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Laswell, being the angel she is, managed to arrange a hotel for them in the few hours they’d been in Chicago. Four rooms to decompress in, to clean up in, to attempt to return to normalcy in. Four rooms to crawl into once medical releases them.
As if he’ll be back to normal any time soon. John worries he’ll never stop looking over his shoulder, fears the last week has permanently changed some vital part of his brain chemistry. It probably has.
Price sends them off with little more than a pat on the back and a kind word in the hotel lobby, clearly just as exhausted as the rest of them are. He and Laswell watch as they pile into the elevator and step out onto the fourth floor after a silent ride up. Gaz turns right toward 401. John limps left toward 413.
Ghost follows John, a looming shadow filling the hallway behind him.
After the week they’ve had, John isn’t sure he could make himself mind. No, he thinks he feels a bit better with Ghost behind him.
He’s dead on his feet by the time he jams the hotel keycard into the door, nearly falling asleep before he’s even through the door. He pops it open just a little further than usual, knows a gloved hand will catch the door before it snaps shut.
Not even a week and he knows Ghost better than himself. Not even a week and he feels far, far too attached, feels the need to watch out for Ghost the same way Ghost watches out for him.
He doesn’t want to address that the last thought on his mind as Hassan backed him toward the window was I don’t want him to see this. Not I’m going to die or I hope I was good enough, no.
I don’t want him to see this.
John drops his pack at the foot of the bed—the one, single bed—and starts the painstaking process of unstrapping his plate carrier without irritating any of his (numerous) aches and pains.
If he pulls too far, his arm hurts. If he reaches too close, his ribs hurt. If he lifts too high, his shoulder hurts. If he shifts his weight, his knee hurts.
He hurts.
John winces as he loosens one of the side straps, already dreading the other side. This is the easy one; the next two are closer to his armpit, requiring more of a twist to get to. He doesn’t want to think about his other side, the side where his plate caught Hassan’s bullet.
Turns out, he doesn’t have to.
Ghost replaces John’s hands with his own, gently removing them from the straps to release them himself. They fall away painlessly, one after the next.
Then the plate carrier is lifted from his shoulders and he can breathe again. John sags on his feet, his shoulders slumping and his arms dropping to his sides. He breathes a quiet thank you , one he’s not sure Ghost hears at all.
John tenses at a warm weight on the back of his head, his body still waiting for the next shot to come. Still waiting for Hassan or Graves or anyone else to hit the final mark, the one that puts him six feet below. His gaze flickers up to the window of its own volition, his mind screeching that the curtains should be closed.
That tension immediately saps away when he recognizes it’s Ghost’s forehead resting at the crown of his head as he turns off John’s radio, unloads his sidearm, and undoes his utility belt. The whole lot of it is tossed to the floor at the foot of the bed.
Ghost’s pack, plate carrier, radio, and headset join the mess a moment later. His sidearm conspicuously doesn’t join the pile.
“Up,” Ghost murmurs. His hands gently slide up John’s flanks, rucking his shirt up and brushing over the bandages holding his chest together. John wonders if he’ll fall apart without the wrapping, if his ribcage will simply split into two and spill his soul onto the floor.
He trusts Ghost will hold him together and lifts his arms as best he can, lets Ghost slide his shirt up and over his head, then tugs the sleeves down his arms. Bare fingertips–when did he take his gloves off?–trace the wrapping around his upper arm. John shivers at the contact, at the chill in the room contrasting with Ghost’s heat at his back.
“In the bathroom,” Ghost’s touch turns firm, guiding him back toward the entryway. Back toward the door and the world beyond it.
John finds himself balking, his hackles rising at the sight of that door. It’s far, far too thin; nowhere near strong enough to keep Hassan and the Shadows out. “No,” he tries to say. The word catches in his throat, comes out as more of a wordless protest.
“No,” he repeats when Ghost’s fingers close around his upper arm, the one without the bandages. He leans back, digs his heels into the tight-carpeted floor when Ghost tries to move him.
“Johnny,” Ghost murmurs, right next to his ear. Careful, gentle. “The door’s locked. Deadbolt, keycard, door guard. Look.”
John’s eyes follow his words without question. The deadbolt gleams between the door and its frame. A little light blinks on the bulk of the keycard lock. The door guard is solidly snapped over its arm. Little things that add up, his training recalls.
When John doesn’t relent, Ghost continues, “Nothing’s getting in here.” He edges around John’s shoulder and into sight, putting his bulk in front of the door. “I won’t let it.” He tips his head forward, brown eyes drawing John’s attention.
His stare is searching, knowing; the carefulness of his hand on John’s arm, the intentional position between John and the door tell him that Ghost has been here before. He’s been terrified of what lies beyond the hotel door and he’s made it out alive all the same.
John swallows, steels himself. Nods. Takes the eternal few steps into the bathroom.
“Good, Johnny,” Ghost murmurs, crowding in behind him and shutting the bathroom door. He checks John’s gaze, makes sure he’s watching as he clicks the flimsy little handle lock into place. That lock wouldn’t stop a single kick, maybe not even a strong enough rattle. It soothes John all the same.
“Sit,” Ghost gently commands, pushing the shower curtain back. He doesn’t give John the chance to balk again; he helps John sink to the edge of the tub with one hand on his side and the other still holding his arm.
“That’s it.” Ghost’s praise soothes his raised hackles. The thumb pressing gentle circles into his deltoid drags him back to earth, grounds him where he sits on the edge of the tub.
Ghost kneels in front of him, knees cracking against the tiled floor and eyes raised to John’s face like a sinner at the altar. Steadies John with a hand on his knee as he reaches around and turns the faucet on, water thundering into the tub. The sound fills the bathroom, fills the hotel room, fills the hallway. Covers any chance of hearing approaching footsteps, covers–John forces himself to focus, to stay within the shell of his own skin.
Ghost unties John’s boots, tugs them off, and discards them in the corner under the sink. Finds the velcro at the back of his knee brace next, strips it off with a couple of tugs. His hands rise ever higher, seeking out holster buckles and harness straps until John is left in nothing but his bandages, jeans, and filthy socks.
The knuckles pressing higher and higher into his thighs and the fingers brushing his jeans might have turned him on in another time. Tonight he hardly feels it around the paranoia buzzing under his skin, the pain radiating from everywhere else.
Ghost’s hands faintly tremble as he works, freeing John of whatever gear he has left, then rolling his socks off and tossing them into the ever-growing pile under the sink. He has to be just as exhausted, just as ragged as John feels, yet he’s here. Yet he’s doing the heavy lifting, stripping John down to his barest layers because John can’t do it himself.
“You don’t have to be here,” John finds his voice when Ghost turns away to wash his hands at the sink. His voice scrapes in his throat, raised just enough to be audible over the tub faucet.
Ghost doesn’t react, just continues washing his hands. John leans over, seeking his eyes in the mirror. Winces when he leans too far. Ghost’s inattention and the pain make him unreasonably angry, the heat suddenly sparking to life in his ribcage and threatening to break it open. He glances at the even-flimsier bathroom door, imagines heavy boots on the other side of it.
It’s then that Ghost shuts the sink off, dries his hands, and returns to his spot on the floor. Reaches around John to turn the faucet off.
“Did you hear me?” John asks, vicious and distracted, his voice too loud and rough in the sudden dripping quiet. “You don’t have to be here.”
Ghost reaches up, up, up, until his fingers meet John’s cheek, the heel of his thumb pressed to his chin. Again trying to bring John back to earth, trying to settle him down.
“You’re right: I don’t,” Ghost replies. His other hand curls around the back of John’s knee. John shifts, squirms back toward the water. He can’t stand for it, isn’t in the right state of mind for all this tenderness.
“Then go,” John says, looking again at the door. This time to will Ghost through it, begging to be left alone to crawl inside his own skin. To get this over with, to control the feeling creeping up the back of his own neck. “Go.”
Ghost shakes his head, his eyes dropping from John’s face to the bandages binding his chest together. His hand falls with his gaze, finding the tape holding him in one piece. John seizes his wrist, holds his hand where it hovers and grits his teeth at the fresh pulses of pain in his bicep.
“Easy,” Ghost murmurs. He reaches up with his other hand, pries John’s fingers off of his wrist. “Easy.”
“Hang your easy,” John spits, making no sense. He needs this over as quickly as possible, needs to be back in control. He concentrates just on Ghost in front of him, shuts out every other sense.
“Johnny,” Ghost says, firmer now. He looks up, his brown eyes pouring into John’s tunnel vision like the first light in days. “Let me.”
“Just let me.”
I need this, Ghost leaves unsaid, but the implication is clear. His gentle, soothing tone would break John apart if not for the bandages holding him together. It cuts through the stupid, paranoid haze clouding his head, clouding his senses; makes him see reason.
John nods, surrendering to Ghost’s grip, to the need in his stare. He needs this just as badly John, that much is clear.
The bandages come free bit by bit, first around his bicep. John chooses not to watch the bruising come into view, chooses instead to study Ghost’s mask. To look into the depths of his eyes as he works. The black under his mask has faded, gathered into thick, dark lines in the creases of his eyelids and the corners of his eyes. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired.
The bandages come free, thankfully without catching on the stitches keeping his blood in. Keeping the bullet out. John forces himself to stay rooted here, focused on Ghost’s hands on him rather than the biting punch of Graves’s betrayal.
He finds his heart pounding as Ghost unwinds the bandages around his chest. Not because it’s Ghost–he doubts he could ever be nervous around Ghost again–but because this is the moment of truth: Will he fall apart at the seams? And if he does, will Ghost hold him together?
Will Ghost gather him off of the floor and put him back into a shape somewhat resembling himself?
He doesn’t crack open when the bandages come free. His ribs stay where they are, his sternum as solid as it can be with his heart hammering against the back of it.
Ghost’s hands slide to his sides all the same, palms warm and firm against his flanks. “Look at you,” he breathes. “They didn’t break you.”
He says it proudly. As if he knew they wouldn’t, couldn’t break him, even if John thought they already had.
“Say it again,” John murmurs, beyond caring how it sounds if he begs. “Please.”
Ghost lifts his believer’s eyes, meets John’s unbelieving stare. “They didn’t break you, Johnny. Never could.”
John swallows, his eyes falling to where Ghost’s skin meets his. Pale, scar-speckled hands covering a nebula of purple and red-tinged bruises. Never could.
Ghost takes a breath to speak, then lets it out in a gust that hardly escapes his mask. He ducks his head a moment, eyes disappearing beneath the brow bone of his mask.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he finally says, dropping his hands to his thighs.
John follows his unsaid command and strips, all business. He gingerly sinks into the water, supported by Ghost’s hand clutching his. Curls in on himself to save some stupid scrap of modesty, as if he has any left after the week they’ve had. As if Ghost notices; he doesn’t seem to care one bit.
“Good,” Ghost says before he turns to rip the plastic off of one of the hotel cups on the counter. He brings it back to the tub, scoops up water to pour down John’s back. The warmth and Ghost’s firm touch following it, scrubbing the week away, eat into the tension that currently has a vice grip around him.
John finds himself relaxing as Ghost works the soap into his skin, first along the tops of his shoulders and then between them, digging his knuckles into the meat between his shoulder blades until he sags against the hand pressed against his collarbones, holding him up. Lower, lower, until his nails brush the ticklish junction between his sides and his lower back.
“Head back,” Ghost requests, hand rising from John’s collarbones to his chin, and John easily complies. “Good, thank you.” The wash of praise and of water over his scalp soothes him more than a locked door ever could, tugging his eyes closed and slackening his jaw.
Ghost’s fingers in his hair and massaging shampoo into his scalp soothe him even further. Make him feel human again, as if maybe he could hold himself together on his own.
Ghost carefully rinses his hair, keeping the water and suds away from his eyes with cupped hands. He gathers John close, tucking his head into the crook of his shoulder, ignoring the water soaking into his collar.
“That’s it,” Ghost presses his masked cheek against John’s forehead.
He’s so, so weak to that simple show of affection. John squeezes his eyes shut as tears suddenly burn behind his eyelids, threatening to spill into the fabric of Ghost’s throat. Because he’s so tired, so beaten, so exhausted. Because it’s been so, so long since anyone showed him any affection beyond a kind word or two.
And, in that moment of weakness, he lifts a hand from the water and slides wet fingers under the hem of Ghost’s mask. Lifts until one of Ghost’s hands covers his own, dripping water onto the edge of the tub.
Ghost doesn’t swat his hand down, doesn’t pull his fingers away. Instead he tugs the mask from John’s grip, tugs it up, up, up until he’s tossing it into the pile under the sink.
“Is that what you want?” Ghost–no, Simon, asks, ducking his chin so that his lips appear in John’s slitted vision. They’re still the same as they were in Las Almas; John somehow expected them to change, to disappear when the mask was back on.
Yes, he thinks as he presses his face back into Simon’s throat, basks in the bare warmth there with a slow nod. This is what I want.
Simon continues his slow, soothing work after a beat, his strong fingers tugging the tension down John’s shoulders, then his biceps, triceps, and forearms until he’s practically pulling it out of John’s fingertips. Sweeping his thumbs over bruised, scraped knuckles and squeezing gun-sore palms. He’s careful of every hurt, every wince, softly shushing John’s protests.
John drifts at some point. He returns to himself with the press of Simon’s lips to his forehead, a gesture far too tender for what he deserves. The water is half-cold, his body beaten but relaxed under Simon’s ministrations.
John greedily tips his chin up, seeking more. Simon huffs a laugh, air gusting warm against his cheek before he feeds that greediness. Simon’s nose bumps John’s, a short breath ghosting over his lips, stubble grazing his also-stubbly chin before he kisses him, lips chapped and bitten and so, so perfect.
John sighs into him, one dripping hand rising to cup Simon’s cheek, to keep him there before he disappears entirely. Simon’s lips slide against his, a drop of water running down his cheek and onto John’s.
Yes, he thinks, this is what I want. Simon tastes of sweat and gunpowder—is there any way he couldn’t?—and John wants more, more, more. Holds him tighter, leans up for more, lets the sweep of Simon’s tongue across his lips remind him that he isn’t going to disappear with a puff of smoke.
It’s Simon who pulls back all too soon, urging John to sit up with his head still cradled against his shoulder. “Come on, up,” he murmurs. Ever their voice of reason, “Water’s cold. I still need to shower.”
John protests with a whine but peels himself up and out of the tub all the same. Simon wraps him in a towel, guides him out of the bathroom, past the triple-locked hotel door, then to the bed.
He sits John down just below the pillows, pushing him to lean back against them. John easily sags back, his mind more preoccupied with the sight of Simon’s face than with what his hands are doing.
Short, mask-flat blonde hair, soppy brown eyes, long nose, strong jaw. Black smeared around his eyes and fading up toward his hairline, down over his cheekbones. Blonde lashes flashing with each blink.
Whole-heartedly devoted to the task at hand. Seeking redemption, maybe, or trying to change his past by altering John’s present. Still the same as Las Almas even if everything else has changed.
His preoccupation drops when a thumb presses too close to the stitches in his bicep, drawing a gritted gasp from him. John looks down, teeth half-bared and paranoia digging back into his head. It stupidly screeches that betrayal is coming, that Simon will tear him open right here.
The paranoia is easier to beat back now, easier to bury again. John takes one breath, two, lets the motion remind him that his body is holding itself together.
“Sorry, sorry,” Simon whispers. He draws back, disappears beneath the foot of the bed and reappears with a red box in hand. “Too close, I know.”
“Eejit,” John scolds, not meaning it. A smile passes Simon’s thin lips as he opens the medkit, his blonde lashes hiding his eyes as he searches through it.
He slowly wraps John’s hurts, far gentler than the medics were. He drops a kiss against the end of John’s collarbone when he’s done, then withdraws to drop the medkit back at the foot of the bed.
“Sit up,” Simon requests, reaching for the pillows as soon as he returns to the head of the bed.
John gladly complies, then sinks down when Simon presses him to. Simon tugs the tightly-tucked comforter and sheets free to cover him and he’s already drifting again by the time his head hits the plush pillow. John vaguely watches Simon go about the brisk work of stripping out of his jacket, then his shirt on the way to the bathroom. He vaguely feels Simon’s absence as the shower runs, his eyes drifting again to the entryway.
He wakes when Simon slips under the sheets, looping a thick arm around his chest. John rolls into him, feels that arm curl around his back until fingers brush the back of his neck. Simon hums something soothing, tucks something under John’s pillow. His arm follows it, solid under John’s cheek.
He steals a sleepy kiss from Simon’s lips, one he won’t remember in the morning, tucks his face into the hollow Simon’s throat, and drifts off into nothing. Feeling far more whole than he has in days. Years, even.