#ghostgazweek

He falls asleep again, and wakes when the shower cuts on. The cat hops on the bed for her usual head scratch, then leaves to supervise Kyle’s shower and remind him that she needs to be fed.

“I know, Frenchie,” Kyle says, softly when she mewls. “It’s not time yet. You know that. I know that. Even Toaster Strudel knows. Give me the ten minutes I ask to shower, and I’ll feed you.”

Simon drifts to the sounds of Kyle’s ongoing commentary, the splashing of the water. Eventually things go quiet. Then Frenchy cries for her food, like she always does, while the dog waits patiently. Simon is half asleep, still, can almost visualize the way Kyle looks, shuffling along in his towel. And finally, gloriously, Kyle comes back, fresh and clean and naked, to climb back into bed. He grins when Simon rolls to his side to blink at him.

“Good morning,” Kyle whispers.

“M’rn’n,” Simon grunts. “Good run?”

“Great run,” Kyle reports, settling in on his back. “The new knee brace works great.”

“Great,” Simon echoes, and he can feel himself falling back to sleep. Kyle chuckles, he thinks.

When Simon wakes up next, the bed is shaking, just a bit. He peeks one eye open to watch the way Kyle strokes himself, eyes half lidded and phone face down on his chest like he’s forgotten that he was using it for inspiration. He’s quiet, still, so many years after leaving the barracks, breathing slow and deep and holding his breath to keep from waking Simon.

Simon-in-Kyles-body turns with a little frown. “Can’t take tha’ on an empty stomach.”

“I’ve seen you dry-swallow two potions at a time,” Kyle grumbles. “And get that manc accent out of my mouth.”

Simon pitches Kyle’s vocal cords up. “Don’t want to get a tummy ache, gov’na.”

“Gods above,” Kyle grumbles, making himself sit up and stretch one of his arms toward the ceiling. “Just make some toast. And coffee.”

“Oi, wha’ the fuck?” Kyle’s eyes snap to Simon, who’s looking down Kyle’s body at his crotch. “Why the fuck’m I ‘gettin’ ‘ard?”

It takes a moment, and then Kyle barks a laugh. “Guess my body still likes the look of you.”

“Weird as shit,” Simon snickers, pulling at his waistband to take a peek at Kyle’s equipment. “Was wonderin’ why lookin’ at you wasn’t as excitin’ as normal. Is my cock ‘ard?”

“Maybe if your whole body didn’t feel like one big bruise,” Kyle grumbles. He palms himself, reflexively, and jumps. “Oh, nevermind, you’re already at a half chub.”

“Oh, yeah, it takes a minute,” Simon says, stalking over and pulling the blanket off completely. He ignores the way Kyle yelps as he pushes him onto his back and yanks his boxers down.

“Hey!”

“Quit y’r whinin’, ‘ve seen it all before,” Simon dismisses. “Go on, give it a stroke.”

“You’re a perv,” Kyle sighs, wrapping his hand around Simon’s cock. It’s mostly the same, of course, as doing it to himself, but he has to readjust his grip a couple of times to get comfortable. “This thing is unwieldy.”

“’m gonna suck it,” Simon declares, making space for himself between his own body’s legs.

“I have to pee,” Kyle yelps.

“Nah,” Simon chuckles, settling onto his - Kyle’s - belly. “My body don’t need to until I’ve been up a while. I already emptied your bladder.”

“I don’t like how easy this is for you.”

“Eh,” Simon gives an eloquent shrug. “Not the first time Soap’s gotten me with an errant spell. Better than wakin’ up as the Captain.”

Kyle freezes. “Simon.”

“Mm?”

“Say that again?” Kyle watches his body shiver at the words in Simon’s voice.

“What? This is better’n bein’ the Captain?”

“Simon.”

“Mm?”

“Why does your dick twitch when you hear me say ‘the Captain’?”

“I couldn’t begin to imagine, Lieutenant,” Simon says, in a near perfect imitation of Kyle’s own voice. “Bet we can figure it out.”

“That’s really creepy, actually,” Kyle says, honestly, and his dick doesn’t get any softer.

“Let me suck your cock,” Simon purrs.

Kyle feels weird finding it attractive but… when in Rome. “Olrigh’.”

(“How come I didn’t know you could do tha’? Wi’ y’r leg?” Simon pants, half hanging off the bed. Kyle has the confusing thought that his own asshole looks cute from this angle.

Kyle tries to unstick his tongue from the top of his mouth. “I didn’t know I could do that. Did you know you can come twice in a row?”

“Tha’s my guess. A hard, fat prick with spunk shootin’ straight up my spine. Ya hintin’ at sumthin?” Gaz doesn’t need to see Simon’s face to know he has a broad, smug grin on his disfigured lips, baring his crooked teeth, and a completely not subtle glint of devilish delight in his eyes – let a lad make a dick joke and he’s happy. As he lifts his big glass to his mouth to take a swig, Simon feels harsh pokes into the softness under both his ribs and jerks with a gruff chuckle, not spilling his booze only by some miracle.

“I’ll show ya a fuckin’ prick,” threatens Kyle, getting up off the bed and stumbling for a second before finding his balance again. It helps that his childhood bedroom is familiar and friendly, old football posters on the walls and a tall bookcase in the corner, with his whole life story stored in trinkets on the shelves – everything gives off a feeling that even if Kyle faceplants on the floor, nothing will happen to him. Ghost drinks this sense of safety even more greedily than beer, looking like a huge stray that got to know the comforts of a loving home and is desperate to soak in as much as possible before it goes back to the streets.

“Wot, already? I thought we’d at least wait till your parents go to bed,” Simon gets shoved in his face immediately and coughs out a few more chuckles, falling onto his elbow and watching Gaz leave the room. There’s muffled music playing from the kitchen, where Garrick’s parents are still sitting and chatting – Simon would be surprised what a long-married couple has to discuss anymore, but somehow there’s always something to talk about with Kyle, and now Ghost knows where it comes from.

He finishes his beer and puts the glass aside, further from the bed to avoid knocking it over, then falls back onto the soft blanket, spreading his arms. Kyle’s bed is soft, softer than Ghost expected, blanket and pillows are thick and inviting to drown in them – tipsy and sleep-deprived for a lifetime, Simon starts dozing off immediately, sinking into the dark blue tender cotton with yellow stars.

He jolts awake when the mattress dips under new weight and sees Kyle leaning over him with a twinkling smile and an eyeliner pen in his hand, pointed directly at Simon’s forehead – bastard must’ve raided his sister’s room for it.

“Shh, lay still, I’m gonna draw a prick on your forehead,” coos Gaz, barely holding back his snickers – they fight over the pen like two cats batting their paws at each other, until Simon locks his huge palms around Kyle’s wrists and yanks him forward, catching him with his big, soft, well-padded chest – and a kiss right afterwards. It’s soft, tastes like beer and a bit of salt from the crackers they munched on – that’s how their game started, with Simon being an arse and wiping his greasy fingers on Kyle’s back and asking to guess what he wrote.

“Ya’re a wee bastart, Riley, playin’ dirty like that,”  murmurs Gaz, pulling away from the kiss. He stays close, ready to be drawn back into another one, but takes his time to look at Simon in the dim lighting. Licking his thumb, Kyle wipes a smidge of eyeliner that got onto Ghost’s cheek in the process, and picks up the pen again. “Let me? No pricks on yout forehead, promise. Jus’ close yer eyes.”

Ghost obliges almost too fast – too trusting, tell someone and they won’t believe it; but the worst that can happen to him in Garrick’s bedroom with the Sergeant himself sitting on top of him is falling asleep prematurely. To avoid that, Simon places his hands on Kyle’s hips, runs his calloused big palms along the perfectly shaped thighs, kneading and squeezing taut muscles, catching his thumbs under the shorts that showed off all the goods. His grip tightens for a moment when the spongy tip of the eyeliner pen touches his eyelid and relaxes again. It’s surprising how still Ghost manages to keep even his eyes while Gaz draws decent – for a drunk man – wings, keeping some resemblance of symmetry even, breathing loudly through his nose.

When Kyle tells Simon to open his eyes again, his breath stutters. There’s something angelic about those big brown eyes in a frosty, feathery frame of blonde eyelashes catching the sparse light of the nightstand land, softened with feminine, almost too curved up wings in their corners – yet there’s still that devilish, sarcastic glint deeper in the smoky quartz of Simon’s iris. He looks up at Kyle from under his heavy, sleepy eyelids, as if he knows what this view does to him – and enjoys it.

“Do I look like a pretty lass yet?” even his voice is quieter, hiding the ever-present teasing under some new layer of sultriness; Kyle’s brows twitch, deciding if they want to join in a frown, and instead shoot up pleadingly as Gaz goes for another kiss, grabbing Ghost’s jaw and exhaling loudly. Simon slides his palms over Kyle’s ass and shoves them under his T-shirt, pressing into his lower back to hold him closer. “Ye’re tha’ horny for fockin’ eyeliner?”

“Don’t fuckin’ mock me, Si,” Kyle’s response lacks bite – he’s breathless, sprawled on top of his Lieutenant and rendered weak in his knees just from seeing Ghost with a hint of makeup on. As if scared that he might expose himself even more if he looks, Gaz keeps his eyes closed and nuzzles Simon’s cheek blindly, brushing his parted lips over the edge of the scar. “Not my fault ye’re so pretty, Riley.”

Ghost rumbles underneath him, humming like a sleepy predator disturbed by its partner coming into the lair from a hunt, and digs his fingers into the smooth skin on Kyle’s back.

“You could paint my mug if tha’ does it for ya,” murmurs he into Garrick’s ear, kneading his firm, dense back muscles. “Bet there’s a whole treasure trunk in yer sister’s room. An old wig too, maybe, huh?”

Pulling back, Gaz sits up a bit and gives Simon a long, thoughtful look from under his lashes, before licking his lips with the faintest nod. No harm in trying at least once, after all.

They’ve gotten the ritual of the haircut down pretty well by now. Kyle lets Simon examine the clippers while he triple checks that everything is in order. Simon flicks the clippers on and off, one, two, three times with his pinky, then allows Kyle to get the cape secure.

“The usual?”

Simon pretends to think about it. “Dunno. Been feelin’ fancy, lately. Waited on ‘and ‘n foot. Think I might like to try a what’s’it called. Bolly somethin’.”

“Where the hell did you learn what a balayage is?” Kyle asks, running his fingers through Simon’s hair. He’s always surprised how fast his hair grows, and how full it is. Since Kyle started cutting his hair for him, he’s been keeping it longer on top, and now it has a little bit of wave to it. Cute.

“Nurses,” Simon reports. “Also heard that someone’s friend is cheatin’ on ‘er man with ‘is father, except the bloke was already sleepin’ wi’ ‘er sister.”

“The boyfriend?”

“The father.”

Kyle listens to Simon’s semi-nervous chatter as he gets to styling. The fade in the back is simple, though Kyle has to be careful around some of the more prominent scars. This, he knows, is Simon’s least favorite part, so he tries to be quick and efficient. By the time he’s explaining the “Mel-Marie-Dayna” drama from the latest season of his favorite reality show, Simon’s relaxed into Kyle’s hands very nicely.

“Fuzz check,” he says, once he’s done, then rubs his thumb over the back of Simon’s neck.

Simon twitches, then hums. “Fuzz checked.”

“Let’s get the top finished up.”

Kyle takes his time and tries not to disrupt the curl of Simon’s hair too much. It’s a losing battle, but he’s not too worried about it. He’ll try to convince Simon to grow it out another time.

“An’ tha’s why reality dating shows is worse’n goin’ to war,” Simon concludes.

“Mmhmm. The psychological torture of love bombing lesbians.”

“Need more lesbians on the team.”

“Yeah,” Kyle agrees, taking a step back to make sure things are even. “At least until you’re back on your feet. The 141 ain’t nearly bitchy enough without you.”

“I’m sure you’ll overcome.”

Kyle shakes his head and gestures to the mirror. “What do you think?”

Simon doesn’t bother to look. “If you like it, I love it.”

“You’re the worst barbershop client I’ve ever had,” Kyle chuckles, pressing a kiss to Simon’s eyebrow. “Ready for the shave, then?”

“Got a hot towel for me?”

“Do I have a hot towel?” Kyle mocks, opening the small dutch oven sitting on the counter. The hot towel steams as he pulls it out. “Can I convince you to keep the mustache?”

“Not on your life,” Simon grumbles. “Get this shit of my face. You want to kiss a bad mustache, go make out with Soap.”

“He’s proud of that thing,” Kyle laughs as he eases the towel into place. The way Simon hisses and relaxes at the same time makes his whole body go warm. “I think he’s gonna shave it to look like Price’s.”

Simon makes a disgusted noise, but doesn’t say anything while Kyle gets the shaving kit ready. He gives the straight razor a wistful look. Simon’s still a little too delicate for Kyle to get that excited over things. The safety razor will give a close enough shave, and they’re not doing anything fancy tonight. Kyle loads the blade and shakes the can of shaving cream.

“Not latherin’ me up?” Simon asks through the towel.

“Not tonight,” Kyle sighs. “Gonna do this quick so you can eat, take your meds, and go back to bed.”

“Damn. I am hungry.”

“You’re always hungry when you leave medical,” Kyle chuckles.

Just the feeling of foam and hair under his fingers is enough to have Kyle sighing all the tension from his shoulders. Even multicolored with bruising, Simon looks peaceful, relaxed. One of his eyes peeks open when Kyle picks up the razor. When he closes his eyes again with a hum, Kyle leans in to get started.

The bruises don’t hurt anymore, to hear Simon tell it, but Kyle is still gentle with him. He falls into the ritual of it, the methodical rasp of blade and hair and skin until his breathing syncs up with Simon’s. The intimacy of it has him chubbing up in his shorts, but he barely pays it any mind. Just swipes and rinses, checks his work, swipes again. The bruises really highlight how delicate everything is, and Kyle has to pause for a moment to catch his breath over it.

Sooner than he would like, the last little bit of hair is gone. Simon hums as Kyle wipes him down, applies the toner and balm. Simon blinks his eyes open and finally turns to look in the mirror with tired eyes.

“I look damn good.”

“You do,” Kyle says, running his fingers through Simon’s hair. “C’mon, lets get you some food.”

A whistling arrow flies out from the woods and pierces the head knight’s eye with a dull, thick sound. Two feather-tailed sisters join the first one, throwing other men off their horses as they draw their swords; the rest spur their horses along the road – spooked animals rush forward and don’t stop when the weight of their riders gets taken off by several more arrows.

Bush comes to life, spawning a hoard of people in green and brown commoners’ clothes with longbows in their hands. They surround what’s left of the train, pulling horses with bags on their backs away from a single immobile figure still sitting in the saddle.

The silent knight in skull helmet stays in place, making no move to draw his sword or even lift his shield – as if every man that rode with him wasn’t slain right in front of his hidden eyes.

A hooded man comes forward from the forest people. He puts his bow away as a gesture of peace and slides his hood off, exposing long dark locks and big, curious eyes.

“My name is Kyle. Kyle of Sherwood,” he comes up closer, offering a calming pet on the nose to the big horse nodding its head anxiously, and looks up at the silent knight. “What’s your name?”

The man in the saddle moves finally. He raises his hand and slowly pulls his helmet off, letting blonde strands, darkened with sweat, hang over his doe eyes. Jagged scars on his face get immediately recognized with surprised gasps from the Sherwood men – he looks over them, noticing a few raised bows, ready to be drawn and shot, and then glances back at Kyle.

“I’m Lord Simon, of Manchester. Are your Merry Men goin’ to shoot me, Kyle?”

“You know they won’t, unless you try sumthin’. What’s Lord of Manchester doin’ ‘ere, ridin’ through the woods with a bunch of knights? You know me, you know my men, you know no noble comes through Sherwood without payin’ a toll. Why come ‘ere?”

Lord Simon watches as his loyal horse Riley accepts the stranger man’s caress as if they’re old friends, Kyle’s dark hand contrasting with the bright white of the soft hide as he pats Riley’s flank too close to Simon’s leg.

“We were in a hurry to get to the Rufford Abbey.”

“In a hurry? What, were you scared a sweet maiden will chase you down and force you to break chastity? I get it, I’m scared of that all the time,” Kyle’s eyes squint in a sly smirk and his Merry Men burst out laughing at the jab. Simon meets the Hooded Man’s eyes and quirks a light, barely visible brow – Kyle catches it and widens his eyes. “Holy shit, are you actually becomin’ a monk?”

It’s the first time he sees Simon lose a fraction of his heavy calmness – he shifts in his saddle and looks at the fascinated crowd, all just like folks described them. His glove squeaks when he tightens his grip on the reins, but he’s not a coward to run away.

“And what is it to you if I am?” Lord Simon finally asks. Kyle of Sherwood looks him up and down and glances back at his Merry Men.

“We let humble servants of the Lord through unscathed,” he says and turns back with a sly twinkle in his eye – Simon doesn’t realize how, but the reins slip from his grasp into Kyle’s palm. “You’re not one of them yet, though. Climb off the horse, Lord Simon. Whoever you’re tryin’ to hide from in the Abbey won’t find you in Sherwood.”

His hand is strong and steady as he offers it to Simon to help him climb off. The Merry Men come into movement again, stripping horses of the riches they never wanted to carry and roping dead men to the saddles to send them out of the woods to be peacefully buried – Lord Simon watches as Baron Roba’s knights that were ordered to oversee his journey and make sure he doesn’t flee disappear in the dense greenery of the forest. Riley is lead away by a broad Scottsman, looking back at Simon and waving its tail as if asking if they’re right to trust the people of the forest – Kyle’s warm calloused hand lands on Simon’s shoulder, radiating reassurance. In his locks, Lord Simon sees deer antler beads.

“Come, Simon,” Kyle smiles – like forest roof smiles with sunbeams – and nods his head to follow the Merry Men. “I heard you wield a bow just as well as your sword. Sherwood needs you.”

So when Soap proposes that the losing team of this round of beer pong has to wear a woman’s outfit for next weekend’s Halloween party, Simon has to lock himself down so he doesn’t panic. Or worse, throw the game. But he and Gary hold their own pretty well against Soap and Mace. He’s relaxed enough to feel amused and a little disappointed when each team only has two cups left.

When Kyle finally makes his way back to their side of the room, he asks, “How are things?”

“Your man’s aim is shit,” Mace heckles. “What do you think, Kyle. Should he be a cheerleader or pirate wench for the party?”

Kyle makes a considering noise and, just as Simon’s about to make his toss, says, “I don’t know. I think he’d look good as a playboy bunny. He’s got the legs for tights.”

The ping pong ball hits Soap in the face, and Simon can’t look at Kyle. Won’t do it. Knows, deep in his gut, that if he makes eye contact, he’s a goner.

-

“There’s my pretty girl,” Kyle purrs.

Simon ducks his face into his arm and whines. His partner drags their hand up his thigh, puling at the already straining fishnet stockings until questing fingers can grab his hip under the too short skirt. The mockery of a cheer uniform barely fits as it is. Manicured fingernails grab at his scalp and make him look at himself in the mirror.

“What does my pretty girl say,” Kyle growls.

“Th-thank you,” Simon whimpers. He gasps as Kyle wraps a hand around his cock and strokes him roughly. “Thank you, D-Daddy. Fuck.”

He has to bite back a moan when Kyle thrusts into him with a deep rolling grind. Not that anyone would be able to hear him over the noise of the party. But the fact that the door doesn’t lock, that Kyle has him bracing one foot awkwardly to hold it closed, has him stifling any noise he might make.

“God, I knew you’d look so pretty like this,” Kyle chuckles. They grind in slow, and the sound they make is as loud and indulgent as Simon won’t allow himself to be. “Fuck, you’re so tight, baby. What’s wrong? You worried someone will find us? What would your team think if they knew you let me under your skirt, honey? I bet they’d be surprised. You’re so sweet, they’d never believe you came to a party without panties on.”

“I didn’t- You made me-!” Simon protests, then bites back another soft noise.

Kyle hushes him and leans down with a groan to kiss between Simon’s shoulder blades. “’S’alright honey, I know you’re a good girl.”

“Stay with me, Si.” Kyle is efficient with the blade, cutting the ropes off with deadly precision – good knife in good hands. He lets Ghost untangle his arms and feel them moving freely first, before carefully touching him with a warning and pulling Ghost’s back against his warm chest. “Better, luv?”

Simon looks down, now free in his chair, at Kyle’s dark hands contrasting with his milky skin with pale constellations of freckles and pink indents where the ropes dug into flesh. It’s some purely artistic imagery, prime target for modern photographers and artists – but they don’t take pictures of their sessions, even though Gaz suggested once or twice to show Simon how beautiful he looks when he lets himself become art under Garrick’s skilled hands. Ghost prefers living that moment from the inside, giving up his autonomy to become something bigger, better, purer – seeing himself like this from the outside sounds threatening to the peace of mindlessnesss he gains by being an art form. Kyle doesn’t insist; to him Simon already is a masterpiece, with its ever-changing nature being the main point.

As if sensing all the thoughts tangled up in Ghost’s skull like the soft red ropes in a messy heap on the floor, Gaz rubs his thumb over the most prominent marks on his forearms and slowly slides his palms along the skin, up to the heavy shoulders and back down to cover the backs of Simon’s hands. Carefully, he locks their fingers together like this and guides Ghost’s arms to move open from his body, bend and stretch, to feel the full range of free, painless, healthy motion.

“Lookin’ beautiful, luv. Feel tha’? No restraints. Everythin’ in place. I gotcha.” His voice murmurs in Simon’s chipped ear like a peaceful forest creek, full of fresh water and damp mossy earthiness. Part of the impression comes from a scented candle burning away on a safe distance from where they were playing; they picked it up together, with Ghost hovering over Kyle’s shoulder like a grumpy mountain of black cotton and snorting dismissively at every flowery and spicy candle Gaz offered to his judgement.

Ghost calms down in Kyle’s arms, little tremors in his muscles subsiding and giving way to warm heaviness as he slumps forward and lets out all the breaths he was holding in. A gentle, soft, dry palm covers his forehead, allowing him to rest his heavy head against it like cats do to feel safer – Simon hums, and Gaz sees his mouth soften into a relieved shadow of a smile.

“Damn you’re pretty,” chuckles Kyle quietly, kissing Ghost’s neck where it slopes down into his burly shoulder, and nuzzles him with a happy, slightly sly twinkle in his crinkled eyes. “Want your snack?”

“No.” Simon’s voice sounds the same – still making Garrick wonder after all this time if he indeed knows how to read the fearsome Lieutenant. Ghost makes it easier, though; turning his head, he reaches behind him and pulls Gaz in for a heated, needy kiss with messy tongue and teeth – the more contact, the better. It floods them both with a shockwave of joy, sliding down their napes and pooling somewhere lower, even after a sudden drop. Kyle pulls away for a second to look at Simon from under his dark, long lashes and swallows, barely restraining his need to drown Ghost in affection. Even like this, breathing into his wet mangled lips, he can tell that Simon has something else to say.

“Somethin’ else wrong, Si?”

In response, Simon turns his whole body and slowly licks his lips.

“The knife,” he grumbles, watching Kyle’s fingers stop tracing the lines on his calloused palms. “Tha’ shit felt good.”

There’s a pause. Ghost can’t hold back a satisfied smirk anymore and grins, earning himself a meaningless slap on his open palms.

“You’re a big rotten freak, sir,” Kyle stands up, making Simon look up at him, and kisses his grin, pulling his head back by the dirty blonde strands. “Bastard, can’t even drop without getting horny.”

Ghost watches Gaz move away, chuckling gruffly, and rests his elbows on the chair’s backrest.

“Is that a “yes, we’ll try it next time”, Sergeant?”

A little protein brownie almost hits him in the face and he catches it from a second attempt, almost dropping at first, before ripping the packaging open with his teeth.

By supper, everyone’s seen more than enough of each other. They’re all curled up around their MRE’s with little to say beyond grunts. Soap takes first watch. It’s probably less about letting them get some shut eye and more about avoiding making eye contact with Price after whatever made him shout something Simon doesn’t care to have translated. The Captain himself retreats to the back room. Which leaves Simon with Kyle in the front.

“...So,” Kyle starts.

“Fuck’s sake,” Simon groans, scrubbing his hands over his mask.

“Your dick is locked up and I’m supposed to not say anything about it?” Kyle hisses, looking around to make sure they’re alone. He scoots his chair closer and says even quieter, “I didn’t know you were seeing someone else, so excuse me if I have a question or two.”

“I’m not seein’ someone else,” Simon grumbles. “’S just somethin’ I do, sometimes.”

“You expect me to believe-” Kyle leans in, incredulity dripping from every word. “that you just lock your cock up, sometimes. On missions. Just because?”

Simon tries, and probably fails, to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. “It ‘elps me shoot.”

“It helps...” Kyle puts his face into one of his hands. “Simon.”

“Fuck off.”

Kyle takes a deep, steadying breath, visibly counts backwards from five, then sits back and asks, “Okay. Is it a sex thing?”

“No.”

Kyle relaxes, fractionally, and nods. “Okay. Fine. So now that the mission is over, you just... take it off?”

Simon clenches his jaw and considers jumping out the window. Eventually, he admits, “Price has the key.”

The other man throws his hands into the air. “What the actual fuck, Riley?”

“Was doin’ this long before you,” Simon growls. “It works for me, it’s not interferin’ wi’ anythin’. Drop it, Sergeant.”

“You don’t get to pull rank just because you don’t want to have the conversation, Lieutenant.”

“Watch me.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s real mature.”

“What do you want me to say?” Simon snaps. “I’m supposed to stop doin’ somethin’ that makes me better, keeps the whole team safe, keeps you safe, because you want to be exclusive?”

“Keeps me safe?” Kyle scoffs. “You give Price control of your dick to keep me safe?”

“He’s fuckin’ straight,” Simon points out, with a sneer. “Which you know, you fuckin slag. I wasn’t your first choice.”

Kyle rears back like he was slapped. “Excuse me?”

With a wince, Simon looks away across the room. He bites the inside of his cheek and resists the urge to dig himself a deeper hole. Kyle’s never acted on his little crush on the captain, told Simon so at the beginning of this thing they started doing, shit, almost eight months ago now.

Puppy love, he’d called it, one night, curled up with Simon in his bed. It had felt good to be recognized, given more responsibility, to have someone like Price believe in him. But that’s not what he wanted in a partner, he’d confessed in the dark. He wanted to be something other than the Golden Boy, needed space to be vulnerable in ways a man like Price wasn’t really built for. And then he’d kissed Simon like his life depended on it.

After ninety seconds of silence, Simon grits out. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’ta said that.”

“Perhaps,” Kyle says through gritted teeth, “if Price is your first choice, we should just end things here.”

“That’s not-” Simon huffs a breath. “There’s nothing between me an’ the captain. I give ‘im the key before wheels up, ‘e gives it back sometime after debrief. We don’t talk about it. ‘E probably knows what the key is, but... it’s not a sex thing.”

“Oh, so I’m the only slag in this conversation?”

Fuck. “You’re not a slag. I’m a wanker an’ an arsehole. I didn’t think this was... anythin’ we’d ‘ave to talk about. Not like this. Not.” Simon crosses his arms and tips his head to stare at the ceiling, then makes himself look Kyle in the eye. “It keeps me focused. It’s a pre-mission ritual I figured out a long fuckin’ time ago. Not doin’ it isn’t an option at this point.”

Kyle’s jaw works for a moment. Then he blows all the air out of his lungs and says. “Like the mask.” He sighs. “Okay.”

“...Okay?”

“Okay,” Kyle repeats, crossing his own arms. He glares, fit to burn a hole in the table. “It... You scared me. But... Look, I know how touchy you are about the mask. Can’t blame you for being the same way about your prick. If you say this isn’t a... a sex thing... it’s not a sex thing. Sorry for pushing.”

They sit in tense silence for a few long moments. Simon tentatively reaches out to touch the back of Kyle’s hand with gloved fingertips. He doesn’t get a response, at first, but the whole argument is about just how he keeps himself sniper still. So he holds position, keeps light pressure. Eventually, Kyle turns his hand up and catches two of Simon’s fingers with his own.

(The next day, as they prepare to leave, Simon catches Kyle by the wrist. “Wait. You were jealous. Do you want to do it as a sex thing?”