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There is snow melting in Ghost’s fucking pants, probably kissing his arse and balls with frostbite, and someone is going to die.
That specific someone being the wretched bastard looking at him with surprised blue eyes. As if Soap had startled himself by tugging open two layers of Ghost’s waistbands and dumping a handful of snow in. Hands immediately go up in surrender. Weak. Hundreds of hours in training over the years, and this is what it amounts to? A rushed step backwards when he moves forward.
“Sorry, LT. Dinnae ken what came over me,” Johnny apologises, but the grin playing at his lips cancels that right out.
“Did I look too hot, Sergeant? Thought you’d cool me off, is that it?” Another step. He’s just got to wait for the right opportunity—not above playing dirty when Soap’s the one who started it.
“You always look hot, sir.”
And poor Johnny plays right into his hand. He pauses long enough to get his inevitable stupid wink in, and Ghost is taking those bad knees right out from under him. They go down into the thick heap of white powder, wrestling like schoolchildren until he takes a page out of the other’s book by grabbing a fistful of snow and crushing it in his ridiculous, handsome face. Johnny sputters. He thinks some might’ve gone up his nose, which warms Ghost’s bones with a pleased smugness.
“Shite, fuckin’ cunt. Now we’re both wet.”
He will admit he didn’t actually think this through past revenge, too consumed by bloodlust rather than a solid plan of action. Soap truly brings out the worst in him. Dampness soaks into the legs of his jeans where he’s straddling a wriggling waist.
“Thought you loved the snow.”
“Aye, not wearing it, preferably.”
And wearing it he is. Clumps are stuck in his short beard he’s grown out for winter. Delicate flakes are resting on his eyelashes. His nose is so pink from the cold. Ghost probably looks much the same, minus the beard, mask-less and extra freezing out here. Only he could never be this beautiful. Winter really is Johnny’s season.
Dark hair framed by a perfect blanket of white, arctic blue eyes that on anyone else would be cold, but somehow on this man they’re warm. Ghost likes to imagine maybe that’s just when they’re directed at him.
Johnny’s cheeks are turning pink to match his nose—they really do need to head back in. Neither of them even have gloves on, and here they’ve been rolling around in the snow. They were only meant to be out here for the minute it took to get the firewood from the shed until Soap decided to act up. It's technically a CIA safe house, but Laswell had given Price the keys specifically for a secure location to rest, being the new year and all. Somewhere their paranoid minds could be eased for just a few days. It seems that’s never an option with Soap around. Not for Ghost, at least. Price and Gaz are going to think they’ve been ambushed out here.
“Ghost?”
He’s caught him staring. In his defence, there’s not much else to look at. Trees. Snow. Cabin. More snow. Or the most infuriating, most dangerous, most perfect human beneath him. It’s not even a choice.
“We should go in. Warm up.” He makes to stand from the admittedly far too comfortable position, but Johnny grabs his wrist.
“Hold on. C’mere. Got something on your face.” He practically purrs the words, all low and slow in that accent detrimental to Ghost’s heart health. And he reaches his other hand up to the back of his neck, tugging his face down. And Ghost’s fight-or-flight response switches up to freeze.
He didn’t—he’s tried so hard for so long to stop himself from ever imagining this could happen.
And the next thing he knows, he’s the one with his back in the snow.
Fucking hell. Bloody fucking Soap MacTavish crowing with laughter on top of him. His knees dig into his ribs in the exact reversal of their position from a second ago. Ghost is going to kill him just as soon as he’s not pinned down. It’ll be a shame, having come out here for a peaceful time, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made.
“Ye look like a wet cat.”
“Wanker,” he mutters, turning his face away to the side even though it puts his whole cheek in the snow.
“Och, don’t be like that. Sourpuss.”
He doesn’t move an inch, refusing to give the egotistical prick any more satisfaction.
“Simon Riley,” he coos. “Did ye want to be kissed?”
He says it like he already knows perfectly well the answer is yes. What Ghost wants is for the ground to swallow him up. The both of them, actually. Just take away both of their miserable existences. Two birds, one stone type deal.
His teeth grind together, and that laugh is suddenly much softer and much closer to his ear.
Johnny kisses his cheek. It lasts a whole split second, but it sends such a jolt of warmth through him he worries he might’ve caught on fire. Or maybe this is what people feel like before they spontaneously combust.
“Does that make it better or ye gonna wallop me now?”
Again, he wants to command. On every square inch of him, just like that. The only thing he manages is a thick swallow.
Johnny tuts and gets his hand under his cheek in the snow to turn his face back upward. And Ghost just lets him. This newly acquired freeze response is a hell of a thing. It better not be something that spills over into his work, but he’s got a strong feeling this is a Johnny-specific thing. A being kissed by Johnny specific thing.
He expects a demented, playful grin when he finally meets his face. It’s not there. Instead, it’s a soft, tiny smile and half-lidded eyes staring at his lips. Oh. He swallows again, working to finally find his voice.
“You call that a kiss?” he barely croaks.
Soap’s hand is still against his cheek, fingers absently rubbing feeling back into it.
“I can do better, sir,” he whispers.
He always thought if this ever happened, it would be a wild, desperate thing, hard and fast with clashing teeth. Especially coming from someone as brash as Soap. And maybe anywhere else, any other circumstance, it would be. But right now they’re lying in the snow, safe with nothing urgent on the table. Other than Price’s firewood. And Johnny nudges their icy noses together, both hands cupping his face. And Ghost’s heart is fit to burst.
Lips just as icy as the rest of their skin barely capture his top lip, and then Johnny is letting out a ragged, shaken breath against his mouth. As if he’d just been punched in the gut and had the air knocked out of him.
“Johnny?” he murmurs. It causes their lips to brush again, and it’s hard to see his face this close, but he can tell his brows draw together. “You ‘right?”
A puff of laughter against him, and Johnny bumps their noses again.
“Never fucking better. Just cannae believe this.”
For the first time, Ghost considers he’s not the only one capable of being so overwhelmingly infatuated. It properly spurs him on, because after so long of wanting to, he tangles his fingers in that blasted mohawk and presses their mouths together.
He hasn’t done anything like this in so fucking long, he’d have half a mind to be embarrassed about it if the way they moved together didn’t feel like the most natural thing in the world. The sound of slow, consecutive closed-mouth kisses out here in the silent forest could drown out any bad thought. Ghost grips his hair just a bit tighter and Johnny keens.
Suddenly there’s a tongue poking out, licking at him with every kiss, so he meets him halfway. They mingle together slow and—soft. That’s the word he’s looking for. This is softer than he could’ve ever imagined.
If the other is any indication, he tastes just like the tea they’d had earlier. He slides a palm to the back of his neck, holding him in place.
They go on and on like that before he realises he’s smiling into it. How is he not supposed to when Soap is sucking his lip between his teeth?
The desperate little noises coming from Johnny make it seem like he could get off just from this alone. It’s something he files away for later—and he hopes to god there will be a later.
When they break apart for air, he thinks that’s that, but Johnny tucks his head into his neck and presses one final kiss there.
“Was that up to standard?” The cold air from his breath clouds around them, and they actually need to get back inside. Just after one last thing.
He strokes his hand over Johnny’s hair once more, savouring the moment and locking it in his memory for forever—while his other hand grabs a pile of snow and shoves it down Soap’s trousers.
“Much better.”