that ghost had no gun

A Friday in June, the blush of a very late sunset still cracked across the sky visible through lace curtains, stars blooming in the vast darkness swallowing the horizon in gulps. 

Task Force 141 were on mandatory leave, and Simon had agreed to stay in your flat with you and Johnny, for the first time.

Ghost was new, this way, to you. 

Unmasked and sock footed. His boots are by the door, lined up between Johnny’s haphazardly kicked ones and your canvas trainers. 

For a long time, he had been nothing but a looming shadow in your periphery, vaguely cautious in the way a predator that didn’t trust something new was. A wolf separated from his pack, watching you and Johnny, observing, monitoring. He hated you, you had thought. Soap had been insistent he was just watching, keeping the lines of things neatly colored in. 

Slowly, the paranoid distrust morphed into something else—appreciation, though for what you couldn’t say, then, presence. Suddenly, his shadow was not cast over you, but around you. Not like netting around fish, not like something meant to contain. It was watchful and warm, a thick cloak thrown around your shoulders. 

The axis shifted from you and Johnny to something more complicated. Soap and you and Ghost.

He had for so long watched you and Soap with something close to longing, or belonging, if he were allowed such a thing. 

Now, he was here, on your sofa in your flat. You had gotten to watch Simon chop potatoes with military precision in your kitchen, insistent that he be of use, as Soap sat on the counter next to him talking over the radio he left on too loud, a faint smile on his face. 

If you were to kiss him, he’d probably taste like the raspberry ice cream you’d had after, sticky bowls still stacked on the coffee table.

Your fingers ached with the memory of the cold bowl in your hands. 

"Soap, will you hold my hand?"

"Aye, lass, who could say no to you?" Soap answered, already reaching out to you, palm offered. 

Ghost sighed heavily from between you, shifting slightly. It was a long suffering sound without a bit of heat or heart in it.

Purposely, you had sandwiched him between you, pushed your thigh against his, curled closer when he relaxed into it. It was tricky, figuring out how to knit him between you. He allowed it, even if he’d been a bit still and stiff to start. 

"Would you like to hold hands, too, Ghost?"

You watched his jaw tense, a muscle jumping in his throat. But his shoulders were loose, his posture a comfortable, lithe line. His thighs widened a little as he crossed his arms across his thick chest, easing firmly into a position that let both you and Soap more easily reach each other across him.

"No.”

"Suit yourself." Your eyes found Soap's, a smile tugging at your mouth. "Aye, apparently Simon can say no to me."

He grinned back at you. "But I would never," he answered, a tad dramatically. "Give it here, love."

You offered your hand to Johnny across Simon's midsection. Ghost just sighed again, eyes glued to the television flickering glowing, bright lines across his face. You were sure that he could not care less about what was on the screen. The film had been forgotten almost as soon as it was put on. 

But if Simon was content to remain an unmoving nesting post between you, that was fine in your book. 

Soap laced his fingers through yours. It was a comforting, familiar feeling. Just one of a thousand times he’d held your hand. The rough concave of his palm pressed against yours, calloused fingers scraping against the pads of yours. 

His hand was warm, a heat that bled into you in soft, slow curls. 

He hissed gently. “Yer hand is freezin’.” 

“Why d’ya think I asked you to hold it?” 

His thumb traced a gentle arc over the side of your hand. “Give the other one here.”

You pushed closer to the motionless mountain of a man between you, reached your opposite open hand across him toward Johnny, who snagged his fingers around your wrist and pushed your hands together between both of his. 

Simon huffed. 

“Children, the two of you,” he muttered, half sneering but not really. The cut of his voice was almost fond, like a dozing guard dog.  

"Could just move out of the middle there, big guy," Soap said. 

Ghost shifted again.

Uneasily. As though he might be asked to. 

"...No."

You smiled and let Soap hold your hands, running his fingers over yours, familiar as your own heartbeat. 

The position was uncomfortable, but you found the cramped angle of your legs tucked beneath you, knees jammed against Simon’s huge thigh, the awkward positioning of holding up your arms without support, more than worth the pain in your calves and biceps. It was worth it to feel Soap’s fingers curled around yours and feel the steadying warmth of Simon against your side, the slow pulse of his breath. 

Your hands were small in Johnny’s, dwarfed by the size of his own. He rubbed warmth into your fingers slowly. 

Simon sunk further into the couch cushions, exuding an ease you weren’t sure you’d before had the privilege of witnessing. His chin tilted down a fraction, eyes unwaveringly forward, ignoring you or tolerating you or content—you couldn't tell. You settled on content when you leaned your forearms against him, unable to hold up the weight any longer, and he made a sound that was akin to purr. 

Perhaps he liked being buried beneath both of you. 

You glanced at Soap but he was focused on your hands, massaging the joints. Big blue eyes trained on your hands, perpetually rough and cold and stained with motor oil. 

You pulled carefully away, though you’d have liked nothing more than to stay there, warm, secure. 

“Thank you, darling.” 

“Plenty warm now?” 

You hummed and tucked your hands into your sleeves to preserve the meager warmth, levering your body weight away from Simon’s as a precaution. You didn’t care to push it, push him. 

He’d allowed this much, you and Soap being silly and in his space, and it was probably time to back off. You were still new to him, he was still scenting you out, deciding. You were asking for a great deal, and didn’t take that for granted. 

This, the three of you on your small sofa while they were on leave, sharing warmth and being allowed the space to annoy each other, had been years in the making. Years of closeness that held you apart and stitched you together, uncertainty a thickly drawn line down the middle. 

This was a small, soft, sweetened thing that you were all too aware of the fragility of. It felt like spun sugar left dangerously close to an open window during a rainstorm. 

Simon was like a sort of skittish shelter dog. He’d spent so long looking in at you and Johnny from behind a self imposed fence that he didn’t quite know what to do now he was allowed inside, on the couch, no less, or where his too large frame fit between you. 

And you were all too aware that he could still bite. 

But as you leaned back and Johnny’s hands fell out of yours, Simon uncrossed his arms, and tucked one around your waist, keeping you firmly against his side as he squeezed your hip. 

Johnny, who had decidedly not moved, raised a brow when you met his eyes for guidance. He only shrugged, eyes bright. 

“Got an idea, bird,” Ghost said and held out his free hand. “Give it here.”

“What?” 

“Hand.” 

There was no question in his voice, no room to broker an argument. You slipped your hand into his, still gloved. His brows twitched, then furrowed when his fingers closed around yours. His fingers pumped around yours, like he was testing what he felt to be right. 

“Y’do ‘ave cold hand,” he said eventually. 

“Did you think I was lying?” 

He leveled you with a look that said he thought you and Soap were just fucking around like you usually were. Which—you had been. 

“My hands are always cold,” you said, small beneath the weight of his gaze. “My wrists and fingers hurt because of it sometimes.” 

Too many years exposed to the elements and the testy machinery of military vehicles. Minor burns and tiny scars accompanied the motor oil and scratched skin. You joints ached; your circulation was poor. 

You were only a mechanic. You couldn’t imagine how Soap and Ghost must fare with aches and pains. 

Simon merely hummed, information catalogued, filed away for later use. He released your hip and transferred your palm from one hand to the other. “Johnny,” he said. “Hand.” 

Soap readily stuck his hand into Simon’s grip, flush with a trust you were still treading uneasily through. 

Without preamble he pushed both your hands into his front hoodie pocket, then left them there, retracting his own. 

As good as an invitation to stay pressed against his side as you were ever going to get. You tangled your fingers with John’s inside Simon’s pocket and settled against his side. You stayed very still as he curled an arm behind Johnny’s shoulders, and left the other along the back of the couch behind you. 

“Warm now?” He queried, amusement grinding among rough cut of his voice, teasing. 

“Very much,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” 

He merely crossed his arms again. 

You settled in firmly, listened to the steady beat of his heart, firm and enduring as anything, as Soap ran his thumb across your knuckles. 

When you were half asleep against his shoulder, the film long forgotten, Ghost shifted, his hand covered yours still twinned with Soap’s in his pocket. It stayed there, heavy and pleasant, protectively over both of yours. 

You closed your eyes again. 

Soap’s fingers twitched in yours when Ghost flicked the telly off. “Asleep?” 

“Aye,” Ghost answered, something terribly and irreconcilably soft in his voice. “Asleep.” 

“I told ye, didn’t I?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, and you weren’t sure what it was Johnny had been right about. You felt his head turn toward you, then away. 

And when you dared to open your eyes, you saw Ghost looking softly at Soap, tender heart in his eyes. It felt like something of a dream, like the old, comforting edges of a yellowed newspaper, to watch them lean together. 

Foreheads pushed together, first, then a kiss so gentle it betrayed the truth of what you were witness to. Simon’s hand left its place over yours and cupped Johnny’s jaw instead. Simon with his eyes closed, Soap’s face in his hand like it was the sun and he’d never care how much it might burn. 

You closed your eyes again, felt like maybe it would be okay.  

“Easy?”

“Aye.” 

They spoke in half sentences and glances you’d never properly understand. You found  you didn’t mind, so long as the answer to easy was aye. 

.

.

.

“The Ghost has a soft spot for ya, lass,” Soap said later, when he cornered you in the kitchen, waiting for water to boil for tea that only Simon wanted but you were more than happy to make. 

Someone had done the washing up while you dozed on the couch, your sleeves pulled consideringly over your hands. 

It was nearing midnight; you wished Simon asked for more than tea from you both. Just a promise would be nice. 

You snorted, felt Soap’s hands on your hips, turning you, pinning you in the v where the benchtops met. “Tolerates, love,” you corrected. “The Ghost tolerates me.” 

“Ach, that’s what a bleedin’ soft spot looks like for Simon.”

You laughed and draped your arms around his shoulders, fingers stroking the back of his neck, the feathery ends of the mohawk gone long and wild while he’d been on leave. 

“Is that so?” 

“Aye.”

“So what’s your soft spot look like, MacTavish?” 

“Like a bonnie little mechanic that laughs at all my jokes.” 

"Not how I’d describe Simon.” 

The kettle clicked off. Soap laughed and you felt the warmth of it against your mouth. “He’d blush to hear it.” 

You laughed again and cupped his face in your hands as he wound his arms around your waist, pushed his hips flash against yours. Your hands looked small against his jaw, where Simon’s had made Soap look small under his touch. 

“I just don’t want to scare him,” you admitted quietly, searching Johnny’s eyes. 

He raised a brow and opened his mouth. 

“Yeah, yeah, Ghost is scared of fucking nothing, but Simon is. It’s taken so long. I’ve watched him hurt for so long for nothin’.” You shrug, “And, you, too. I’ve watched you both hurt.” 

You wrenched free and turned away before he could answer, busying yourself with the kettle and the tea, not wanting him to see what naked desperation surely lay in your eyes. You wanted this, this little pack, so badly it stung. 

You pulled down a cup and a saucer, proper, and a brand of tea that you only bought just in case Simon ever deigned to come over. To sit in your living room and let you be annoying and sit very close to him. 

What had you been thinking? You were too much, you always had been. 

You sighed softly, a knot forming in your throat. 

“And you, lass,” Soap said, and then wrapped his arms around you, tugged you back into his broad chest. He was warm, his frame heavy against yours as he leaned into you, arms folded around your middle, chin landing softly on your shoulder. 

Comfortable, familiar, painfully yours. 

You didn’t answer, just turned your head and tilted your forehead against his temple. “Sweet of you to think of me.” You already knew Ghost didn’t take anything in his tea but you ask Soap again just to be sure. 

“You’d know better than me. Argued with him enough about what constitutes a proper cup.” 

But you wouldn’t, you wanted to say, you wouldn’t because even if you were there first, you were the outlier, the thing that didn’t really exactly fit. The thought had so far gone unvoiced, but you sensed Johnny knew anyway. He always seemed to, with you, with people he cared about. 

The bond they shared would always be an unreachable place for you. 

“Is he really going to sleep on the sofa?” 

John nods against you. “Wee steps.” 

You sighed. “Will he sleep?” 

“Not sure he actually sleeps,” Johnny said. “He’ll stare at the door all night.” 

You giggled, let him press kisses along your neck and shoulder, hands firm and steady on your hips. “Soap.” 

He said your name and you felt better. “Solid?” 

“Always.” 

“I’ll go. Ye can take the English bastard his tea.” 

You smiled and knocked your forehead against his. “Wait up for me?”  

He squeezed your waist, tipped his chin against yours. A long, tender kiss that made your chest ache, love and reassurance and protection all in one. A silent no one is going anywhere. 

It felt like belonging. Johnny just sort of had that effect. 

He tasted of raspberry ice cream and tea. 

“‘Course.” 

He would, you knew, sprawl across your bed and fall immediately asleep. And later you would have to huff and wriggle beneath his arm until he curled it around your waist and pulled you into his body. 

Soap kissed your forehead, released you, and trundled off in the direction of your bedroom. You could hear him shucking off his clothes before he even turned the corner out of the kitchen. 

Simon’s tea done, you carried it to the front room to find that he had made up the sofa with the spare sheets and blanket you had intended to see to. 

“Tea, hopefully up to scratch,” you said, setting the saucer onto the side table at his elbow. 

“Never had it wrong before,” he said. 

“Aye, but a bit of sugar never hurt.” 

“Bloody heathens,” he said drolly. “The pair of you.”

You smiled and then fidgeted, crossed your arms and shifted from foot to foot. He watched you and you watched back. Without Soap, you felt out of your element with him. “Out with it, bird,” he said quietly after a long moment of silence. 

“I was going to do that,” you gestured to the couch. 

Simon shrugged, and leaned back. It was unfair, the way your breath caught. He was pretty and fucking huge. “Already done.” 

“But you’re my guest.” He raised a brow. “That—That’s not what I meant. You aren’t a guest. I mean—Are you sure you want to sleep here?” 

He nodded once, slow and measured. “Okay. Well. You know you don’t have to. You’re—We want you with. . . us.”

Ghost leaned forward, and offered his hand to you. It was bare this time, scarred, palm up. 

You stepped between his knees and put your hand in his. “They warm now?” His fingers curled around yours. “Feels like it,” he assessed.  

You nodded, tumbled into his lap when he tugged gently. He caught you against his chest, his gaze steady and intense. “Warm,” you confirmed breathlessly, knees bracketing his hips, palms braced on his shoulders. 

He made a sound you could only describe as content. You felt it rattle against you. He watched you and didn’t say anything, and that you were used to. Being scrutinized, cataloged, accounted for. Pinned beneath heavy, exhausted warm brown eyes. 

Where Soap felt like belonging, like the glue that held something together, Ghost felt like safety. 

“I’m happy ‘ere,” he said after a long minute of observation. “Don’t worry about tha’.” 

“Part of the territory I’m afraid.” 

Attempted territory, you scolded. He could still bolt, fade into shadow like the startled, feral creature he pretended he wasn’t.

You carefully lifted your hands, pushed them again his jaw and leaned forward. He froze and then relaxed when you just put your forehead against his. “Thanks for holding my hand.” 

So close, his eyes are the only thing you can see, your whole world brown irises and light blond lashes. 

“Was Johnny holdin’ it, wasn’t it?” 

“But you so bravely gave up your pocket.” 

“Was glad to.” 

“You know where to find us.” He nodded, released you slowly as you pulled back, hands anchored on your hips until you were upright and safely under your own power. “G’night, Simon. Thanks for staying.”

He nodded, gaze heavy on you as you walked away. “Night, bird.”  

You felt the moment his attention slid away from you. 

When you glanced back at the doorway, his eyes had trailed to your front window. He made no move to lie down. A still, silent, watchful shadow. 

Soap was surprisingly awake when you crawled into bed next to him. He let you push your body beneath his, curled under the heat of him. “And?” 

“Happy to be on the couch.” You paused as Johnny curled his arms around you. “He said he was glad to let us have his pocket.” 

“Practically a declaration of love for Ghost.” 

“Very funny.” 

“Not a joke, lass.” 

You didn’t answer as you settled into a familiar, tangled shape. Your nose against Soap’s collarbone, his arms around you so tight it was a bit difficult to breathe, his chin resting against the crest of your forehead. You carded your fingers through his hair, wondered when it would be trimmed down to size again and make your heart ache. 

“Love you,” you murmured. 

He answered in kind, already mostly asleep now you were next to him. 

.

.

.

It must only be a second past sunrise when a gentle prodding wakes you. A slim beam of sepia light shone through a tiny gap in the curtains. The room was warm; your hands were shoved between Soap’s body and yours. 

Simon’s hand fell away from your forehead and ghosted across Johnny’s temple instead. “You awake?” 

“Aye, LT.” 

“Budge over then.” 

So you did, Soap dragging your body like you weighed nothing, curling around your spine as soon as you were yanked into an acceptable position, hands inside your shirt, a hot brand against your belly.  

Ghost didn’t undress, didn’t lie down. His mask was back in place. But he sat up against your headboard and kept his boots on the floor and stayed. 

You watched him through sleepy, bleary eyes, fascinated and grateful and choked with affection. 

He left his hand open on his thigh, palm up, and his fingers closed instantly around yours, when you took the offer and slid your hand into his. It was like placing your hand into the mouth of a wolf, teeth closing gently around your wrist. 

Simon was close enough that the angle wasn’t awkward when he fitted your hands into his hoodie pocket. 

When you looked up again, his eyes were closed, his breathing was even. 

The night was past, and it seemed he felt his duty to you both was done.