Chapter Text
It's colder than hell in the Sulaiman mountains of central Pakistan. John pauses to fix his scarf over his nose and mouth before quickly taking hold of his ski poles to catch up with the marines in front of him. He broke the column formation of his assault team when he abruptly stopped.
“Keep movin’, Soap.” Ghost irritatedly barks from behind him.
John curses up a storm in his head. Pissing off his lieutenant is the last thing he needs today. The day was shitty enough already - what, with the below freezing temperatures in these damn mountains that had his face growing numb, the incessant twinge in his lower back, the hunger he suffered as he rationed his food. Not to mention the deep mess of shit he put himself in with his girl. His hen, Emily.
They’ve been having a rough go. Or more so, she’s been having a rough time, and taking it out on John in verbal arguments that quickly escalated is what makes her feel a little better. Though, John has always readily accepted her persecution. He reckons it's the least he could do to ease her strain seeing as he's never home and never around to comfort her properly. And even when he is home, his head is always seemingly miles away, back in Herefordshire where he left it.
Emily won't outright tell him what's bothering her. So for now, he'll let her curse at him over the phone and voice her grievances about his constant distance and seeming lack of care for her when he's too far away to do anything more than suffer through it.
John huffs an exasperated sigh. He's so fucking tired and it's so goddamn cold. The lack of sleep weighs on him like heavy weights on each shoulder, dragging him down and willing his knees to give out. That, and the unbearably heavy ruck march through deep snow. He's like a newly born bird on unsteady feet with these damned skis.
“Let’s go, Sergeant!” Ghost roughly shoves at his shoulder, nearly bringing John completely to the ground because his already buckling knees weren’t enough.
Johnny marches on, willing his body not to collapse out of pure spite as he forcefully puts one heavy foot in front of the other. If he spits out a few curses about his lieutenant as he carries on, then that's just the price of his compliance.
They have actionable intel that a Taliban cell hidden in these very mountains is planning an attack on an Afghan school. A low ranking paper pusher in the organization with loose lips gave it away to a few locals, and it was picked up on the CIA’s radar and verified before being tossed 141’s way. John supposes even terrorists aren't capable of keeping their damn mouths shut.
The sun is setting crimson and citrus in the pale, gray sky. Snowflakes gather on his exposed skin and flutter like falling stars as they drift overhead in the bright sky. Stunning, but it does little to improve Johnny’s shit mood. Not much does these days.
“Let’s set up camp here.” Ghost orders from behind him in the headquarters squad.
The marines shuffle around, digging up snow with their entrenching tools so they can set up their camps. Johnny takes his own tool in his cold-bitten hands and gets to digging. He listlessly shovels snow around, mind drifting from worry about Em to wondering what MRE he’ll eat tonight, to where the hell Ghost suddenly disappeared to. He turns at the sound of snow crushing behind him and finds Ghost as he nears his camp. The lieutenant comes to stop when there's only a foot of space between them. John cranes his head up and stares into the polarized lenses of his protective eyewear only to see his own reflection staring back at him.
“Lt?” He waits for Ghost to speak, but he only continues to quietly stand there, much like his namesake. And his silence is, as always, unsettling. “Need somethin', Sir?”
“There somethin’ on your mind, Sergeant?” He counters his question with another question.
It's so on brand and typical for The Ghost that John can't help but want to roll his eyes. He shows some self restraint, however - for his own sake. “No.” John dutifully answers.
“Are you injured?” Ghosts continues.
John doesn't at all like where this interrogation is going. “No.”
“Then is there a good fuckin’ reason why you’re breaking my formation?” There it was.
“No, sir,” John clenches his jaw and grits the words out. Here he is getting his arse torn apart by his superior in front of a bunch of Raiders. Embarrassed doesn't begin to describe how miserable he's feeling. Humiliated. Utterly mortified. Slightly rattled, perhaps.
“If you can’t keep up,” Ghost snarks, “You are more than welcome to stay behind.”
John feels what remained of his abused dignity snap like thread. Ghost is actively trying to piss him off. He is cold, hungry, and tired out of his mind in every way imaginable. So of course his lieutenant chooses right now - in these mountains and in front of these marines - to rip into him completely. A reminder that things could get so much worse for him. That his Lt could make things so much worse. But John takes the warning for what it is, a command to get his shit together. John heeds the unspoken advice.
“No, sir. I can keep up just fine.”
“You sure?” Ghost tests him, pulling tight at the taught strings of his resolve.
“Aye , sir.” He responds harshly.
Ghost studies him for a moment before he's fully satisfied. “Alright then.” He suddenly offers a piece of dark fabric in his hand and waits for Johnny to take it. It's a black balaclava, much like the kind the marines are wearing, though less standoffish and flamboyant than what Ghost wears around their garrison headquarters back in England.
“Put this on.” He commands. Soap undoes the scarf around his neck and slides the fabric in place. “You look like a fuckin’ popsicle.” Ghost jokes at his expense. His breathes mists in the frigid air when he rudely chuckles at his own dumb joke.
His Lt can be a heartless bastard sometimes. Even then, John can always rely on Ghost to take care of him in the field. Even when he absolutely hates the man.
John settles on the beef ravioli MRE. He ate quickly, keen on falling into his sleep roll and sleeping until the cows come home. Sleep, however, does not come easily tonight. He wake at around 0200 in the pitch black dark of the early morning. Tossing and turning in his roll does little good, and after several more sleepless minutes, he gives up on rest entirely. Staring up at the imageless view of his tent in the dark sounds more entertaining than rolling around, however.
He supposed his lack of comfort and rest has something to do with the constant strain in his relationship that plagues him day in and day out. Em is clearly upset - always upset, and John has next no idea how he's to make any of it better. The helplessness of it all makes him feel sick. He lays cold and exhausted in his tent while his mind dredges up every argument they’ve had in the past two months. The self doubt and depreciation that follows that unhappy train of thought is the cherry on top of his sleep deprived, foul mood. And to add to that, he woke up with a rager so stiff and hard he could actually cry.
It's an inappropriate time to be craving that kind of pleasure and touch - being so distraught, so hungry, and so damned tired and all. John crawls out his tent and makes a path for a nearby cluster of trees anyway, chalks it up his mind seeking some much needed comfort that his soul has gone hungry for. A smoke would do him some good right about now as well. His footfalls are quiet as he treks across the powdery snow in his snowshoes. He keeps the flashlight off to avoid waking the other troops. Every step jostles him where he's uncomfortably hard in his pants, and he grunts with the effort. He's no saint, but he's not yet sick enough to have a chug where the men can hear him.
John comes to rest against a tree, barks cold and hard against his back. He ungloves his right hand and flicks his lighter, struggling to get a spark in the cool wind. The first drag of that stale cigarette is like the song of an angel. He takes long inhale and lets the smoke fill his cheeks, washing it around his mouth before letting it go. Em hates that he smokes. She’d told him once that he’ll lose his teeth to oral cancer one day, and that when he does, she'll leave him for good. Johnny had laughed at her and pulled a cig out then and there just to piss her off. It’s been a while since she last complained about his habit. Johnny reckons maybe she doesn't give a shit anymore. And he reckons she's right in doing so. He isn't bloody worth it.
He drags on his cigarette until the tired ache behind his eyes numbs just enough to be a pitiful reminder of his sleepless nights and all his misery. The filter crumbles to ash as he smothers it against the bark. It’d been the last in the pack, naturally, and he desperately craves another one. He doesn't want to go back to his tent. He doesn't want to return to his thoughts. Or to Emily, or to home, or anywhere at all for that matter.
A thought crosses his mind that he abandon it all and just lay here forever, a man on a mountain whose problems won't ever find him. Johnny crumples the pack in his hand and lets it fall into the snow at his feet. He buries it with that fleeting thought of freedom, kicking around frosted dirt with his shoes. The night sky is almost obnoxiously beautiful now that the fat, snow clouds have begun to part somewhat. Nothing should ever look so beautiful all while he stands here completely miserable.
He takes a pitiful look down at his rager in the dark. When was the last time Em had touched him? When was the last time he’d wanted her to? The drive from Herefordshire to Glasgow was about six hours. It didn’t matter, though, Johnny would make that drive every weekend. Any chance he’d get, whatever it took to get back home to her. He hasn't been home in four weeks. The seconds tick by on his watch, and he reckons there's still time to be a mountain man.
John palms himself through his trousers and angrily curses as the pure pleasure of the simple touch. He might be starved of good love and kind touch, but he has no right being this hard in this fucking climate. And yet that little bit of pressure feel so good - too good. Better than Em has ever made him feel, but he won't let himself think on that for too long, else the ache will return behind his eyes.
He keeps his hand on himself as his hips thrusts forward into his palm at a slow pace, working himself over until he's panting at the touch of his hand over the hardness in his pants. It quickly becomes insufficient with the many layers he's wearing. Simply not enough, and he's more than eager to feel good tonight. For once.
It's stupid to do this in temperatures this low. But the risk of frostbite is worth chasing this feeling. He finds the zipper on his snow pants and pulls, hissing as it catches his sensitive skin on its way down. He properly gets a hand around himself and continues a slow pace along his length, fist loose as he tries to convince himself he isn't desperate for it. He doesn't manage for long and quickly fishes his cock out his pants and fucks his fist faster. No, he's never had strong will nor a backbone.
“Fuck, that’s good.” He sighs and his head lull back until it hits the bark with a thud. He circles his thumb around the head and bites back a moan, pulling his lip between his teeth. “Fuck.” He doesn't think about anything in particular, just the feel of his hand on himself as cold, winter air cools his feverish skin. When he looks back down where his cock was joined with his fist, he sees something flash. A flicker of red light in the distance. The cherry of a cigarette.
John freezes.
He goes for the flashlight in his left hand, quickly switching it on and pointing in the direction of the source. Just 20 feet away, his Lt stands - hip cocked against a tall tree, a cigarette loosely hanging between his lips, pinched between his bare fingers. Ghost brings the cigarette away from his mouth, smoke spill between his lips when he speaks.
“Don’t stop on my account, Sergeant.” His voice is rough with smoke and so quiet, John isn't sure if he really heard him speak. Ghost ponder over him, eyes roaming up and down and lingering on where John is still hanging out of his pants. They lock eyes, and a few of the stars seem to fall out of the sky. The earth pulls out from under John's feet completely. “MacTavish.”
John startles at the sound of his name. He swallows heavily. "Er- Sir?” Like a deer in overly bright headlights, or rather, a buck standing in the way of a speeding semi truck. His brain does a quick recall of his field guides, mentally searching for the appropriate guidelines on what to do when your lieutenant catches you having a wank and casually tells you to carry on.
Ghost lazily drags on the cigarette once more, not at all bothered about there current situation the way John is. “As you were.” He repeats, a shallow grunt around the fag between his lips.
John put his hand around himself and resumes the gradual pace of his hips. God only knows why he continues, or why Ghost determinedly watches him.
Ghost leaves the fag dangling from his lips as he watches John's hand intently. “You like it dry?” He asks, voice like gravel.
It does something to him, like lightning throughout his body and chills down his spine. His hips abruptly snap up to meet his fist, searching for more friction. “No.” He swallows again. “It’s too dry.” He circles his thumb around his head once more, digging hard into the seam and gathering the pre there.
“Get it wet then, Sergeant.” Ghost suggests, as if they were discussing ready-to-eat meals or preferred drinks. He's obnoxiously casual about the entire situation, and it has John feeling self conscious and pathetic.
John spits in his palm before pumping himself some more. “Mmmn.” He can't hold back a pleasured moan this time. And in the back of his head where he's too afraid to admit it, he wants his lieutenant to know how good it feels.
“Feel good?” Ghost rasps, as if reading the dark depths of his mind. As he wants to hear it too.
Johnny nods as he chews on his lip, desperate to push those wanton feelings aside like what they're doing now isn't awful enough. But it doesn't feel awful at all.
“Make your fist tighter, Johnny.”
His body follows before his guilt can catch up. John follows his instructions, tightening his hand on his cock and letting his head roll back at the delicious feel. It feels so damn good. “Fuck.” It's entirely too easy to forget how inappropriate this is. How wrong it is for John to be having a wank in front of his Lt. At his Lt’s command. If someone saw them-
“That’s it. Just like that, Johnny.”
" Mmmm-"
“Try it a little faster.”
That voice envelopes him like the cold or the smoke in his lungs. John fucks his fist faster, frantically. He can feel himself getting close, eagerly growing harder. He feels that voice like the hand around his prick.
“Good lad.” Ghost spoils him.
And that damned voice... It makes his knees weak. John braces an arm against the tree and locks eyes with his lieutenant. Ghost isn't watching his hand anymore, but rather he stares right into Johnny’s face, cigarette forgotten in his hand. “It’s so good, Lt.” He rasps.
“Yeah? Gonna come from it?” There's an eagerness in his voice. Like he's starving for it as well all while mocking John for wanting it just the same.
John's fist flies over his cock, pulling hard and tight. He's so close. “I need more.” His skins burns just admitting it. He feels as if he could burst into flames under Ghost's keen eyes.
“Tell me what you need, Johnny.”
“Ah dunno!” He spits. Frustrated with Ghost for doing this to him, for putting him in this pitiful state and nearly bringing him to his knees in his desperation for it. He knows what he needs, but he couldn't possibly say it.
And Ghost laughs at him, huffs as he smothered his cigarette on the ground and stands up straight. “You need me to come over there and fuck your cock for you?” He takes another step closer.
The forest between them seems to disappear before John's eyes. He feels as if he's mere inches away from what he wants. And yes, Christ, yes. He wants it, he needs Ghost to touch him. He needs him closer. “Fuck- please. Touch me-” He begs.
Ghost scoffs. “Slag.” He spits, almost as breathless as John feels. “You that desperate for it, John boy?”
“Fuck, Ghost-”
“That’s it.” Ghost takes another step. “Need to finish quickly now, lad. Frostbite’s a cunt.”
“God damn it!” John shines the light back on his Ghost's tall figure. He was close enough now for John to see the stubble growing on his chin and the smirk on his cold, dry mouth. Close enough to see the heavy bulge in his pants. God damn him, God damn him...
“Hurry up and come, Johnny.”
That’s all it took. Ghost telling him to finish this, ordering him as if what they're doing isn't so far beyond the realm of correct command and control of an officer and his sergeant. John spills into his hand and comes pathetically hard, Visio whitening out like the snow cover all around him. His legs tiredly tremble until he falls to his knees in the snow. "Fuck! Fuck!."
“That’s it, John. Good lad.”
“Jesus...” He pants as he goes soft in his hand.
“There you go.” Ghost coos, voice barely above a whisper.
John takes a few deep breaths and hungrily swallows that freezing cold mountain air until his lugs are bursting full with it. The ache behind his eyes has faded, and a pit has opened in his chest to replace it. It's not the freedom he had wished it to be. He keeps his eyes shut as he rights his pants, too afraid of what he’ll see when he opens them again and frightened by the reality of the situation he's put himself in. It's unforgivable, what he's done with his lieutenant. Morally ineffable, ethically wrong, and the single greatest trespass they could commit - just short of outright mutiny.
The weight of what he's done hangs heavy in his heart, a new wound much more painful than the others. He swallows hard and works up the courage to finally open his eyes. Only his lieutenant is gone. Ghost has disappeared, vanished into thin air and left John to suffer the gravity of what they've done alone. Johnny shudders a full body tremble, and he doesn't stop shaking as he warily stands and treads back to the camp, nearly falling over himself several times as he hastily flees the scene. And maybe if he can get far enough away, the memory of it will dissipate with the guilt and boiling shame that burns him from inside out.
Sleep does not come. His mind lingers on the rough edge to Ghost's careless drawl, the spread of his mouth around a cigarette and an arrogant smile, the look in his eyes as he'd watched John so eagerly. John doesn't soon forget any of it. He won't stay stranded on this mountain, but rather he will leave it with fresh pain that's too tender to heal.
The mission goes as planned. The Taliban militants residing in their cozy mountain cabin were easily done in from a rapid onset of NATO rounds to their vital organs, curtsey of a well coordinated surprise assault - John's favorite as it gives the enemy less time to shoot at him. A simple task, a drop in the bucket, successful by all accounts. John’s mind, however, is a gruesome train wreck.
Ghost has taken over driving back to their extraction point as more enemy combatants amass behind them. They’d driven as far into the mountains as they could before making the final trek on foot. Soap and Ghost sat in the back and let the marines canvas from the front and drive. But when their squad returned to their snow covered vehicles, Ghost had made straight for the driver’s side. John had prematurely climbed into the passenger seat rather than the back just to put some semblance of distance between them. Ghost has ruined his little plan, and John can only assume he's done so purposely.
They’d tucked one of the Taliban militants into a body bag and left him in the bed of the truck for transport. He's a suspected higher ranking member of the club and needs to be brought back for further identification. Johnny listens to his body roll around the truck bed with each bump in the road as his Lt presses the gas pedal to the floor, speed limits and treacherous turns be damned. If the unfriendliness chasing them don't manage to kill them, Ghost's driving surely will. John's begging to get motion sick, and the close proximity to Ghost is not helping his upset stomach as he willfully chokes back the contents of his empty stomach.
Now that the adrenaline of the gun fight has worn off, and John's mind was runs wild with uncontrolled thoughts of the prior night. If his underwear weren't still filthy with the evidence of what they did, he might convince himself that it was a dream. What the hell was he thinking last night? What he and Ghost had done- what he did... It was tragically unspeakable.
And he liked it.
He enjoyed himself so thoroughly last night, getting off in front of his Lt while the man talked him through it, encouraged him in that rough tone of voice. Ghost’s nicotine rough voice had washed over him like a physical touch, and Johnny wants to feel it everywhere. He wants to try it again, he wants to try him right now. And if Ghost told him to unzip right here in the cab of this truck, in front of the marines in the back seat and the dead man in the truck bed, Johnny can't say he wouldn't happy oblige him. The thought makes him paralyzingly ill - from the shame, or the guilt, or the sheer volume of his want. He can't believe just how much he's bloody wants it.
John swipes a rough hand over his face and exhales harshly. He really needs a cigarette right now. The half eaten packet of peanut M&Ms one of the marines hands him from the back will have to do. He crunches down over and over and pretends to feel a little better, pretends he's not fixating so hard that his heart is palpitating. When he bites his tongue, he crumples up the snack packet and carelessly shoves it in his plate carrier, displacing his anger, shame, and confusion onto the snack candy instead of himself. And he remembers Em telling him once that he tends to get upset at others when he's really just furious with himself - how people and objects quickly become victims to his volatile moods.
He supposes she's was right.
Their tactical convoy comes to a brief stop when they park at a station for gas. It's still early morning, so the little station is thankfully empty. Johnny volunteers to make a run inside the store just so he can have a minute alone. The marines fills the three trucks, and Ghost sits behind the wheel, watching John as he sprints inside. Johnny can feel his eyes on him as he enters the store. To make matters worse, simply because he wasn’t having a bad enough day already, the petrol station doesn't have his Marlboro reds.
John exits the store with a pack of gum, hurriedly leaving as the kid behind the counter understandably gives him weird looks. He huffs as he climbs back into the passenger seat and hands Ghost his cranberry juice, because apparently his lieutenant is a child who needed his juice after slaying some terrorists.
They sit in silence as the marines take turns pissing behind the station and sharing dip. Johnny can hear them spitting all the way from their vehicle. Exhaustion gnaws at him with every passing minute until he lazily rests his head against the headrest and watched as Ghost opens his drink - removing a single glove and slipping his fingers under the mask to draw it up from his mouth. It felt like hours pass as John watched him slowly peel the fabric from his face, just enough for a drink. He spares nothing more. John's grown used to his lack of generosity.
John watches the rosy tip of his nose and how his nostrils flare at the first unobstructed breath of air. Ghost drains the whole bottle in just a few swallows. John more fascinated by the way his throat works, how his Adam's apple bobs with each drink. A pearlescent drop escapes the seal of his lips, and Johnny watches as his tongue darts out to catch it before it drips past his chin.
“Got a staring problem, MacTavish?”
All that drink, and his voice is still rough like glass. “No.” John clears his throat. “Not at all, Lt.” He faces the windshield, face beet red at having been caught staring. He keeps his eyes on the long stretch of open highway and resolutely does not look at his lieutenant again. He doesn't watch him swipe his thumb over his red stained lips and around the corners of his mouth. He didn’t watch him scratch at his jaw, even as the sound of his nails scraping against the stubble break the resumed silence of the cab.
Johnny swallows hard, an apparent new mannerism he only seems incapable of repeating when he has a hard on in front of his lieutenant. He folds his hands in his lap to conceal his growing arousal and chews on his sore tongue. A punishment for being so desperate in the first place.
What the hell was wrong with him?
His stomach churns unhappily.
He's was slow getting out of their vehicle as they cruise up the airfield. He watches as Ghost and the marines cross the tarmac with the body bag in two. Johnny supposes if he lets everybody else take their seats on the Chinook first, he’d have the best chance at not being forced to sit next to his lieutenant. And as it turns out, Johnny is full of shite plans today. He takes the last remaining seat next to Ghost, placing his helmet and pack at his feet and slumping in his seat. All he wants is to quickly fall asleep so this helo ride can pass in the blink of an eye.
Ghost has a different idea. As Johnny rests his eyes and listens to the drone of chatter from the other troops, he feels the Lieutenant's knee press into his. Only a slight touch, and yet just enough to lit up every nerve in John's body anyway as if every sense were heightened to a point of painfulness. When did he start getting so unnerved at every brief touch from him? That simple point of contact between them keeps him awake and alert. Johnny holds his breath the entire trip back to the England. It comes out all at once in a shuddering exhale as the helo finally touches down, and Ghost stands - breaking their contact.
Johnny rubs along his thigh to soothe the lingering sensation of scathing fire on his skin. Ghost faces the window and leaves the space between them empty in the back of the SUV as they catch a lift back to Herefordshire. A small mercy.
They stand shoulder to shoulder in Price’s office. Soap let his Ghost do most of the mission reporting. He contributes perfunctory grunts, nods, and “Aye, sirs” when needed, feigning like he's paying any attention at all instead of listening to the endless barrage of loud voices in his head. One of the voices was Em’s. One of them was his dad’s. Most of them were his own spiteful ridicule, as if he needed anymore.
Johnny does what he always does when the shame seemings rises above his head and suffocates him. He stands at attention, fixes his gaze on a spot on the wall, and count his breaths until his lungs learn to breathe again.
1…2…3…4
Fucking useless
8…9…10
When are ye comin’ home, Johnny?
21…22..
Are ye even listening ta' me?
38…40…45
Are ye sure this fanny boy is even mine, Aileen? Nothin’ like his brother, he is. And so damned sensitive.
63…75…
So fucking useless
102…
Yer not even fucking listening ta' me, Johnny!
“Johnny.”
He startles at the sound of his name. A cursory glance around the room tells him that Ghost has been trying to get his attention for a moment now. Captain Price peers up at him from his desk, a quizzical brow raised as his questioning eyes look John over.
“Johnny?”
He finally turns to face the Lieutenant. “You listenin’?”
Fuck. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t hear ye. Sorry, sir.” He grinds his teeth together, waiting for the “Get your head out of your arse, Sergeant,” or the “Leave your brain in Pakistan, MacTavish? Need me to drop you there so you can find it?” It never comes, and the fact is more unsettling than if Ghost had torn into him.
“I said you’re dismissed. Go on.” Ghost nods in the direction of the door.
Johnny falters again, body seemingly out of sync with his mind.“Aye.” He nods at Price and then nearly trips over himself as he turns to leave. The other two don't even wait for him to fully shut the door before talking about him.
“The kid all right?”
“Hike took it out of him. He didn’t sleep on the ride back. Just needs rest.” Comes Ghost’s analysis. And what an understatement that is.
Back in his barracks, Johnny stands under the warm spray of the shower head. The dirty water swirls around his feet in the clogged drain. But there's something calming about lathering his skin with soap just to watch it all wash away. He only wishes his worries would disappear just as easily. He repeats the action over and over until his fingertips prune and wrinkle. Water cascades down his forearms, blending in with the many scars he’d accumulated over the years. He scrubs his fingers through his hair and pretends like the hands scratching at his scalp aren't his own, but instead belong to someone who loved him - another sorry wish, another insignificant mercy. Johnny fantasizes about someone ever caring enough to wash his hair for him. The water runs cold.
He doesn't go to the mess after he cleans up, preferring instead to drag his tired body to his room before throwing himself onto his bed. The afternoon sun hangs high in the sky spills into his small room through folds in the tattered blinds. His vision unfocuses, eyes closing on their own accord, until he lets himself fall asleep at last - mind quiet for the first time in 30 hours. The rest he's granted isn't nearly enough to bandage the exhaustion he left the mountain with. He wakes to the sound of knocking at his door. His eyes feel glued together, and his vision isn't quite clear. John blinked a few times as he tries to recall the past 24 hours. Another knock at his door pulls his attention away from the absence of sunlight in his room.
“Soap! Get up, mate.” Gaz’s voice bleeds through the cracks in the door.
Johnny sits up on his knees, groaning as he stretches out his back and rolls his neck until it pops. He walks across the linoleum on socked feet and unhappily pulls the door open.
“There he is.” Gaz slaps a hand against his shoulder, and it nearly knocks John to the floor. “I was sent to fetch you for dinner. C’mon.”
Johnny watches Kyle turn his back and start down the hall, not even waiting for him to get his shoes on. He jogs to catched up to him.
“You alright, Soap.”
“Aye.” His jaw cracks on a yawn. “Was sleepin’ like the dead, I was.”
“I know.” Gaz smirks. “I could hear you snoring from down the hall.”
“Shut yer mouth.” John shoulders him, pushing him into a wall and squeezing a laugh from him. The lack of people around to witness their immaturity is distinct. The mess is almost fully empty when they enter. “What time is it?”
“Nearly eleven now. You slept the day away.” Kyle hands him a tray as he slides his own down the line, eyeing up the food behind the glass. It's fish and chips tonight.
They sit together at the back wall. Kyle makes futile attempts at conversation, but John’s head is still cloudy and half asleep. Mentally, he was still in his bed, dreaming about pale, scarred hands and red stained lips. Kyle leaves him alone to stare at the spot on the table he’d been trying to commit to memory for the past five minutes. In all honesty, Johnny didn't notice him leave.
But he's beginning to pick up on a prickling sensation on his face - a chill creeping up his neck. He tries to focus on the noises from the kitchen as the staff clean and closed, the sound of food containers on metal racks and rusted wheels across a tiled floor. The lingering smell of sanitizer and dish liquid. But the feeling grazing up his neck is incessant. He glances around the room, eyes sweeping the space for the source.
And of course it should be no one other than Ghost, boring holes into him from an empty table across the room. When their eyes meet, Ghost makes no attempt to break the contact or stop his staring. John decides to do it for him. He gathers his tray and deposits it to be cleaned before making for the exit, right where Ghost conveniently sits as if waiting for him. And he is waiting for him, John is quick to realize.
“Lt.” He greets once he's standing before the Lieutenant's table.
Ghost only nods in return. His tired brown eyes watch him for a moment, closely studying him. His face is clean under the soft balaclava he wears, with traces of his black war paint staining the skin around his eyes. There are deep shadows there too, like he's just as fatigued as John feels.
John’s attention falls to where Ghost has his hands folded on the table top, gloveless and with his pale skin on display. Scars curve around his knuckles. There's more black embedded deep under his fingernails. When those pale hands unfold and hide themselves under the table in Ghost’s lap, John falters as he's suddenly the one incessantly staring. After excusing himself, he quickly exits and hurries down the hallway.
He doesn't need to see his lieutenant to know he was lagging just behind him, only a few yards away as he follows John out. His presence is ominous and foreboding as they walk in the dark, and John can't for the life of him understand why the Lieutenant feels the need to tail him. Ghost didn’t part from him until they reach the enlisted men's barracks. John watches the door swing shut behind him and picks Ghost out in the dark from where he stands, nothing but a tall shadow. John blinks, and he's gone.
John struggles to sleep as he lays in his bed - bleak, weary, and completely awake. Ghost is haunting him like fire behind his eyes or a nightmare he can't shake, and Johnny can't sleep. The Lieutenant occupies his every thought. John stares at the ceiling and sees Ghost’s masked face in the water damage. He looks out his open blinds where he left the moonlight to filter in and wonders if Ghost is lying awake and looking out at the same stars.
He releases a forlorn sigh and reaches around in his bed for his phone just for something to do. After pulling up his texts with Emily on instinct, he stares at the screen, not quite sure of what to do now. John reads through their last messages. He’d let her know that he was about to leave for an assignment, but he hadn’t told her he was back. She's probably waiting. Johnny hopes she's still waiting.
John: I’m back
He leaves his phone on his chest. He isn't expecting an immediate reply at this hour, so he's surprised when his phone buzzes with her message.
Emily: You alright?
Just two words. It loosened something wound tight in his chest, though. John knew he could be a fuck up sometimes. But he hadn’t managed to completely ruin this just yet.
John: I’m fine. You good?
He waited for her reply.
Emily: I’m good
Emily: Miss you
Johnny gritted his teeth.
John: I miss you too love
His throat burned with acid. The words he sent to her…they felt wrong. They felt like a lie somehow. He thought of Emily often. Daily . But miss her? After all they’d been through the past few months, all the fights, the screaming, the silence. Johnny didn’t miss any of it. And it had been like this for so long now, he was starting to forget how it used to be.
Emily: Are you busy? Can I call you?
John let go of another long-suffering sigh. That was the thing about their relationship. They kept things sweet and civil over text. But on the phone? Em liked to preach fire and brimstone to him over the phone. He wasn’t home enough for her to yell at him to his face. A phone call was a nice substitute.
He didn’t get a chance to type an excuse to her. An “ I’m too tired,” or a “I have mission reports to write.” The phone rang in his hands, and Emily’s pretty face lit up the screen. He answered.
“Hey, hen.” His enthusiasm to talk to her sounded put on, even to him.
“Hey, Johnny.” She sounded much the same, maybe more chipper.
“Why aren’t ye asleep, Em?” Maybe he could coax her into putting the phone down and averting the incoming screaming match he was inevitably bound for.
“Couldn’t sleep. Was worried aboot ye. Waitin’ for you’se to tell me ye made it back safe.” They were both skilled liars.
“Ah’m awright. Still got all my fingers and toes.” He joked.
“That’s good, Johnny.” She sighed. “Ye comin’ hame the day?” He checked the time on his screen. It was Friday.
“Ah…Ah dunno, hen.” He could hear her sigh again over the line.
“What dae ye mean?”
“Ah dunno if Ah should . Come home that is.”
“How no’? Ah havnae seen ye in a month , Johnny.” The anger and desperation was bleeding into her voice, ruining her caring facade. John couldn’t hold back his scoff. Why the hell did she even want him home if she could barely stand him on the phone?
“Well, Em.” He could finish this. He could tell her he was tired and that they both just needed to sleep. But Johnny was angry too. “Ye bite my head aff on the phone every other day. All Ah ever dae is pish ye aff. Just tryin’ tae give ye some space is all.” He was raising his voice now, matching her rage blow for blow.
“There’s 400 miles between us, Johnny! It’s enough fucking space for fuck’s sake!”
She hung up, and John had to swallow back the contents of his stomach that’d been so eager escape his mouth all fucking day.
Fuck.
John layed there for a moment, letting the end of that conversation really sink in so he could bathe in the self loathing and pity that accompanied it.
He was angry at Emily. Angry because she didn’t understand him, didn’t even try to. Angry because she wouldn’t tell him what was really going on. He was angry at her for being her . But most of all, he was so fucking angry with himself. Angry with himself for being a temperamental coward that hides from his girlfriend. Angry with himself for letting her down over and over again like it’s all he knows how to do. Angry because they don’t love each other like they should, and Johnny doesn’t know if they ever will. If he ever will. If he ever could .
The weight of the phone in his hands was a tempting thing. He could throw it, smash it to pieces against the drywall so easily. It would be like smashing the broken pieces of their fragile relationship. Breaking this broken thing between them fully. Killing it.
He doesn’t throw his phone. If Emily was here with him right now, she’d be surprised at that. Johnny throws a punch at his wall instead, splattering red blood from his cut knuckles across the off white paint. He sits on the edge of the bed after his little tantrum, watching blood drip from his hand and make a tiny pool on the floor. Watching it drip down the new hole in his wall. The pain in his fist feels better than the tearing in his heart and the screaming in his head.
John didn’t remember falling asleep. The sight of dried blood staining his pillow and all over his hand had him startling out of bed, nearly falling off the mattress as he did so. When his eyes found the fist shaped hole in his wall, he remembered. The sun was rising in the sky outside his window. John scrubbed a hand over his eyes and tried to calm himself. He woke up with the image of a bloody corpse in his bed, and he couldn’t seem to get the picture out of his head. His phone screen lit up from his bedside table. A message from Emily, he was sure. Who else would be texting him. He rounded the bed and made his way to the table slowly, not quite eager to see what she had to say to him this morning. The thought alone made his stomach feel uneasy. Johnny read her message.
Emily: Don’t bother coming home.
He reread her message a second time. A third and a fourth. Over and over until it became too much. Until he was bending over and finally vomiting a week’s worth of bad choices, restless sleep, and gut-wrenching shame onto the linoleum. Until he was on his hands and knees, heaving bile because there was nothing left in his stomach to give. He had nothing left to give. Nothing to offer.