#k bye!

Ghost feels it too. The weight and the loss. The sharp ache behind his ribs that never quite goes away when they come home with one less name than they left with.

But Price… he carries it different… deeper. Especially after a risky enough call.

They pass the edge of the transport zone, boots hitting pavement, and Ghost is just starting to let his guard loosen—thinking maybe they’ll hit the barracks, maybe he’ll get Price into a shower or a drink or a dark, quiet room—when Price stiffens. 

There's a halt in his step. A subtle shift of targeted weight. Like a dog catching scent.

Ghost blinks.

Then hears it before he sees: the shuffle of boots up ahead, a clipped laugh, a group of men just… talking. It’s nothing remarkable. Nothing that should matter.

Then Price’s voice cuts sharp, loud enough to punch through the air between them. “You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve showing your face here.”

Price’s voice hits the air like a crack of thunder, sharp, sudden, and impossible to ignore. It stops movement across the tarmac. A few too many heads turn. And he’s moving.

Not walking anymore, stomping, stalking, a man on a fucking mission. A pair of boots hit concrete with purpose, spine locked straight, every inch of him radiating fury that’s been simmering under the surface since they got off that bird. Maybe since Hale’s name got added to the list.

Ghost reacts a beat too slow.

“Captain,” he calls, voice low, warning threaded through it, but it doesn’t land.

The captain doesn’t look back.

The man near the hangar’s—the one with the clipboard, the half-smile, the regulation jacket zipped neat to the throat—smirk fades when he realizes who’s coming for him. He starts to shift back, one hand coming up like he might smooth things over, like he might talk his way out.

“Still wearin’ the bloody uniform,” Price snarls, voice rising with every step. “After what you pulled—and you think you can walk back in here like nothin’s changed?”

Ghost moves, long strides eating up the distance, boots striking hard. The adrenaline hits harder, snapping through his fatigue like cold water to the face.

He’s closing in, trying to catch up before—

“—like you belong? Like anyone here would have you on a team now?”

Price’s voice is thunder now, right up in the man’s space.

Ghost sees the moment it happens. He sees Price’s hand ball into a fist. He sees his shoulder start to twist, hips shifting into stance—

“John—!”

Ghost grabs him, solid grip on his arm, dragging him back a half-step just before his fist lands.

Price jerks hard against him, breath hot through his teeth, chest heaving.

“Let go.”

“No.”

“Let go, Ghost.” His voice is raw, not just rage now, grief under it, shame and fire and something bitter and old.

Ghost holds firm. His hand doesn’t shake. He moves in closer, voice low and calm and dangerous as a blade sheathed.

“Not here. Not like this. You throw that punch, John, and they’ll forget whatever the fuck he did. You’ll be the story.”

The man stares at them both now—wide-eyed and silent, still too stunned to speak.

Price’s whole body trembles. Ghost knows it’s one wrong word and he’ll throw the punch anyway.

Ghost shifts his grip, still on him, still holding, but linked, arms looped to start pulling Price away.

“Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Finally Price exhales shakily, but doesn’t step back.

His breath is sharp, ragged through his nose, jaw tight enough Ghost can hear the grind of his teeth. His fist is still clenched, still trembling like a blade half-drawn.

Ghost doesn’t let go, he just angles his body enough to edge between them.

“C’mon,” he mutters, low. “We’re done here.”

“Not done,” Price hisses.

“Yes, you are.”

He jerks his head toward the doors, toward the interior, away from watching eyes.

“Let’s find an office. Now.”

For one long second, Ghost thinks Price might make him fight for it. But then Price wrenches his arm from Ghost’s grip and stalks forward with heavy, seething steps.

Ghost falls into stride behind him, close enough that if he does spin back around, Ghost can catch it.

They’ve almost made it to the double doors when the man calls out, voice loud, too casual, too smug for someone who just nearly got decked.

“You always did take things too personal, John.”

Price halts like he’s been shot. Ghost feels the shift before it happens.

“Jonathan—Don’t.”

But Price turns anyway, fire in his eyes and Ghost grabs him.  Arm across the chest, full-body stop, grappling back with all the weight he’s got.

Price snarls—the sound raw in his throat—and shoves back.

“Get the fuck off, Ghost.”

“Not a fuckin’ chance.”

They stumble down the hall, half a drag, half a scuffle, until Ghost shoulders open a door to an empty corridor and shoves them both inside.

The second they’re out of sight, Price swings.

Ghost catches his wrist mid-motion and slams him hard against the wall. The sound of Price’s body hitting concrete echoes through the empty way. Ghost doesn’t let go. His forearm pins across Price’s collar, body braced close. Firm enough to hold him there, nothing more.

Price glares at him, chest heaving beneath gear still on.

Ghost’s voice is low and sharp, inches from his face. “You out to get fuckin’ court-martialed? You wanna lose your goddamn command over whatever that was? ‘Cause you take another swing an’ that’s what’ll happen.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but breath and the far off sound of aircraft taking off.

Ghost watches his captain start to fracture under it all. Sees it in his those blue eyes: the grief and the years of rage. Price exhales like it hurts.

Ghost lets his voice soften just a fraction. “Let it go, John. Let it go.”

The wall is cold, and thankfully the tension is cooling between them.

Price stays pinned for a breath. He breathes in and out again. Then again. Then his hands uncurl, palms flat against Ghost’s chest.

Ghost doesn’t move. He lets Price take his time. And slowly, Price leans in. His forehead presses to Ghost’s shoulder—heavy, sweat-damp, breath still dragging rough through his nose like he focused so much on breathing that it’s all he can do.

Ghost shifts his weight and eases the pressure on his arm, lets it slide down to rest at Price’s waist instead. He’s just barely touching, but holding him there all the same.

They stay there a moment. Ghost closes his eyes, lets his own adrenaline fade out of him, feeling the hit of tired like a train. He turns his head slightly, his cheek brushing against Price’s temple through the fabric of the mask. “Alright,” he says quietly. “That’s enough.”

A few more seconds pass before Price finally nods once and then Ghost steps back. He doesn’t let the distance grow too much. He taps once on Price’s elbow. “C’mon. You’re done.”

They move silently, just boots on floor down the corridor, across the commons, past questioning eyes that don’t dare stop them. Ghost walks a half-step behind, close enough to catch him if he stumbles.

They reach Price’s quarters. Ghost just pulls the door open for him, waits for him to step inside, then follows, shutting the door with a soft click.

The room is dim, lived-in. Ghost has been here before, a few times, to drop something off or check in after ops, they normally spend nights in his room, on the occasions that they do. Ghost never questioned that, why should he.The space is quiet, sparse enough. The bed’s made neat, and a layer of dust has already settled over everything again. 

Price stands in the middle of the room for a long beat. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or with his body, like all the rage has drained out and left him hollow.

Ghost breaks the silence.

“Shower,” he says gently. “Get the blood off. I’ll wait.”

Price looks at him then, blinking twice. Ghost swears he can see the gears in Price’s brain come alive long enough to process his words.

He nods and one word gets out hoarse: “Yeah.”

…

John leaves the door to the bathroom open. It's halfway open, enough that Ghost can watch as John leans onto the sink counter for just a second.

Ghost doesn’t comment. Just drops onto the bed, hands resting on his thighs, mask still on. He doesn’t strip out of gear, he doesn't really relax either, just waits—knees wide, head tilted toward the soft hiss of the water.

He can hear John moving. The water kicks on, sputters, evens out into a steady stream. There’s the clatter of his plate carrier hitting the floor. The rustle of clothing. The soft, low sound of a man trying to exhale a day he hasn’t processed yet.

Ghost stays silent. He's good at waiting, sitting in a field for hours, waiting on a target, on orders, still as a stone. On base it's harder, when half the time he'd rather just get a good, silent fuck in and head to bed. But for John, he’s learned how to sit and wait in the quiet comfort of a bedroom.

After a minute—maybe two—he hears it. A hoarse voice. Like it scraped its way out of his chest.

“Name’s Merrick.”

Ghost stays quiet, doesn’t want to break the spell.

“He was my XO. A while ago... Got assigned fresh out of some officer school—fancy as fuck. Came in like he already knew better than all of us.”

There’s a pause. The the sound of water shifting as John leans into it.

“First op he fucked up, we covered for him. Second, we lost a comms specialist. Third... we damn near lost the whole team. Left us cut off behind a ridge while he pulled the convoy back.”

Ghost swallows down any sound he might be making, but it's just the noise of his own heart in his ears.

“He wrote it up like we were the ones who failed to regroup. Like we went dark. And somehow—somehow that fuck—he got promoted.”

There's just the sound of water again, and Ghost thinks that's the end of it. That that's all John needs to say.

Then: “Still wearin’ the fuckin’ uniform. Still gets to walk around here like nothing happened. Like their names—like Hale’s—like they don’t count.”

His voice sharpens.

“Like I’m the mad one for still remembering.”

CRACK.

Ghost flinches at the fist against tile. At the knuckles to wall. Ghost is on his feet before he realizes it. Across the room and through the door in three strides.

The water’s still running, curtain not even pulled all the way. Steam curls around the corners of the small space. John is standing beneath the spray, one hand braced against the wall, the other, bloodied and pressed to his thigh. His shoulders shake once. Just once.

Ghost moves in close, slow and steady. He reaches out, hand brushing under the spray to catch John's wrist.

“John.”

John doesn’t jerk away, so Ghost gently lifts his hand, turning it to see the damage. Split skin across the knuckles. Blood running pink into the water.

“Christ,” Ghost mutters, more to himself than anyone else

He steps in farther, moving into the steam, into the heat. His hirt soaks almost immediately at the sleeves, but he doesn’t care.

“Could’ve just asked me to deck him for you, y’know,” he says, trying for a joke, something bordering on soft and gentle.

John huffs something like a breath, maybe a laugh, maybe a sob.

The water runs warm over both of them, steady as rain on a roof. Ghost doesn’t move fast, just shifts his stance, steadying John’s hand in his own. It’s shaking a little, and whether from pain or anger or exhaustion, he doesn’t ask.

He reaches behind for the washcloth hanging off the knob. Then finds a small bottle of something that smells faintly like pine and antiseptic. John has always been practical like that.

Ghost works the cloth into the soap one-handed, then brings it up and starts gently dabbing the blood from John’s knuckles.

The water does the talking, hissing against skin, tapping against tile. The steam curls soft around them, wrapping them in something quiet, something clean.

John watches him. Ghost is focused, on the cuts, the angle of bone, the way the bruising’s already starting to bloom beneath the surface. Slowly John reaches up. His fingers brush beneath the edge of the balaclava. 

On instinct, Ghost tilts his head away from John’s fingers. John’s hand pauses, long enough for Ghost to process the motion. When it moves again, Ghost lets it happen.

The fabric peels back slowly. It’s damp now, it’d be half waterboarding the man if he wasn’t used to it. It drags slightly as it lifts over his jaw, his cheeks, his mouth. Then his face. The air hits his skin, then the mist of the water bouncing off of John’s shoulders.

John’s gaze lingers, soft and unreadable. Then just as smoothly, his hand drops away.

They just stand there. One man stripped down to bare skin and bruises, the other still fully dressed and soaked to the bone, steam rising between them like breath.

Simon finishes with the cloth, sets it aside.

When Simon looks back, John’s eyes are on his. The blues greyed over with exhaustion. John leans in, gently, slow, enough time to give Simon a chance to pull back, and presses his mouth to Simon’s.

It’s light, just a touch, water damp lips and warm breath. A kiss far too weighty for air between them. Simon breathes through it, inhaling, eyes closed. His hand still wrapped around John’s wrist. His chest rising slow.

When they part, they don’t move far. Their foreheads stay touching, John’s hand cradled between their chests.

John exhales. “Thank you.”

Simon nods once and stays close, one hand still around John’s wrist, the other resting lightly at his hip. He can feel the heat rolling off him—off both of them, really—steam thick in the air, clinging to skin, to clothes, to everything but the distance between them.

Which is practically nothing.

The water streams down hard over John’s shoulders, flattening hair, running in rivulets down his spine. Simon’s shirt is soaked clean through now, heavy against his chest and arms. His jeans cling to his legs. It’s ridiculous. They both know it.

And quietly, John’s hands find the hem of his shirt. He gives it a slow tug. It’s an invitation, and soft question, just stay.

Simon lifts his arms, let’s John do that bit of work. The fabric peels off heavy and wet, dragging up over his chest and shoulders. John drops it somewhere outside the stream of water with a wet thwap.

He’s careful next, unzipping the tac vest, undoing the belt. Simon helps where he can, fingers brushing, breath mingling as they both shift to navigate the cramped space. The water’s still pouring down. The tiles are slick underfoot. The walls close on either side, and there’s barely room to breathe between them now.

By the time Simon’s pants hit the floor, John is watching him quietly again. Just watching, like the sight of Simon, all unmasked and bare, is something he’s still not used too, and still not quite ready to look away from.

Simon steps forward hardly half a pace, and now they’re chest to chest. Skin to skin. The heat between them swallowed up by the water, by the steam, by everything.

They just stand there a moment, foreheads pressed together, bare chest against bare chest, refusing to acknowledge that maybe they should just get out and go to bed.

Simon slides a hand up to the back of John’s neck. He holds him there under steady fingers. And John exhales like he’s been holding the breath for a week and lets his forehead drop against Simon’s shoulder.

It’s quiet. It’s cramped. It’s perfect.

...

The water runs until it starts to chill. It probably chilled a while ago, they just forgot to care.

Simon is the one to finally move, leaning in to press one last kiss to John’s shoulder before reaching back and turning the knob. The stream cuts off with a sputtering hiss, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the quiet drip-drip-drip of water from the tile, their skin, their hair.

Simon exhales slowly, his hand still cradling the nape of John’s neck.

“John…” he starts, voice rough and low. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” John says, quick but soft. His hand comes up, wet and steady, cupping the side of Simon’s jaw, smearing the bit of black that didn’t get rinsed or rubbed off. “Don’t apologize.”

That makes Simon huff out a breath, acceptance, for now.

They part just enough to move out of the shower and into the warm air of the bathroom. Towels are pulled from the hooks, handed off without a word. Neither of them bothers with clothes. Just the quiet ritual of drying each other off.

Simon drags a towel across Simon’s chest, then his shoulders. He’s not gentle or fussy about it but there’s a reverence in it.

Simon does the same, kneeling to towel off John’s legs, placing a kiss to the front of John’s thigh, before rising to meet his eyes again. 

"You called me Jonathan today." John huffs as they turn to hang the towels.

"Too far?"

John hums, "No, just strange."

"Could make it less, Jonathan." Simon teases.

John steps away from him, back towards the room. "See where that gets you."

When they finally move toward the bed, it’s without discussion. Simon thinks, for a second, John’ll ask him to leave, or wish him goodnight. Instead the captain half herds Simon into the bed, bodies nudging until Simon sits.

The mattress is barely big enough for one of them, let alone both, no worse than Simon’s bed at least. Simon slides in first, turning onto his side to make space, and John follows without pause.

John curls in behind him, big hand on Simon’s waist, forehead to his shoulder. Their bodies still warm from the water, skin sticking in places. It’s not graceful, too clumsy for hands and bodies that can move the ways theirs can on the field, but it’s alright. They’re fine with that.

Simon reaches back, blindly finding John’s hand and lacing their fingers together. They lay there, in shared breath and quiet weight and the simple, brutal comfort of them. A soft hum sounds, the noise of the heater kicking on, and then the occasional shift of the bedframe as they settle, closer, then closer still. Their legs are tangled, toes brushing. Skin to skin. Warm and worn out and here, and Simon closes his eyes.

Neither of them has spoken in minutes, but they aren’t sleeping, to Simon’s surprise. He half expected John to doze at least by now.

“You awake, Si?” John’s voice is gravely and quiet.

Simon hums, squeezing John’s hand.

“Will you help me with Hale’s file?”

Simon doesn’t move for a moment. Then he brings their joined hands up, slow and unhurried, and presses a kiss to the back of John’s. 

“Yeah,” he says. “‘course.”

John exhales, and it shudders just a little, Simon can’t tell if it’s relief or grief, maybe both. 

“He was good,” Price murmurs against Simon’s shoulder, “He deserved better than that.”

Simon doesn’t answer, just presses his lips to John’s hand again as John squeezes closer, like he could climb into Simon’s shoulders, find his heart and lungs, and rest there a moment. 

John’s breathing evens out eventually, and Simon listens to the pace of it. He lets the low thud of John’s heart at his back lull him to sleep.

...

If you would like to read the soft smut between them that I wrote to go with this (the shower sex at the second ellipses) you can find it >here<

a wraith of some sort, his mind reels, a doppler or something- something similar, because there’s no other explanation. it’s impossible. there’s a man walking towards him through a field of poppies and he isn’t possible.

months of mourning boil into anger, anger at all he has lost and anger at losing it now again, the visage of his bard stolen and worn as a mockery. whatever time they’d had, borrowed though it was, twisted and thrown at his feet. geralt finds the hilt of his silver sword, and he is furious.

but the thing wearing jaskier’s face laughs at him then, and smiles, and it’s that smile. the scent reaches him next, not the earthy, sour musk of weeks on the path but that scent, the smell that lingered under road dust and chamomile and geralt could never find words for, jaskier’s smell.

it floods his senses, blinds him and leaves him weak, rooted, a century’s worth of witcher sensibility screaming at his limbs to move, but he cannot. 

the face before him, close now, looks deceptively young, half the years or so of the man he held that autumn morning by the river. but there’s a crinkle to the eyes, a temperance to his expression that only came later, and the hands that reach for him are ones that knew every day until the last.

there are fingertips on his cheek, calloused, skimming his jaw and brow and wiping at whichever expression they find there. murmured apologies as he himself struggles just to breathe. 

if this is how i go, he thinks, i’ll take it, and he tips forward. filling his head with all things lost to eternity: the tickle of cropped brown hair against his nose, the barely-there scratch of stubble, the warmth of smooth skin as he buries his face in the neck of what can’t be his bard, waiting for it to dim and fade as every dream before.

but the arms that wind around him are strong - always a little stronger than expected - and the hands that wander up his back and settle at his shoulder and in his hair are ever so sure.

-

their meetings are sporadic and unpredictable, at first, seemingly without rhyme or reason. 

they find each other at crossroads, in places between places, more often than not he will find his lark waiting under yew trees or in shaded spots overgrown by bluebells. no matter the way of their meeting, he is always greeted the same as jaskier steps close, outstretched hand settling left of geralt’s medallion, palm pressed gently against the near-indiscernible bump there and finding the rounded outline before arms settle around him and geralt, for all his heightened senses finds his vision narrowed and senses blurred as jaskier’s joy overtakes every other impression.

the bard is not always quite the same - at times he comes back slightly tilted, slightly younger, slightly paler, a little taller or thinner, but he laughs the same and his hair sweeps across his face just so, and geralt knows better than trying to apply certainty to things that cannot be.

“where are you, now?” the question slips anyway, one late night when he’s not sure whether the heat he feels stems from their smoldering fire or from the weight of the man drawing patterns on his skin. there’s a huff of a laugh across his sternum and he can just make out the blue of the eyes that meet his in the darkness, and the knowing smile that lifts their corners. “i’m right here, love.”

it gets somewhat easier after geralt brings the lute down from the keep - another tether, he thinks, or perhaps there’s simply more to him now, more to a bard with an instrument than one without. not just once he follows familiar melodies into narrow valleys where brooks spring from the ground, or deep into woods where the air is so still drawing it feels like a disturbance, or across fields of flowers which jaskier will weave into roach’s mane and bridle as he walks beside them, sometimes for days, weeks if it’s fair.

he asks again, much later. too late by some degree, not for fear of the answer but for fear of placing force upon something so yielding as this dream. “what are you?” barely a whisper, he’s nearly surprised when jaskier turns to him several feet away, hair that was once threaded through with silver now shining like gold in the warm autumn sun, the grin flashed in his direction is blinding at first, but gentles as he makes his way closer. 

folding himself into geralt’s lap, thighs bracketing hips and geralt’s hands find their home at a lean waist by habit and by choice, lips ghosting his brow, then his cheek, before whispering against his own: