaying it in the quiet moments between inspections.
Johnny.
Not MacTavish.
Not Soap.
Something softer.
Something his.
He sorted the line without faltering. Survivors stood like livestock waiting to be divided, eyes darting, hands trembling.
He didn’t soften.
Didn’t hesitate.
But beneath the mask, something steady waited for later.
He knew how the day would end.
It always ended the same now.
He would return.
And Johnny would be there.
When Ghost finally turned down the corridor toward Survivor Block, the weight of the day settled into his shoulders.
The door opened.
And there he was.
Johnny looked up instantly.
Like he’d been listening for the boots.
Like he’d known the exact moment.
Their eyes met across the room.
Relief flickered across Johnny’s face before he masked it with a grin.
He stood immediately, abandoning whatever story he’d been telling the others.
“Long one?” he asked, already falling into step beside Ghost.
“Yes.”
Johnny nodded, close enough that their sleeves brushed as they walked.
He didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t ask permission.
Just slotted himself at Ghost’s side like he belonged there.
Because he did.
They passed one of the perimeter guards in the corridor.
The man’s gaze lingered a fraction too long.
Then—
A low cough.
“Dog.”
Muttered under his breath.
Barely audible.
But Ghost heard it.
He stopped.
So abruptly Johnny nearly collided with him.
The guard looked up too late.
Ghost moved faster than thought.
A single, precise strike.
Face met fist.
The crack echoed sharp in the corridor.
The guard hit the ground with a choked gasp, nose already bleeding.
Silence fell.
Johnny stared.
Ghost adjusted his gloves calmly.
“Watch your mouth,” he said evenly, shaking the blood off his fist.
No raised voice.
No theatrics.
Just finality.
He stepped over the guard and continued walking.
Johnny followed.
Quiet now.
When they were out of earshot, Johnny spoke softly.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did,” Ghost replied.
There was no room for argument in it.
Johnny studied him as they walked.
Not scared.
Not unsettled.
Something else.
“You’re scary, you know that?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
Johnny bumped their shoulders together lightly.
“Good thing you’re my best friend.”
Ghost didn’t answer.
But he didn’t step away.
Back in the Block, routine resumed.
Meals pressed together.
Paperwork interrupted by nudges.
Johnny leaning in too close while Ghost tried to concentrate.
“You’re thinking again,” Johnny murmured at one point.
“I always think.”
“About me?”
Ghost didn’t respond.
But his silence lingered too long.
Johnny’s grin softened.
Took on something warmer.
That night, when they lay down—
There was no accidental roll.
No fumbling.
Johnny simply shifted closer.
Deliberate.
Slow.
Until their shoulders pressed.
Ghost let him.
He stared at the ceiling in the dark.
And for the first time since the infection broke the world—
He realised something terrifying.
He didn’t just expect Johnny to be there at the end of the day.
He relied on it.
And when he thought of the word the guard had used—
Dog—
He felt no anger at the implication.
Because dogs were loyal.
And Johnny—
Chose him.
Every day.
The days before evacuation blurred together.
Wake up tangled.
Every morning.
No more surprise.
No more dramatic shoving.
Just the quiet awareness of warmth, limbs overlapping, breath shared in the cold air.
Sometimes Ghost woke first and simply lay there, staring at the ceiling while Johnny slept half-draped over him.
Sometimes Johnny woke first and murmured something smug like, “Morning, bestie,” before Ghost rolled away with a grunt.
They stopped commenting on it.
It became routine.
They’d untangle.
Dress in silence.
Go their separate directions.
Ghost to quarantine.
Johnny to the Block.
By midday, Ghost would feel it again — that pull.
He’d finish inspections, sign off on transfers, sort the next wave of frightened faces.
Liquidation.
Observation.
Survivor.
Efficient.
Unmoved.
And every time he turned toward the Block—
Johnny would look up.
Every time.
Like he’d sensed it.
And fall into step.
Like he belonged there.
Repeat.
Meals pressed thigh-to-thigh.
Paperwork interrupted by nudges.
Shoulder checks in corridors.
Johnny’s hand resting briefly at the small of Ghost’s back as they turned corners.
Ghost no longer reacting.
No longer bracing.
Sometimes even leaning into it without thinking.
Repeat.
Sleep.
Warmth.
Repeat.
Evacuation day arrived quiet and sharp.
0600
Line formed.
Tension thicker than usual.
New survivors fidgeted. Older ones stared ahead with resignation.
Johnny stood in line like everyone else.
Relaxed.
Hands clasped loosely behind his back.
Ghost took his place at the front.
Clipboard in hand.
Voice steady.
“Fit for relocation.”
One to military.
One to science.
One retained.
One transferred.
Faces moved past him.
Some relieved.
Some devastated.
Ghost did not hesitate.
Then Johnny stepped forward.
The line behind him stilled slightly.
People always watched this part.
Always wondered.
Ghost looked at the file.
MacTavish, John.
Age.
History.
Internal Stabilisation Asset.
A beat.
Their eyes met.
Johnny didn’t smile.
Didn’t plead.
Just looked at him steadily.
Choice.
Always choice.
“Survivor Block,” Ghost said evenly. “Retention.”
A breath seemed to leave the room all at once.
Johnny nodded once.
“Aye, Lieutenant.”
He stepped out of line without hesitation.
Walked past him.
Back toward the Block. Like he’d known. End of discussion.
The rest of evacuation passed smoothly.
Fewer bodies in the Block now.
Quieter again. Ghost dismissed the line. Signed off on transfers. Filed the paperwork.
But something inside him had tightened during that moment.
Because for the first time—
He’d felt it. The possibility.
Johnny leaving.
Johnny choosing differently.
Johnny walking the other direction.
The thought had lodged somewhere uncomfortable. He didn’t examine it.
Just finished his work. And walked back.
Johnny was waiting inside the Block, leaning against one of the bunks. Like always.
When Ghost entered, he straightened immediately.
“Well?” Johnny asked lightly.
“Routine.”
Johnny grinned.
“Thought so.”
He fell into step beside him again.
Shoulder brushing.
Natural.
Expected.
Ghost didn’t realise he’d been holding tension in his chest until it eased. Johnny had stayed.
Again.
Chosen him.
Again.
And Ghost—
The man who decided everyone else’s fate—
Had never felt so quietly relieved to not have to make that one.
Evacuation left the Block quieter than usual.
Four survivors. Low voices. Dim lights.
Ghost finished his paperwork later than normal. Slower, too. Mind elsewhere.
Johnny was stretched across his cot, hands behind his head, watching him openly.
“You’re brooding,” he said.
“I’m working.”
“Brooding while working.”
Ghost ignored him. But he could feel it building.
Something unspoken. Something heavier than the usual warmth and banter.
When the lights dimmed, Ghost didn’t immediately lie down.
He stood instead.
Still.
Johnny tilted his head.
“You alright?”
A pause.
Then—
Ghost reached up.
And pulled off his mask.
No ceremony. No warning.
Just fabric lifting away.
Johnny went quiet.
Completely.
Ghost didn’t look at him at first.
He set the mask carefully on the desk.
Ran a hand back through short blonde hair.
His skin was pale — almost stark under the harsh overhead light. Freckles scattered faintly across his nose and cheeks. Scars cut through that softness in jagged lines. Old. Healed. Some thin. Some not.
Not pretty, not symmetrical. real.
Johnny’s eyes traced every inch like he was committing it to memory.
Not flinching.
Not pitying.
Just… looking.
Drinking him in.
Ghost finally turned to face him fully.
No fabric between them.
Just Simon Riley.
Johnny swallowed.
“…You’re blonde,” he said softly.
Ghost huffed faintly.
“Yes.”
“Didn’t picture that.”
“No one does.”
Silence stretched. But it wasn’t heavy. It was intimate.
Johnny’s voice dropped.
“You’re… you.”
Something in Ghost’s chest shifted at that.
Not a monster.
Not a mask.
Just him.
From beneath his desk, he picked up a small canvas bag.
He stepped closer and joined Johnny on the bed and then held out the bag.
Johnny blinked.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Johnny sat up slowly, took the bag.
Untied it.
Inside was a sketchbook. Thick paper. Clean. Untouched.
Graphite pencils, charcoal sticks, a small tin of coloured pencils.
Johnny’s fingers hovered over them like they might vanish.
Johnny pulled out a folded piece of paper tucked between the pages.
He opened it.
From Simon Riley
To John MacTavish
His throat worked.
“Simon—”
Ghost stilled at the name.
No rank, no call signs, no “Lt,” no “Soap.”
Just names.
Real ones.
Johnny looked up at him.
Eyes glassy.
“You signed it.”
“Yes.”
“You—”
His voice wavered just slightly.
“You gave me your name.”
Ghost held his gaze.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“You gave me your face,” Johnny added quietly.
“Yes.”
Silence again.
Thick.
Charged.
Johnny reached out without thinking.
His fingers brushed the scar along Ghost’s cheek.
Gentle.
Exploratory.
Ghost inhaled sharply.
But he didn’t pull away.
Johnny’s thumb traced the edge of a healed line near his jaw.
“You’re beautiful,” he said softly.
No joke.
No grin.
Just the truth.
Ghost’s breath caught.
No one had—
No one had ever—
Johnny leaned forward slightly.
Close enough that their foreheads nearly touched.
“You trusted me,” he whispered.
“Always.”
The word was barely audible.
Johnny’s hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck.
Not pulling.
Just holding.
“If you want me to stop,” Johnny murmured.
Ghost shook his head.
Just once.
Small.
Clear.
Johnny closed the distance.
Not rushed.
Not hungry.
Slow.
Their lips brushed first.
Testing.
Soft.
Ghost stilled—
Then leaned in.
Just slightly.
Choice.
Always choice.
The kiss deepened by a fraction.
Warm.
Careful.
Reverent.
When they pulled back, they stayed close.
Foreheads resting together.
Breathing shared.
No alarms.
No orders.
No hierarchy.
Just Simon.
And John.
The days blur.
Not because they’re forgettable.
Because they’re steady. Predictable in the best way.
Simon wakes first more often than not. Johnny’s weight warm and solid across his chest, one arm slung over his ribs like he’s claiming territory. His head tucked beneath Simon’s chin. Breath slow. Safe.
Simon doesn’t move straight away anymore. He just…lies there. One hand resting at Johnny’s back. Feeling him breathe. Proof.
Every morning.
Johnny presses a lazy kiss to his sternum before he even opens his eyes.
“Morning, Si.”
Not Lieutenant. Not Ghost.
Just Si.
Simon hums. It’s become routine.
They walk the Block together now. Not John a step behind Ghost but, side by side, hand in hand.
Openly.
Johnny’s hand slips into Simon’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The first time it happened, Simon almost pulled away out of reflex.
Now he laces their fingers automatically.
Survivors notice.
Of course they notice.
But there’s no whispering.
No judgement.
If anything, the Block feels calmer.
Like even the Lieutenant has something human anchoring him.
Johnny squeezes Simon’s hand when they pass the kids.
Simon squeezes back when new arrivals look frightened.
They move like a unit.
Not commanding. Not intimidating. Just solid.
At night, Simon removes his mask without hesitation. He doesn’t even think about it anymore. It comes off as naturally as his vest.
Johnny watches every time.
Still.
Like it’s a privilege.
Like it matters.
Simon pretends not to notice. But he always faces him when he does it now. Deliberate.
Johnny’s hands find him constantly.
When Simon sits on the cot, Johnny stands between his knees and smooths his thumbs along the faint freckles across his cheeks.
When Simon lies down, Johnny curls into him without asking.
His spot is no longer the other cot.
It hasn’t been for days.
Johnny fits along his side like he was made to.
Head on Simon’s chest.
Leg thrown over his hip.
One hand tucked beneath his shirt to rest against bare skin.
Simon’s arm wraps around him automatically.
Possessive.
Protective.
Soft.
Every night.
Johnny presses a kiss to his collarbone.
“Goodnight, Simon.”
Simon’s fingers brush through his mohawk gently.
“Goodnight, Johnny.”
Every morning, Johnny kisses his jaw.
His cheek.
Sometimes the scar near his mouth.
“Still handsome,” he murmurs sleepily.
Simon pretends to grumble.
But he turns his head just enough to allow it.
They don’t rush anything further. There’s no desperation. No frantic hunger.
Just closeness.
Touch.
Hands intertwined during paperwork. Johnny leaning against him while he reads reports. Simon resting his chin on Johnny’s shoulder when he draws in the new sketchbook.
That sketchbook becomes sacred.
Johnny sketches Simon when he thinks he isn’t looking.
The curve of his nose.
The line of his shoulders.
The scar across his cheek.
Simon pretends not to see.
But one evening he catches a glimpse.
And realises—
Johnny draws him gently.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a monster.
As a man.
It does something to him.
The base still runs.
Evacuations still come.
Quarantine still fills.
Simon still makes impossible decisions.
But now—
When he returns—
Johnny is there.
Not waiting like a dog.
Waiting like a partner.
And Simon doesn’t realise when it happens—
But one afternoon, as they walk the perimeter hand in hand—
He thinks:
This is home.
Not the base.
Not the Block.
Johnny.
It starts small.
A muttered complaint.
They’re in bed.
Evacuation is in the morning.
Johnny is half asleep, cheek pressed to Simon’s chest, fingers lazily tracing circles over his ribs.
“There’s this bloke in the Block,” he murmurs. “Keeps snapping at the kids. Proper miserable bastard. Makes the place feel heavy.”
Simon’s hand stills slightly in his hair.
“What’s his name?” he asks, voice quiet.
Johnny hums sleepily.
“Dunno. Tall. Dark hair. Runs hot. Always sweating.”
Simon files it away.
Johnny doesn’t think about it again.
He kisses Simon’s jaw.
Falls asleep.
0600
Line formed.
Same as always.
Simon stands at the front.
Clipboard steady.
Survivors step forward one by one.
Then—
Tall.
Dark hair.
Sweat sheening his forehead despite the cold.
Eyes sharp. Defensive.
Simon watches him longer than usual.
Checks his temp.
High.
Aggressive posture.
Jaw clenched.
“Liquidation,” Simon says evenly. “High temperature. Behavioural instability. Risk factor unacceptable.”
The man protests.
It doesn’t matter.
Guards take him.
Line moves on.
End of discussion.
Johnny doesn’t connect it until later.
He notices the empty bunk.
The shift in atmosphere.
Lighter.
Kids laughing again.
Someone says, “Thank God he’s gone.”
Johnny frowns.
Finds Simon during rounds.
“Where’s Sweaty McGrumpy?”
“Liquidated.”
Johnny blinks.
“What?”
“High temperature. Aggression. Risk.”
Simon says it like paperwork.
Like numbers.
Like it means nothing.
Johnny stares at him.
“You did that this morning?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Johnny swallows.
“…Because of what I said?”
Simon doesn’t answer immediately.
Doesn’t look away either.
“He was destabilising the Block,” he says finally. “You confirmed it.”
Confirmed.
Not caused.
Not ordered.
Confirmed.
Johnny’s chest tightens.
Because he hadn’t told Simon to do anything.
He’d just… mentioned it.
And the man was gone.
Just like that.
That night feels different.
Johnny lies awake longer than usual.
Simon’s arm around him like always.
Warm.
Steady.
Powerful.
Johnny shifts slightly.
“Si?”
“Yes.”
“If I asked you to send someone somewhere… would you?”
Simon goes quiet. Long enough that Johnny thinks he won’t answer.
Then—
“If they posed a threat,” Simon says carefully.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence.
Then, softer—
“You influence my assessments.”
Not ashamed.
Not defensive.
Just honest. Johnny’s heart thuds.
“You trust me that much?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. And that’s when it clicks.
Simon stands at the front.
Simon makes the calls.
Simon pulls the trigger.
But—
Johnny shapes the room.
Johnny shapes the atmosphere.
Johnny decides who feels safe.
Who feels unstable.
Who fits.
And Simon believes him.
Completely.
Johnny rolls onto his side, looking up at him.
“You know that’s dangerous, yeah?”
Simon’s fingers brush his cheek.
“Yes.”
“And you’re still doing it?”
“Yes.”
Not because Johnny controls him, but because Simon values his judgement.
Because Johnny sees people.
Because Johnny feels the Block shift before Simon does.
Because Simon trusts him.
That’s the power. Not force, not coercion.
Trust.
Johnny exhales slowly.
“I’d never ask you to do something wrong,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
That’s what makes it heavy.
Simon isn’t being manipulated.
He’s choosing to listen.
Choosing to act.
Choosing Johnny.
Over the next few days, Johnny tests it.
Not maliciously.
Just… observing.
He mentions a woman who’s brilliant with logistics.
Next evac?
She’s retained.
He notes a lad who’s anxious but skilled with mechanics.
Simon transfers him to military instead of science.
Each time—
Johnny presents.
Simon decides.
But the decisions lean where Johnny nudges.
And Johnny finally understands:
The scary Lieutenant may hold the authority.
But Simon Riley bends for him.
Only him.
One evening, Johnny cups Simon’s face in both hands.
“You’d burn the world for me, wouldn’t you?”
Simon blinks up at Johnny before melting into the mans hands.
“If it threatened you.”
Johnny’s breath catches.
Not because it’s romantic. Well it is romantic, but also because of the truth.
Simon may be the judge, jury, executioner for these survivors, but Johnny?
Johnny is the one he protects.
The one he listens to.
The one who can tilt the scales with a whisper.
And Johnny realises—
He’s not one of the survivors under control.
He’s the one holding Simon’s heart in his hands.
And Simon knows it.
And doesn’t take it back.
Evacuation had passed two days ago, but the Block still felt thin.
Four bunks empty.
Sheets stripped.
Metal frames exposed.
Johnny was crouched near one of the kids, helping her tie a loose lace with exaggerated seriousness.
“No, no, this is tactical knot-tying, see? Highly advanced,” he murmured, fingers working carefully.
She giggled.
Across the room, Ghost stood at the long folding table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sorting intake forms. His vest hung over the back of a chair. Mask on. Posture straight. Watching everything.
Always watching.
Johnny finished the knot and stood, clapping dust off his hands. As he turned, he caught Ghost already looking at him.
Their eyes held.
Johnny smiled automatically.
Ghost’s shoulders eased a fraction.
A new survivor stood near the food crates, staring openly between them.
Johnny noticed.
Excused himself from the girl with a wink and crossed the room, boots echoing softly on concrete.
The new survivor leaned closer when Johnny approached.
“That’s him, yeah?” the lad murmured.
Johnny folded his arms loosely, casual. “That’s who?”
“The Lieutenant.”
Johnny glanced back.
Ghost had shifted slightly, one boot turning toward them. Not intrusive. Just aware.
“Aye,” Johnny said.
The lad swallowed.
“He watches you.”
Johnny’s brows lifted faintly. “He watches everyone.”
“Not like that.”
Johnny didn’t answer immediately.
Behind them, a chair scraped. One of the guards moved toward the exit, radio crackling at his shoulder.
The lad pressed on.
“You don’t queue anymore.”
“I get assessed differently,” Johnny replied lightly.
“You sleep in his quarters.”
Johnny’s jaw ticked — barely.
“Careful,” he said, still smiling. “Rumours spread quick.”
The lad held his hands up slightly. “Wasn’t accusing. Just… seems like you’ve got sway.”
Johnny’s gaze flicked back to Ghost again.
Ghost was no longer pretending to read paperwork.
He was watching.
Direct.
Unapologetic.
Johnny looked back at the lad.
“I stabilise the Block,” he said evenly. “That’s my job.”
“Didn’t know that was a job.”
Johnny’s smile softened.
“It is if someone trusts you enough.”
The lad hesitated.
“He looks at you different.”
That landed.
Johnny didn’t respond.
He stepped back instead, brushing past the lad’s shoulder, heading toward Ghost.
Their hands brushed as Johnny passed.
Ghost’s fingers hooked automatically around his.
Casual.
Familiar.
Not hidden.
The lad noticed.
So did everyone else.
Later, outside the Block, wind pushing dust across the yard, one of the perimeter guards fell into step beside Ghost.
Boots crunching over gravel.
“Sir.”
“Yes.”
“You and MacTavish.”
Ghost didn’t slow.
“What about him.”
The guard adjusted the strap on his rifle.
“It’s visible.”
Ghost stopped walking.
Turned fully.
The guard stiffened slightly but didn’t back down.
“Visible how.”
“You defer to him. He speaks, you listen. He moves, you follow. It changes how the survivors see you.”
Ghost’s gaze sharpened.
“They see compliance rates up thirty percent. They see fewer incidents.”
“They also see him hold your hand, sir.”
Wind moved between them.
A flag somewhere snapped sharply against metal.
Ghost stepped closer.
Not aggressive.
Measured.
“Are you questioning my command?”
“No, sir.”
“Then choose your next words carefully.”
The guard swallowed.
“Just make sure you know what he is to you. Because the Block already does.”
Ghost didn’t reply.
He simply turned and walked away.
That night the quarters felt smaller.
More solid.
Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, sketchbook open on his thigh, pencil moving lightly across paper. The lamp cast warm light over Simon’s bare forearms as he unstrapped his vest and set it carefully over the chair.
Metal buckles clicked softly.
Fabric rustled.
Johnny’s eyes followed him without meaning to.
Simon removed his gloves.
Set them down.
Then paused with his mask still on.
“You were quiet today,” he said.
Johnny’s pencil stopped.
He shut the sketchbook gently.
Set it aside.
“Someone asked about us.”
Simon reached up and removed his mask slowly.
Set it on the desk.
Johnny’s breath hitched — still does, every time.
Even now.
Freckles. Scar. Blonde hair mussed from the fabric.
Simon stepped closer, resting a hand on the desk.
“And?”
Johnny stood.
Closed the distance until their boots nearly touched.
“They think I influence you.”
“You do.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Simon’s hand shifted from the desk to Johnny’s waist.
Grounding.
Johnny’s fingers curled into the hem of Simon’s shirt.
“A guard talked to you too, didn’t they?”
Simon didn’t deny it.
Johnny exhaled slowly.
“What are we, Si?”
Simon’s thumb moved absentmindedly against Johnny’s hip.
Slow.
Thinking.
“You stay,” Simon said quietly. “Every evacuation.”
Johnny nodded.
“You wake up with me.”
“Yes.”
“You hold my hand in front of everyone.”
Johnny’s lips twitched faintly.
“You don’t stop me.”
“No.”
Johnny’s grip tightened slightly in Simon’s shirt.
“I don’t want people thinking I’m using you.”
“You aren’t.”
“I don’t want you thinking I am either.”
Simon’s jaw flexed.
He stepped closer until their chests brushed.
“You think I would let someone use me?” he asked quietly.
Johnny shook his head.
“No.”
Silence settled heavy and warm between them.
Outside, boots passed the door.
A distant radio crackled.
Life continuing.
Johnny swallowed.
“I stay because I want you,” he said plainly. “Not because I can sway you.”
Simon’s hand slid from Johnny’s waist up his spine.
Slow.
Intentional.
“And I let you sway me,” he replied, “because I trust you.”
Johnny’s eyes softened.
“That sounds dangerously like feelings.”
Simon’s forehead rested against his.
“Yes.”
Johnny huffed a small breath of laughter.
“So… what are we?”
Simon’s hands settled fully at his hips now.
Firm.
Certain.
“You’re mine,” he said. “And I’m yours.”
Johnny’s fingers relaxed in his shirt.
A smile broke across his face — unguarded.
“Boyfs?”
Simon’s mouth twitched.
“What is that word?”
Johnny laughs and kisses Simon’s nose.
“Boyfriends. We’re boyfriends”
Simon stares at him before smiling a little.
“Then yes. Boyfs”
Johnny leaned up and kissed him proper this time.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
Just sure.
When they separated, Johnny didn’t step away.
He slid his hands up Simon’s arms instead, resting them at his shoulders.
“And just so we’re clear,” Johnny murmured, “I don’t need influence.”
Simon raised a brow slightly.
Johnny squeezed him gently.
“You’d choose me anyway.”
Simon didn’t hesitate.
“Of course I would..”
Johnny grinned.
“Good. I’d choose you too”
He bent to grab the lamp cord and clicked it off. Darkness settled.
Then he tugged Simon toward the bed by the hand.
And Simon followed.
Not because he was influenced.
Because he wanted to.
The lamp clicks off.
Darkness settles, thick but not complete — thin strips of light slipping under the door from the corridor outside.
Johnny doesn’t let go of Simon’s hand.
He tugs him closer instead.
The mattress dips as Simon sits.
Johnny stands between his knees again, same way he has a hundred times before.
But it feels different now.
Not teasing.
Not casual.
Defined.
Boyfriends.
Simon’s hands settle at Johnny’s hips automatically. Thumbs resting just above the waistband of his trousers. Not moving yet.
Just there.
Johnny exhales slowly.
“You alright?” he murmurs.
Simon’s grip tightens slightly.
“Yes.”
Johnny leans in and kisses him first this time — slower than usual. Not playful. Not testing.
Intentional.
Simon responds immediately.
One hand slides from Johnny’s hip up his spine, fingers spreading wide between his shoulder blades. Anchoring him there.
Johnny hums softly into the kiss, hands coming up to cup Simon’s jaw. Thumbs brushing over the faint freckles there like he’s memorising them again.
They shift.
Johnny presses closer.
Simon leans back just enough that Johnny follows without thinking, one knee sliding onto the bed beside him.
The balance tips.
Johnny ends up half in Simon’s lap, breath hitching when Simon’s hands slide from his back down to his thighs to steady him.
There’s a moment.
A pause.
Where they both realise this is new ground.
Johnny pulls back just slightly.
Searches Simon’s face in the low light.
“We don’t have to rush,” he says quietly.
Simon studies him.
Then shakes his head once.
“I don’t want to rush. I want you.”
Johnny’s breath catches at that.
Not because of the words.
Because of how simple they are.
He leans down again, slower now. Their foreheads bump lightly before their mouths meet again.
This kiss deepens naturally.
Simon’s hands begin to move with purpose — sliding beneath Johnny’s shirt, palms warm against bare skin. Johnny inhales sharply at the contact, fingers tightening in Simon’s hair.
There’s no frantic tearing.
No urgency.
Just building.
Exploring.
Johnny shifts fully onto the bed now, pulling Simon with him. They tumble sideways, a quiet thud of limbs against the mattress, breathless laughter escaping Johnny before it melts back into a kiss.
Simon braces one arm beside his head, hovering over him.
Looking at him.
Blonde hair falling slightly forward.
Scar catching faint light.
Johnny reaches up and brushes his thumb along that scar.
“Still handsome,” he whispers.
Simon’s mouth curves faintly.
Then he kisses him again.
Slower.
Lower.
Hands mapping him carefully like he’s something precious.
Johnny arches subtly into the touch, one hand sliding down Simon’s arm, fingers tracing muscle, grounding himself in the reality of this.
“Simon,” he breathes.
And that’s where the line crosses.
Where kisses turn heavier.
Where hands begin to wander with clearer intent.
Where the world outside the door fades entirely.
The lamp is already off.
The base quiet.
Boots pass distantly in the corridor.
Inside the room, it’s just breath and warmth and skin and the certainty that this is chosen.
Johnny shifts beneath Simon, hands sliding up his back to tangle in his hair.
He pulls him down into another kiss, deeper this time, more insistent.
Simon responds in kind, pressing him into the mattress with the slow, deliberate movement of someone who knows exactly what they want.
Their lips part only to allow for clothes to be shed, skin bared inch by careful inch until nothing separates them but heat and anticipation.
The world narrows to this - the slide of skin on skin, the hitch in breath, the brush of lips against collarbone.
Touch as gentle as it is greedy, fingers skimming and palms pressing, learning the lines of each other as if committing them to memory.
There is no hurry, no desperation, only a slow building of something profound and aching and new.
When Simon finally slides inside him, it is with a hesitation that speaks volumes - a question asked without words, an unspoken need for confirmation.
Johnny gives it freely, voice breaking on a breathless 'yes' that dissolves into a moan as Simon begins to move.
Slow at first, testing each shift of muscle and stretch of skin until they find a rhythm that feels like coming home.
The room fills with soft sounds - the hitch of breath, the rustle of sheets, the low hum of approval as Simon finds a spot that makes Johnny arch into his touch.
His hands roam freely, mapping every curve and plane of Simon's body as he moves above him, fingers digging into hips and shoulders and the flex of back muscles.
They move together in a dance as old as time itself, losing themselves in the give and take of pleasure, the slide of sweat-slicked skin, the knowledge that this is something new and fragile and precious.
The world could fall away and they would not notice, lost in the simple perfection of this moment, this joining of bodies and hearts and souls.
When release finally comes, it is with a shuddering sigh of completion, bodies locked together as if they never want to part.
Johnny's voice rises in a ragged cry of Simon's name, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
Simon follows a moment later, pressing his face into the crook of Johnny's neck as he trembles through his own climax.
They lie there after, chests heaving and limbs tangled, holding each other close as if afraid to let go.
The silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft rustle of skin against sheets and the occasional hitch of breath.
In the end, it is Simon who speaks first, voice rough and low.
"Johnny..." And that single word says everything that needs to be said.
A confession, a promise, a beginning.
The start of something new and uncertain and wondrous, born of the darkness and forged in the heat of shared passion.
Johnny smiles in the darkness, fingers tracing idle patterns over Simon's shoulder blades.
"Yeah," he whispers. "I know."
And in that moment, they are content.
Two hearts beating in time, two souls intertwined, two bodies bound together by something that feels an awful lot like love.
They drift off to sleep like that, tangled limbs and sweat-slicked skin and breaths slowly evening out.
The morning is softer than usual.
Simon wakes first.
Again.
But this time it’s different.
Johnny is sprawled across him fully — not just curled at his side.
One leg hooked over his hip. Head tucked beneath his chin. Fingers loosely curled against Simon’s ribs. Skin warm against skin.
The sheets are twisted around them.
Simon doesn’t move.
Not because he’s frozen. Because he’s aware.
Of every point of contact, of the slow rhythm of Johnny’s breathing, of the weight of him.
Last night wasn’t frantic.
It wasn’t impulsive.
It was careful.
Intentional.
Simon shifts slightly, brushing his fingers through Johnny’s hair.
Johnny stirs,groans softly, then tilts his head up just enough to blink at him.
There’s a pause.
Recognition.
Memory.
A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Morning, boyfriend~.”
The word lands differently now.
Not teasing.
Not questioning.
Simon exhales softly through his nose.
“Morning.”
Johnny stretches lazily, pressing closer instead of pulling away.
“You alright?” he asks quietly.
Simon nods.
“Yes, very alright.”
Johnny studies his face like he’s checking for cracks.
Finding none.
“Good,” he murmurs.
He leans up and kisses him — slow, unhurried. A soft brush of mouths. Familiar already.
They don’t rush to move.
Don’t scramble for clothes.
They just lie there.
Johnny tracing absent patterns over Simon’s chest.
Simon’s hand resting steady at Johnny’s waist.
The world hasn’t changed.
Evacuation will come again.
Quarantine will fill.
Decisions will be made.
But something has settled.
Defined.
Johnny presses his cheek back against Simon’s chest.
“Feels different,” he admits.
“Yes.”
“Better different.”
Simon’s fingers curl slightly in his hair.
“Definetly.”
They lie like that a few minutes longer.
Just breathing.
Just existing.
Eventually, duty calls the way it always does.
A radio crackles faintly somewhere outside.
Boots echo in the corridor.
Johnny sighs dramatically.
“It’s so tragic that we have jobs.”
“Oh very tragic.”
Neither of them moves immediately.
Finally Johnny pushes up onto his elbows.
Grins down at him.
“You’re stuck with me now.”
Simon reaches up and pulls him down into one more slow kiss.
“I know, I wouldn't have it any other way.”
The Block is quieter than usual that morning.
Evacuation day. Boots scrape the concrete, papers shuffle, survivors whisper nervously in line. Simon stands at the front, clipboard in hand, expression calm, authoritative. Mask on. Vest strapped. The usual Lieutenant presence.
But something’s different.
Johnny steps up beside him. Sunglasses perched just so, posture confident. He doesn’t join the line with the others. He doesn’t need to. Everyone notices. Guards exchange a glance, startled but respectful. Survivors shift slightly, whispering again.
Simon glances at him. Johnny leans down, fingers brushing Simon’s arm, voice low.
“He’s tall. Dark hair. Looks aggressive,” Johnny murmurs, nodding subtly toward a man near the front.
Simon reads his clipboard, then lifts his head.
“High temperature. Aggressive. Risk factor: unacceptable,” he declares calmly. Guards nod and take the man aside.
Johnny watches, expression neutral, then leans closer again.
“Remember the girl near the crates? She’s fragile, lost her parents,” he whispers.
Simon glances briefly, makes a note.
The pattern continues. Every survivor steps forward. Every whisper from Johnny, subtle and soft, guides Simon’s hand. The decisions, final. The lethal weight of them, unquestioned.
Other survivors watch. The new arrivals watch. The kids stare from behind the bunks. They see Johnny leaning against Simon casually, whispering words that shape life and death. And Simon listens.
Simon doesn’t just listen. He follows.
Somewhere in the back, a guard murmurs to another, “That’s… MacTavish?”
“Yeah,” the other replies. “Lieutenant’s boyfriend.”
No one says more. They don’t need to.
By the time the line clears, it’s obvious. The Block doesn’t live at the mercy of Simon Riley alone anymore. Johnny MacTavish stands beside him, equal parts confidant, advisor, and silent arbiter.
When the last survivor is sorted, Johnny steps forward, hand brushing Simon’s shoulder briefly. A nod. Not intimate, not secretive — public. Commanding. Recognised.
Simon meets his gaze. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Johnny leans slightly closer, whispering softly:
“You okay?”
“I am,” Simon replies, voice low, clipped. “Thanks to you.”
Johnny smirks behind his sunglasses, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Don’t thank me. Just doing my job.”
The guards exchange another glance. Survivors murmur quietly. Everyone knows now: the scary bastard in the vest and mask doesn’t hold power alone.
The scary bastard’s boyfriend does too.
And life, death, evacuation, order — it all bends to the unspoken balance between them.
John MacTavish, the quiet dictator of evacuations. Whispered guidance. Calm authority. Trusted. Feared. Loved.
Simon steps closer, resting a hand at Johnny’s lower back. Just enough. Everyone sees. Everyone understands.
The line is over. But the world knows who holds it now.
And in that quiet, charged moment, Johnny leans his head lightly against Simon’s shoulder.
“Best evac yet,” he says.
Simon allows himself a rare, small smile.
“Yes,” he admits. “Thanks to you.”
Johnny’s hand drifts to Simon’s waist. The contact is soft, intimate, but it carries a weight the survivors will never fully grasp.
“Seems fair,” Johnny murmurs. “I get to be the dictator of life or death. You just… follow my lead.”
Simon huffs, half-laugh, half-grunt.
“You make it sound like I’m the puppet,” he says.
“You are,” Johnny teases, nudging him. “But you’re the scariest puppet ever.”
Simon shakes his head, but doesn’t pull away. Not now, not ever. Johnny’s hand stays firmly on him, grounding him, marking him.
“Best friends,” John murmurs.
“No,” Simon replies softly.
“Boyfriends.”
Simon’s fingers curl around his waist. “Boyfriends.” He echos.
The Block was quieter now.
Evacuation had passed hours ago. Survivors had been fed, checked, and tucked into their bunks. The distant hum of machinery and the occasional shuffle of boots were the only reminders that the world outside hadn’t stopped.
Johnny moved along the aisles, helping a kid straighten a blanket, adjusting a pillow here, offering a soft word there. Simon followed close behind. He didn’t need to speak; Johnny had already set the rhythm of the evening.
As the last kid was settled, Johnny leaned against the edge of a bunk, brushing a stray lock of hair from the child’s forehead.
“Night, kiddo,” he whispered.
Simon’s hand found Johnny’s without conscious thought, fingers threading together. Johnny glanced up, catching his eye, smile soft behind the sunglasses he hadn’t removed yet.
“Ready?” Simon murmured.
Johnny nodded. “Always.”
They walked back toward their quarters, hands still linked. The echoes of their boots bounced off the concrete walls, a private rhythm in a public space. Survivors glanced at them, guards gave a quiet nod. Everyone knew — the Lieutenant wasn’t alone anymore. The power of the Block was shared now.
Inside the quarters, the door clicked shut. Light dimmed. Johnny dropped his bag, moving instinctively toward the bed. Simon followed, shrugging out of his shirt, rolling down sleeves, his mask placed carefully on the desk then climbed into bed.
Johnny followed after him once undressing, settling against Simon, head resting on his chest. Fingers traced lazy circles over scarred skin. Simon’s arm came around him naturally, hand pressing gently into Johnny’s side.
“Long day,” Johnny murmured.
“Not as long as it could have been,” Simon replied.
Johnny tilted his head up to kiss the corner of Simon’s mouth, soft and lingering. Simon smiled faintly, pressing his forehead against Johnny’s.
They lay like that for a long while. No words, no agenda. Just breaths and the weight of their bodies pressed together.
Finally, Johnny spoke, voice soft.
“Feels different now,” he said.
Simon hummed in agreement. “Yes.”
Johnny’s fingers tightened slightly around Simon’s shirt. “Better different.”
“Much better,” Simon whispered.
They stayed like that, tangled in blankets and warmth, the world outside forgotten.
Eventually, Johnny let out a contented sigh, nuzzling closer. “Tomorrow’s another day,” he murmured.
Simon pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “And we’ll face it together.”
Johnny smiled against his chest. “As we always do”
Simon tightened his arm around him. “Together,” he confirmed.
The lights dimmed fully. Outside, boots marched, radios crackled, the world kept spinning.
Inside, the Block was theirs. And for tonight, that was enough.