#ghostgazweek

That’s probably why Simon had no apprehension coming to this facility. Spacious rooms with foam padding on the floor, like in kindergarten - soft for burly men with bad knees to sit on, easy to clean in case some of the dogs have an accident, squeaky toys and old chewy bones thrown around, and that constant dog smell – all of it became a comfort place. A place where retired human soldiers meet retired dog soldiers, shake their furry paws and dedicate their time to make sure these former colleagues don’t feel abandoned and lonely, like veterans often do.

Ghost knows how those dogs feel. He had been there once, temporarily suspended from service on account of his death – when he had nothing to do and no one to meet. His cheap flat looked grey and mirky, his tea tasted like piss, his scars ached every cold night. But now? There’s artwork on the walls. There’s well-seasoned food on the table. There are warm hands resting on his ribs while they sleep. There’s Kyle.

Simon knows how those dogs feel, when they jump onto Garrick’s chest and wag their broken tails despite years of discipline ingrained in their wolf-like skulls, because he feels the same way when Gaz comes home from the grocery store and gets ambushed by a Ghost creeping up on him during unpacking. There are titanium plates and bolts holding some of Kyle’s vertebrae together and Simon’s fingers don’t have same good grasp anymore, but Gaz still finds himself lifted off the ground and locked in a greedy embrace, just like that old German shepherd finds itself in a tight hug of Kyle’s strong arms when it stands up and puts its paws on his shoulders.

“Who’s a good boy? Missed me, did ya? Oh yeah, you’re a good boy, still shedding like a wooly mammoth, eh? Oof, careful with the kisses, mate, that’s my eye,” Simon looks over from where he’s standing, searching for a specific squeaky rubber star toy for the one dog that’s circling him with excited whining and headbutting him under his knees to make him hurry and come play. Gaz is on his knees, face scrunched and black eyeliner smudged around one eye as he tilts his head up and away to try and stop a huge excited shepherd from licking his face again. His smile is shining through even like that, bright and happy, as he laughs and scratches the dog’s sides, pulling clamps of warm soft fur stuck between his fingers. “Ya need a good brushing, mate, come on, get off me for a sec, I’ll go get a brush.”

Ghost watches as Kyle gets up, holding onto his lower back for a split second – and still finds grace in his every movement. His trusty bally hides that stupid lovestruck expression he has on his face – but even just his eyes betray how utterly smitten Simon is. He expected the feelings to dull down, get calmer once they’re off duty and swallowed by the domesticity and routine, but they didn’t. Seeing Kyle fighting off affectionate dogs or put his hair in silk for the night makes Ghost just as weak in the knees as seeing Gaz set records on the shooting range or rush into close combat did.

Everything around him slides into the background, blurring and dimming. Kyle’s soft laughter and murmurs fill Simon’s chipped ears, seep into his bloodstream, feeding the black and gold butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. Gaz is the centre of his attention – the centre of his whole world, so when Ghost hears a command, his body reacts before he can even register it.

“Come on, down, boy! Let me brush ya.”

Several pairs of eyes, human and dog, snap up to look at Simon when he falls to his knees. There are other veterans in the room, their reflexes still sharp and ready to react to anything unusual – and there are dogs tensed up like coils inside a gun, ready to drag a wounded soldier from under fire or finish an enemy. Simon feels blood rush in his veins when he realizes what just happened, and he meets Kyle’s eyes a few meters away.

Garrick has a wicked, devilish smirk hiding in his dark eyes.

“You olrigh’, mate? These bastarts know how to knock a fella down, watch them ‘round your knees,” comes to rescue a kind lad, so much younger than Ghost that he almost questions why that boy is already retired before he sees one of the lad’s eyes give off a glassy artificial glint.

“Yeah, ol’ mate ‘ere gaggin’ for his toy, said I’m takin’ too long. Impatient arse,” Simon happily shoves the blame onto the poor innocent dog that’s still nuzzling him and trying to steal the squeaky star from his hands. Letting the toy out of his palms, Ghost steals a glance at Kyle again and gets startled when Gaz turns out to be much closer, having come up quietly.

Closing his eyes, Simon braces himself and still flinches slightly when Kyle’s hand slides onto his shoulder with a reassuring rub.

“You sure you’re okay, luv?” murmurs Gaz in a wicked, sultry tone, leaning so close that Ghost can feel his hot breath seeping into the bally’s fabric. “Be a good boy and watch out for your knees, will ya?”

“I fockin’ hate you, Garrick,” growls Simon under his breath, and immediately straightens up, moving his shoulder blades together and sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. Kyle’s fingers under his bally tug on the leather collar again, making sure it’s sitting tight enough, and Gaz smirks, brushing his thumb over the bright silver letters of his full name etched in the collar.

“G-go, LT, Riley.” Gaz’s eyes roll in their sockets. The next thing he wheezes is too soft for Ghost to hear.

“Save your breath,” Ghost tells him. It’s hard to keep the heartbreak out of his voice as he forces out a lie. “Help is on the way. Stay with me, hold on for exfil.”

Gaz’s jaw works as he tries to say something. Ghost grips his hand, doesn’t wince as Gaz’s grip goes tight. When the sergeant starts to whimper, he reaches up to pull the balaclava off, to let them be Simon and Kyle in a quiet, half-rotted cabin in the woods.

“’M ‘ere, Kyle,” he says, trying to catch wild eyes.

“Please,” Kyle wheezes. “Go.”

Whatever Simon was going to say to that is replaced by a startled curse when something under Kyle cracks with a wet sound. Two more cracks, a pop, and Simon’s frantically wondering how to get them both out before the floor collapses into the basement he’d hadn’t even thought to check for. And then Kyle explodes out of his kit.

Simon damn near wrenches his shoulder out of the socket trying to pull his hand out of Kyle’s as it spasms so hard he can feel his bones grinding together. But the pain is secondary to the horror of watching his friend’s face distort and elongate, skin stretching and tearing to reveal bloody patches of fur. Kyle screams, roars, as his clothes pop at the seams. His arm, which had been barely mobile before, slams into Simon so hard it knocks him onto his back.

The werewolf, because that’s all it could possibly be, rolls on top of him with a snap of jaws that barely misses his ear. Simon shouts, and jabs where the solar plexus would be on a human on reflex. The wolf wheezes and crushes him into the floor as it curls on itself. When it snaps it’s jaw next to his ear again, it’s so much like Riley, like the other Malinois he’s trained with, that Simon throws out a command on reflex.

“Leave it, Garrick!”

They both go still, save for their heaving breaths. The big furry head over him tilts until their staring into each other’s eyes. Simon has a moment to search for recognition, for any sign that Kyle is still in there, somewhere.

After a moment, Simon lets out the breath he’s holding. “G-good. Good boy, Kyle.”

And Kyle licks his ear.

“You fuckin’ twat,” Simon snarls, trying, unsuccessfully to wiggle away. He punches Kyle’s ribs. The awkward angle and rapidly draining adrenaline make it much gentler than he intends. Kyle takes it for the request it mostly is and lifts off of Simon with a grumble and a quick shake. It’s easy to tell he’s laughing as he stands on his hind legs and stretches to touch the dilapidated roof above them.

Simon sits up with a groan. He’s full of questions. But more than that, he’s got responsibilities. “C’n you talk?”

“Hard to,” Kyle rumbles, rolling his neck and shoulders with a few wet pops.

“Need to get to exfil.” Simon pulls the scraps of Kyle’s clothes closer and sighs - there’s not much that’s salvageable besides his radio. “You able?”

“Better now,” the werewolf says, flexing and twisting the arm that was nearly torn off. His hand is oddly shaped, but moves without stiffness. He’s holding Simon’s balaclava. “Can run for hours. It’s good.”

Simon gets to his feet with a grunt of effort. “Then we should go.”

Kyle leans in to sniff his hair, then offers Simon his mask. “No fear.”

Simon considers this, then pulls the balaclava over his face. “What’re you gonna do? Kill me again? ‘M a ghost.”

Kyle huffs another laugh. “141... Full of monsters.”

Ghost scrunches his nose in frustration. "Kyle, is now really the time fo-"

"But we get there, and we find that there you were, dropped off at God knows what hour and waiting at the sidelines for somebody to come and get you. Looking like a lost kid on the first day of school," Gaz glances back over his shoulder and smirks at Ghost. "Not that you'd ever admit that."

Ghost scoffs, reaching behind him to grab more tape to wrap the bandages up with. "That's cause I wasn't lost. Was just waiting on one of the useless lackeys to tell me where my bloody quarters were."

He takes one more glance over the supplies laid out on the table, running through the checklist ingrained in his head before getting to work. Luckily, it seemed like the bullet hadn't hit anything severe, just nipping his right shoulder and passing through the other side.

It still seemed like it took a lot out of the sergeant. Med evac not an option as they were waist deep in hostile territory, all they could do for the time being was wrap him up to slow the bleeding and push on. With them finally in the safe house, all the fight and adrenaline leaving his body left Gaz looking more haggard by the minute.

"You know it's rather funny," Gaz continues, "when the Cap'n told me to keep an open mind when meeting you guys, I figured he was going on about harsh personalities and butting heads. Imagine my surprise when we enter the complex, and he introduces me to a towering lieutenant with a skull for a face."

"What, costume-making not a part of your manual?" Ghost fires back.

Gaz snickers. "No. But then again, none of the other shit we deal with is either now is it," he winces under his breath as Ghost applies pressure to the wound. "I still remember our first actual conversation. It was late at night, I couldn't sleep, first day nerves and all, and I figured a late night jog might tire me out. 'Remember this nagging feeling, like something was watching me from the shadows. I get myself so worked up over it that by the time I'm making my way back around to the barracks and I spot that skull watching me in the dark, I bloody screamed!" Gaz laughs, "the sorriest fuckin' scream, you 'member that?"

Ghost hums along to the story, his majority of his focus on patching up Gaz adequately enough until he can get him proper medical treatment. He should be fine, really. He's seen plenty of soldiers make it out of the battlefield with far, far worse. But he still can't shake the feeling of unease that sits in his stomach, his hands trembling as he wraps the bandage around his shoulder.

Maybe it's because he partially blames himself for Gaz getting hurt. Maybe he should've taken the lead down that alleyway, double-checking their six for the both of them like he should have done. Maybe he made the wrong call, a minor slip up that now resulted in his comrade, the rock that held the 141 together, slowly bleeding out in a rickety chair some miles out from the nearest hospital.

"Ghost? You still with us?"

"Right, yeah. Solid. Continue," Ghost startles.

"I asked you a question, mate! I'll take the lack of response as a 'no' then." Ghost eyes him quizzically, and Gaz clicks his tongue before explaining. "Was asking you if you were ever going to quit smoking, eh? Go full cold turkey?"

Oh great, this again. At least Gaz isn't as hounding on him about the matter as Laswell is. "Same answer as before, if I make it to retirement. Why bring it up now?"

"It's one of the first things we talked over," Gaz shrugs, or rather, tries to shrug. "I asked what on bloody Earth you were doing, stalking around the place like a damn ghoul. You didn't say much, just offered me a cigarette to make up for being a damn creep."

"That's right," Ghost reminisces. "You turned me down. Said that out of everything out here, the last thing that was going to kill you would be a nicotine addiction." He laughs bitterly. The joke hits a little too close to home now with the circumstances they're in.

"Yeah, and you told me you didn't want to share anyway… you really know how to make a first impression, don't you?" Gaz absentmindedly rubs at his shoulder while the bandages are applied to his wound.

It's not perfect, but it should hold him over until exfil can get them outta here. It better, at least. Ghost's eyes trace over the trail of blood leading from the doorway over to the table they're sat at. He notices how his hands shake as he wraps the tape around the bandage, and he has to take a deep, steadying breath. He chastises himself for letting his emotions get the best of him now.

"I'll tell you, I'll never forget my first impression of you that day. Here I thought you might be cold, standoffish, and distant, which you can be," he tosses a smirk back at Ghost. "But that night, after an hour of chatting over the horrid smell of smoke you left, I remember seeing just a little bit of that shell of yours crack… and seeing a little bit of the man you really were sneak out from behind that mask. You remember what we talked about?"

Of course he did. He recalls so clearly how laid bare and afraid he had been that first day. Still remembers the trepidation and fear he felt at having to expose himself, leave himself vulnerable under the snare of a new team.

"You asked me if I could really trust you," Gaz continued. "Big, domineering guy with a fucking face mask and all. And I said yeah, I would. If Price chose you, then knew I could trust you… And that was the first time I saw that wall you built to protect yourself come down for just a second."

Ghost swallows harshly. God, he's fucked up big time. He let one of the few people he loves, one of the few people who truly sees him for who he is, get hurt.

Gaz slowly turns around in the chair to face Ghost now, leaning against the table for support. "I meant it then, and I mean it now Simon. Don't think that this-" he gestures to the wound "-changes anything. I know you've got my back, and I've got yours. On and off field. For life mate."

He bumps Ghost's shoulder with his uninjured arm. "So quit you're bloody sulking, Simon. I'm going to be fine, it barely grazed my shoulder. Sides, I've dealt with far worse," he fixes him with a cheeky grin. "I swear I can still feel the pain in my back some days from that damned helicopter rope."

Ghost has to take a second to look away from that blinding smile on his face. Fuck if those sincere words were actually getting to him a little bit. It was probably just what Ghost needed to hear, though he'd hate to admit. He still felt some responsibility for the situation, but the honesty did help to curb some of the shuddering and self loathing still running through him.

Always the levelheaded one of the group, somehow Gaz always knew the way to ground everyone back to reality.

Ghost turns back to him. "Yeah…you're probably right. That back's going to give out on you years ahead of Price, I'll bet."

Gaz chortles softly, the edges of his eyes wrinkle beautifully. "Oh, I'm sure you'd love to see it. Just dying for your biggest completion on the task force to get knocked down a peg, are you?"

"Course not, if you go down then that'd just leave me with Soap!"

The two men let out their own broken laughs then. Ghost's comes out harshly and Gaz's comes out clipped, sounding exhausted as he winces toward the end.

"Thanks for humoring me with the story, Simon… You did good…." His head starts dipping lower onto the table. "Fucking hell, I'm getting tired.."

"Keep upright, Sergeant," Ghost barks. "Need to see that you make it to evac." As his head dips lower, Ghost harshly slaps at Gaz's cheek.

He jumps back up for a moment in the chair. "S-sorry! Sorry! Fuck, I'm just bloody tired."

"I know. Just keep upright Gaz, you'll get to rest later." Ghost speaks softly, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

"Gaz, stay upright," he says louder a few minutes later.

"Gaz! That's an order!"

"Kyle!"

……….

"Doctor, he's not going to make it! He's lost so much blood. It's only a matter of time befo-"

"I'm not giving up on him yet, Grace! Richard! Prep trauma! We'll be cutting it close, but if we can stabilize him enough to-"

*Click*

"-ith of the spotted cubs along the ice shelf. He hurriedly hops along the snowy tundra… just behind his brothers and sisters back to their mother."

Yeah, that's much better.

Gaz relaxes back into the hospital bed, throwing the remote to the side and reaching over to dig out the pudding cup Price stashed for him later. He breaks the seal on the plastic cover and digs in while a sea lion cub cuddles into its mother's side for warmth. He sighs into the first chocolaty mouthful. It was the cheap, rubbish kind, but God did it hit the spot after the last couple of days he's had.

It killed him to be stuck here one more night. The clinical tang of hospitals and the unease that hang in the air always put Gaz on edge. There wasn't much he could do while he waited either. There were only so many hours of sleep he could do in the day to pass the time, and his team had all been called away by work today.

The task force visited him when they could, all three being the first thing he saw when he woke up after his procedures. Since then, they've popped in here and there, helping him pass the time by talking or playing cards late into the night.

Well, all of them except Ghost. The lieutenant still hadn't been down since that first day. Not that Gaz held him to it or anything though. He's sure he's been busy with all kinds of tasks and debriefings back at base. And if he really gave it some thought, Gaz had a sneaking suspicion that Ghost still felt some responsibility for what had happened, and was avoiding Gaz because of it.

Bloody drama queen.

He's the reason he's still here in the bloody first place! Ghost had his six the entire way through, kept the hostiles at bay and guided them out of the damn city. That patch up at the safehouse giving him just enough time to make it out until he got help. Hell, he even resuscitated Gaz when he went under for a brief moment.

How one of the top SAS soldiers in the field and one of the deadliest soldiers in the world could be such an oblivious fool is beyond him. Gaz set the empty container on the end table. Well, there's no sense in stressing over it now. He'll just have to pull him to the side when he gets back to base and have a heart-to-heart. Maybe thanking him for keeping him alive will be enough to snap him out of it.

A few more hours of flipping through channels later, and Gaz figures it's about time he try and get some shut-eye. The lights are all dimmed down by now, and only the beeping of machines and the occasional shuffle of a nurse outside are the only sounds left in the hall.

Gaz is just feeling the edges of sleep take over him when suddenly the door to his unit creaks open.

He stifles a groan rising in his throat and opts to definitely keep his back turned away from the door and feign sleep. Who on Earth would be bothering him at this hour?

Several beats of silence pass, and Gaz starts to wonder if he made up the whole thing before the slow creak of the door closing echoes in the room.

His guest stands still for a moment before stepping lightly to one of the chairs in the corner and sitting down directly behind him.

Greaat. He's got a damn serial killer watching over him while he sleeps now. Gaz is halfway through debating if he should act on instinct and call for someone, but then a voice disrupts his thinking.

"I do remember that first day."

Gaz opens his eyes. Ghost?

"You asked if I remembered the first day we met." He hears him shuffle in his seat. "I remember everything about that day."

"I was a Ghost. More so than just the namesake. Deployed wherever they needed me by whoever without a care in the world. And I preferred it that way, no being tied down, no broken promises and false hopes, and definitely no growing close with anyone." Gaz hears him laugh dryly. "Quite the way to live, isn't it?"

Gaz doesn't respond. He weighs his options, letting him continue while Gaz fakes being asleep feels like a bit of an intrusion, but this is also one of the few times Ghost has opened up to him like this. Gaz decides he doesn't want to break the spell.

"So it was no surprise to me when, the heads in charge essentially jumped at the chance to hand me off to some new captain and rid their hands clean of me. That's how I found myself dropped off hours before anyone else, left to sit on the sidelines until my new orders came in… And no, I really wasn't lost. My people didn't bother to send in the right paperwork, so I was left waiting for Price to clear the issue. Bet you feel bad now, you arsehole," Gaz feels Ghost lightly kick the bed-end with his foot.

Okay. Yeah, he did actually feel bad now for that jab earlier.

"I got told the same spiel about 'butting heads' and other crap, but Price gave me a little ribbing as well. He said 'Now Simon, I want you to know these are good people I've chosen to join the task force.'-" Ghost mimics the Captain's gruff voice. "-'I trust these men with my life, including you. Now I won't ask too much of you, but I want you to know that they have my seal of approval, and it is my hope that you can maybe gain learn something from working with this crew.' One thing I learned so far is that the Scottish are shit at making a cup'a tea."

Gaz nearly breaks his composure at that comment, all of his military training coming in clutch to keep from laughing.

"I do remember our first handshake. I still held the belief that I'd be sent off to some shithole somewhere by myself again, so I didn't bother much with formalities. Still though, you and Soap, you guys had every right to be put off by my demeanor those first few days. But you both met me with the warmest eyes regardless, like a couple of sappy dogs you two are."

Well look who's the sappy one over here, waxing poetry over their first few days as a team. Gaz is savoring every second of it though. He knew the man had a caring side to him, and it feels great to be vindicated as Ghost pours his heart out into the dark.

"And how could I forget our first actual conversation?! I'd never forget that squeal you let out when you finally saw me." Ghost chuckles.

Maybe he spoke too soon.

"Okay, but seriously though," Ghost straightens up, "I actually remember our conversation very fondly. I asked you why you were running so late in the middle of the night and you told me how you couldn't sleep. You opened up about all the things eating away at you and all the fears plaguing you, sounded awfully too similar to mine. And I gave you some advice of my own, which you happily accepted… all except the cigarette. Speaking of which, I could really fucking go for right now, but I won't, just this once for you. Hope you're happy."

Gaz accepts the small victory. He'll take them where he gets them.

"But yeah, I still remember all the stories you told me. Your journey and how you got onto the taskforce, what you hoped to find under Price's command, and how you thought you'd found it… I didn't open up much to you that night. Couldn't. But I want you to know that that back and forth with you, was some of the first /real/ banter I'd had with someone in what felt like years."

There's a long pause as Ghost gathers his thoughts. "You know I um- I think after everything that happened to me all those years ago, -well not think, I know- I know that it takes a lot for me to put my faith in other people. To feel confident enough to let that shell a'mine come down. And joining the 141, fucking hell, everything was screaming at me not to. Yelling at me that it would all just happen all over again or that-" Ghost's voice falters. "Joining the 141, it was my first time in a long while in a more permanent team. It was my biggest fear, taking the chance on someone new. I had to spend months relearning how to trust a people again… But you made it easier."

Gaz feels a pang in his chest. He's glad he's turned away from Ghost at this moment, he wouldn't really know what to say. He blinks a slight bit of wetness away from his eyes.

"That night, conversation with you just flowed so easily. I wasn't sure if I was capable of having a heart-to-heart to someone with someone anymore, but we did. And when you answered that you trusted me after all that, I think I realized that maybe I could eventually let my guard down. Fix that broken patch in my psyche and learn to trust people wholeheartedly again."

Gaz is at a loss for words. All he can think of is that it's been an honor to be a part of the remedy that helped Simon Riley come back to the world of the living.

"Anyways, all this to say that maybe you caught on that I was a kicking myself over what transpired. And you're right, it happens all the time with no warning for guys like us, you know, I just- -It still kills me to see you guys, any of you guys injured under my watch."

Gaz feels Ghost's hand, his ungloved hand, pat his side. "You all are good men. Some of the best men I've come to know. You guys took me, me in, of all people, and showed me what trust looked like again. You all deserve to see to the end of this taskforce and to see your... your sappy fucking sunsets on your bloody porch swings while you're old and graying." Oh God, did he hear Ghost just sniffle? "So maybe the other day I worried that that would get taken from you and I got scared. Doesn't matter anyway though, does it? You're here in one piece, and I was worrying my arse off for nothing. It's good to see you healthy again Sergeant, rest easy mate."

Ghost gently bumps his fist on Gaz's side again before turning away. Gaz almost wants to let him walk out of the room, but part of him feels as if he has to say something to the bloke after all of that heartfelt confession. Maybe some of Soap's eccentricities are starting to rub off on him.

"That was beautiful Simon," he says simply.

And yeah, it's a little evil after the speech that was just said, but flipping over and seeing that 'deer caught in the headlights' look on Ghost's face is still priceless.

"Fuuucking Hell, were you listening the whole time you daft bastard?!"

"'Fraid so sir."

"Right, well- -you've heard enough then, haven't you?" Ghost glares at Gaz, somehow it doesn't hold as much weight as it usually does. "Get some rest then, and heal up good. Cause the next time a bullet hits you, I'm letting you bleed out."

Ghost just about stomps to the door, but before he can slam it shut Gaz calls out to him. "Ay Simon!"

That skull mask peaks around the doorway.

"I'm glad you trust us. And I'm glad you're on the force, wouldn't want it without ya."

It's dark, so it's hard to tell, but it seems like the scowl behind the mask softens just the slightest bit.

"You too. Night Kyle."

~~~~~~~~~~

“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.

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.”

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?”