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Ghost never took off his mask.
That’s a fact Soap had resigned himself to long ago.
It bothered him a little bit, Ghost being so insistent on not showing his face. He tried his damndest to not let it get to him, and sometimes he was successful…. But other times, it ate away at him. He’d catch glimpses sometimes. Small looks. They were rare moments of his curiosity being itched; when Ghost would slide the bottom of his mask up to take a drink off his bourbon or take a heavy pull off a cigarette. Soap would catch a glimpse of his strong jaw, pink lips— the tip of his nose that had been broken one too many times. He’d see a few scars that disappeared under the fabric of the mask, trailing up his cheek. One that jutted across his top lip.
Soap wondered what it tasted like.
He knew the feelings he had for his Lieutenant had shifted far from professional. He wasn’t sure exactly when that change happened— somewhere between Ghost’s smooth voice talking him through the hellscape that was escaping Las Almas and their hunt for Makarov. Their flirty banter became a little more personal, more real. At least to Soap.
And one night, when the two of them got a little too drunk together, Ghost a bit more loose on his inhibitions, he had shoved his mask up to his nose and left it there even when he didn’t have the glass of his drink hiding his features. Soap got a good, long look at the lower half of his face. Long enough to memorize, even in his inebriated haze, and sketch down the next morning in his journal next to the portraits he already drew of the rest of the team. Not to say he hadn’t drawn Ghost’s mask countless times already, which he had.
That was the first time he saw and heard “Johnny” coming from Ghost’s lips uninhibited from fabric. Clear as day.
It was interesting witnessing the little crush Soap had blossomed into unabashed love from a single word. From nothing but hearing and seeing his name come from Ghost without being hidden. Because that’s exactly what happened. One second, he was sitting and laughing at Ghost’s awful, dry and dark jokes… The next, a warmth had spread through his chest completely unrelated to the cheap Scotch he had been nursing.
With one single word, one single fond expression of the name only Ghost was allowed to call him, he had fallen. And fell hard. It had simultaneously shaken him to his core, but also filled him with such a deep sense of peace. However, dread was no stranger in the mix. They did dangerous work. All of them, the 1-4-1, had their fair share of injuries— both minor and serious. Hospital stays were not out of the norm for them, and Soap had lost count long ago of how many stitches the group of them had to have. The fear of losing Ghost had gone from a want to a need in mere seconds. It almost overshadowed the terror of Ghost finding out that Soap loved him.
Almost.
Ghost was strong, smart, and unwavering. Stubborn as all get out, but so was Soap, so he couldn’t fault him on that. Ghost wouldn’t go down without a fight, not after everything he had been through (with Soap’s limited knowledge of his past), and that brought minor comfort to his worry of Ghost dying.
But the idea of confessing his feelings ? Of telling the Simon “Ghost” Riley— one of the most feared men in the military— that he loved him ?
Fuck no.
Ghost entertained his flirting, but he was difficult to read. He was far from the first man Soap had interest in, but was the first for Soap to have such an intense reaction to. Everything about him weaved its way through Soap’s being. There were instances where he hoped that, perhaps, Ghost may feel the same way. Little moments he caught Ghost treating him in ways he didn’t treat the others. Subtle touches, some seemingly accidental, across his back, shoulder, leg. The brush of his fingers against Johnny’s when he was grabbing something from him. The way his voice would soften to a fond tone he’d never heard Ghost use on anyone else. Sitting next to Johnny in the mess hall instead of hiding out in his room. Entertaining Johnny when he wanted to go to a shitty dive bar and get drunk.
He’d caught the curious looks of people who had known Ghost for longer than he had when those changes started taking place. No one had the balls to say anything, of course, because Ghost was just as ruthless, terrifying, and bordering on cold as he would be normally.
Johnny was just the one exception to that rule.
Most of the time.
They’d been on base for a while at this point, the longest stretch yet they had between missions. There were a few smaller ones some of the others were getting sent out on, nothing too difficult. Nothing that would require the likes of the 1-4-1 at least. Johnny was getting restless, being stuck on base for this long. He couldn’t have been the only one, he was sure he wasn’t alone in having the anxiety building for the next deployment— but he was surprised to find out Ghost seemed fairly content in just mulling about on base and minding his own business. His shoulders were a little less tense, he didn’t go quite as hard on training new recruits as he would have otherwise. Johnny caught more and more glimpses of the bottom half of his face, mask rolled up to eat or drink or take a heavy pull off a cigarette.
Ghost would sit with him when he would aimlessly flip through channels on the shitty tv in the rec hall— Johnny only stopping when he caught the telltale tilt of Ghost’s head when he saw something that interested him. Or he would hang out in the small kitchenette while Johnny fussed about, looking for a snack in between scheduled meal times, one hand pressing into the small of Johnny’s back when he would reach up to grab something off the top shelf that Johnny couldn’t reach. Sometimes, he’d catch Ghost slinking into the gym just minutes after him— usually getting too quickly caught up in his own work out for Johnny to think it was to be near him, but it still didn’t stop his wandering eyes trying to catch glimpses of Ghost as much as he could.
Though he’d almost always stop to watch Johnny spar with whoever was willing. Gaz didn’t like sparring with him very much, usually preferring to challenge Johnny with a foot race, but Roach tended to step up to the plate pretty often. Roach and Ghost had known each other for a long time— Johnny had learned they met years ago in basic training— so Johnny saw a lot of their unique fighting styles in each other. Roach was pretty similar in height to Ghost, just with a slimmer, but still incredibly fit build. This meant Johnny couldn’t quite use Roach’s weight as an advantage to himself like he occasionally succeeded with Ghost.
And when their fights were over, Ghost would give them both run downs of where they could improve. Weak spots. Moments of brief mistakes, or hesitations. Missed openings that could have proved a victory for one or the other had they noticed.
It didn’t take long until Soap and Roach’s spars ended up in a stalemate, left in a tie more often than not.
Soap took a heavy swig off his glass, mentally following the burn of the scotch as it crossed his tongue and down his throat. He’d had too much time to think lately, ruminating over everything his mind decided to bring up. Despite being a light sleeper as a rule, he never usually had difficulties falling asleep— but he’d found himself tossing and turning into the early hours of the morning this past week. It was starting to catch him, the exhaustion creeping up into the muscles on the back of his neck and down his chest. He felt heavy, sluggish, weighed down by what now felt like perpetual tiredness and his own emotions.
He and Ghost had known each other for a few years now, and had immediately fallen into a comfortable dynamic that worked well for the both of them when Soap joined the 1-4-1. They both had their own respective skillsets outside of being snipers, and complemented each other’s work habits nicely. They were certainly a force to be reckoned with.
Unfortunately, there were no rules or skills or recommendations on how to deal with being in love with your superior officer outside of Just Don’t Do It, Are You Crazy!?
So he dealt with it in the same way every outstanding member of special forces dealt with difficult situations: getting a little too drunk on a Friday evening. He’d gone out on his own, but the small bar was not far from base, so there were a few other men and women mulling about that he recognized. One of them had waved an excited hand at him, trying to get him to join them, but he had just smiled and shook his head apologetically.
A bit of time passed, Soap managing a poor attempt at distracting himself through the burn of his cheap scotch. He was rotating his drink back and forth in his hands, watching the dark colored liquid swirl around in the cup, when a firm hand clapped on to his shoulder. He glanced up, then let a little smile cross over his face at the familiar face.
Roach settled into the seat next to him, remaining silent aside from giving the bartender his order. Soap continued rolling his glass between his palms, warming the cool of the glass against his skin.
“So.” Roach finally spoke after sniffing at his own drink suspiciously before sipping at it. He made a face, then sat it down. “You doing alright?”
“Aye. Why do you ask?”
“Walls are thin, mate. I can hear you awake at the crack of dawn. Normally you’re snoring so loud I have to bang on the wall to get you to shut up.”
“I’m not that loud!”
“You don’t think it’s a little suspicious you’re the only non-officer on base without a roommate?”
“Just thought maybe I got special privileges for being everyone’s favorite Sergeant.”
“Don’t let Garrick hear you say that. Already have to deal with him kissing ass to Price, don’t wanna hear him do it to everyone else, too.”
They shared a laugh, but the noise quickly died on Soap's lips.
“What’s going on, Soap?” Roach asked, his voice soft. Soap took a deep breath, feeling his vision beginning to go a little wobbly around the edges.
“Roach, I—“ He huffed, peeking over their shoulders to see how close they were to others. Far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to hear anything substation from their conversation, but he dropped his voice to a more quiet tone anyway. “It’s… complicated.”
“How complicated?”
“Very.”
“We haven’t been on a mission in weeks. You’ve never shied away from talking about nightmares before, so it’s not that. You aren’t sleeping, and I know that’s not the first scotch you’ve had tonight. Or the second. Something is on your mind.” Roach paused, studying Soap for a moment. “Or some one.”
Soap tried, tried, tried to not let his gaze flicker from his drink to Roach at the inflection. But he failed.
And Roach caught it.
He sighed. No point in denying it now. He could trust Roach, trust him to not go spewing Soap’s secrets everywhere, but it still was difficult confirming his suspicions. “Aye.”
Roach nodded, leaning back in his chair, looking at Soap with a smidge more understanding than he was expecting.
Soap just stared at him for a minute, the boozy haze fully settling over his mind. “You're not gonna ask who ?” He blurted, not having it in him to feel embarrassed from the outburst. Roach chuckled.
“Hate to tell you, mate, I don’t have to ask who.” He replied, obviously fighting a smile that threatened at the corner of his lips. Soap scowled back at him, doing his best to pretend the flush that crept up on his cheeks was from the scotch and not an actual blush.
“It’s just a dumb crush,” Soap muttered, turning to glare a hole into the table.
“I also look at my crush like they hung the bloody moon and solved all of my life’s problems.”
“I don’t—“ A raised eyebrow from Roach cut his words off quicker than he could get them out. “Fine. Maybe I’m not subtle about it. Doesn’t mean I need you running your trap around base.”
“I don’t. Wouldn’t. I just know you well.” He tilted his glass towards Soap before lifting it back to his mouth. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” He sighed, leaning back on the stool. “But I think that’s the problem. Nothing happened. Nothing’s changed. We’ve known each other for how long now? I feel like I barely know anything about him. I get my hopes up and then… It goes nowhere. Can’t imagine he’s that dense he doesn’t see it. He doesn’t stop anything but he also doesn’t… I don’t know. I don’t even know what he look s like. I joke with him about the mask and all but it’s not always… Jokes.”
“I wouldn’t take it personally, Soap. There’s not many people out there that have seen his face in the past decade.”
“Have you ?”
“Do you really want me to answer that, mate?”
“No. Yes.”
Roach studied him for a moment, then sighed. “He’s not exactly shy about taking a break from the mask when we’re alone. Before you get your knickers in a twist— I’m the only person he’s still in touch with before… Everything. Before the mask. Not exactly much reason to stay hidden.”
“But I am?”
“I can’t speak for him, Soap. Nor will I. He’s stubborn. Everyone knows that. You said yourself you joke around with him a lot… Maybe he doesn’t know it’s not all jokes?”
“If he did know, do you think it would change anything?”
“Dunno. Maybe it would, maybe it would. But if it doesn’t, I wouldn’t take it personally.”
The two of them sat together for the better half of an hour, the conversation eventually dissipating from Ghost to a myriad of other topics. Despite the unexpected but welcomed company from Roach, Soap did not feel any better after their talk. Worse, in fact. He knew it wasn’t necessarily logical, and was probably a conversation better left when he wasn’t doing a poor attempt to drink his childish worries away. At least, he thought they were childish. Probably would say the same if someone had come to him with the same problems. He was always harder on himself than he honestly needed to be, covering up his insecurities with the sunniest disposition he could drag up. Kept the mindset of “fake it till you make it” and ran with it. It helped.
Sometimes.
—
Ghost felt like he was going absolutely mental.
He wasn’t the type to find comfort in dormancy. He, obviously, was well versed in staying still when needed— considering he was a sniper for Christ’s sake— but lazing about the base in between training new recruits and the obscene amount of time he spends at the gym is not his definition of a good time. To make matters worse, the fucking heat went out on base two days ago, which means there’s constant bitching about the icy chill that’s settled over the buildings.
It was late at night— well, technically early in the morning, around 2am— day three into the technicians struggling with whatever the hell was wrong with the HVAC when Ghost found himself slipping into the tiny den and kitchenette that served as the base’s goof off space. He couldn’t sleep, but the cold had nothing to do with that. It was just one of those nights.
He had many of those.
Now, he was hell bent on making himself a tea, something to warm the frigid air that’s seeped into his bones.
And if a splash of the cheap bourbon he kept stashed in his room made it into his cup… Well, that was no one’s business but his own.
Considering the late hour, it was an understandable shock to see a massive bundle of blankets in a human shaped pile on the old, worn down couch perched in the main area of the room. Ghost scowled under his mask, partially irritated at the company and partially irritated at the scolding he was about to have to lay down on whoever snuck out of their barracks to come in here— until he noticed a familiar mohawk sticking out from under the pile.
“ Soap? ”
His head poked out further from the blankets, nose and cheeks rosey from the cold.
“Evening, L.t. What’re you doing up?”
“Could ask the same of you, Sergeant.”
The two of them hadn’t had much alone time recently. Not that Ghost was keeping track, of course, nor did he have any reason to be alone with the other man— but Johnny’s normally bright and positive disposition had seemed a bit dampened lately. Ghost wasn’t exactly sure why, and it wasn’t ridiculously noticeable to others. He was just thoroughly well versed in the Scot’s mannerisms. His body language. His facial expressions. The little pout he sported when he was intently focused on something, or being a little brat towards Ghost. But there had been a faraway look in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. A split second of coming back into himself before responding to whatever it was in his traditional Yep-That’s-My-Johnny way.
There had been an almost imperceptible… sadness that seemed to like the planes of his face and shoulders. Almost visible to Ghost. Was he getting antsy, being stuck on base instead of feeling useful, like Ghost was? Had he been in recent contact with family? The last time something like this happened, it was a more noticeable cloud that hung over Johnny— one that others on base did notice. So Ghost hadn’t hesitated to pull him aside and ask what was wrong. Turns out, he had an elderly grandmother that wasn’t doing well, and with a mission looming just days away there was no way he could visit.
Two days after they returned from their assignment, Johnny had gotten the call that she had passed, and Ghost was front and center ready to comfort him.
And maybe pulled some strings so he could see his family for a couple weeks.
The base was uncomfortably quiet during that time. Not that the rest of the squad and other soldiers didn’t continue as normal, but Ghost would be a liar if he said he didn’t miss the consistent and comforting chatter his little shadow brought him.
With their line of work, the terrors that they willingly faced themselves, Ghost had set a goal for himself to not let the humanity Johnny had slip away from him. And if that resulted in Ghost being a bit grumpy because he didn’t have his “ Emotional Support Sergeant”— As Gaz once called Johnny, earning him a glare from Ghost— then so be it.
As long as he lived, Ghost wouldn’t let anything tamper out the light that came so naturally to Johnny.
“Couldn’t sleep. It’s bloody fuckin baltic in here.”
“Why aren’t you in your room?”
“Everyone else has a bunk mate they can snuggle up with.” Johnny grumbled, burrowing himself further into the blankets. Ghost felt a pang of…. something he didn’t quite want to admit yet shoot through his chest. “It’s always warmer in here.”
“Where’d you get all those blankets?”
“Can’t give out all my secrets, Lieutenant.” Ghost rolled his eyes.
“Think I know most of them at this point, Johnny.”
He chuckled, fixing Ghost with an interesting stare. “Not quite.”
Ghost stood, studying him for a moment, then gestured for Johnny to follow him, turning back towards the door.
“Follow me.”
“Where we going?” He asked, immediately jumping up— then promptly stumbling over the cloth when it caught at his feet. Ghost bit back a laugh at seeing the normally almost graceful man struggling.
“I think I’ve got a little something that might warm you up, Sergeant.”
Twenty minutes later, Ghost sat with his back against the wall at the head of his stiff bed, socked feet splayed out in front of him. Johnny was on the floor, his own back pressed to the side of Ghost’s bed, admiring the bottle of scotch that Ghost definitely didn’t have stashed just for Johnny. It was definitely not something he picked up last time he grabbed himself a new bottle of bourbon.
And the twinkle in Johnny’s eyes when Ghost pulled it out to give to him definitely didn’t give Ghost a swell of pride and affection.
“Kinda romantic, eh, L.t.?” He spoke after they sat in a comfortable silence for a while, Ghost rolling a swig of whiskey around his tongue.
“This your idea of romance, Johnny?”
“Sure. Why not?” Johnny shrugged, taking a small sip out of his own bottle. Ghost shrugged himself up, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed to press into the floor. He leaned down, grabbing one of the blankets Johnny had acquired— seriously, where did he get these?— and wrapping it around his own shoulders.
And Johnny definitely did not look heart-achingly adorable, sitting in Ghost’s room for the first time. Ghost noted he had two pairs of socks on, thick sweatpants, and this was probably the first time he had seen the Sergeant in anything other than a long sleeved shirt. He was lucky to see the man wearing a jacket in the cold weather, so he knew Johnny had to be absolutely miserable to be piling layers on to himself like he was. Ghost was the opposite— almost always wearing at bare minimum a dense hoodie over his shirt— he was the type to run cold while Johnny’s skin always burned hot.
He noticed that long ago, when the first of their “accidental” touches started. The temperature of Johnny’s skin would almost burn through Ghost’s gloves. And in the rare moments, like now, when Ghost didn’t have his trademark skeleton-fingered gloves on, he’d sneak a brush of bare skin across Johnny’s own just to feel.
Once, they were both at the gym— Ghost wearing one of his more casual balaclavas instead of the full hardshell— Johnny had reached over and adjusted the fabric on the back of his neck back into place.
He could still feel the memory of that touch to this day.
“This is kinda nice.” Johnny spoke again, his voice undeniably pleased.
“That so?” Ghost responded, tilting his head down to look at the Sergeant.
“Mmhm. I like spending time with you.” He said confidently, throwing his head back to press against the bed, looking up at Ghost.
He tried to squash down the feeling of pride and affirmation that threatened to swallow him.
It didn’t work.
His eyes trailed down the line of Johnny’s throat, down to where his shirt started and the beginnings of the bundle of blankets and quilts began.
“We spend time together frequently, Johnny.”
“Not like this.” He sighed, leaning his head against the side of Ghost’s thigh. The motion sent a spike of heat and comfort up from the point of contact all the way up to Ghost’s chest. While he hadn’t necessarily been shy on small, casual, indulgent touches when it came to Johnny, he still wasn’t sure if it was him or the booze loosening his inhibitions that caused him to reach his hand up and begin carding it through Johnny’s hair.
The little satisfied hum that left the other man made it very clear to Ghost he was doing it for himself.
“Ghost?” Johnny asked.
“Hmm?”
“Why don’t you trust me?”
Ghost glanced down at him, shocked. Though he wasn’t looking at him directly— in fact, wasn’t looking at him at all anymore, instead sharing down at the bottle of scotch he was rolling between his palms, there was still a noticeable look of sadness across Johnny’s features.
“What are you going on about?”
Johnny sighed, seeming to steele himself against a decision, then took a deep breath— letting it out slowly.
“Promise you won’t get upset?”
“Have you done anything to upset me?”
“No…” He said, the word coming out more like a question than a confirmation.
“Out with it.”
“A few weeks ago, I went out to that dingy bar that’s a few miles outside the base. Roach was there, and he sat with me and we drank and talked. I had originally just wanted to be alone— been going a little loopy just sitting at the base like a lump—“ Ghost nodded sympathetically at that, but didn’t speak, letting Johnny continue. “Kinda in my head about a few things. We talked for a while, and I was hoping it would clear my head a bit… But it didn’t.”
“What’s been on your mind?” Ghost asked, keeping his voice soft and open. Johnny wasn’t normally the type to not speak what was on his mind, but he didn’t exactly pour his heart out and expose his deepest feelings. He was good at keeping open while not seeming vulnerable.
Ghost wasn’t. He didn’t know how to do that. So ninety percent of his thoughts stayed closed off… to almost everyone. The one person that he usually never bothered with hiding from was Roach, considering Roach had been there from the very beginning. Before Ghost even existed. Before Simon was, on the books, as good as dead.
To say he felt happy when—after he had already noticed the growing fondness he felt towards Johnny— Roach and Johnny seemed to hit it off immediately… would be an understatement.
Though it was kind of funny both of the men he was closest to were Sergeants. He didn’t even mind Gaz that much, either. The man was funny, skilled, and while there was the initial hesitation he saw from everyone when they first met The Ghost , Gaz had also quickly become noticeably comfortable around the Lieutenant.
One day, he’d have to thank Price for somehow managing to find just the right people to have on a team with Ghost.
They all clicked together like pieces of a puzzle carved from a laser's edge.
And a piece of Johnny had decidedly been carved directly into Ghost’s core, like he always belonged. Like he was always meant to be there.
“It’s just—“ Johnny began, breaking Ghost from his internal rambling. “I know I fuck around with you about… the mask…” He trailed off. Normally, when the conversation of Ghost’s choice of anonymity was brought up, there was a playful air to it. One where Ghost would just roll his eyes, or respond back with some shitty joke about Johnny being desperate.
This was different.
“What does that have to do with me trusting you?” He asked. The question wasn’t aggressive, nor accusatory. In fact, it almost came off as sad. The topic of trust came up a lot with what they did, but he had never given Johnny a reason to believe that he didn’t trust him. What had he done to make him think that he didn’t?
And why the fuck did it send a painful feeling of hurt through his nerves? Of panic? Rejection ?
“It’s… Stupid. I shouldn’t take it so personally, I know. But Roach just said a few things— and don’t worry, he didn’t say much that I didn’t already know or spoil all of your dark mystery, so don’t get mad at him. I know you two have known each other for a very long time. But I like to think you and I…”
“…We?” Simon prompted, the hand not now softly stroking the back of Johnny’s neck in soothing circles balled up with a fistful of the thin blanket across his mattress.
“We’ve been through a lot together, you know?” He continued, his Scottish accent growing even thicker with what Ghost figured was nervousness.
Johnny was not the type of man to be nervous.
And neither was Ghost.
But now he was.
He didn’t want to lose… whatever he had with Johnny. As much as he attempted to prevent himself from feeling what he knew he did towards the man… The fear of not having his bright eyes shining towards Ghost in the way they seemed to only do towards Ghost was gut wrenching.
“And, listen. I know you and Roach have, too. Perhaps I shouldn’t compare the two of us. But I can’t help it. I want you to trust me like you trust him. I want to be someone you are comfortable with, and feel… Safe with. I want you to trust me like I trust you. ” He mumbled the last sentence, taking another drink directly out of the bottle.
Ghost didn’t miss the double meaning in it, either.
Trust.
I want you to trust me like I trust you.
Johnny… Ghost thought to himself. I do. I do. You have no idea, do you, you daft man?
“You sound a little jealous there, Sergeant.” He said instead, willing his voice to stay even.
Thankful that he didn’t have the ability to get anything else out in that moment when a warm pink blush spread across the already tanned skin on the back of Johnny’s neck, right under Ghost’s fingertips.
“Maybe a little.” He laughed. “Don’t think I can beat Roach in a ‘Ghost’s-Favorite-Sergeant’ contest. Like to think I’m ahead of Gaz, at least.”
Ghost rolled his eyes. He loved Roach, he truly did, but not… the same way he loved Johnny.
“Roach has been there for me through a lot. More than I could ever ask from anyone. And he knows I’d do the same for him. But so have you, Johnny. Just because we’ve been through different things together… It doesn’t negate all you’ve done for me.” Ghost murmured, shocked by his own honesty. But he couldn’t find it in him to stop talking. To stop pouring his heart out. Anything to soothe the heartbroken look off Johnny’s face. “I know we hadn’t known each other for long, but Las Almas was one of the worst days of my life. Thinking we lost you. Thinking I lost you. The fear I felt every time you stopped talking over comms to run or hide… Hadn’t felt that nervous in a long time.”
“So you do like me.”
It was Ghost’s turn to laugh, recalling one of their conversations when he had walked Johnny through those blood soaked streets many moons ago.
“A little too much, I’m afraid.”
Johnny finally looked back up at him, shooting him a dazzling smile that damn near knocked the breath out of his chest. It was almost too much, seeing that wide grin and bright eyes— peering through his eyelashes with the side of his face still squished against Ghost’s thigh. It made his whole body thrum with energy, both from his own confusing emotions and the sheer look of adoration that was pouring from Johnny’s face.
“C’mere.” Ghost gestured, scooting over a tad and tapping his hand on the space next to him. Johnny scrambled up, sitting the bottle on the floor after securing the lid back on, and sat down directly next to him— his thigh flush against Ghost’s.
They studied each other for a few heart beats. Johnny’s eyes unmistakably flickered down to Ghost’s still exposed mouth, and that gave him all the confirmation he needed. Sure, they’d both been drinking, but only enough for Ghost’s shoulders to loosen up a bit. He’d set his own bottle down on his tiny bedside table long ago. And he was sure that the flush across Johnny’s face wasn’t from being overly inebriated. He’d seen Johnny absolutely plastered beyond belief before, and other than becoming significantly more loose lipped than he already was, he never did anything particularly stupid.
Not that it ever took more than a drink or two for Soap to start running his mouth about whatever he had been thinking about.
But there was that one time, after returning from a particularly hard mission, Ghost had slinked into the small rec area in his usual search of tea and found a massive pile of drunk Soap, Roach, and Gaz piled up on a couch way too small for three grown men laying half prone on each other— all equally passed out with some cheesy romcom on the tv.
He snuck a quick look at the bottle of scotch on the floor, only to verify Johnny hadn’t drunk enough to truly inhibit his own actions.
Then back at Johnny.
Ghost understood where he was coming from. Couldn’t blame him for it one bit. If Johnny himself had chosen to hide his face from the world, and continued to hide it despite how much the two of them had suffered through together, he’d probably feel the same way. Curious. Hurt.
Though the idea of Johnny hiding his insatiably perfect face from the world was just sinful. He didn’t necessarily mind the idea of being the only one lucky enough to be privy to the sharp curve of his jaw, the unique scar gracing his chin, the way his cheeks lifted when he directed his beautiful smile at whoever had been chosen by their deity of choice to be blessed enough to receive.
The way Johnny looked at him most of the time, however, made Ghost feel like he wasn’t wearing the mask at all. There were more times than Ghost cared to admit he had to twitch his nose or mouth to be sure he could still feel the fabric covering his features. The man occasionally seemed to stare right through it, like some fucking superhero with x-ray vision.
In fact, he was looking at Ghost in that exact way right now. Nevermind the fact half of Ghost’s mask was rolled up over his mouth already, but the hard shell portion may not have even existed.
Ghost took a deep breath, if only to steady himself, and started pushing the mask off.
Johnny’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the wrist. Ghost paused and fixed him with a confused stare.
“I-“ Johnny began, then cut himself off, swallowing thickly. “Ghost…”
“I thought this is what you wanted?”
“Well, yes, but. I didn’t… Say what I said to guilt you. I shouldn’t have said it at all. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel obligated to expose yourself just because I have some weird fucking complex. It’s not your fault.” He said, averting his eyes from Ghost’s stare… but he didn’t drop his hand. Two of his fingers were pressed into the sliver of Ghost’s wrist exposed from his sleeve, and the warmth shot scorching heat up Ghost’s arm and into his chest.
“Johnny.” He responded, his name coming out far more intimate than it ever had prior but also… Exactly the way it should have. “You didn’t guilt me. I want to do this. I trust you. I trust you.” Ghost stressed the last words, hoping the meaning of them came out clearly. In the same way Johnny’s previously had.
Johnny worried his bottom lip between two teeth, still not meeting Ghost’s eyes. He brought his free hand up, the one not trapped by Johnny’s grip, and grabbed his chin— lifting it to meet Ghost’s gaze.
He wasn’t sure if that was his heartbeat he felt fluttering against his fingers or Johnny’s, but either way it was pounding.
“I want to, Johnny. I want to show you.” Ghost assured again. After a few moments, Johnny eventually nodded, and slowly dropped his hand from Ghost’s wrist.
But made no move to separate himself from Ghost’s touch on his face.
Johnny’s eyes didn’t leave his, even for the brief second he was sightless from the fabric sliding over them— the bright blue of them showing nothing but pure trust and openness. Vulnerability, not in a weakened way… But in the same way a cat will roll over to expose its belly when it feels comfortable around someone.
There was something else in there, too. Something Ghost had come to realize about his own feelings towards the Sergeant. Something that came so easy, like breathing. Something he was terrified to allow himself the joy of.
Something he couldn’t hide anymore.
And now, it felt stupid to even hide it in the first place. Who was he to deny himself, after all the horrors he had been forced— and also willingly— been exposed to, something so pure as this?
Johnny’s eyes stayed locked in place, widening slightly. He reached out with both hands now, pressing into either side of Ghost’s face. His thumbs ran across the delicate skin just under Ghost’s water line, so softly— like the whisper of a breath instead of an actual physical touch. He knew his makeup was probably smudged to high hell at this point, spotty and blotchy, but the look on Johnny’s face washed away any self conscious concerns he may have had.
Then Johnny’s gaze began trailing down, and Ghost’s grip on his chin suddenly became a motion to ground his own self instead of reassuring Johnny.
He knew he couldn’t actually feel Johnny tracing across his face with his eyes, but it sure as hell seemed like it. Down his nose, across his cheeks, traveling along the scars that puckered up from the corners of his mouth and across the sides of his face.
Then up, back to his eyes, his eyebrows, forehead, to the messy mop of blond hair he knew was an absolute mess from being trapped under his mask.
Then back down.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, frozen, as Johnny seemed to memorize every last pore in his skin. It was the best form of torture. One that a very small, but loud, part of him was screaming at him to run, run, run !
But the other part, filling the once vacant emptiness in his body he didn’t know until know had been filled— had needed filled, was much more convincing. Enticing. Beautiful.
Then Johnny’s eyes dropped back down to his mouth, breaking from the route they were traveling. His lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them—
And he sighed a very quiet, but clear— “ Simon ,”
His chest squeezed almost painfully as the weakened thread holding his composure snapped.
Johnny saw his movements before he was even aware of them himself and met him halfway, still holding each other's faces as their lips finally pressed together.
They both moved hesitantly, small but firm kisses as they slowly learned what the other tasted and felt like, and Simon’s heart thrummed behind his ribs faster than he’d felt in a long time. It was so… gentle, the way Johnny’s lips moved against his. The hesitance quickly dissolved into confidence, and while the intensity didn’t shift— Johnny’s moved to fully wrap around Simon’s neck.
He’d seen this man mow down enemy soldiers like it was something he was built for. Watched him manhandle the others during friendly sparring like nothing could stop him. Studied his even, still motions as he carefully disarmed hostile explosives.
But the delicate way Johnny’s hands pressed against Simon, like he was something soft and precious and deserving of whatever kind touch he could find…
It made him believe that he deserved it all along.
His body lit up like an explosion, a burst of fire; controlled completely by Johnny. His arm was wedged between the two of them, the hand on Johnny’s chin now splayed out to cup the side of his face— reveling in the feeling of his few-day-old stubble that poked against his palm. His other hand rested on the small of Johnny’s back, while Johnny had one gently pressing against the back of Simon’s head, the other balled up in a fist— capturing the neckline of Simon’s shirt like he was afraid he was going to leave.
Everything came rushing back to him at one time. Memories, thoughts, feelings. Not like he could ever forget a single moment he spent with Johnny; hearing his voice, watching him work with such a unique and skilled precision only he could pull off.
Things he knew long ago, but was too afraid to admit.
Johnny’s mouth fell open, his tongue snaking past Simon’s lips, the fading taste of bourbon and scotch mingling together like they were made for each other— as if they were meant for each other.
And Simon wondered why he left himself hidden from this for so long. It felt like the first drag of a cigarette in the morning. Piping hot tea, mixed with just the right amount of milk and sugar, after a long day. A warm shower that washed away the grime and blood caked on from a hard days work.
Salvation, in its truest form. Hearing, seeing, feeling the grace from a God he didn’t even believe in. But one that believed in him. One hell bent on dragging him from the Hell he was trapped in.
Loyalty.
Trust.
Unwavering, understanding, pure.
I trust you, Johnny. Simon though, as he pushed his salvation against the bed, their chests pressing as close as their mouths were— hands desperately trailing against each other and legs tangling together past the point of knowing where Simon began and Johnny ended. He hoped his thoughts were evident in the desperate way he kissed Johnny back, and from the way Johnny’s mouth curved against his own in a barely restrained smile… They were.
I trust you. I trust you.
I love you.