cw: sexual content, Simon turn to get railed to tears (I'm starting to see a pattern)
Ghost sandwiched between Price and Nik. Roughly pushed into Nikolai's arms where he's reclining on the bed like an emperor of old and tugged up onto his hands and knees. Thighs splayed wide because Nikolai is a big man, and Price needs the space between their legs to eat him out well and proper.
Price pauses only to test Ghost's slack rim with his fingers. Slips one in to the second knuckle to tug him open for a glimpse. Snug and soft and warm inside. "'S a right shame. Havin' a fat cock like yers and all it's good fer is swinging 'tween yer legs."
"Tha's not wha- ungh- what you said when- wh-when I had you over your desk," Ghost mutters, cheeks burning. Damns himself to helplessness by attempting to reach back and drag John off so he can form a sentence without stuttering through moans, only for Nikolai to sweep his steadying arm out from under him with one lazy bat of a giant paw. Snaps Simon's wrists up as he flounders, and he falls face-first into the soft fat of Nik's tits.
He loses track of the time he spends alternating between rutting against Nik's thick belly and shifting his hips back into the rasp of Price's beard and his wicked tongue. John a single-minded, unrelenting force behind, and Nikolai the steady, soothing bulwark to rest against, crooning sweetly when his captain sinks inside at last and Simon chokes at the stretch. Panting into the sweat-damp curls on Nik's chest. Lips skating across a firm nipple whenever he breathes; until he's far enough gone to seal his mouth around it in an attempt to self-soothe.
It's sweltering. Nik warmer than a furnace, his free hand firm on the nape of his neck to keep him tucked against his breast, his cock nearly as wet as Simon's own; a solid brand curved against his hip. More so when John's pace shifts as he gets closer to the edge and he plasters himself to Simon's back in order to grind deep - a relentless pressure against his prostate that leave his knees weak.
He comes, slack-jawed and wheezing John's name.
It doesn't stop John from continuing to fuck into him, the slap of his balls against Simon's taint nothing short of obscene.
"Uh-uh-uh- Joh-hh-nn!"
"You can- mmh. You can take it," John says, petting over where his prick is stretching Simon's hole thin. Transfixed by the easy way in which his body gives. Clenching in pulses; on every out- and inward stroke, as if he can't decide whether he wants John out or to keep him hilted. Lube and pre-cum drips down to wet the curling hair on his balls and John chases that sensation too, cupping Simon's scrotum to pet over the glistening curls.
Thrashing with what little give he has doesn't help, so Simon turns his pleading eyes on Nik.
"Play nice, solnyshko," Nikolai murmurs, shifting his gaze from Simon to John, talking about rather than to him. "He's been very good for us."
John sighs but acquiesces, pulling out until only the fat tip of him is left inside. Fisting from root to where they're connected in lazy, slick strokes. Every brush of his weathered knuckles against Simon's pale arse causing the man's muscles to spasm.
Simon twitches like he's been kicked when Nikolai worms his hand between them to swipe at the cum smeared over their bellies, nudging against the sensitive head of his cock in the process. The smile Nikolai offers in apology is warm and amused, toothy in a charming way. From the corner of his eye Simon sees him reach out, fingers glistening, to press a wet thumb between John's lips. Sees his Captain’s eyes go half-lidded and pleased. Keeps watching with rapt attention as Nik hooks his thumb behind John's teeth to drag him closer, replacing the digit with his lips and tongue – all filthy and wet and sharing the taste of Simon between them.
Oversensitive as he is, the belated twitch of his prick and dribble of spend weeping down his glans is more pain than pleasure. His hips stutter of their own accord, dragging his soft cock against the damp hair of Nik's stomach. He flinches back, and impales himself another few inches on John's cock instead with a weak cry.
"Fuck!"
The rumble of Nikolai's laughter is thunderous with his ear pressed against his sternum and he's too worn out to bristle at being gentled by fingers carding through his hair.
Nikolai clicks his tongue. Tugs at Simon's hair to get his eyes back on him.
Ghost’s love language leans heavily upon acts of service. He never draws attention to them of course. But there's always a specific brand of coffee stocked in the rec room they'd commandeered – of the sort Price favours – and when his captain’s shoulders are tucked tight to his ears, head bowed under the weight of people relying on his steadfast orders, Simon will dig his thumbs into the knots in his upper back until John's approaching migraine dithers and his bunched muscles are soft as taffy.
Nikolai is never short a helping hand in the hangars, tucked into the innards of his hawk, or a listening ear when he spills stories from his past like fables of old. Ghost will never mention the hours of studies he'd done to know exactly which tools to hand him, their names and sizes as he dutifully keeps the flashlight still while Nikolai finagles stubborn wiring in place.
Kyle's askance for leave are rarely, if ever, shut down because his duties and assignments are quietly delegated away. And, somehow, whenever they're in need of a renewal for their mandated vaccines, Ghost just so happens to have the same time slot, and hounds Gaz with terrible puns until he tells him to shove off, eyes rolling with a smile tugging at his lips, gaze torn away from the sight of the needle puncturing his skin.
Gear is repaired, knives are sharpened, there are even times Ghost helps his fellow men out of their gear. Unclasping the many buckles, velcro straps and belts, lifting plate carriers off or unloading weapons he'll later service. All because the inevitable adrenaline crash will leave them drained, shaking fingers useless – whereas Ghost's happen to be steady. Those instances, few as they happen to be, are far more difficult to explain away. But Ghost never acknowledges them, so the rest of the team follow his lead until the kindness is normalised, habitual, another part in the routine.
As it is, no one thought to warn John MacTavish of this.
It wasn't so much an issue the first couple of times they worked together. Brief instances where the one-four-one needed a demolitions expert or Soap’s current squad had use for a recluse who knew more ways to kill than he had digits to count them on. But then Price took a liking to the lad. Brought him into their fold, so to speak, though Shepherd's approval had lingered like mildew upon the decision.
Took them walking through hell, together and apart – with nothing but Johnny’s uneven breaths and selective comments to stave off the clawing, animal urge to retreat – to consider him trustworthy. Because he'd known better by then. Learned it through every challenging remark sent his way, every bit of banter over the comms, every time Soap put his life in Ghost's hands trusting him to keep it safe. That Johnny deserved a kinder fate than that of Simon Riley's. A future that wouldn't stamp out the sweet spark of hope he cradled in his chest or force him to be reborn from a grave dug with his own two hands. He'd never be unmade if Ghost had a say in the matter. He'd never be broken to the bare essentials of what makes a being human. He'd never be kept as a weapon in an arsenal where one mistake meant he'd be carelessly tossed aside.
Yes, it takes a while to warm up to him, but even Ghost is merely a man.
The first time Ghost seizes the reins and helps him divest the many, heavy layers of kevlar, Johnny blabbers through the whole thing on autopilot. Weaves jokes together with questions, neither of which Ghost acknowledges. Soap doesn’t know what to make of it. Can't read the blank hardshell mask for anything when Ghost's gaze is downcast. He feels like he'd let him down, somehow. That the prevailing silence is a testament to irritation or disappointment in knowing that Soap, one of SAS's finest, doesn't even have the wits about him to take care of himself.
He's never felt more like a fumbling child than he does in that moment and goes out of his way to make sure it never happens again, waving Ghost away whenever he catches him hovering at his shoulder.
Instead, Johnny finds a new set of graphite pencils tucked in the far corner of his desk drawer though he can swear up and down he'd run out of his favourite kind. Each day there just so happens to be a steaming mug of coffee prepared for him in the rec room a couple minutes after rouse call. Snacks are left in his locker in the time it takes him to finish his workouts.
What does him in in the end is the inner pocket he knows hadn't come part of his favourite jacket, a reasonable and frequent complaint of his, now materialised out of thin air.
It, every little inconsistency in his present day life, spills out in a word vomit of frustration because he simply doesn't understand why. And maybe if he'd paid attention, he would have noticed Ghost's wide eyes across from him. The thread of panic therein bleeding into a shuttered acceptance. How his gaze flitters to the door Soap had planted himself in front of when he'd sought out Ghost in his office. Small and tucked away in a forgotten corner of the second floor sporting a desk, two chairs and not much else.
"D'you want me to stop?"
Johnny pauses.
"You're the one who's been breaking into my room an' leaving gifts?"
A blank stare, a tilt of the head – a squint that suggests, in its exasperatedness, that Soap is rather daft.
Johnny sucks his lip between his teeth and thinks about it a second. "Hm. Tha's alright then."
Ghost nods once, decisive, and goes back to his paperwork without a second glance.
John MacTavish used to spend parts of his summers in England visiting extended family and this is where he ends up meeting a boy a couple years older than him named Simon. Surprisingly enough, they hit it off. His bombastic, extroverted personality somehow manages to compliment Simon’s rather timid, introverted one. Joined at the hip, the two of them quickly call themselves best friends, and, as children tend to do, develop a bit of an innocent crush on each other – going so far as to promise to marry one another if they haven’t found anyone else by the time they’re both twenty-five.
But then autumn arrives and goodbyes are made and their promises to meet up again never come to fruition.
He doesn’t forget him though. Their friendship remains a fond memory, even a decade later, though much of the details are blurred with time. Perhaps it’s because they’d been each other’s first kiss – if the chaste peck of lips-on-lips can be called as such – or it’s the ring of twined straw, brittle as tinder, he has tucked away in his box of mementos that make that particular summer an unforgettable thing.
That and his steadfast insistence no one else is allowed to use a certain nickname for him.
In any case… those faded months are far from his mind when John Price is showing him around their base of operations, introducing him to people as they go along. The one-four-one consists of near enough two dozen operatives though he’s told it’s not uncommon to be mostly paired off with a select few of his fellow soldiers if they play to each other’s strengths. He nods along and pushes for the use of his callsign when folks wish to be friendly. Until, eventually, he finds himself face-to-face with a man who needs no introduction. A living legend as it were; who’s records Soap had worked hard to beat.
“Well then, last but not least. MacTavish, this is Lieutenant Simon Riley. Also known as–”
“–my future husband,” John finishes for him, based on a name, twelve percent of a full thought and the manc accent he’d spied when hearing him dismiss a batch of recruits.
Youngest to ever make the SAS and about to be the quickest one ousted, he thinks miserably when the eyes assessing him narrow at his declaration.
“Johnny?”
Oh.
“So ye do remember me!” Pivoting from mortification to delight, and heedless to any gawking voyeurs, John slings an arm around Simon’s shoulders to draw him into a loose side-hug. “No’ long now ‘fore we need t’ get hitched, aye?”
“Courthouse is a twenty minute ride,” Simon says drily.
Soap laughs, brighter than he can remember doing for a long time, before he immediately starts teasing Ghost about not proposing properly.
Nik pauses in the doorway to the bedroom, breath and gaze catching on the sight before him. The only light to be found is filtered in from the blinds and the golden hue bathes him in a soft glow. John Price, bare but for the lip of sheet tangled around his ankles, the whorls of his chest hair matted with sweat, arm thrown over his eyes as he steadies his breathing, reclined on the rumpled bedding like the muse painted in Giorgione’s Venere di Dresda. One of his legs is drawn up a bit, splayed open with his belly bared in a mute offering to be devoured. It takes an unfathomable act of will not to bury himself back between his thighs. To map him with parted lips spilling ardor, muffled to an unintelligible slur against his flesh, until he felt John yield to his desires as surely as he did Nik's tongue. By now it's closing in on when night meets morning and for all his wants, Nikolai is still fettered by the limitations of men.
Still, he gives himself to the urge to press a lingering kiss to John's mouth. Gets a cheeky nip for his efforts before the man reciprocates in kind. A low hum traded for the sigh Nikolai breathes into his mouth. The sensation is soft and wet and familiar. The slide of John’s tongue against his own turns him into a starving thing. His mind quiet, his thoughts still, nothing matters other than keeping them connected until there’s no breath left in their lungs or the sun swallows the earth, whichever happens to come first.
John’s eyes are breathtakingly blue when he peeks between his fingers to watch Nikolai draw back from him. The sharpened glint they typically carry mellowed by the long evening they'd spent together. Sated and drowsy, he doesn’t ask for another kiss so much as he tilts his chin up a fraction, parting his lips as his gaze dips down.
It sends a pang of want through him, strong enough to stagger.
Thumbing his mouth further open, Nikolai cups John’s jaw and cheek with his hand, callouses catching on the soft bristles of his beard as he dips his tongue inside again, feeling his heart swell at the enthusiasm he’s met with.
“Mmngh, Nik,” John groans, grabbing at his neck, his sides, scrambling to pull him closer.
Nikolai obliges. Hovers above him with one knee on the mattress and most of his weight leaning against the hand planted next to John’s head. Explores his mouth as if he doesn’t already know it better than his own. It’s shameless indulgence that leads him to keep going until John’s lips are swollen. A deeper shade of pink than their baseline. Close in match to the flush he glimpses over the apples of his cheeks, mostly hidden by his ridiculously charming facial hair.
To think he’s privileged enough to see the legendary Bravo-6 unravelled. That he’s not simply permitted to touch but actively encouraged to do so. As he listens to John’s steadily winding breaths next to him, basking in the shared heat of their combined exertion, he hopes against all hope that there’s a sliver of calm waiting for them at the end of their service as opposed to a lump of lead burrowing through their skulls. That in some not-too-distant future, their hands will be joined over the armrest of a recliner instead of their blood mingling into the earth of a distant battlefield. He wants a kinder fate for them than men of their mettle deserve. Needs it, when these stolen moments can’t begin to touch how desperately he wishes for them to be habitual. As instinctive as reaching for a gun in its holster, certain and safe in the knowledge of it being there to fall back on.
Their practice of falling into bed together isn’t new but the intimacy of bare skin, of breathless kisses and sharing the bed for longer than the act itself requires, is a recent development. The arm’s length John had kept him at had shrunk to a hair’s breadth. A gradual shift gone largely unnoticed until the evidence was laid plain before him.
“Yer thinkin’ too bloody loud.”
Nik follows the sound of John’s voice, as he always will, and finds him staring up at him with lidded eyes. Indolent in the burgeoning clutch of sleep, brows relaxed, the wrinkles set in his skin smoothed but not erased. Malleable lines trailing paths from his eyes and shown in shallow dips by the corners of his lips, evidence of a life spent frowning and laughing both.
I love you, Nik thinks but doesn’t say. The words stick to the roof of his mouth. Coats his tongue, his teeth and palate – their taste bitter and sweet in equal measure.
His prolonged silence merely serves to have John squint, a frown creeping back over his features.
“Wha’s tha’ look fer?” he growls suspiciously, leaning himself up on an elbow to claim the higher ground, peering down at Nikolai who only now realises he’s smiling.
“Nothing.”
“Hm.”
“I will tell you later,” he swears and it's a testament to John's pleasant mood that he allows the topic to drop with a begrudging grunt. Instead, he contents himself with rolling partially on top of Nik. Head pillowed on his chest, his slow breaths tickling the thick mat of hair there. A leg wedges itself between Nikolai’s, who spreads his wider to accommodate the thickness of John's thigh, grabbing at it to help him along. Leaves his hand where it lies, brushing over the thin scar trailing down the length of it. Pale with age, surgically straight.
He dips his head to smother his broadening smile into John’s hair. Soft from their earlier shower, Nik’s shampoo mingling with John’s own scent and the musk of fresh sweat. There are wisps of grey at his temples. Singular strands as of yet. Another sign of time limping along, slowly but surely dragging them towards the inevitable.
Sleep attempts to clutch at him, its fingers tugging feebly, and sunk into the mattress, pinned by John’s significant weight, it should be easy he reckons. Yet he lies awake as the ticking clock turns seconds to minutes, edging ever closer to the rising dawn, observing the flutter of John’s lashes against his cheek. They tremble whenever his eyes move beneath their lids. Brushes against freckles with every even breath of his. A steady pattern of inhale–exhale Nik seeks to match in stops and starts – until they’re breathing in tandem, for naught but the simple pleasure of it.
Too much time and none at all pass before he unsticks his tongue from the bottom of his mouth.
““You are beautiful" is what I was thinking. That I am a lucky man to get to see you like this,” he says in a low tone, quiet enough to be considered a mere suggestion of sound. His fingertips find their way to John’s forehead, sweeping his hair back from it with the whisper of a touch. A moment later, he closes his eyes with a self-depricating chuckle. “I do not know why I speak half-truths. As much a coward then as I am now. I thought of nothing but–” His voice breaks off, choked to silence by the mix of emotions clogging his throat.
Nikolai had spent his whole life wanting. Remembers the ache of it, how it clamped a ruthless hand around his heart long before he had words to articulate the feeling of loss and longing clawing at the inside of his ribs. Wanting to go back to a simpler time. A time when the love he felt for his country could still blind him to the flaws of its keepers, where his mother yet lived and would wipe the tears from his cheeks with a brusque but loving hand. To those early days, lost in the vastness of a world he hadn't yet grasped the magnitude of, where he sought salvation in the arms of men with eyes as haunted as his then stripped his skin raw with the guilt of betraying principles imposed on him since birth.
Some decades past, the concept of loving a man is no longer foreign to him – not when he’s spent what amounts to a quarter of his life willfully drawn into John Price’s orbit. The struggle lies entirely with his inability to voice the sentiment. It’s mind-numbing, trembling terror that stays his words. Fear of the unknowable, of John’s reaction to his sincerity, of cementing a concept by speaking it outloud, all of it congealing until it immobilises his tongue and jumbles his words before they can hope to form.
Trying to gather his courage, Nik returns his gaze to John and the quirked slant of his mouth.
His heart just about stops in his chest when John cracks an eye open.
“‘M no’ asleep, Nik.’ Yer too bloody loud fer tha’, luv.”
The breath stalls in his lungs for a beat and rushes out of him in a startled “I–” before dying a quiet death. For all the languages he knows, there’s nothing he can think to say. His ribcage refuses to expand the way it's meant to do and pain pools at the base of his throat. When he swallows, he can barely get it past the blockage in his esophagus.
John props himself up on his elbow once more, the space between them cavernous and abruptly devoid of warmth. Something softens in John’s gaze when he reaches out to press his thumb between Nik’s brows. He rubs over the spot then drags it horizontally towards his temple, rough fingertips sweeping across the ridge of bone where his orbital socket is, briefly obscuring his vision and it’s a silly thought, but Nikolai find he’d rather forgo the comforting touch if it meant seeing John in his entirety, this close and open, if it would happen to be the last time he’s allowed the privilege.
“Me too, yeah?”
Nikolai’s throat clicks when he swallows again, the smile pulling at his lips a wane imitation of every iteration before it.
“You are asking me?”
“No, ‘s a statement fer you to agree with ye whopper.”
“Ah.”
John quirks a brow at him. Pats him twice on the chest, leaving the hand there, politely refraining from copping a feel, pressed to where Nikolai’s heart is thrown off its regular rhythm. “Don’t have to put words to it,” he grouses. “‘S you ‘n me, Nik. The way it’s always been.”
From the beginning, yes. When John had slid into the barstool next to him with a determined set to his jaw and convictions he held on to still and in the span of a conversation managed to captivate him so utterly he’d followed a step behind him ever since. As doggedly loyal as a shadow because there was no other way for Nikolai to be.
“Za toboy - khot' na kray sveta,” Nikolai replies, solemn as an oath.
In the quiet night it’s the closest to a confession he’ll manage.
They’re back at base again and Ghost has been holed up in his office for the majority of the week in an attempt to get back on track with his ever-increasing backlog of paperwork. The knock on his door is therefore welcome, though surprising. He sits up straighter, wincing when several joints pop in protest, calling for them to come in.
Gaz leans himself against the doorframe. He, too, looks exhausted. Exhausted and irritated.
“I need your help wrangling Soap,” he says without preamble or an arduous attempt at small talk.
Ghost blinks at him.
“What?”
“He’s a stubborn bastard who won’t listen to reason,” Gaz shrugs. “And if it comes down to knocking him out in order to get him to rest, I’d rather have help carrying his leaden arse back to his room.”
Ghost blames sleep deprivation for the way he snorts.
“Alright,” he acquiesces, following behind the sergeant with amused wariness dogging his steps.
-
They find Soap outside surrounded by the scent of petrichor and bleary-eyed recruits. A gust of wind weaves around them, its chilling bite unmistakable where it tugs upon their hair and clothes, rustling through the pine-ridden area like an unexpected whisper. Ghost waits for Soap to send the group out on the track before he approaches, brow furrowed in response to the thickness layered over his voice. He'd sounded as if he spoke from deep in his throat, and with an air of a man pretending as if it didn’t pain him to do so. As he draws closer, Ghost allows the gravel beneath his feet to shift deliberately.
Soap jerks, swings his head around when Ghost comes to stand at his side, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes. The tip of his nose is red too, his cheeks a tad puffy, though he carries himself admirably regardless. Straight-backed and refusing to huddle into the oversized jacket he's wearing.
"Lt.? What're y'doing ‘ere?”
“I'm relieving you of your duties. Garrick can take it from here,” he replies, throwing Gaz a look that is met with surreptitious thumbs-up. He'll ask Price to look into leave for him. Soap's not the only one itching to work himself into an early grave by the looks of it.
It must be a cold day in hell, he muses, if I'm the one with the healthiest work-life balance at the moment.
“What?! Get tae and dinnae talk pish! I'm fine. I can work, Sir, I dinnae need–”
“That was an order, Sergeant. You can either leave on your own two feet or slung over my shoulder. Choice is yours.”
Soap's eyes narrow, his shoulders drawing up defensively, lips pulled back in a sneer. “You wouldn't dare.”
Which is about the worst thing he could've possibly said.
All at once Simon is twelve years old again with a defiant Tommy glaring daggers at him from across the stained rug, those fateful words a hiss through clenched teeth. Even the keen knowledge of their mother’s impending disappointment, how she'd give him a hushed dressing down in the aftermath of their scuffle, hadn't curbed his need to lunge for him. It's like the flip of a switch. Three simple words and suddenly Ghost is vibrating with the desire to prove Soap wrong. Some previously dormant code ingrained deep in his DNA flaring to life with all the speed of an oxygen fire.
Those memories carry him forward and the sudden shift in Johnny’s expression, the moment he realises he’s sealed his fate proper, sends a thrill skittering down his spine.
“Wait, Ghost, I–” is about as far as he comes before the words change into an unintelligible blend of Scottish nonsense, voice strained from having his diaphragm compressed. “Put me doon ye clarty bastard! Gaz!”
“Dream come true for you, huh?” Gaz says with a jaunty wave at their retreating backs, mirth etched into the crinkled lines around his eyes.
“I'll fuckin’ kill ye, ye clipe wopper! Lemme doon so ah can wring ‘is bleedin’ neck!” Soap barks, squirming in Ghost's grasp like a recalcitrant eel. It's a blessing that Soap's already running on fumes since, true to his callsign, it's damn near impossible to keep him securely slung over his shoulder.
By his third attempt to claw Ghost's back to shreds, Ghost sighs and pats him firmly on the rump. Soap instantly stills. Flushed to high-heavens if Ghost were to hazard a guess – not that he can see him from this angle. “Settle down, Sergeant, and I might be convinced to let you walk on your own.”
“Hate you,” Johnny wheezes.
Ghost grunts and maneuvers the door open, settling Johnny back on his feet again when it swings shut with a resounding thud. He steadies him when he wobbles on his feet and Johnny lets him with little fuss. Resigned to his fate he shuffles along after Ghost, who detours briefly to score each of them a cuppa. He ladles honey into Johnny’s mug and presses it into his freezing hands. Gets a muttered, unenthusiastic and intentionally mocking “cheers,” for it.
“You're a right cunt when you're sick.”
“Yer a right cunt all o’ the time,” Soap fires back. He's glaring mutinously into his least preferred beverage, cradled close to his chest while he watches Ghost tidy up after them. “Jus’ hate bein’ sick ‘s all. Feel proper boggin’ no matter how many times ah shower an’ my nose is both runny and stuffed as if th’ physics of tha is s'pose to make sense. Could'a powered through it.”
“That's how you end up forcefully strapped to a bed in medical suffering from pneumonia and severe dehydration.”
Johnny pauses. A small smile graces his face and Ghost hastily turns back to wiping down the counters to keep himself from being blinded.
One shouldn't stare directly into the sun after all.
“Speakin’ from experience, sir?”
Ghost doesn't answer, as if that isn't a reply in-and-of-itself, merely nudges Johnny back into moving. He gets him all the way to his door before Soap's brow creases in confusion. His mouth opens, closes, opens again while Ghost trudges inside with little fanfare, door left gaping in silent invitation. Johnny seizes it with both hands after dithering at his threshold a second longer.
He examines the impersonal space with keen interest, slurping obnoxiously at his tea as if to detract from how his hands flutter over scuffed paint and barren walls, his gaze catching over the miniscule signs someone is living there at all.
“Why'ahm I ‘ere, Ghost?” Soap asks when he's done, pinning him in place with the intensity of his stare. It's the same focus he dedicates to a particularly difficult math equation or sketching up blueprints with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. It's a heady feeling to be on the receiving end of it. Heady and terrifying.
“Figured you'd appreciate the en-suite,” Ghost says, violently stamping down on the truth until it comes out in a statement easier to digest. “And someone needs to make sure you stay in place. Bloody flight risk that you are.”
You'd look good in my clothes, in my bed, as a permanent fixture here. This is as much for me as it is for you. A taste of what I can't have.
He hopes Soap doesn't read between the lines this time – always too perceptive for Ghost's questionable sanity.
“An’ where d'ye plan on sleeping?” Johnny smiles, a mote amused and as sweet as the honey lingering on his lips.
“Floor. Or Gaz's room if he doesn't delete those pictures he took.”
Johnny’s eyes go dark as sin.
“Oh, that'll be th’ least of his worries.”
“Sleep, MacTavish. You can come up with your convoluted revenge plot later.”
“Yes sir.” He gives a lazy salute and flops down on Ghost's bed with a grunt – boots and all, the absolute heathen. Ghost watches him rearrange himself into a position more befitting a person who's suffered a recent spinal fracture when Johnny peers up at him again from under thick lashes. “Dinnae think you're exempt from those, Lt. Ah know where ye live now.”
Ghost sighs and tosses the hoodie folded over his chair at Johnny’s face, taking great pleasure in closing the bathroom door in the face of Johnny's indignant name-calling.
-
Prompts via @whumperless-whump-event and @seth-whumps
this is... 3.4k long. cw: idiots in love being idiots
Simon "Ghost" Riley, as a general rule, doesn't get sick. It's been a staunch constant throughout his life. In school, throughout basic training and even when little Joseph was old enough for kindergarten. He managed to dodge the illnesses plaguing his fellow men with the same efficiency he avoided enemy fire. Even Kyle and Johnny's bout of sickness hadn't rubbed off on him after he'd meticulously cleaned, aired out and disinfected his room.
He'd thought as much at least.
What began as a tickle in the back of his throat and a slight increase in sneezing, both of which he'd attributed to a visiting lieutenant's overreliance on cologne, spiralled over the course of a night's rest. He awakens to his alarm blaring loud enough to wish for a bullet between the eyes, a nose so stuffed he can't breathe and a frontal lobe full of cotton. The insides of his throat is raw. As if sandpaper had been dragged carelessly up and down the sensitive flesh until ulcers formed in its wake. He blinks at the crackled ceiling for a bit, allows himself a couple moments of self-pity, then heaves himself over the side of the mattress.
He sways on his feet, remembers taking a few steps and then dark starbursts rising up over his eyes until his field of vision is nothing but galaxies.
Ghost wakes up for a second time, on the floor, an undetermined amount of time later. His head is worse than it was – however impossible he'd thought that to be. The floor is a welcome relief from the excessive heat but the firmness is hell on his aching body. The back of his head smarts. He pokes at the swollen lump with fingers made of lead and winces at the responding lash of agony.
He's not ashamed to admit he crawls back to bed in the literal sense when he manages to get his uncooperative limbs to obey him. Squints through writing a short text to Price informing him of the situation before sinking into unconsciousness with a small sigh of relief. He just needs a minute, that's all, just a little bit of time...
_ _ _ _ _
Someone is calling his name. It registers vaguely in the periphery of his consciousness though it's the rough shake of his shoulders that truly rouses him to a state of near wakefulness.
His eyelids strain to unglue themselves and he slams them l shut almost immediately when the dim light in the room sends a spike of flaming pain straight through his skull. Opening them halfway is easier but the compromise is a world blurred. Needs must, however, and Simon manages to zero in on a flash of blue standing out against the drab surroundings. Simon blinks, slow and lethargic, parting his dry lips.
"Tommy?" he croaks. It has to be, right? Who else would look at him with worry in their eyes apart from their mother? The vague figure is much too broad to be her and lacks her frizzy, shoulder-length hair.
Sleep claims him before he can hear his reply.
_ _ _ _ _
The next time he wakes, porcelain is pressed against his lips and he's urged to drink from the thin rim. The content within is chalky, lukewarm and medicinal. Simon scrunches his nose at it, turning his face away long enough to say it's gross. He goes back to sipping it though – not needing the urged words he can't parse though he appreciates the gentle coaxing nonetheless – the cool hand on his forehead and fingers enveloping his own another form of balm.
How bad is it, if they're wasting precious medication on him? How long has he been here? She'd have to take on additional shifts without Simon there picking up his father's slack. As if she isn't running herself into an early grave already.
His eyes sting, stuffed nose trailing snot when the first tears fall.
"'M sorry," he whispers through a choked sob, too exhausted to run the numbers. It'll be a bad month, of that he's certain, but can forgo sleep and school if it means his paycheck will see results from it. Prioritise rent before groceries. Make sure Tommy eats enough. Simon isn't a stranger to going without. Subsisting on one meal a day isn't ideal but he can do it. Knows himself and his limits. He'll be fine.
Someone brushes the tears from his cheeks and it only serves to make him cry harder. Wretched and ugly. He clings to whomever is holding him, making a mess of their clothes through hitched apologies. Perhaps they kiss his temple as he struggles to remain awake, perhaps they don't, but the imagined comfort settles him regardless. He soaks in their warmth for as long as he's able and counts the steady beat of their heart as time trickles through his fingers.
_ _ _ _ _
He wakes up lucid but for the general fatigue sickness wrecks on the body. It takes him a couple of moments to truly land in his own body again. Sore, in a perpetual state of both dry and dripping. Sweat dried upon his brow even as new beads formed around his hairline and temples. Simon grimaces before he heaves himself up on shaking arms.
Only to realise that he's not alone.
Kyle startles at the noise he makes. He whips his head around and, as soon as he sees Simon upright, scrambles to get to his bedside. Too fast to stop him, he first cups Simon's cheeks with soft hands, cool and comfortable but burning all the same. A relieved smile tugs at his lips. It quickly turns to worry as one hand migrates up to check his temperature in the least reliable way known to man. An errant thumb swipes over the ridge of Simon's brow and he gasps in a breath as it skates over sensitive nerves.
There's nothing but white-noise in his ear. Static. A high-pitched tone growing louder and louder.
"Mask," he croaks and Kyle's mouth snaps shut.
Had he been speaking? Simon hadn't heard a word.
Cloth is pressed into his hands not a second later to which Simon grasps it like a lifeline. With the burst of adrenaline he's able to stagger to his feet. Righting himself on the edge of his desk then supporting himself against the wall as he steps towards the bathroom. He shakes off Kyle's helping hands with a violent jerk and has the door shut between them as fast as humanly possible.
The bolt slides into place and Simon takes a page out of its book as he lowers himself to the floor in a similarly oiled motion. He supposes the nausea thick in his throat could be attributed to whatever illness has taken root in him and, well... he's always been good at lying to himself. His fingers are shaking. Simon glares at them in affront until they begrudgingly stop. Only then does he hoist himself up. Takes a piss, brushes his teeth and shuffles into the shower while taking care to avoid the mirror above the sink.
The ghost of Kyle's touch lingers until he scrubs his face clean with soap, scars and calluses rasping against days-old stubble. Warm water for a bit, then glacially cold. It's nearly good enough to make him moan. When he at last shuts the faucet off he feels marginally more human. Refreshed. Though he grimaces at the thought of weaseling himself back into the same old clothes.
It's not the ones he’d gone to bed with however long ago. These sweats are grey rather than black. The shirt, too, is without the stretched hem and the three penny-sized holes right by the left sleeve. He decidedly doesn't think about how that might have come to pass as he towels his hair dry. He steps back into his trousers and leaves the rest in a pile. Glances once into the mirror to see his own red-nosed, sullen face staring back. Blotchy. Plain.
Unsightly.
Shoving the mask on, Simon squares his shoulders and does his best to ignore the ridiculous picture he must make. Kyle says nothing about it. Merely offers him a short nod. Guilt keeps his gaze downcast whilst Simon pulls a shirt over his head but the moment he takes a step towards the front door, Gaz slides in front of him with a clench to his jaw that spells trouble.
"Back to bed with you, mate."
"Sod off, Sergeant." It's not in the least bit intimidating, the way his voice turns nasal with mucus, not that Garrick had found it in himself to fear Ghost for years at this point. The glare he levels his way seems ineffectual when Kyle merely plants his feet, glares right back and points to the bed where new linens have taken the place of old, sweat-soaked ones.
"You're getting back under the covers without fussing or I'm tackling you onto them."
Simon squints at him, wonders if he should try for the door again just for the hell of it. Unfortunately, he knows Johnny isn't the only one prone to fighting dirty and as much as it pains him to admit it, if even just to himself, he values the integrity of his spine too much to try. Doesn't stop him from grinding his teeth and continuing the ridiculous stand-off they're tangled in.
"And if you're good, I'll make you a cuppa with that fancy shite,” Kyle says, low and wheedling, after the silence has stretched a mite too long.
"What kind?"
"Ceylon black with wild cherries."
He sniffs. In part because his nose is dripping again, and in part because he hates how the bribe is working. Lumbering back to his bunk, Simon pretends the short period of physical movement hadn't drained him. That there isn't a trembling down to his bones or involuntary twitches of muscle protesting at being used again. It's a relief to sit back against the wall with the faint breeze of the cracked window fanning across his eyelids.
"Here," Kyle murmurs and he opens his eyes to find the ear of a brimming mug pressed into his hands while Kyle peers at him from beneath his ridiculously long lashes.
The aroma he faintly discerns is rich and dark. He mutters a "thank you," against the rim – because his mother raised him with manners – and pretends he isn't somewhat touched by the fact he remembers how Simon takes it. Splash of milk and blisteringly hot, although undercut with an unfamiliar nip of sweetness. He'll excuse the use of honey, though, because Kyle grins at him and Simon quickly loses the ability to focus on anything else. Breath coming short until Gaz returns to the fold-out chairs he'd shoved into the corner of the room and the portable gas stove he'd set up on one of them.
Simon takes the time to study his profile. Undeniably pretty in spite of the dark circles beneath his eyes and rumpled clothes. Stealing glances at Simon as if worried his newfound compliance is temporary.
"What are you doing?" he asks, trying to gain a footing in this strange reality he's found himself in.
"I'm heating up soup."
"No. What are you doing here?"
Kyle looks at him with his lower lip caught between his teeth. "Price got your message. Thought it looked odd and asked Tav to check up on you. It was... bad," he mutters, gaze sliding off him to stare at the floor. "Least we could do was help, seeing as we're the ones who got you sick. Didn't think you'd much appreciate being marched to medical either so–" he shrugs, "–here we are."
"Feeling better. No reason to stick around anymore."
A peal of laughter follows his statement, Kyle's eyes curving into half-moons, teeth glinting.
"You're a riot, sir."
"Wasn't joking."
"I know."
Gaz busies himself with pouring soup into a bowl and carrying it over, depositing it on the nightstand. He hooks a foot around the legs of one of the chairs to drag it closer and settles in as if he owns the space, kicking his feet up on Simon's bed while staring at him with imploring eyes until Simon rolls his and swallows a spoonful of broth.
It's perfectly balanced between salty and spiced with meat tender enough to fall apart at a stern glance. The vegetables he'd tossed in have retained enough structure to offer a difference in texture. Easy to devour with a lingering warmth settling in his chest when he scrapes the last of it out.
A chime sounds at just about the same time and Kyle takes the bowl from him to refill it, swiping a thumb over the screen of his phone with his free hand, before handing him a bottle of water and an oval pill. "Antibiotics," he explains and Simon takes his word for it, swallowing it down dry and chasing away the chalky sensation with another mouthful of soup.
"It's good," he says instead of something like "thank you," or "you didn't have to do all this," or "if you don't stop looking at me I'm going to kiss you right on your stupid fucking mouth."
"That's because I barred John from helping out," Kyle says, wry and fondly exasperated. "Not like he put up much of a fight. Damn near drove Cap mental pacing around base like a wounded mutt whenever he couldn't shirk his duties. Put us on rotation after that."
Simon raises a brow.
"Can't say I blame him.” Kyle folds his arms over his chest and slouches into it. Searching over Simon's face, fingers absentmindedly twisting the fibres of his shirt. As he does whenever he's thinking too hard. “You're always a sight for sore eyes.”
His other eyebrow shoots up to join the first before he can wrestle his expression back under control. Turning the statement over in his mind, he finds it lacking the teasing he’d come to recognise in Garrick’s tone.
“Should you be flirting with men other than your boyfriend?” he questions, the words like ash in his mouth.
“I doubt he'd mind,” Gaz dismisses, unconcerned as he studies Simon's eyes, a lilt of laughter warming the words. “He's in love with you too.”
Simon, who’d done the age-old miscalculation of taking a sip of his drink while awaiting his response, promptly chokes on the liquid. He coughs and coughs and coughs, again barely audible over the ringing in his ears. The phrase circles around his mind like a vulture. One word in particular. He's vaguely aware of Gaz taking the mug from his cramping hands. Coaxing him to release the handle so as to not spill its contents into his lap and worsening the situation.
The door clicks open.
“Ye wouldnae believe wha–’s goin’ on ‘ere? Thought ye said he was doing better,” Soap frets. He takes a couple strides into the room. Three or so long steps to carry him from the door to their sides, hovering much like Gaz did previously. Piercing gaze taking the both of them in with a tight twist at the corners of his mouth. Simon ducks his head to avoid it under the guise of heaving for fire-laced breaths. The heel of his palm presses hard into his own ribcage, right above his galloping heart, as he attempts to wrestle back control of his protesting lungs.
He peeks at them through his fringe and finds them communicating entirely without words. A back and forth of ‘don’t make me say it’’s and ‘fess the fuck up or else’’s with varying degrees of wide-eyed looks tossed about. But eventually Kyle sighs and simply, reluctantly, says: “I might have told him.”
Simon doesn't need to see Johnny’s expression to know he understands what that means. It’s in the sharp breath he takes, the stiff then roundening of his shoulders and rueful chuckle. He rubs his neck and Simon averts his eyes before theirs meet. His brain feels as if it is swimming in snot and he doesn’t have the capacity to think critically about the information given. The six words simply play on repeat like a cartridge tripping over a scratch in vinyl.
“Hey,” Kyle says, with an accompanying brush of fingers over his bicep. “Sorry for springing that on you out of nowhere. This doesn’t have to change anything.”
A bark of hysterical laughter escapes him.
“It won’t change anything’,” Johnny corrects with a look in Gaz’s direction. “No’ unless ye act on it. Won’t treat ye any different.”
Simon tilts his head up just enough to look at them. To take in the earnest expressions they wear. To perhaps, fleetingly, allow himself to notice how the love they hold extends beyond themselves. A moment, yes. He allows himself that before he shakes his head. “You’re takin’ the piss.”
Johnny's face twists as if he'd tasted something sour and Kyle's frown has his nose scrunching in the most endearing fashion.
“We’re nae!”
“You are,” Simon insists.
“Don't think that's for you to decide, mate.”
Simon knows it isn’t but he stubbornly clamps his mouth shut and glares. He doesn't know how to express himself with words. It's always been actions that meant most to him – that he found easiest to speak through. But how would he even begin to convey the depths of his… feelings? Ones he’d barely begun wrestling with. How terrified he is they'd turn away the moment they learned how much Ghost and Simon differed in certain aspects, and how little they did in others. That once he’d had a taste, he’d disregard mission parameters if it meant keeping them safe – even at the expense of others. That, while they might be able to compartmentalise work and leisure, Simon isn’t all that sure he could do the same.
And setting all that aside, he’s been told, shown, time and time again, there’s little about him to love.
It was only a matter of time before the lesson stuck.
He grits his teeth, jaw working, as the tension rises, curdles and boils, until it finally snaps, not with sneering or anger, but with a sighed breath.
“It’s not the same,” he says with finality. “Emotions muddle… everything. Makes shit complicated. And I am your superior officer, like it or not. There are… rules in place,” he continues, grasping at straws. “The job has to come first.”
Kyle and Johnny exchange a glance. Neither of them look particularly happy.
“I didn't–” Kyle trails off. The syllables coated with a bone-deep, weary exhaustion. It wraps around them, weighs them down to fall into Simon’s lap, lingering to be examined, rather than float uninhibited through the air to vanish in the ether. Kyle’s fingertips are twisting in his shirt again. Smiling, rueful and joyless. Johnny brushes the backs of their hands together in a motion ingrained enough it has to be muscle memory, subtle enough to play off as coincidental, and Simon’s entire ribcage aches at the sight. “Take some time. Think on it. There’s a place for you with us if you want it. You've got three more days with antibiotics, so you're stuck with us until then no matter what you decide.”
Kyle twists his hand around to slide the palm up and around Johnny’s wrist. Brushes a light kiss to the slope of his jaw. The skin dimples under his lips, fleetingly turning pale under the imprint of his mouth and Simon stares, enraptured. “I've got work waiting for me.”
He leaves with a stilted smile and not so much as a backwards glance. Johnny stares after him for a long moment. Conflicted. Teetering on his toes. He heaves a sigh as well, falling back to rest his weight on his heels, then slumping further backwards to settle into Kyle's chair instead of following him, blue eyes scrutinising when he turns them on Simon, burning like a propane flame.
“What?” Simon growls.
“Nothin’.”
“Spit it out, Soap.”
“Jus’… isnae like ye to be a coward, sir.”
Simon opens his mouth, but Johnny is quicker – and far more cutting.
“Ye asked.”
He shuts it again. A chastised dog tucking tail. Turns his face away to count the divot imperfections in the wall as if the likeness wasn’t apparent enough already. Listens to Johnny drum his fingers to a tune he vaguely recognises.
“He's a romantic at heart.”
He would've wanted it to play out differently, is left unsaid.
“Change the fucking subject.”
Johnny hums and does so, slipping right back into the tale he’d meant to divulge not ten minutes ago as if the time in-between had never passed at all.
There's something to be said about the way John "Soap" MacTavish, notorious for his fleeting fancy of any given subject when off an op, hasn't been able to get Simon Riley out of his head. Granted, even before "The Incident" his lieutenant occupied his thoughts frequently. But now, oh, not a minute goes by where his attention doesn't stray, where his eyes aren't drawn to Ghost’s hulking figure, and he wishes they'd been stationed literally anywhere else but the monotone grey of autumnal England.
His sketchbook is filled with pages upon pages of studies. Greens and browns and gold – the myriad of colours hazel can be – despite how none of them feel right. Too saturated, too dark, too light. Too much or too little. Then again... it is near impossible to recreate a work of art after a mere fleeting second of studying the original. La Gioconda del Prado wasn't made with a peripheral glance at Da Vinci's subject – so how is Johnny to do the impossible?
-
"Spar with me."
Ghost pauses with his fork mid-way to his mouth. A mouth Johnny would gladly analyze at length, or map with his own one day, if not for the unhealthy obsession he's taken with Ghost's eyes.
One thing at a time.
His irises are shadowed by the tilt of his head and the presence of eyeblack but there is a subtle difference between them. Johnny is fool enough to think he can see it no matter how shit the lighting. Deluded, even, if his long-suffering best friend is to be believed. They're also dark with question, narrowed with thoughts and opinions kept close at heart.
"Alright," Ghost says and pushes the rest of his dinner away, pausing briefly as if to say something before ultimately deciding against it.
Johnny follows him with a pronounced bounce in his step and speeds through stretching and warming up. It'll be a killer tomorrow but that's a problem for future Johnny. Sore muscles are a small price to pay if it means settling a mystery.
They take their places, circling each other lazily. Johnny, ever the impatient one, lunges first and ends up with Ghost's heavy weight straddling the small of his back a couple minutes later. He grinds his teeth and heaves himself back to his feet. Sweat beads at his temples, his neck, trickling down his spine. Alight with purpose, he throws himself back in the fray.
He sways out of Ghost’s reach, blocking and evading, bouncing on the tips of his toes, throwing punches when it's fitting while he awaits the perfect time to strike. They're both grinning. It's plain as day on his own face, more subtle on Ghost's. The way the corners of his eyes crease gives him away, the shift of his plain balaclava as his lips twitch.
Johnny is focused on them like a bloodhound on a scent and when Ghost tosses his head, tilting it up with a roll of his shoulders, the florescent lights catching them just so.
Oh, is all he can think with the truth of him laid plain to see – how Johnny had been right all along. They differ subtly in darkness but when cast in either sunshine sepia or lightbulb white the contrast between them is stark. One is the deep, dark of pine, a forest green with too many hues to accurately count. It compliments the wooden brown of tree-trunk bark, flecks of whiskey-gold therein framed by pale lashes of nearly the same colour.
A modern day Medusa who stops him dead in his tracks, mesmerised, as Ghost's fist slams into the side of his face with the concentrated power of an eighteen-wheeler barreling into a concrete wall.
-
Ghost's face swims back into view an undetermined amount of time later. Worry etched into the tense way he carries himself. His hands are cupping Johnny’s cheeks, thumbs stroking once under his lower lids before they tilt his head back a fraction. He hovers close, peering into Johnny’s eyes as if they hold the secrets of the universe therein.
"Fuckin' hell Johnny. Anything broken?"
Johnny blinks at him, a dopey smile spreading over his lips like molasses.
Ghost, if anything, looks even more worried.
"Talk to me, Sergeant."
"You've beautiful eyes."
Ghost freezes in place. Gobsmacked, if Johnny were to put an expression to it. He murmurs a string of delightfully innovative curses under his breath, manoeuvring Johnny to sitting upright, and the change in vantage point only makes him a little bit dizzy. The dark spots dancing before his eyes is nothing new, honestly, but they are annoying when they're ruining his view.
"Knocked what little sense you had left right out of your head, huh?" Ghost sounds amused and Soap realises, belatedly, that he might've said all that out loud. "Price'll have a field day with this."
"Take some responsibility an' kiss it better then."
"You're concussed."
"Och aye, an' whose fault is tha'? You and yer bonnie eyes. Could get lost in 'em, y'ken?"
"You're off your head, mate."
"Ahm'nt! An' if you'd jus' stay still for a moment an' lemme look at ye, this wouldn't 'ave been an issue," Johnny grumbles indignantly. Grumbles, because whining is for children and it never works in getting him what he wants anyway. Ghost usually looks at him with the flattest stare imaginable whenever he tries. Horrid man. Johnny kind of wants to kiss him about it.
"Tell you what, Johnny. If you're good–" Ghost slings his arm over his shoulder, kindly ignoring the way his words leave him shivering, "–i'll let you look all you want."
Johnny leans against him when he's levered to his feet, swaying like a branch caught in the wind. "I can be good."
"Mmh. You're gonna listen to the nurses once I drop you off at medical?"
Soap groans and smushes his face deeper into Ghost’s surprisingly comfortable shoulder.
"I'll take that as a yes."
-
Ghost keeps his promises, it is an irrefutable fact, and Johnny can and will take advantage of that with shameless abandon.
Crawling into Ghost's lap with a shit-eating grin, paints and brushes well-within reach, wobbling precarious on his perch until Ghost takes pity and steadies him with scorching hands on his hips feels like a victory despite the dull throbbing in his temple and purpling bruises lapping up the side of his face. There are no protests when he guides Ghost's head this-way-and-that. No complaints are heard even when the warm glow of his bedside lamp shines at his eyes and their kaleidoscope of colours become present again. Ghost keeps his gaze unwavering focused when Johnny's hands rest on his face in a mirror of the day prior – though his eyelids droop down the fraction of an inch. It's intense and intimate and Johnny, no stranger to selfishness when he can get away with it, can't help but be greedy.
"Can you be good for me now, Simon?"
His lieutenant nods as far as Johnny’s hands allow and though him closing his eyes is the opposite of good, Johnny can't fault him when his own slide shut as he brings their faces together for the first time – a new obsession flaring to life in the wake of lips brushing fabric.
A sort-of successor to this, but can be read as a stand-alone
Ghost is being hunted. Kept moving forwards at an unsustainable pace while the predator at his back stalks him through winding halls and lingers in his periphery when at a standstill. A very persistent, very Scottish, threat to his sanity. The nape of his neck prickles again with the sensation of being watched, some latent prey instinct rearing its head to warn him of danger, though he stubbornly keeps his posture, hands clasped loosely behind him, refusing to bend to psychological warfare.
The relief he feels closing the door behind himself is short-lived seeing as when he stumbles out of the shower, Johnny is sitting on his bunk. Nicked the hoodie right from over the back of his chair too, the kleptomaniac imp.
"You make a habit out of crawling into your superior's bed?" Ghost drawls.
"You know I do." Soap tracks his progress, and Ghost grunts in acknowledgement of his words. Remembers nearly knifing him the first time it happened, when he'd been startled awake by the scrape of boots against concrete. Left him with bruises after slamming him against the wall before his consciousness caught up with his body. Nowadays, when Johnny materialises in his doorway or at the side of his bed, haunted by whatever darkness his demons are made of, Simon groggily lifts the sheets and allows him to crawl inside with him, wrapping his arm around Johnny's torso to keep him from falling off the mattress.
When Ghost has wormed himself into a pair of briefs, he feels a touch on his arm – light as a feather.
"I'm not in the mood, Johnny."
Too sore, too tired, too sure he'd burst into tears in the aftermath if his sergeant looked at him long enough.
"Promise I'm no' after yer virtue." Johnny crosses his heart. Simon can feel the movement of it in how the air is displaced and he quirks a smile in spite, or perhaps because of, how tired he is. Which Johnny takes as encouragement. He smiles too, equally small and ten times as genuine. "Let me try something."
Like a lamb to the slaughter, unduly trusting the butcher guiding it, Simon allows Johnny to usher him to bed. He lies down, back exposed – in for a penny an' all that – knowing his vulnerability wouldn't be taken advantage of. Johnny kisses his nape in silent thanks. There's a rustling of paper before he's swinging himself up on the bed too. His thighs press against Simon's own, caging him in, though the flight-fight-freeze response he should have had to being trapped is notably absent. He can't help but wonder why. Is it due to allowing himself to be snared in the first place? Welcoming the tightening noose Johnny had placed around his neck, head hung limp in surrender, throat bared to eyes encapsulating the night's sky, solely because it meant his sergeant’s hand would rest on the lead of his chain.
A kind hand, unlike the others, the very same that settles warm and sweet right underneath his ribcage.
"This alright?"
"Mm. No funny business."
"Wouldnae dream of it."
There's a click and the sound of slick skin sliding against skin. Simon shifts, a frown pulling at his brows, shoulders rising, bunching until the muscles stand out starkly beneath a thin veneer of skin. His ears strain to pick up noise, fill in the gaps of the world he's missing while staring into the bedding.
"Hey, you're okay," Johnny says and this time the flat of his palm draws a line from the base of his spine all the way to his neck. Smooth as butter. Thumbing circles right at the base of his skull until one by one his cramping trapezius and deltoids and latissimus dorsi unwind. The overactive mechanisms which keep him prepared to leap into action returning to a dormant state.
Johnny hums, pleased. Keeps his touch light as he spreads the oil down the dales and peaks of his back. Tripping over freckles he's never seen but Johnny insists are there. Making sure Simon is well and truly relaxed before increasing the pressure.
It's divine. If he'd been able to form a coherent thought, or possessed a single artistic bone in his body, Simon would write odes about Johnny’s hands. They're a fucking gift. A treasure to be coveted. Draining tension from places he hadn't known kept them with the same assured confidence he bleeds enemy combatants dry. Simon groans. It reverberates from a place deep within his chest, where he thinks his soul must be. The tattered, scrappy thing liquifying, same as the vessel containing it, dripping down his vertebrae to gather at the small of his back – as warm and malleable as molten iron.
"I've got you."
The words come to him in the whisper of a breath against his cheek as he disappears within the push and pull of Johnny’s deft fingers, drowns in the lethargy replacing his overworked body, and he doesn't resurface for minutes, or days, or hours, he can't be sure. Certain shifts in sensation bring him close. Like the warm, soft texture of cloth being run down his spine and up his shoulder blades. But then Johnny’s weathered palms replace it again and Simon goes down like a babe under a lullaby.
When next he claws his way to awareness, he's staring at the crackling white paint of the ceiling with Johnny hovering above his knees. By now, he's lost all pretense of it being a massage. The oil he'd carried is replaced by a thick lotion which he continues to rub along the many scars littering Simon's figure. A pink, recently healed wound is of particular interest. One Johnny had seen the aftermath of. He's firm while handling it, though never to the point of pain. Circling his thumbs into the raised flesh and spreading whatever creams he'd bought until they're thoroughly absorbed.
"There," he hums, sliding his tacky palms up around the outside of his thighs, further and further, over his stomach and collarbone, until he’s cradling Simon's face. "Wasn't so bad, aye?"
He means to respond. Truly, he does. But what crawls out if his throat is akin to a toad's croak as he gorges himself on the sight of Johnny's effervescent eyes and laughing mouth. Johnny leans down with a pleased huff to coax Simon's tongue back to life. Teaches him in slow slides and with gentle prodding how to move it, drags it from its resting place in the cradle of his jaw, until it's no longer foreign to him.
"'S good," Simon murmurs against his lips.
"Right glowing review that. Cannae even string three words together and tha's wha–"
A tidal wave of fondness crashes into him and he's helpless to resist tasting that blinding grin, scrounging up just enough energy to lift his chin and slip his tongue into Johnny’s waiting mouth. He sips from the bottomless well of Johnny’s happiness until it coats his palate, his molars, the delicate lining of his cheeks. It mellows his firecracker of a sergeant. Softens the quirk of his lips into a gentle curve. Leaves him sagging into Simon's chest with a content sigh.
"Thank you," Simon says.
"No' sure ye should thank me fer being selfish."
"If that's what that was, 'm not sure I could survive you bein' altruistic."
Johnny snorts against the hollow of his throat. His weight bearing down on him is at once keeping him rooted and causing him to float further away. Eyelids drooping, it's a true test of mettle to drape his arms around Johnny's back – seeing as they're akin to lead weights at his sides – but he manages. Snuffling into the silken tresses of hair to catch a whiff of expensive conditioner and smoke. The latter clinging stubbornly to his sergeant no matter how often he washes himself. It’s one of the downsides of playing with fire, not that Simon minds. It’s as intricately twined to Johnny as his accent. It means safety. Refuge. Home.
“Stayin’?”
“No place ah’d rather be ‘n cooried up with ye, lovie, other ‘n under th’ covers.”
Simon hums. It does sound nice, and also like something they should've thought of half an hour ago. Ever the problem-solver, Johnny tucks his freezing feet in the grove between Simon's calves and calls it a day, the absolute fucker.
