soap... johnny is at his back. the cot is cramped and sagging in the centre, the squeaky metal creaking in protest with each small shift or jostle of motion.
the door is locked, ghost had checked twice separately. his mask is off, placed on the bedside table for easy access in case of an unexpected emergency. the darkness is almost comforting, enveloping the pair in a shroud of secrecy only exposed by the faint sliver of moonlight sneaking in between the blinds.
johnny's breaths are measured and even, intermittently interrupted by a sleepy noise or mild groan. his body is pressed against ghost's in several locations, johnny's hands to his back, the damn scotsman's cold feet sneaking warmth from simon's. his breath smells slightly of alcohol– cheap, piss-yellow beer with all too much foam from wet glasses.
it's frighteningly domestic and simultaneously familiar.
unsafe because ghost is a light, violent waker. domestic maybe because they're less than centimetres apart, willingly. familiar because they've slept in worse positions on harder things, squeezed for space.
terrifying, because it feels safe. john's steady warmth radiating silently behind him, simon's heavy eyes drifting away from the door. it's unfamiliar, the way his heart thrums– slow and weightless– and how poorly he resists sleep.
he attempts to keep vigil but the warmth is tempting him like a bait might a fish, but he's too tired to protest.
the nagging ache in his knee, heavy and dull and constant, has ebbed to a small, mindless thing. his thoughts are scarily cotton, warm and light.
simon blames johnny as he falls asleep, the aforementioned man behind him snuggling into the nape of his neck, because it feels a little like a home.
this is an old thing from the start of the cod spiral but i think they're real cute. inspired by a fic where they cuddle (vague i know, i apologise my memory is shit) tactically or something. they're dumb, i'll link the fic if i find it it was deliciousss. i love mindful use of soap vs johnny and ghost vs simon. Delicious
