cw: 18+ smut. ghost x 141. unhealthy relationship with sex. unhealthy relationship with self. unhealthy relationships in general. lots of angst, zero comfort. a ghost v simon dichotomy. idk if this is gonna make sense.
part 1. (can be read independently) part 2. part 3.
I've had these thoughts in my brain all day and finally get to *gestures vaguely* haphazardly get them out.
Ghost knows his role, even if no one ever said it out loud. In the dark hours between missions, when the air in the barracks hangs heavy with sweat and tension and unspoken needs, he's the one they reach for.
With Price, it's efficient and they've no need for words. A glance across the locker room, a brush of fingers when passing a file. Then later, behind the heavy door of the captain's office, Ghost is pressed against cold wall, fingers biting into rough seams, Price's hips snapping into his. Price doesn't whisper sweet things. He grips Ghost by the nape, leaves bruises in the shape of his hands. Afterward, Ghost pulls his trousers back up, and Price lights a cigarette, already gone in his mind. It’s not unkind, it's not, it’s just war and time and need, and Ghost likes it that way.
He does.
With Gaz, it's slower, not always less rough, but deliberate in a different way. Gaz unzips Ghost’s gear with care, sets his balaclava folded aside. They fuck in his bunk sometimes, curled on narrow sheets. Other times, bent over the bathroom sink, teeth gritted, muffled groans. But after, Kyle always kisses his shoulder, and sometimes makes tea and hands it over with two sugars, the way Ghost likes it even though he never asks.
Sometimes they talk, just generally, about football, maybe, or the weather if it's not raining, sometimes the nightmares that come and go like ocean tides.
Sometimes they don’t talk at all. Just sit, thigh to thigh, letting steam from the mugs rise between them.
And then there’s Soap. Johnny.
Soap touches him like he’s made of something holy and breakable and entirely his to ruin. Hands like prayers and a grip like penance. Their sex is brutal and loud most nights, with biting, clawing. A clashing of bodies that leaves them both gasping. Ghost takes it, takes all of it, because Johnny needs to give it, they both need to feel it. But after, Johnny folds him in close, tucks Ghost's head under his chin. His voice goes soft, calling him “love” in that lilting Scottish murmur. His hands stroke along his spine, over the welts he left behind, like he’s trying to soothe what he did, even though Ghost never asked him to.
Sometimes Ghost holds on too. Just a bit.
And sometimes, when the world slows down just enough, there’s Nikolai.
Not always... And not often. But when he’s there, Ghost goes willingly, like being pulled, something about Nik’s steadiness, the gravity of him. They find each other in places unmarked, behind blackout curtains and half-unpacked crates. Nikolai doesn’t ask questions, he just reaches, and Ghost follows.
Nik is strong, capable, grounded. He presses Ghost down slowly, not like he’s trying to conquer him, hardly control, just something there. Their rhythm is quieter, but still potent. It settles something, or reminds Ghost there’s a weight he can let cover him too.
After, they share a smoke. Ghost leans against the wall, sweat cooling down his ribs, and Nik leans beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Sometimes Nik says things in Russian, voice low and smooth, maybe like lullabies. And Ghost doesn’t ask for a translation.
He wouldn't want one to ruin the melody.
He wouldn't know what to want Nik's voice for otherwise.
Because the truth is, he doesn’t know what he wants.
He doesn’t mind being passed around, he doesn’t mind kneeling, or bending, or gripping the edge of the table while someone he trusts uses him to shake the dust off whatever Hell they'd been in.
But later, when the lights are off and no one’s looking, it’s Simon who stares at the ceiling.
Simon, who wakes up still stretched open and aching, who tucks himself back together in quiet of his quarters.
Who rolls over and breathes out through his teeth because asking would mean needing, and needing would mean being. Existing.
Something Ghost doesn't need.
Ghost is useful. Ghost is necessary. Ghost doesn’t ask.
So Simon doesn’t either.
He wipes himself clean, pulls the mask back on, and gets up.
Because someone always wants Ghost. They need Ghost
the big man is the masculine dom and the dom is the top and the little man is effeminate and transgender but fully passes as a cis man and has top surgery but since he doesnt have bottom surgery he literally has to be a bottom theres no way for someone with a vagina to top and the bottom is the sub and they are both uncomplicatedly homosexual with zero positive emotions for women and they both have adhd and autism but only the kind of autism that doesnt actually disable you and they also crossdress but in a specifically humiliating way (why would a MAN wear a DRESS??? 🤪🤪 etc.) and they live together in a big house that they can both effortlessly afford and they're married and have 2 kids a dog and a cat (because Big man is dog coded and Little man is cat coded) and neither of them have jobs or lasting damage from canon events they've been through or physical disabilities or PTSD that I cant turn into Angsty Ship Content and the sun has a big smiley face and birds are just V shapes on the paper it doesnt have to be more complicated than that you dont have to flesh them out. you dont have to. and if you think about it wouldn't it just be soooo much effort to draw a whole bird?? youre just having fun its mean to ask you for detail. and my teacher lives at the school and the bus driver lives in the bus and everything is exactly the same :)
Ghost with demons!
TF 141 with dogs🐶
It's been a while painting full rendered pieces, enjoyed a lot!
Inspired from awesome @yourfaithfulauthor's request.
Have you seen his cargo pants?He's got a different noun for every pocket.
Could give less a fuck about how people perceive them. Half the time he just fucks with people. Has been spotted in the females shower and change rooms often enough.
[follow up from this post]
YUH and I think part of the allure is that while yes, he has used the female rooms before, no one is ever in there when they are. So no one has actually seen The Ghost in those situations.
So The Ghost being this gender ambiguous scary mother fucker is just ahfnvjmecjnf he is a mystery and that is more scary. Because yk there's people who also cannot handle the thought of being beat by a woman, so Ghost being a woman is not true but for some people it's also the opposite, ghost being this much of a man and having all those thoughts and scary pronouns (/sarc) is impossible.
Only Price knows, probably Soap and Gaz too, and those two love the fuckery just as much. And also they respect that Ghost just... is
Ghost is a terrifyingly capable operator. Ghost is a guy who likes to indulge in things he finds interesting, and that includes his gender.
Simon Riley died and when Ghost came back they really said "I'm never letting anything stop me from doing what I want ever again" while also maintaining to be the most scary, respectful, do not fuck around with me person on base.
Ghost will chop someone's dick off if he finds they've stuck it in the wrong place. Ghost will make other men squirm with well placed stares.
And if Ghost ask Johnny to call him something new in bed, from ma'am, to sweetheart, to it, to love. Johnny will indulge. I like to think that Kyle is the one who introduces him to new ones. Ghost likes when Price calls them it btw.
And outside of that no one knows. The 141 guys who are chill and who Ghost trusts? Those guys use whatever pronouns seem to vibe and ghost does not care. The first time some prick hears Ghost addressed as "she" he becomes absolutely, laughably, appalled. one of those said trusted 141 members then takes inspiration from Ghost and bullies the prick back into his place (the prick is likely of higher rank too but ay)
I may of sent this before but my wifi was messed up so I don't know if it went through, but!!! Can you draw 141 doing communal shower antics and maybe if you'll be soooo kind to bless me with some gaz stuff just doing anything on duty love him in your style, keep creating😘
Had it been anyone else but Gaz, Ghost would have reacted differently to being caught with his mask off in a bathroom.
Violently, probably.
Not because he wanted to. Not because the first instinct that lived in the meat of him was cruelty for cruelty’s sake. But because there were rules in him older than the task force, older than the SAS, older than the skull mask folded beside the sink like a molted thing. Rules carved into bone with dirty hands and locked doors and the particular humiliation of being seen before he had chosen to be.
If it had been Soap, Ghost would have snapped the mirror cabinet shut hard enough to rattle the hinges and told him to piss off before Johnny could get a word in. Soap would have gone wide eyed for half a second, all that sharp, bright concern slipping through th cracks before he tried to cover it with a joke. Something stupid. Something kind. Something Ghost would have hated him for because it would have made the whole room unbearable to be in
If it had been Price, Ghost would have put the mask back on before the Captain got a proper look. Price would have noticed anyway. The man noticed everything. He would have gone still in that heavy, captainly way of his and said, Get that looked at, Simon. Ghost would have nodded once and done absolutely nothing about it.
But it was Gaz.
Gaz, standing in the doorway of the barracks bathroom with one hand still on the handle, hair damp from a shower, t-shirt clinging slightly at the collar where he hadn’t bothered drying properly. Gaz, who looked at Ghost’s bare face in the ugly fluorescent light and did not flinch. Did not widen his eyes. Did not pretend not to see. Did not make the mistake of looking away too fast, either, like Ghost was something wounded enough that avoiding your gaze was something thought to be polite.
He simply paused.
Then he said, very quietly, “That looks sore.”
Ghost stared at him through the mirror.
The bathroom hummed around them. Pipes ticking in the wall. Vent fan letting out a tired, useless drone. Somewhere beyond the door, Soap laughed at something too loudly, the sound blunted by two layers of plaster and distance. Ghost had one hand braced on the sink and the other hovering near the mask, fingers flexed, ready.
The skin along his jaw burned. The bridge of his nose felt scraped raw where the mask sat too tight, where sweat collected under fabric and friction turned ordinary skin into something angry and shining. There were patches at his cheekbones, red and rough. Spots along his chin where the heat had trapped oil and sweat and made a mess of him like he was sixteen again. He had been dabbing at it with water and a paper towel, which had done nothing except make it sting even more.
Gaz’s eyes flicked to the paper towel, then the mask, then back to the mirror. Not judging. Just putting the picture together.
Ghost said, “You lost?”
“Looking for my wash bag.”
“Try your room.”
“Left it in here earlier.”
“Then get it.”
Gaz’s mouth moved like he wanted to smile and thought better of it. He stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind him with a soft click.
Ghost’s shoulders locked.
Gaz noticed. Of course he did. He noticed and stopped where he was, still several feet away, hands open at his sides as if approaching a stray dog with its teeth bared. The comparison should have irritated Ghost more than it did. Instead, something in his chest shifted, low and unpleasantly careful.
“I’m not gonna touch you,” Gaz said. “Not unless you say.”
Ghost looked at him.
Gaz held his gaze in the mirror. There was no pity in it. That was the worst part. Pity would have been easier to punish. Pity had edges he knew how to grab. Gaz only looked at him like this was a problem with a solution, and Ghost had spent too long bleeding quietly in rooms where solutions were for other people.
“Looks like mask rash,” Gaz said after a moment. “Friction, sweat, blocked pores. Maybe some contact irritation.”
“You a dermatologist now?”
“No. Just prettier than you.”
That should have earned him something. A threat, at least. A shove. A rough, humorless bark of laughter.
What came out instead was a low, breathless sound through Ghost’s nose.
Gaz’s mouth did curve then, barely. Not triumphant. Not teasing in the way Soap teased, bright and reckless and begging for retaliation. This was softer. Warmer.
He moved to the sinks two down from Ghost and opened the cupboard beneath it. Ghost watched him crouch, rummage, then stand with a black wash bag in one hand.
It looked too nice for the barracks; smooth leather an expensive in a way Ghost did not associate with military bathrooms or men who had slept in mud with rifles tucked under their chins.
Gaz set it on the counter.
Ghost should have put the mask on.
Instead, he watched Gaz unzip the bag and line things up beside the sink with a kind of quiet competence that made something in Ghost itch. Cleanser. Moisturizer. A small tube of barrier cream. Little round cotton pads in a resealable sleeve. Some bottle with a dropper. Another with plain block lettering.
“You carry a chemist with you?” Ghost asked.
Gaz shrugged. “Skin doesn’t stop being skin because you’re getting shot at.”
“Mine did.”
Gaz glanced up at him.
The fluorescent light did unkind things to everyone, but it seemed to give up around Gaz. It slid over the brown of his skin, the dark sweep of long lashes, the small tired shadows beneath his eyes, and still he looked put together. Not untouched, Ghost knew better than that. Gaz had been through too much to look untouched. But there was something maintained about him. Like he had decided, somewhere along the line, that violence could take plenty, but it wasn’t taking his face if he could help it.
Ghost understood that more than he wanted to.
Gaz picked up the cleanser. “Can I?”
Ghost’s fingers closed around the edge of the sink until his knuckles bleached.
Gaz waited.
There it was again. That waiting. No pushing. No command. No impatient sigh. Price could wait like a sniper in tall grass, but there was always expectation in it, always the shape of an order waiting to be obeyed. Soap could wait for about three seconds before filling the air with himself, with chatter and restless affection, because silence made him feel like he had done something wrong.
Gaz just waited.
Ghost hated how much that helped.
“Don’t fuss,” Ghost muttered.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Liar.”
“Yeah,” Gaz said. “Probably.”
He wet a cloth with warm water, tested it on the inside of his own wrist first, then folded it neatly. He stepped closer, slow enough that Ghost could stop him, close enough that the air changed.
Gaz smelled sweet.
It hit Ghost so unexpectedly that his thoughts tripped over it. Not sweet like cheap body spray or the sugary rot of spilled lager on a pub floor. Sweet like something clean and expensive, something with bergamot in it maybe, or orange blossom, or whatever men like Gaz bought from shops with glass shelves and staff who never had to raise their voices. There was warmth beneath it too, skin and soap and laundry dried properly, not the metallic bite of gun oil or the sour churn of sweat trapped under gear.
Ghost had smelled Gaz before. Of course he had, one didn’t get close enough to someone and not smell them in trucks, in safehouses, shoulder to shoulder behind cover. He knew the smell of him in battle: cordite, dust, adrenaline, blood drying at the cuff. He knew the smell of him exhausted: damp cotton, stale coffee, the sharpness of stress leaking through deodorant.
This was different.
This was Gaz with the day stripped off him and it made Ghost feel like he had walked into a room meant for someone else.
“You alright?” Gaz asked.
Ghost realized he had gone too still.
“Fine.”
Gaz’s eyes flicked over his face, unconvinced but merciful. “Sit down, then. You’re too tall.”
“No.”
“Simon.”
The name landed gently.
That was the trouble with it. Soap threw his name like a stone through a window. Price used it like a hand on the back of his neck. Gaz said it like he had found it somewhere fragile and decided not to close his fist.
Ghost looked at him for one long second.
Then he sat on the closed lid of the toilet like he was making a tactical concession rather than surrendering to a bullshit nineteen step skincare ambush.
Gaz’s expression did not change, but Ghost saw the satisfaction in the small relaxation of his shoulders. Smug bastard.
Gaz came closer.
There wasn’t much space between the toilet and the sink. Barracks bathrooms were built for bodies to pass through, not linger. Gaz had to step between Ghost’s knees to reach him properly, and for a second both of them noticed the intimacy of it at the same time.
Gaz paused.
Ghost could have shifted away but he didn’t and Gaz stepped in as a result. The air thinned.
Ghost’s hands moved before he thought better of it, settling on Gaz’s thighs to brace him, to make sure neither of them stumbled, to give his body something to do with the impossible closeness of another man standing there with care in his hands. Gaz inhaled once, not sharply, not obviously, but Ghost felt it under his palms. Felt the muscle there, the warmth through soft joggers, the human give of him. His fingers dug into the fat of Gaz’s thighs; not hard enough to hurt, but harder than he meant, a grasp that said stay in a language his mouth had never learned.
Gaz looked down at him.
Ghost loosened his grip by a fraction.
“Sorry.”
Gaz shook his head. “You’re fine.”
He said it like he meant more than the hands.
Ghost looked away first.
The first touch of the warm cloth to his jaw made him flinch.
Gaz stopped immediately.
“Too hot?”
“No.”
“Too much?”
Ghost’s throat worked. “No.”
Gaz waited anyway, the cloth hovering just off his skin, and that should not have done anything to Ghost. It was a small thing. A ridiculous thing. A man waiting for permission he already had.
It went through him anyway and made him feel, for one second, that he was human and someone worth waiting for.
After a moment, Ghost tipped his chin up the smallest amount.
Gaz began again. Careful strokes. No scrubbing. No rough practicality. He cleaned Ghost’s face like the skin there mattered, like it was not just the inconvenient surface of a weapon, like the redness and raw patches were not a failure Ghost should have handled alone in silence. The cloth moved over his jaw, his chin, the side of his mouth. Gaz’s fingers were cool where they rested lightly beneath Ghost’s cheek to steady him.
Ghost watched the tendons in Gaz’s wrist flex. Watched the concentration settle between his brows. Watched him bite the inside of his cheek when he leaned in to see the worst of the irritation near the mask line.
“Been using soap on this?” Gaz asked.
Ghost said nothing.
Gaz sighed through his nose. “Simon.”
“It’s soap.”
“It’s hand soap.”
“Hands have skin.”
Gaz gave him a flat looj.
Ghost’s mouth twitched despite himself.
“There he is,” Gaz murmured.
Ghost’s face went still again, but it was too late. Gaz had seen it. That tiny betrayal. That almost-smile dragged up from wherever Ghost buried such things before they became evidence.
Gaz didn’t point it out. He just put the cloth aside and squeezed cleanser into his palm.
“It might sting,” Gaz warned.
“Had worse.”
“I know,” Gaz said. “That doesn’t mean I’m aiming for it.”
Ghost had no answer for that.
The cleanser was cool and slippery at first, then warm under Gaz’s fingertips. He worked it over Ghost’s cheek in small circles, barely any pressure. The pads of his fingers moved with absurd patience along the edge of Ghost’s jaw, down to his chin, up where the mask had rubbed the bridge of his nose raw.
Ghost had to hold himself very still. There was nowhere to put the sensation. Nowhere useful. His body kept wanting to classify it as threat, then failing, then reaching for some other category and finding none prepared.
It was not medical. Medics had brisk hands and efficient sympathy. This was too slow for that.
It was not indulgent. Indulgence required ease, and there was none of that in Ghost. He sat with his knees bracketing Gaz’s legs, his hands still on Gaz’s thighs, breathing shallowly through his nose like one wrong inhale might break something.
It was not romance, not exactly. Romance was candles and beds and words people said because they wanted the shape of them returned. This had no script. No audience. No destination Ghost could identify without panicking. It was only Gaz’s thumb smoothing cleanser near the corner of his mouth while the barracks lived around them, and Ghost letting him.
That was the dangerous part.
Letting him.
Gaz leaned closer to rinse the cloth again, and his hip brushed Ghost’s knee. Barely anything. A mistake of space. Ghost felt it anyway, stored it anyway, stupid animal mind pressing it into memory like contraband.
“Mask’s trapping too much moisture,” Gaz said, voice low because there was no distance for volume. “And if you’re not washing it enough, the bacteria build up won’t help.”
“I wash it.”
Gaz glanced at the skull fabric on the sink.
Ghost followed his look.
“Sometimes,” he amended.
“Right.”
“Got sentimental value.”
“It can have sentimental value and still be nasty.”
Ghost gave him a slow look.
Gaz smiled, small and wicked. “I said what I said.”
The cleanser came off with warm water. Gaz patted him dry with a clean towel he had pulled from God knew where, because apparently his wash bag contained supplies for surviving both war and male negligence. He didn’t rub. Every touch was measured. Held back. Ghost could feel the restraint in him, which somehow made it worse.
Gaz had gentle hands by choice, not by nature. Ghost had seen those hands reload under fire, drag men twice his size over broken ground, clamp down over wounds pulsing red between his fingers. Gaz could be quick. Brutal. Effective.
Here, he chose softness.
Ghost wondered what it cost him.
Gaz uncapped the little dropper bottle. “Niacinamide. Helps with irritation. Don’t make that face.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You look like I’ve offered to baptize you in acid.”
“Have you?”
“No. That’s Friday nights at the pub.”
Ghost huffed again, quieter this time.
Gaz’s eyes warmed in a way that made Ghost look at the cracked tile behind him instead. The bathroom had terrible grout. Someone had drawn a tiny cock on the underside of the sink in permanent marker. There was a hairline crack in the mirror above them splitting Ghost’s reflected shoulder into two uneven pieces. All of it was easier to look at than Gaz being pleased with him.
The serum went on cold. Gaz tapped it over the reddened patches with two fingers, light as rain. Ghost’s grip shifted unconsciously, fingers pressing into Gaz’s thighs again when Gaz tipped his chin with the knuckle of one hand to reach the side of his face.
“Easy,” Gaz said.
Ghost almost laughed at that. Not because it was funny. Because there were so many things Gaz could have meant and none of them were easy.
He loosened his hands.
Gaz did not step back.
Outside, footsteps passed. Someone knocked once on the bathroom door, careless. “Oi, anyone in there?”
Soap.
Ghost’s whole body tightened.
Gaz didn’t move away from him. Didn’t jerk back like they’d been caught doing something shameful. He only turned his head and called, perfectly calm, “Occupied.”
There was a pause.
Then Soap said, “Kyle?”
“Yeah?”
“Ghost murderin’ ye?”
Gaz’s thumb was still resting beneath Ghost’s jaw. Ghost could feel the faint pressure of it. Could feel his own pulse knocking there, traitorous and obvious.
Gaz looked down at him, and there was something in his eyes Ghost did not know how to survive.
“No,” Gaz said, still looking at Ghost. “He’s behaving.”
Soap made a scandalized noise. “That so?”
“Go away, Johnny.”
“Och, fine, keep yer secrets.”
Footsteps retreated.
Ghost let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.
Gaz’s thumb moved once, barely. Not a stroke. Not comfort. Something smaller than that. A check in Ghost could deny if he needed to.
He didn’t.
“Soap would’ve made a meal of this,” Ghost said after a moment, because the words came safer if they were about someone else.
Gaz reached for the moisturizer. “Probably.”
“Price would’ve dragged me to medical.”
“Definitely.”
“You?”
Gaz squeezed a small amount onto his fingers. “I’m dragging you to hydration and SPF.”
Ghost stared at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Gaz’s mouth softened. “You thought I’d be weird about it.”
Ghost said nothing.
“Thought I’d look at you different.”
The room seemed to shrink around that. Ghost could feel every point of contact between them: Gaz’s shin against the inside of his boot, Gaz’s thighs beneath his palms, Gaz’s fingertips at his cheek, Gaz standing close enough for Ghost to count the darker flecks in his eyes.
“People do,” Ghost said.
Gaz’s expression changed, but not much. A tightening at the corners. A quiet anger with nowhere to go.
“Well,” he said, “people are stupid.”
Ghost should have looked away but he didn’t.
Gaz smoothed moisturizer over his cheek. It had no scent, or almost none, but beneath it was Gaz again, sweet and expensive and warm. Ghost wondered, absurdly, what the bottle on Gaz’s shelf looked like. If he kept it lined beside the others. If he used it after shaving. If someone had bought it for him, or if Gaz had stood in a shop somewhere and chosen it because he liked smelling like something soft in a world that kept asking him to be hard.
Ghost wondered if Gaz knew he smelled like that.
He wondered if anyone had told him.
He wondered why the thought made something dark and possessive move under his ribs, not jealousy exactly, not want in any clean shape, but the sudden unreasonable conviction that this small knowledge should remain his. Gaz in the bathroom light. Gaz with damp curls and steady hands. Gaz smelling like sweetness, touching Ghost’s ruined face like it was allowed to be held.
“Stop thinking so loudly,” Gaz said.
Ghost blinked.
“You get a crease.” Gaz touched two fingers between Ghost’s brows briefly. “There.”
Ghost caught his wrist.
Not hard, not a threat but Gaz went still anyway.
Ghost’s fingers circled the warm narrowness of him. His thumb rested over the pulse point. It beat steady at first, then a little faster. Ghost felt the change like a confession neither of them had made.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The fluorescent light hummed. The vent fan rattled. Somewhere distant, Price’s voice cut low through the corridor, followed by Soap protesting innocence in the tone of a man absolutely guilty of something.
Gaz did not pull away.
Ghost did not let go.
Ghost had no language for this. Not here. Not with Gaz. Not with the kind of wanting that did not sit hot and simple in the gut, but ached behind the sternum like a bruise pressed by careful fingers. He did not want to take from Gaz. He did not even know if want was the right word. He wanted Gaz to keep standing there. He wanted the door locked. He wanted Soap not to come back. He wanted Price not to call them out. He wanted this strange, unbearable gentleness to go on until his body stopped expecting pain at the end of it.
Gaz looked down at Ghost’s hand around his wrist.
Then he turned his palm slightly, just enough that his fingers brushed Ghost’s.
Not holding.
Not not holding.
Ghost released him first because he had to. Because another second and he might have done something honest.
Gaz went back to the little tube of barrier cream as if nothing had happened, though his breathing had changed. Ghost noticed. Of course he noticed. Not because he was looking for weakness. Because it was Gaz, and Ghost had always watched Gaz even when he didn’t realize it. The tilt of his head when he was listening for distant movement. The way he tapped two fingers against his thigh when he was thinking. The particular silence he carried after close calls, all the humor gone out of him but none of the kindness.
Now this, too.
The slight unsteadiness after Ghost touched his wrist.
Ghost tucked it away where no one could get at it, greedy, one of the few private moments that nobody else had and nobody else could demand he tell so they could put it on paper and stamp over it with black boxes.
“This one goes where the mask rubs,” Gaz said, voice almost normal. “Bridge of your nose, cheekbones, jaw. Thin layer. Don’t cake it on like war paint.”
“Shame.”
“You’d find a way to make it terrifying.”
Ghost’s eyes moved over him. “You scared?”
Gaz’s fingers paused at his jaw.
There were a dozen easy answers. A dozen jokes. Gaz had always been good at knowing which kind of truth could pass as humor.
This time he only said, “No.”
Ghost believed him.
The barrier cream was thicker, leaving a faint protective sheen over the worst patches. Gaz applied it with the same careful focus, and Ghost let himself watch. Let himself memorize the slope of Gaz’s lashes, the crease in his lower lip where his teeth had worried it earlier, the clean curve of his throat above his collar. None of it felt like looking at a target. None of it felt like assessment.
It felt like standing too close to a fire after years of sleeping cold.
When Gaz finished, he didn’t step away immediately. His hands lowered, but the space between them remained full.
“You’ll need to wash the mask properly,” Gaz said. “Rotate them if you can. Let your skin dry before putting it back on. Use the cleanser at night. Moisturizer after. Barrier cream before missions.”
Ghost raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Mum.”
Gaz gave him the look again. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“I’ll write it down.”
“Don’t.”
“You’ll forget.”
“I won’t.”
Gaz’s eyes searched his face, and Ghost hated that there was less to hide behind now. No mask, no greasepaint, no skull, only the bare ruin of him under bathroom lights and Gaz looking anyway.
Finally, Gaz nodded. He stepped back, and Ghost’s hands slipped from his thighs.
The absence was immediate.
Embarrassing, that. How quickly his palms felt empty. How the air cooled where Gaz had been standing. How the room became only a bathroom again- tile, sink, mirror, fluorescent hum- and not whatever impossible little country they had occupied between breath and touch.
Gaz began packing the bottles back into his wash bag.
Ghost stood.
He reached for the mask.
Gaz didn’t tell him not to. That might have been the kindest thing. He only watched as Ghost picked it up, fingers resting on the worn black fabric, the skull face turned inward against his palm.
“You don’t have to put it on for me,” Gaz said.
Ghost’s grip tightened.
The words were quiet. Almost careless. The sort of thing that could be shrugged off if Ghost needed to make it nothing.
He looked at Gaz in the mirror. Barefaced, raw, treated in patches with Gaz’s expensive little remedies. He looked tired. Older than he felt in some places and younger in others. The scars did what scars always did: announced history without explaining it. His mouth looked unfamiliar without cloth over it.
Gaz stood behind him, close but not crowding, gaze steady.
Ghost thought of Soap, bright and loyal and too brave with other people’s hurt. Thought of Price, solid as a wall, always trying to keep the roof from coming down. They loved him in the ways they knew how. He knew that. He trusted it most days. But Soap would not stand in silence with moisturizer on his fingers and let Ghost decide what kind of seen he could bear. Price would not smell like orange blossom and clean money and wait for Ghost’s hands to stop shaking before pretending not to notice they had started.
This was Gaz.
This was different.
Ghost set the mask back on the sink.
Gaz’s reflection did not smile, exactly. But something eased in his face, something Ghost felt more than saw.
“Just until I leave,” Ghost said, rough.
Gaz nodded. “Just until then.”
Neither of them moved.
The bathroom door remained shut. The corridor beyond stayed loud and alive and far away. Ghost leaned back against the sink, bare face cooling under the tacky layer of cream, while Gaz finished putting away the bottles he had used like offerings. When he zipped the bag, he did it slowly, as if sudden sound might startle the moment out of existence.
At the door, Gaz paused.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, like it was nothing. Like men like them made rituals easily. Like Ghost had not spent half his life making sure no one could ever expect him anywhere without armor.
Ghost looked at the mask on the sink, then at Gaz.
“Got a whole routine planned, have you?”
Gaz’s mouth curved. “You need one.”
“Bossy.”
“Neglected.”
Ghost should have bristled.
Instead, he looked down, and the almost-smile returned before he could kill it.
Gaz saw it. Again.
This time, he let himself smile back.
It was small. Private. Sweet in a way Ghost had no defense for.
“Tomorrow,” Ghost said.
Gaz opened the door. The corridor noise spilled in, harsh and ordinary. Before he stepped through, he looked back once, not at the mask, not at the red patches, not at the evidence of Ghost’s body failing to remain untouchable beneath fabric and sweat.
At him.
“Night, Simon.”
Ghost’s throat tightened around nothing useful.
“Night, Kyle.”
Gaz left.
The door clicked shut.
Ghost stood in the bathroom alone, barefaced under the humming light, the scent of expensive sweetness still caught in the air where Gaz had been. For a long moment, he did not reach for the mask. He only looked at himself in the mirror and felt, with a slow and terrible confusion, the shape of Gaz’s hands lingering on his skin like care had weight.
Like it could stay.
Like tomorrow was a thing a man could survive wanting.
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