#malayaps

ghost whose cooking varies a lot more on leave. bad days are for the leftovers and mugs of water, warmed too little or too much. better days he cooks and he does it well. he was a butcher's apprentice, knows how to cook meat half-decent and helped with cooking a lot during tommy's recovery– habits linger.

experienced, ghost recognises.

he doesn't know how to grapple with that.

soap checks again, rumbling a, "solid?" against his sternum– his breath soft.

ghost nods and soap leans forward, arms wrapping around him and chests pressing gradually together as he buries his face into the nape of ghost's neck.

he imagines it must feel like disarming a bomb. cutting wires, breath stilted.

only johnny breathes steady, waiting for him to relax from where he's instinctively stiffened.

once he eventually does, johnny slacks minutely more– letting ghost support more of his weight. it feels like trust, it makes him heady.

he doesn't realise he hasn't reciprocated until johnny turns to reveal his face, huffing a teasing, trying comment. awkwardly, one hand lands between shoulder blades and the other at the base of his neck.

it's awfully vulnerable. there's a million and some more ways they could hurt, harm and incapicitate each other this close. the knife at his ankle suddenly sears into his skin and he shifts as johnny hums, content and lethargic, swaying them both on the balls of their feet.

and simon thinks this'll be the closest thing to a home he'll ever have now.

he can't even find it in himself to mourn that.

simon riley is a creature of habit, of an unfair nature that is tolerated and trained and tamed. he isn't something treated soft, not the way mactavish is— thumb against the mask of his cheek. delicate, not like he's fragile but precious. maybe fragile, but riley could hardly discern the difference between things he doesn't know. he doesn't know himself to be fragile nor precious.

his eyes are such a shade of blue. interspersed with a stormy grey that reminds him of piss downpours, and the skies that eventually came after. he looks away, the captain's gaze a hot thing against his. showing deference, fear, uncertainty.

he isn't punished, not just yet.

come the next day, there's two little round marks on his forehead. weirdly circular, brownish and a bit bumpy where the mild injury has scarred.

gaz teases him for it, price is shaking his head (albeit fondly) but ghost is jittery.

they look too much yet nothing like cigarette burns. round yes but a faded, weird brown opposed to the ruddy, bruise-like injuries of a cig burn. it could be two weird moles or birthmarks but ghost knows it isn't and he can't help when his throat goes dry

the door is locked, ghost had checked twice separately. his mask is off, placed on the bedside table for easy access in case of an unexpected emergency. the darkness is almost comforting, enveloping the pair in a shroud of secrecy only exposed by the faint sliver of moonlight sneaking in between the blinds.

johnny's breaths are measured and even, intermittently interrupted by a sleepy noise or mild groan. his body is pressed against ghost's in several locations, johnny's hands to his back, the damn scotsman's cold feet sneaking warmth from simon's. his breath smells slightly of alcohol– cheap, piss-yellow beer with all too much foam from wet glasses.

it's frighteningly domestic and simultaneously familiar.

unsafe because ghost is a light, violent waker. domestic maybe because they're less than centimetres apart, willingly. familiar because they've slept in worse positions on harder things, squeezed for space.

terrifying, because it feels safe. john's steady warmth radiating silently behind him, simon's heavy eyes drifting away from the door. it's unfamiliar, the way his heart thrums– slow and weightless– and how poorly he resists sleep.

he attempts to keep vigil but the warmth is tempting him like a bait might a fish, but he's too tired to protest.

the nagging ache in his knee, heavy and dull and constant, has ebbed to a small, mindless thing. his thoughts are scarily cotton, warm and light.

simon blames johnny as he falls asleep, the aforementioned man behind him snuggling into the nape of his neck, because it feels a little like a home.

____

can't you see? this love consumes me, you have consumed me.

he's not quite sure what or who he is without johnny.