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A single look could tell an entire story.
He’s seen the way his lieutenant looked at him, at times. Often, with careful neutrality, serious down to the twinge of his brow. Sometimes, exasperated irritation followed by a nearly imperceptible roll of his eyes. On occasion, with mild amusement just slightly hinting fondness.
That’s not the look he’s giving John now, sitting across from each other with only a coffee table separating them. He’s almost entirely certain that no one else notices this, the half-lidded look Ghost is shooting John, lazy and slow as he privately yet unashamedly lets his eyes rake over the sergeant. Someone’s telling a joke not too far from him, and a couple other people are laughing, but his sole focus is on Ghost, whose eyes finish their journey all over John’s seated body to meet John’s eyes, blinking slowly like a sated big cat.
John drinks, but what burns down his throat isn’t the liquor. It’s something hotter, more primal, and infinitely more addicting. It’s dangerous, something that prickles his skin and makes him want to squirm, but he can’t find it in himself to look away.
Eventually, he blinks, eyes stinging slightly from the effort of keeping them open, unwilling to let even a fraction of movement from the man across from him pass him by. In that moment, Ghost gets up, his glass abandoned on the table, and doesn’t chance a second glance back as he leaves, entirely unseen and unnoticed by all the bustling squad members around them. He’s not even sure that the others even realised Ghost was there the entire time, living up to his moniker as a walking spectre.
John doesn’t let himself wonder what the fuck that was about before he’s getting up and putting his glass down, excusing himself from the company of the people around him so he could seek Ghost out, figure out the answer from the man himself. He navigates the bar, trying to look for a backdoor exit before eventually finding one, right behind a wall of boxes and other equipment.
He finds Ghost outside, having a smoke. Funny, John never considered that Ghost would be a smoker, in spite of the rough rasp of his voice. He’d never smelled tobacco on his clothes, or gotten close enough to see him fiddling with a pack and a lighter, a little tense and in need of a little fire in his lungs. Ghost takes slow pulls of his cigarette, holding it between his thumb and index as he leans against the wall, facing the dank alleyway and observing it as though it held the secrets to the universe. Lost in thought, yet John doubts that his arrival had gone unnoticed.
He doesn’t bother trying to sneak up to Ghost, knowing he’d been heard and identified as soon as the scuff of his boots hit the bricks. John feels– nervous, oddly so, because he doesn’t remember the last time he’d felt nervous around another person before. Nervousness was a feeling he associated with a mission, uncertain of its outcome and taking careful steps in what he thinks is the right direction. Nervousness is not a feeling he associated with talking to his superior officer, so that he didn’t look like some starstruck dumbo watching him suck on a little white stick of slow death.
Ghost doesn’t say anything, expectedly. He stands up a little straighter when John comes over to stand next to him, but that’s about it. Without thinking too hard about it, John gently nudges Ghost’s arm, dislodging some ash from the tip of his cigarette. “Bum me a smoke?”
When Ghost looks over at him, the lower half of his balaclava slightly pulled up over his mouth, it’s a slow thing. John lets himself look discreetly at the shape of Ghost’s lips, his upper lip a little fuller than his lower and his cupid’s bow sharp and defined, soft pink against a backdrop of pale white, his jaw strong and sharp as it clenches slightly before releasing. Ghost’s hand moves, reaching into his pocket and fishing out a cigarette, handing it over for John to take from the pack.
Something else possesses him, right as the orange filter of the cigarette is presented to him. He reaches for the cigarette already in Ghost’s hand, taking the half-smoked stick and putting it to his lips without a second thought, keeping his eyes facing forward in an attempt to soothe his nerves. Ghost doesn’t visibly react, still looking at him as he tucks the pack into his pocket. John sucks on the cigarette, letting the smoke in for as long as he can hold it, the tobacco burning in his throat and lungs in the sweetest way possible, before releasing in a slow, long puff.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, Johnny.”
John perks up a little, glancing up at Ghost. His eyes are dark, browner than soil and bark, steadily trained on John as if he were a target. He sees no other option than to play along, let the LT have his fun. “Is that so?”
Ghost’s eyes are nothing if not piercing, scrutinising and calculating, watching John with an intensity enough to kill a man, maybe. “You’re the one who followed me out here and stole my cigarette,” Ghost says, the words a mere rumble in his throat. “You tell me.”
It didn’t really occur to John that maybe there was something he misread along the way. He’s known those looks since the day he figured out the quiet parts of himself that he needed to keep tucked away in some crevice of his soul, only brought out for a spin when he’d read the interest of another plain in their eyes. But he’s never seen it on someone like Ghost, watching him with what could’ve been hunger or contempt. How would he know? Had he presumed?
“Not stealing if I give it back,” John says instead, not pushing but not pulling either. Carefully neutral, just like Ghost. He’d be proud, or frustrated, or both. Perhaps even neither. Maybe it didn’t matter.
He doesn't give the cigarette back.
Ghost shakes his head, a small smirk on his lips. He must’ve forgotten that his mask didn’t hide his smile. “Keep it. You look like you need it.”
“I look that tense?” John wonders, letting himself smile. He likes Ghost’s smile, he thinks. It’s pretty, if not downright attractive. He wants to see more of it, more of him. All of him.
“You look...” Ghost trails off, eyes dragging all over John’s face, not unlike how he did inside the bar. John swallows, considers putting the cigarette back up to his mouth, yet doesn’t. Stone-still, waiting for Ghost’s verdict. Ghost licks his lips, seemingly subconscious, and huffs. “...good.”
God rest their souls, they were being daft. John has to slow his roll, has to grip the cigarette so he doesn’t just drop it and let it go to waste in an effort to get his mouth on Ghost’s own. It makes him a little dizzy, and maybe a little worried. “You think I look good, sir?” He asks lightly, lets it sound like a joke. Gives Ghost one last out.
“That’s right,” Ghost replies, without a moment’s hesitation. “You gonna finish that?” He asks, gesturing down at the mostly abandoned cigarette in John’s fingers. “Waste of a good cigarette.”
It’s a fucking Winston red, he thinks, a little whiplashed. But two can play pansy, if that’s what Ghost is looking for. “Aye, but I’d rather have something else in me mouth.”
“Is that so?” Ghost echoes, his voice a little deeper, a little rougher. John puts the cigarette back between his lips, sucking deep. “You mind telling me what, exactly?”
John tosses the cigarette aside as soon as he’s done, praying to any and all listening that this isn’t him fucking things up beyond repair, and pulls Ghost in by the front of his hoodie, pressing his lips against his lieutenant’s. By some goddamn miracle, Ghost lets him, letting John lead as he slowly exhales the smoke from his lungs, eyes drooping heavily as he kisses Ghost.
A hand snakes its way up John’s back, resting at the dip there and pulling him closer as the other hand reaches up to tilt John’s head, cupping his jaw with a tenderness that John knows he’ll crave for the rest of his life, now that he’s gotten a taste of it. A taste of him, addictive and all-consuming.
When John pulls away, the smoke has long faded, and despite having breathed this whole time, they’re both still out of breath. John doesn’t know how his arms ended up around Ghost’s neck, or how they haven’t tilted back and fallen with how much of his weight is on Ghost, but he doesn’t care. He only cares about this, the here and now.
“Ghost...” He murmurs, only to be shut up by another kiss, softer yet more meaningful, this time.
“Simon,” Ghost corrects, whispering the words against the corner of John’s mouth, the woollen fabric of his balaclava tickling John’s cheek. “You can call me Simon.”
“Simon,” John starts again, lightly kissing Simon’s jaw and ignoring the giddy feeling bubbling in his chest for the delicious burn in his chest, “do you want me to take you home?”
Simon’s head drops a little, tucking against John’s forehead. “Yeah,” he replies, sounding softer and more tired than John has ever heard him. “Yeah, take me home.”
When John pulls back and looks up at Simon, his eyes tell him everything he needs to know. Without hesitation, John takes Simon’s hand in his, pulls his balaclava down over his mouth, and tells him, “Follow me.”