Ghost has spent years—decades—thinking of himself as little more than picked-over bones, abuse and trauma rotting away any exposed softness. By the time he dug himself out of his own grave, he was sure only shattered bones remained, and the skull mask and call sign were born. The shards served as a barrier, cutting anyone who dared get too close. Even Price got caught up on a razor-sharp edge now and then, though Ghost appreciated that his captain never changed how he treated Ghost.
Somehow, though, Soap dodged all those sharp edges from the start, agile enough to avoid the barbs—or at least let them slide right past him—and worm his way inside Ghost's guard in record time. And once there, Soap slipped as smooth as butter between the hard edges of bone Ghost never dared to pry apart, easing open those hairline cracks to expose a surprisingly soft underbelly—pale and tender in the light of Johnny's smile, trembling under the gentleness of his touch.
The hard edges are still there, sharp and dangerous and meant to keep others at a distance, but the deeply-buried softness has made a space for Johnny. It pulls him in and molds around his shape as if he belongs there, keeping him safe behind layers of jagged bone. Simon's softness begins and ends with Johnny. Denying it only results in frustration when he caves yet again to Johnny's subtle touches and playful demands. And Ghost can't help wondering what it would be like to stop fighting. To give Johnny access to what already belongs to him.
Your mission (should you choose to accept it) is to listen to this song and hallucinate a disgustingly domestic ghoap montage.
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this message will self destruct
3.9k of 60s Ghoap AU just for you!
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Simon never attended community dances. The bright lights, loud music, and crowds of young women waiting to be asked to dance only reminded him of all the ways his experience with war would forever ruin his view of civilian life.
And yet. Here he was in the alley, leaning against the brick wall of the dance hall, dressed up in his best white button-up shirt and gray trousers. The faint hum of guitars, drums and organ was interrupted by louder bursts of music and conversation spilling from the hall as the door around the corner opened and closed, but Simon kept his back plastered against the humming wall and pulled his gray trilby hat lower over his shaggy hair, despite the darkness surrounding him.
The distant shuffle of people soothed a bit of the loneliness that had come along with his medical discharge, but his chest still ached with the loss. All the friends he'd ever had were in the military, and the career he'd spent more than ten years building was gone. He'd heard from his former SAS captain and then from the news that the Borneo conflict was over, but he was still there in his head most nights, reliving the moment it all came crashing down.
His fingers itched for a smoke, but instead, he let his mind wander to the person he'd seen the day before: a young man with a pretty face, startling blue eyes, and a brogue as thick as honey and twice as sweet. The man was new to the neighborhood, Simon was sure, but he seemed to have gathered a large group of friends already, laughing and chatting as they'd strolled down the street. Simon had slowed his already laborious walk to bask a little longer in the glow of nearby joviality, as sure of his inability to join in as he was of his deep-seated desire to be included. To his surprise, instead of ignoring Simon as everyone else did—likely because of his perpetually sour expression and noticeable limp—the man had met his gaze head on, smiled, nodded, and offered a genial "good day."
Simon had been too shocked to offer more than a return nod, but the moment had stayed with him, leading him here, where the younger folks gathered on Saturday nights to meet, dance, and play out their civilian dramas of love and heartbreak.
The cynical side of him murmured that he was pathetic for being so affected by a simple act of kindness. The lonely—and socially unacceptable—part of him latched on to the beauty offered to him like a starving man.
And maybe he could admit he was starving for a bit of kindness and compassion. For a bit of human companionship.
In short, he was enamored by someone whose name he didn't even know.
But he still couldn't quite make himself enter that dance hall where the beautiful man was likely to be. It's not as if they could dance together the way he wanted, and even if they could, and the chances of the man wanting to dance with him that way were slim to none.
Another loud burst of music curled around the corner of the building as the door opened. Simon's stomach swooped at the familiar brogue that followed.
"It's sweltering in there. Let's leave the door open a bit, aye?"
"Are you staying outside then?" came a soft, feminine voice. "I can stay with you."
Simon's heart faltered. The idea of standing by as the couple canoodled in the darkened alley was his idea of hell, and he'd been to war. He pushed away from the wall, getting ready to walk away when the brogue halted his steps.
"Oh, not for long. I'll be back in a jiffy. Wait for me inside?"
"Okay... if you're sure?"
"I am, dove. Just need a bit of air."
The music didn't lessen, so the man must've propped the door open as he'd said he would. Simon hesitated, unsure of whether to move away or stay to see if—
The man rounded the corner, and though silhouetted by the dim light behind him, Simon could see the hint of a very different kind of expression than the one he'd shared with Simon on the street the day before. Something like anger or frustration pulled at his lips and brows. He was wearing tan trousers with a light blue button-up, and the longer hair at the top of his head was puffed up in something like a pompadour, though it was buzzed short on the sides. Even in the relative darkness, even with his dour expression, Simon could see the beauty in the set of his wide jaw and the slant of his thick brows.
It wasn't until he was within a few feet of Simon that he looked up and jerked to a halt.
"Oh. Hello."
"Hello," Simon replied.
His voice was graveled from disuse. He cleared his throat. The man leaned closer in the dim light, apparently trying to get a look under the even darker shadows of his hat. Simon pushed up the brim and then shoved his hands in his pockets in an effort to look nonthreatening. The man in front of him wasn't small by any means, but Simon was still taller, if not broader.
"Oh, it's you—the one I passed in the street yesterday!" the man said in a surprised tone. His expression shifted, a smile easing away the frustration as he added, "Are ye here for the dance? Or have I invaded yer territory here in the alley?"
"Was trying to work up the courage to go inside, I suppose," Simon admitted, even as he cringed at his own blunt honesty. "But there's not much a man like me can do at a dance."
Surely a man who remembered his face after one brief interaction would remember something as conspicuous as a limp, but Simon shook his right leg for effect: The one littered with scars from shrapnel. The one that had cost him his military career.
He supposed he should be grateful he still had a leg at all.
"Plenty ye can do with the right partner," the man replied, his voice softer now.
"That so?"
"Aye. A good partner would go at yer pace. Not let ye get tangled up in other people. Would... would be happy to just be there with ye."
There was a note of something in the man's voice that Simon couldn't place. Longing, maybe? He wouldn't go so far as to say desperation, but the man's smile was strained now. He was looking behind him as if...
"Name's Simon, by the way."
The man turned back around. The strain in his smile eased as he looked down at Simon's outstretched hand before taking it in his own. Warmth enveloped Simon's perpetually cool hands, and a shiver ran up his spine.
"I'm John. Glad t' meet ye."
John didn't let go of his hand. They stood there in the semidarkness, their hands clasped and gazes locked. The music drifted out of the open door, cocooning them in a strange world of their own—adjacent to but not within the world on the other side of the brick wall at Simon's back.
In a burst of bravery, Simon used the connection to pull John a little closer, though his lungs hitched from the rush of danger mixed with his rising hope. The faint scent of citrus and peppermint tickled his nose as the man stepped forward without resistance and even took a step closer, stopping only a few inches away, their clasped hands sandwiched between them.
"Maybe..." Simon hesitated. It was such a fucking risk, but he was so fucking lonely. "Maybe you could show me what you mean, Johnny."
The scent of peppermint grew stronger as Johnny exhaled heavily, his breath wafting over Simon's lips like a caress. He grew woozy with their proximity, but the cynical side of him stayed wary, waiting for John to push him away, to shout at him and tell him he'd never—
John dropped his hand, and Simon's heart leapt into his throat. The last strains of a bopping rock song faded away, only the roar of talk and laughter pouring from the hall. But John didn't step away, leaving Simon on tenterhooks.
As the soft sound of violins eased into the roar of the crowd, a hand curled around Simon's waist, shocking a sharp exhale from his seizing lungs. Warmth bled through the fabric of his shirt, and he was sure John could feel the way his muscles twitched with the touch. But John didn't hesitate to pick up Simon's hand and place it on his shoulder before grabbing his opposite hand and holding it up. They stood in a loose dance formation.
"Ye'll let me lead, aye?" he murmured into the small space between them.
And then John gently pushed Simon into motion.
As a woman crooned about finding love at last, Simon's whole body tingled with a mixture of surprise, hope and surging desire. He followed John's slow and easy steps, his memories of school dances with classmates coming back to him. Back then, they'd all been girls, of course, but this... it was so much better. He tightened his hold on John's waist, daring to step a bit closer, to lean his head down a bit more. The light from around the corner was just enough to see the way John's eyes gleamed as they roved over Simon's face, the way his lips softened into a tender smile at Simon's expression, the way his teeth caught at his lower lip, worrying at the flesh before a hint of pink tongue popped out to moisten his lips.
They swayed to the song, their heads tilting closer... until John smiled and closed the distance, pressing their cheeks together. The closeness brought their chests together as well, and Simon's breath caught yet again. He couldn't seem to get enough air, the thrill of touch almost too much after so long without it.
And yet, he knew it couldn't last. It was a dance in the dark. A soft acquiesce to the need of the moment. As the last notes of the song died out, the same feminine voice from before called out, followed by hesitant footsteps.
He tried to step back, to save John from this exposure, but to his surprise, John refused to let him go. He was breathing hard now, and as their gazes met, he saw the devastation written there.
He'd do anything to wipe that look from John's face.
"Let me walk you home, Johnny?" he whispered into the narrow space between them.
The tension snapped. John's smile returned, bigger and brighter than before. He stepped away from Simon just as a pretty blond girl turned the corner, peeking into the alley. She squinted at their darkened figures.
"John?"
"Aye, dove. I'm here," John said as he walked toward her, stopping well short of touching distance. "Just ran into an old friend out here and lost track of time. We're going to head to the pub to catch up. Ye should go back inside and enjoy yerself."
It was a dismissal, though a soft one. The woman didn't seem happy about it.
"I was hoping you could walk me home tonight, John."
"Yer friends ye came with are still here, aye? I'm sure they'd be glad to walk with ye. I'll see ye around, Missy."
Without waiting for an answer, John turned back around and walked down the alley. Simon didn't speak as he turned fell in step beside him. The other end of the alley spilled out into another street lined with commercial businesses. They paused at the same time and turned toward each other.
In the brighter streetlight, Simon took in the brilliant blue of John's shining eyes. John seemed to be studying him as well, the heat of his gaze resting on his eyes and mouth before dropping to the scars on his neck. Self-consciousness overcame his momentary bravery, and he looked away. The street wasn't as bustling as the area near the dance hall. Several people passed by, but none spared them a glance. When he looked back, John was smiling at him again, and Simon couldn't help giving him a small smile in return.
It felt like committing a crime in broad daylight with the thoughts that ran through his head. He wanted in a way he hadn't allowed himself to want since his brief and doomed fling in SAS with a fellow lieutenant.
When the moment stretched and Simon found himself thinking too deeply on sucking the remnants of peppermint candy off John's tongue, he cleared his throat and jerked his head toward the street.
"Where are we headed, then?"
John cocked his head to the side. He glanced at the buildings around them before meeting Simon's gaze again.
"We could do the pub thing for real," John offered. "Or..."
"Or I could take you home."
The words were heavy with meaning, and the subtle tremor in John's body told him he knew it. He licked his lips, drawing Simon's gaze once more.
"Aye... home sounds good."
Simon blinked. He shouldn't be surprised after everything that happened in the alley, but it all felt a bit like a fever dream—he'd more than half expected John to "wake up" and give him the same kind-but-firm rejection he'd given Missy. Thoughts and words escaped him as John tilted his head to their left, but he easily fell in step with John once more. Simon could almost feel the heat from John's shoulder where it hovered inches from his own. The memory of their bodies pressed together during the dance sent a rush of heat down his spine and pulsing out from his chest.
The commercial district fell behind, and the streets grew dimmer. It was late enough that no one else was out and about in the residential area. A few houses had lights on, but most were dark. As they passed through a particularly dark area, Simon inhaled softly at the brush of a hand against his.
Again.
And again.
Another burst of bravery took hold of Simon, and he reached out with trembling fingers to slide their palms together. John pressed in closer. The citrus scent grew stronger as he gently rested his head on Simon's shoulder.
John slowed his gait, and Simon wondered if it was for the benefit of his leg or if John simply wanted to extend these stolen moments in the dark.
Simon's heart pounded in his chest like a wild animal beating itself against the bars of its cage. He held tightly to that warm hand, savoring the catch of calluses against his skin and the way it perfectly fit with his own.
The light increased as they closed in on another commercial district, and John reluctantly stepped away. A few people passed by as they approached Simon's flat building. Just as he considered pointing out the building to show John where he lived, John turned up the steps leading to the communal doorway.
It felt like a blow to the chest and a kiss on the cheek at the same time.
He followed John up the steps in a daze. At the door, John turned around. He'd pulled his keys from his pocket and played with them as Simon stepped up into the inset door, effectively boxing John in.
He didn't seem to mind, though. He glanced up from the keys to study Simon's face.
"This is me."
Simon hesitated before deciding to be blunt. "Nothing has to happen right now. Or ever. I'm just... I'm thankful for the dance and for your kindness. But no matter what happens, I'd like to see you again. I... I mean I want to keep seeing you."
John's smile bloomed into yet another grin, he shook his head and huffed a little laugh. "Aye. I want that, too. I want tae know ye, Simon. What ye like and dislike. What yer laugh sounds like. Who yer friends and family are."
"The last is easy. My family disowned me, and my friends are all still serving in the British military."
"I thought ye were a soldier. I was in for a few years myself." Simon's mouth fell open, and John laughed. "Ye dinnae have tae look so surprised. I can be vicious when I want to be."
His grin took on an edge of something feral, and Simon's heart took off like a jack rabbit. How he would've loved to see that grin in action.
"But you're not in anymore?" Simon asked instead of kissing John in plain sight of anyone walking by.
"Nae. No' for a couple of years now."
Another shock of surprise rolled through Simon. He'd thought John was in his early twenties, but to have already served a full term and been discharged for years, he was likely in his mid twenties—only a few years younger than Simon.
"I was medically discharged a few months ago," Simon mumbled, as he glanced past John through the frosted glass in the building's front door. "The leg, in case it wasn't obvious. More than ten years in, and it was all gone in a flash."
Literally. Simon closed his eyes against the ghost flash of the explosion that had nearly ended his life. He blew out a long breath and opened his eyes to find John watching him with a soft interest coupled with concern. Simon managed a half smile in return before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his own keys.
He took a step forward, bringing them in close, and reached around to insert his key into the front door.
"I said all that so you'd know I'm serious. I'm glad you feel the same. Otherwise, it would be awkward to live in the same building."
He flicked the lock and opened the door. John stumbled backward over the threshold, and Simon reached out to steady him. The shock on his face was discouraging, but when it transformed into that now-familiar grin followed by a breathless "brilliant," Simon breathed a quiet sigh of relief. John turned around and led the way up the stairs, glancing behind him every few seconds to grin at Simon.
"Whoever gets to their place first, that's where we go, aye?"
"Sound good," Simon agreed with a smile.
For his part, Simon made no secret of ogling John's finer attributes, especially the one at eye level, lovingly highlighted by his well-tailored trousers. John caught him at it and just laughed.
They reached John's floor first. As John unlocked his door, Simon pointed up and to the right.
"I'm on the top floor, last flat on the right."
John nodded and opened the door, turning around to invite Simon into his space with a flourish of his hand. They removed their shoes, and John gave Simon a short tour. The flat was the exact same layout as his own, but the furnishings were all different. The place felt... warmer, somehow, than his own flat. He'd had his place for years, coming back to it for his brief leaves of absence, but it still looked like he'd just moved in. In contrast, John's flat was full of rugs and books and soft furniture and a plethora of lamps. He flicked on a few as they took the tour, and the golden glow served to intensify the homey atmosphere.
When they reached the bedroom, John swallowed. He led the way inside and flicked on another lamp. The bed was large and covered in layer after layer of blankets—wool, knitted, crocheted and arranged in a variety of colors.
"My mam and sisters keep giving me blankets. I've told them I have too many already, but I think it's a joke to them now."
Simon huffed a laugh and wandered over to slide a hand along the soft pile of a blanket knitted with thick blue yarn. It glided under his fingers. He imagined the touch of soft skin and pulled in a slow inhale.
"Gonna offer me a drink, Johnny?"
"Aye, as long as yer not too British to enjoy a bit of Scotch."
"I'll survive."
The tension eased as they moved back into the living space. A radio buzzed with soft jazz music in the background. John poured them both a dram and pulled out a few snacks before leading them to the kitchen table.
And they talked.
And talked.
Simon wondered if he'd ever talked so much his entire life. John asked about his past, about his service and friends, about his current circumstances, and Simon answered him as honestly as he could. In return, John told him about his family, his own years of service, and his recent move. It wasn't until Simon looked through the kitchen window and noticed the sky lightening in the east that he glanced at the clock in surprise.
They'd talked the whole night away.
A smile curved his lips as he listened to John tell a story about his last visit to Scotland. When he finished, Simon stood. John seemed to notice the time as well.
"I suppose I've talked yer ear off enough for one night, aye?"
Simon hummed and reached for John's hand. John stood as well, his expression curious and open. The sleepless night hadn't dimmed his beauty. In fact, the pale morning light washed him in an ethereal glow, giving him an almost angelic look. His eyes flared as Simon wrapped his hand around his waist and picked up his hand. The radio swelled with an upbeat rock melody Simon didn't recognize, but it didn't matter.
Nothing mattered but the way John eased into his space, grasped greedily at his waist, and took Simon's hand to pull them as close as they'd been before being interrupted in the alley. Simon leaned forward, and their cheeks met as John began to lead them in a slow dance at odds with the jaunty tune. Words percolated through his haze of joy and contentment, and a wide smile stretched over Simon's lips at the familiarity of the sentiment.
Something tells me I'm into something good.
He pulled back just enough to press his lips to John's cheek. Hot breath skimmed over his jaw before he felt John's lips on his skin as well, skimming over a day's worth of stubble.
Heat surged. The song played on, but they moved to their own rhythm.
Something tells me I'm into something good.
They drew back in increments, lips dragging over skin, teeth nipping at jawlines. The corners of their mouths touched, and Simon exhaled, the anticipation swirling in his gut and rushing over his skin in a burst of goosebumps. Their movements dwindled to vague swaying, and Simon lifted his hand from John's shoulder to cup his jaw. He pulled back a millimeter more.
Their lips met in a soft, wet glide. The remains whisky and peppermint overwhelmed Simon's senses, and he deepened the kiss, daring to lick over John's lips to taste those elusive flavors for himself. With another burst of trembling breath, John opened up to him, all heat and urgency, and Simon fell.
Enamored. Beguiled. Devoted.
It was a beginning. And it was as sweet as he'd always dreamed it would be.
Quick WIP Wed for a "Simon's family lives and he retires early" AU I'm cooking:
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"In that case. I'm John, and you are...?"
Simon debated keeping his name to himself, but... what did he care anymore? He'd been out of the military for more than five years, and likely these two had never heard of him. Perhaps they'd been around to see his skull-mask-wearing alter ego, who'd stayed in just long enough to finish out his contract and get an honorable discharge, but they wouldn't know his name. He reached over and shook MacTavish's hand.
"Simon Riley. I worked with... Price... for..."
Simon trailed off as MacTavish's eyes widened. "Wait... Riley? Really?"
Garrick leaned in, his eyes just as wide, and whispered, "Ghost? You're the Ghost?"
"Christ," Simon said with a huff of shocked laughter, his heart jumping to his throat. "What has Price been tellin' you all? And don't call me by that name. I left it behind for a reason."
My brain won't stop thinking about retiree vigilantes Ghost and Soap: They're just that kind older couple down the street. Nothing to see here!
Except all the locals know exactly who to go to if someone is giving them or their friends/family trouble. They know the retaliation will be swift, sometimes even brutal depending on the infraction. If the law/justice system fails, people know it's not the end. They have someone to look out for them.
And maybe the cops suspect. Maybe they try to put them under surveillance. But Soap and Ghost (and Laswell) are too good for amateurs.
So they keep waving and smiling and taking long walks hand in hand by day.
But at night, they gear and mask up to terrorize the loan sharks and rapists and abusers. Soap lets Ghost handle the domestic violence cases, while he prefers to enact explosive property damage on predatory businesses.
Maybe there's a big job, and they have to call in Price and Gaz for help. Price, who's been putting off his own retirement, finally puts in his papers the next week and moves to a house nearby. Gaz follows a few years later...
Rated M, getting together, all the Christmas feels
...
"You should come to Scotland with me."
The words flew out of Soap's mouth before he could think better of them. But even as Ghost froze, his hand outstretched to place the spotless gun part on the table, Soap realized he didn't regret the impulse.
He just wished he'd led up to it better.
It took Ghost a full five seconds before he stuttered into motion again. He set the piece down before looking up at Soap. His eyes were dull and hard as river stones in sockets shadowed by the harsh overhead light, and Soap finally felt the flicker of apprehension that should have come when the words first left his mouth.
"Not appropriate, Sergeant," Ghost growled.
His tone was harsh. Mean.
Hurt?
Ever the idiot adrenaline junkie, Soap pushed harder. Dug deeper.
"What? To share a rented flat for a week?"
Ghost scoffed.
"D'ye think I'm joking? I'm no'. We've shared a bed before, Ghost. What's a whole flat between mates?"
Ghost froze again—just for a split second—before his eyes and tone softened the tiniest bit...
The snow is still coming down in a blinding fury as the Ghost of the Hill carries Prince John into the small cabin in the woods. They lost their pursuers in the white-out blizzard hours ago, and only Ghost's intimate knowledge of Credenhill Forest has led them to this meager shelter from the bitter cold.
He gently sets the prince down on the bare wood floor and strides to the icy hearth, throwing dry wood from the nearby pile onto the stone and reaching for the heat that lives within him to produce a flame. Sparks leap from his fingertips. The wood bursts into an orange glow.
When he's sure the flame has caught, he turns to his charge and begins stripping him of his sopping, snow-laden clothes. Prince John shudders violently in the growing amber light, and his lack of fight concerns Ghost more than even the blue tinge to his lips. Wet layers fall to the floor, revealing damp, goose-pimpled skin. Ghost carries John to the hearth, laying him as close as he dares to the flames before removing his own wet clothing. As he strips, his gaze catches on the cedar wardrobe in the corner, and his luck holds as he opens the door to find a pile of dry blankets.
"Gh-gh-ghost?"
"Right here," Ghost replies as he returns with the blankets and lays one on the floor before sitting down to gather the naked prince in his arms.
John's skin is cold as ice. Ghost makes a show of grumbling, but fear pricks at his heart as he pulls John further into his lap, wraps the rest of the blankets around them both, and begins rubbing his hands over John's arms and back.
"By the L-Lady of the Hill, how are ye so b-bloody w-warm?"
"The gift of the elements, remember?"
As he speaks, he ups the temperature of his hands, pressing them into the still trembling back of the man he's sworn to protect with his life. He hadn't known the prince then, the vow coerced from him by John's father, the previous king, instead of freely given. But as Ghost came to know the headstrong yet soft-hearted prince, it quickly became the most important of his vows.
That is to say, it became a matter of devotion rather than obligation.
Luckily, John doesn't know that.
Ghost looks down to find John already looking up at him. There's awe and wonder in his gaze, and it's that moment Ghost realizes he also removed his mask in his haste. He swallows, not daring to read into the softness of those sky-blue eyes.
"So now you've seen me, what do you think? Am I as ugly as you supposed?"
It's a reversal of their running joke, one John has become more pressing about the longer they spend in one another's company. Since the assassination of John's father and the bitter civil war over the line of succession between John and his stepbrother Phillip, Ghost has been John's shadow, trailing after him to every meeting, every hunting party, and every journey outside the castle grounds.
This time, his mage intuition gave him enough warning to anticipate the bandits that ambushed the prince's carriage. He succeeded in getting John safely away, but he fears what such an attack will mean if they don't return to the palace soon.
"Quite the opposite," John murmurs, a smirk cutting across his trembling lips.
Ghost's gaze drops to the sharp mouth that has taunted him for years. The smirk fades, and when Ghost flicks his gaze back up, John is watching him with an odd expression.
The touch of cold fingertips to his cheek makes him jump.
John's smile returns. "Is the b-big b-b-bad Ghost scared of me?" he asks, somehow finding the energy to tease despite his chattering teeth.
The moment is far too intimate for what they are to one another—just a soon-to-be monarch and his faithful mage guardian who is more dead than alive. But Ghost revels in the way John's attention is fully focused on him, in the way his fingers skate over the scar that cuts through Ghost's cheek, in the way their breath mingles as they lean closer.
"Sorry to tell you, Johnny, but you don't scare me," Ghost murmurs.
"N-not even a little?"
"Nope."
"Ye dinnae scare me either, Ghost of the Hill."
The kiss is softer than anything Ghost deserves. Their mouths barely touch—just a brush of lips before John pulls back—but something monumental shifts in Ghost's chest at the innocent touch.
"Always knew you were a bit daft," he whispers, letting his mouth turn up in a half smile to soften the words.
John just graces him with a well-pleased smile and lays his head on Ghost's shoulder. His shivering has died down, and when his breathing becomes a soft, even refrain, Ghost slowly lays him down on the blankets and extracts himself to spread their clothes out to dry. Tomorrow, they'll need to find a way back to the castle and hope that Captain of the Guard Price has been able to hold off any possible insurrections.
Ghost glances over at the body huddled under the blankets and lets out a soft sigh. His mouth still tingles from where their lips brushed, and he's not sure if he wants John to remember the moment or forget it in the harsh light of day.
Despite all his misgivings, he crawls under the blankets again, determined to make the most of this rare moment of peace.
"Happy Winternight, Ghost," Johnny murmurs as he presses against Ghost from chest to knees.
Ghost answers with the traditional reply. "May your hearth fires burn brightly until the spring returns."
Magical fire might live within him, but the fire of passion—of righteousness—that burns in Johnny's chest is far more potent than anything Ghost could conjure. He wraps his arms around Johnny's shoulders, keeping him close, and dreams of a life where the soft brush of lips could be more than a mistake made in the darkness. More than something to be treasured but never repeated.
The snow falls. The prince sleeps. And the Ghost keeps watch as he quietly, slowly tucks the landslide of yearning back under the hard shell around his heart.
