Work Text:
The slam of the door still rang in Johnny’s ears long after he’d shut it. He stood with his back against it, heart hammering like he was still on that rooftop instead of in his barracks room.
The overhead light hummed, flickering once before settling. His rifle sat disassembled on the desk. The smell of CLP hung in the air. Everything was normal.
Nothing felt normal.
He slid down the metal door until he hit the floor, elbows on his knees, hands raking through the hairs of his mohawk. When he closed his eyes, it came back in shards:
The flashbang he hadn’t seen thrown.
The comms cutting out with a burst of static.
The sudden absence of Simon's voice in his ear.
Then the gunfire, too loud, too close. The scream of rounds chewing into concrete inches from where he’d been standing. The way his feet had simply… stopped, because Ghost wasn’t where he was supposed to be and Soap couldn’t see him.
Johnny’s fingers dug into his scalp. He’d found Ghost eventually.
Pinned down.
Outnumbered.
Grimly steady in that way of his, voice calm as he barked directions through the revived comms, like he hadn’t just disappeared. Like Johnny hadn’t spent five of the longest minutes of his life thinking he’d just lost him. Soap had fought his way through those concrete corridors, body on autopilot, anger climbing in his throat faster than the adrenaline could burn it away.
They’d survived, extracted, and the argument had ignited before they’d even cleared the helipad.
“Wha' tha' fuck was tha'?” Johnny had shouted over the rotors, yanking off his headset and throwing it into the corner of the hangar once they were inside.
Ghost had watched him, mask streaked with dust and dried blood, eyes watching the angry Scotsman pace around. “That was an ambush-" he’d said flatly, dry. “We adapted. We’re alive.”
“Ye went bloody silent. Five minutes-”
“Comms fried.”
“You could’ve fallen back, regrouped- something, Si!"
“And leave an opening on the south stairwell? Negative.”
“You always do this!” Johnny had snarled, stepping closer, shoulders squared. “Always play the martyr, hm? Disappear into the thick of it and expect me to just keep bloody moving while I wonder if I’m gonna unzip a body bag with your bloody name on it.”
Simon's jaw had tensed. He’d stepped in too, so they were nearly nose to nose, barely a breath of space between them.
“That’s my job, Johnny.”
“And what am I then? The numpty who watches your back and just trusts you’ll wander back out of the fire?”
Simon’s eyes had flashed. “You didn’t trust me out there?”
“I didn’t know where you were!” Soap had exploded. “I thought you were dead, you daft bastard!”
The hangar had gone quiet around them. The others had peeled away, giving them space, not wanting to even be near what was happening. Soap barely noticed.
“I needed you on the objective-" Simon said, voice low and harsh. “Not losing your head because you got spooked.”
“Spooked?” The word had landed like a slap, Johnny was furious. “Oh, aye! Nothing more terrifying than thinking the man you-" He’d cut himself off, but it was too late. The silence that followed felt sharp.
Simon’s gaze had narrowed, searching his face. “Finish that sentence.”
“Doesn’t matter-" Soap muttered, suddenly burning from the inside out. “Ye made yer point. Mission first, same as always.”
“You think I don’t know what you were feeling?” Ghost growled. “I’m the one who heard you breathing like you’d taken a round to the lung. I stayed so you’d get out clean.”
“So what?! Ye dying’s worth it as long as I live?” Johnny had thrown his arms wide, laugh cracking. “That yer romantic grand gesture, L.t.?”
Simon stiffened. Something shuttered behind his eyes. “Better one body than two.”
Soap had flinched like he really had been shot.
“Don’t bloody do that-" he’d said hoarsely and loudly. “Don’t talk like we’re numbers on a balance sheet.”
“We are numbers on a balance sheet.”
“Not to me.”
That had hung there between them, heavy and ugly and true.
Simon’s shoulders had drawn back, retreat already visible in the set of his body. “You’re emotional. Get some sleep.”
“Oh, I'm emotional-" Johnny shook his head and scoffed. "Jus' sleep it off- Fuck you!" Johnny jabbed Simon on the corner of his shoulder. "Yer a coward." Soap had spat, before he could stop himself. “Ye hide behind that skull and those orders and yer ‘mission first’ shite 'cause if ye actually said you gave a fuck about me, you’d have to admit yer terrified too.”
Simon’s head had tilted back a fraction, like the word sent him reeling. He didn't even care about the jab. Coward.
There’d been a moment,half a heartbeat, where Johnny thought he’d gone too far. That Simon would snap, walk away, or shut down so completely Johnny would never to be able to reach him again.
Instead, Simon had answered in that same calm, cold tone he used on interrogations.
“You think what you want, MacTavish, but don’t question whether I’m willing to bleed for you. I proved that today.”
“I don’t want ye to bleed for me." Johnny shouted after him as Simon turned away. “I want you to stay with me.”
Simon had kept walking.
Now, in his room, Soap pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst behind them. His throat ached. His chest did worse. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before the knock came. Three short, sharp raps on the door. The sound jolted through him, tripwire tight tension snapping his spine straight.
For a second he just stared at the metal, pulse spiking. Only one person knocked like that.
“Johnny.” Simon’s voice came muffled through the door, deeper than usual. “Open up.”
Johnny’s jaw locked. Every muscle in his body screamed to move, to fling the door open, to check him over again, to see him breathing and whole in front of him, but pride and hurt pinned him down in place.
He said nothing.
Silence stretched. He heard the faint scrape of fabric. Then again, softer-
“Got tea.”
Soap squeezed his eyes shut. Bastard.
He forced himself up with a groan, pacing the short length of the room, bare feet whispering over the floor. His hands shook, and that only pissed him off more.
Another knock. “Johnny. Please.”
The please landed low, somewhere sore and tender. He hated it. He loved it. He wanted to throw it back in Simon's face and also hold onto it like a lifeline.
Finally, with a curse under his breath, Soap yanked the bolt back and swung the door open.
Simon stood there in the corridor, loose black hoodie hanging off his shoulders, joggers, socks.
Casual.
Unarmoured.
No mask.
Johnny’s breath caught.
Every time Simon came to him like this, unmasked, it felt like a small miracle and a loaded weapon all at once. A face the rest of the world didn’t get to see. Sharp cheekbones, warm and dark eyes ringed with sleepless shadows. The scars that cut through his eyebrow and nicked his jaw, his mouth. The mouth Johnny had memorized in a dozen stolen moments.
Right now that mouth was pressed into a line, like he was holding words back with his teeth. In his hands was a chipped black mug, steam curling from it. The smell of strong black tea, a little oversteeped, hit Johnny’s nose.
Simon didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Kettle in the rec room’s shite-" he muttered. “But it’ll do.”
He held the mug out, an offering.
Soap stared at the tea, then back up at Simon. Anger roared back up his throat, mixing with relief and affection and pure, mind deep fear until he couldn’t separate one from the other.
“Don’t-" he said, voice rough.
Simon’s hand paused mid air. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me tea and then act like everything’s fine.”
It came out hoarser than he intended, but it landed like a punch. Simon's fingers tightened around the mug. For a heartbeat Soap thought he’d drop his hand, retreat again. Instead Simon stepped slowly into the doorway, uninvited but not forcing it. Close enough that Johnny could see the faint tremor in his wrist.
“It’s not fine-" Simon said quietly. “You know it’s not. This is just… how I...thought I should say sorry.” He whispered, his stance now awkward and stiff.
Johnny huffed bitterly. “Ye ever tried sayin’ the actual word?”
One corner of Simon's mouth twitched. “Doesn’t sound right in my accent.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.” Simon swallowed. Soap watched the movement of his throat. “Johnny, let me in. Please.”
For a long moment they just stared at each other. Finally, with a jerk of his head, Johnny stepped back.
Simon brushed past him, careful not to touch, and the absence of contact hurt worse than a shove would’ve. He set the mug down on the small desk, next to the half cleaned rifle, like a peace offering laid at a shrine.
Soap shut the door, leaning against it again. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. Simon turned slowly to face him.
Without the mask, there was nowhere for his expression to hide. Johnny saw everything: the tightness at the corners of his eyes, the way his mouth had softened into something that looked too much like regret.
“I shouldn’t have said you were spooked-" Simon began.
Soap barked a laugh, harsh and humourless. “Tha's what yer startin’ with?”
“I said it to hurt you-" Simon went on, ignoring the interruption, “...because you were right up in my face and I didn’t know what to do with it. You called me a coward.” His jaw flexed. “I am. When it comes to you.”
Simon’s fingers curled around the doorframe. The admission knocked the wind out of him more efficiently than any bullet.
“Could’ve fooled me-" he muttered. “Ye were ready to go out like some tragic hero back there.”
Simon held his gaze. “I was ready to do my job.”
“Don’t give me that shite, Si-" Johnny snapped, stepping forward. “Ye didn’t fall back. You didn’t communicate. Ye cut me out.”
“You would’ve run in after me.” Simon’s voice rose slightly, exasperation bleeding through. “You’re the one who doesn’t know how to fall back, Johnny. You hear me go silent, you think with your heart, not your training.”
“I found you, didn’t I?” Johnny bitterly spoke back. He looked down at the black mug, watching the steam rise.
“You almost got yourself killed doing it.”
“Better one body than two, aye?” Johnny spat, throwing Ghost’s own words back at him, turning to look at Simon. “That’s what ye said.”
Simon flinched, just a fraction. It was enough. “I was angry. Same as you. I went for the biggest stick I had. Shouldn’t have used it on you.”
Soap snorted. “Ye use it on everyone else, though.”
“Yes-" Simon said, voice raspy and quiet, “...because I don’t go home with everyone else.”
The words hung there, heavy. Johnny’s heart gave a wild, painful lurch. “This is home now?” he asked, voice small despite himself. “This room?”
Simon’s gaze flicked around the cramped space. “You’re in it.." he said simply. “So… yeah.”
A lump rose in Johnny’s throat. He forced it down with a swallow that burned.
“Ye scared me-" he said, the words ripped out of him. “Not in the field. After. When you walked away. Felt like I was falling out of a helicopter with no parachute.”
Simon's expression shifted, something raw and unguarded breaking through. He took a careful step closer, then another, until they were standing less than an arm’s length apart.
“I walked away because I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t take back-” he said. “Like you did.”
Johnny flinched. “I called ye a coward.”
“You did.” Simon’s mouth twitched. “Been called worse.”
“Not by me.”
“No.” Simon’s eyes softened. “Not by you.”
Silence stretched between them, electric.
“Do ye believe it?” Johnny asked, hating how uncertain he sounded. “That yer… that?”
Simon’s gaze slid away for a second, then back. “I believe I’m very good at staying alive in rooms full of men with guns-" he said slowly. “And very bad at staying when one man without a gun tells me he cares about me.”
Soap’s breath hitched. “I didn’t- I mean, I never-”
“You didn’t have to.” Simon shrugged, shoulders tight. “I’m not daft, Johnny. I know what this is. I just don’t… know how to be good at it.”
“Start by not sacrificin’ yourself for dramatic effect-" Johnny muttered.
“Not dramatic,” Simon said dryly. “Was tactical.”
“Oh aye, that’s what they’ll carve on your tombstone. ‘Here lies
Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley. Tactical as fuck. Emotionally constipated, but very tactical.’”
A huffed sound escaped Simon before he could stop it, half laugh and a sigh. Some of the tension in the room eased a fraction.
Johnny let out a slow breath. “I get why ye did it,” he admitted, grudging. “Hold the line, give me cover, protect the stupid Scot who runs at gunfire instead of away from it.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“Reckless, then.”
“Brave."
Soap rolled his eyes, but his cheeks warmed. “Point is, I know why. Doesn’t mean it didn’t feel like my heart was gettin’ ripped out when ye stopped talkin’.”
Simon stared at him for a long moment. “I didn’t… think about how it’d feel, on your end-" he said, like the realization cost him something. “I’m used to being the one who disappears. People get used to it.”
“Well, I’m not most folks-” Soap said, sharp. “I’m your-” He faltered, suddenly unsure of the word. Boyfriend sounded ridiculous. Partner too clinical. Lover too dramatic. “-I’m yours." he settled on, helplessly.
Something in Simon’s eyes went very, very soft. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “You are.”
Johnny blinked at him. His chest felt too tight.
“I don’t want you to get used to me disappearing.." Simon added. “Even if that’s… easier, in the long run. I just don’t know how to promise you I’ll always make it back.”
“Ye don’t have to promise me that-" Soap said quietly. “Ye can’t. None of us can.” He stepped closer, until their toes almost touched. “But ye can promise you won’t go all bloody lone wolf without talkin’ to me. That you’ll trust me enough to plan yer suicide missions together, at least.”
Simon made a strangled noise. Johnny realized belatedly what he’d said.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s not what I-”
Simon’s hand came up, hovering for a moment before resting carefully on Johnny’s shoulder. It was the first touch since before the mission. It felt like stepping into sunlight after hours underground.
“No more solo heroics without backup-" Simon said, surely. “If I can help it.”
Johnny held his gaze. “If ye can help it?”
“We’re still soldiers, Johnny. Sometimes we’re going to be in different rooms when the grenades go off.” He swallowed. “But I can… try...to remember there’s someone waiting on the other side of the comms. Someone who’ll rip my head off if I go dark.”
“Damn bloody right I will-" Johnny muttered, giving a stern nod of his head. His voice wobbled. He hated it.
Simon's thumb brushed, just once, over his shoulder through the cotton of his shirt. It was barely a movement, but Soap felt it.
“I’m sorry-" Simon said, finally. The word sounded strange in his mouth, like he wasn’t used to forming it. “For staying behind without telling you. For calling you spooked. For making you think you were alone in this when you’re not.”
Johnny’s breath shuddered out of him. He wanted to throw his arms around Ghost and kiss him until none of this hurt. He wanted to shove him, tell him it wasn’t enough.
Both wants warred in his chest.
“I hear ye-" he said slowly. “And I… appreciate the tea. The face.”
His gaze flicked over Simon’s features, the vulnerability there. “But I can’t just… pretend it didn’t happen. That I didn’t feel what I felt out there.”
Simon nodded, eyes dropping.
His hand fell away from Johnny's shoulder, leaving a phantom warmth behind.
“I know-" he said. “I didn’t come here to wipe the slate clean.” His mouth twisted. “Just to show you I’m still here. That I’m trying.”
Johnny swallowed. A part of him hated that Simon didn’t fight harder for the absolution he’d come for. Another part respected that he didn’t expect it.
“Ye always do this, Si-" Johnny said, gentler now. “Ye give jus enough, then pull back like yer afraid I’m gonna bite.”
“You do bite.”
“Aye, well. You like it.”
A faint flush touched Simon’s cheekbones. “You’re impossible.”
“Yer difficult.”
They looked at each other, the air between them charged.
“Do you want me to go?” Simon asked, the question quiet but sincere.
Johnny’s first instinct was to say no. To demand he stay, curl up on the narrow bunk with him, let him tuck his face into Simon’s neck and listen to his heartbeat until sleep took them both. His second instinct was to say yes. Send him away, let the hurt simmer until it faded. Make Simon sit in his guilt a little longer. He didn’t trust either.
“I don’t know what I want-" Johnny admitted, the honesty dragging its feet on the way out. “I’m still angry. And I’m… relieved. And I’m tired enough my bones ache.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I want to forgive ye. I just… can’t yet.”
Simon nodded once, like he’d expected that. Maybe he had.
“Okay-" he said. “Then I’ll give you space.” He turned slightly, as if to go, then seemed to think better of it. “Will you at least drink the tea?”
Johnny glanced at the mug, steam still curling lazily, not as much as earlier. “Is this one of those symbolic gestures?” he asked, brow raised. “Like if I drink it, it means we’re fine?”
“No.” Simon's lips twitched. “It means I know you haven’t eaten since the debrief and your hands were shaking earlier. Caffeine’s all I’ve got on short notice.”
Johnny opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. He moved past Simon, shoulders brushing briefly, and wrapped his fingers around the warm ceramic. The heat seeped into his skin, grounding. He took a sip. It was strong, a little bitter, too much bag not enough water. It tasted like every late night they’d spent hunched over mission plans and every early morning before dawn. It tasted like comfort. Like them.
“Not bad-" he muttered. It was disgusting. He didn't even really like tea. Only drank it for Simon's sake.
Simon watched him like a man watching a storm cloud for signs of a break. “I’ll, uh. Be in my room. If you need anything.”
Johnny swallowed another mouthful of tea. “Ye mean if I change my mind and decide to forgive ye immediately?”
“I mean if you wake up screaming-" Simon corrected quietly. “Like you did last time something went sideways and you thought I was dead.”
Johnny froze.
He hadn’t realized Ghost had known about that.
“I don’t scream-" he said weakly.
“Yeah, you do.” Simon’s mouth softened. “You say my name. Real loud. And you sound… frightened.” The word seemed to cost him. “Just… leave your door unlocked, alright? In case. I won’t come in unless you ask.”
Johnny’s defenses wobbled, then scrambled to reassemble.
“Yer not makin’ this easy-" he grumbled.
“Good....I don’t like easy. I like you.” His eyes flicked up to meet Johnny’s, steady. “Even when you’re calling me a coward.”
Johnny’s heart did a complicated, stupid thing in his chest. “Go on then-" he said, jerked his head toward the door. “Before I decide to chuck this tea at ye."
Simon's lips curved, the shadow of a real smile. “You wouldn’t waste good tea.”
“Watch me.”
Simon hesitated for a second longer, like he wanted to say something else. In the end he just reached out and, very gently, brushed his knuckles along Soap’s forearm where it held the mug. The touch was fleeting, a question more than anything.
Johnny didn’t pull away.
Simon nodded once, as if he’d gotten his answer, and stepped back. He opened the door, paused in the frame, half turned.
“Goodnight, Johnny-" he said softly.
“Night, Si.” Soap replied before he could stop himself.
Simon’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly at the use of his name, slipping the balaclava back on. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Johnny stood there in the quiet, the hot tea warming his hands, heart pounding. He wasn’t okay. Not yet. The image of Ghost framed in gunfire and smoke, comms dead, chest a perfect target, burned too bright behind his eyes. The echo of “Better one body than two” scraped raw at his insides.
But Simon had come to him. Without his mask. With tea and apologies and that fractured, fragile kind of honesty he never gave anyone else.
Johnny moved to the bed and sat heavily, mug balanced on his knee. He took another sip, letting the bitterness anchor him, wincing from the taste. He picked up the mug, just held it as his right leg bounced up and down. He looked at the door then back down at the hot tea.
"God damn it-" He muttered to himself. He couldn't take it anymore. "Yer in it deep now, MacTavish-" He scoffed lightly at himself.
He got up, placed the black mug of hot tea back on the table, grabbed a hoodie, quickly putting it on then walked to his door.
"Right bloody soft bastard, Si." He grumbled underneath his breath. He opened his door, closed it as he walked and went to catch up with Simon down the corridor.