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The voices on the radio make him jump.
Logan’s kept his earpiece in all day, an old habit his father had drilled into him upon joining the military, and something he’s kept up with since becoming a Ghost. A certain type of comfort comes from knowing he won’t miss anything, knowing where to go if someone shouts for help. The comms almost always stay clear, quiet, yet he keeps the radio in his pocket regardless and he goes about his day as normal.
He’s pacing back and forth in his room, deciding whether to go for a run with Riley or to simply crawl under the heavy blanket on his bed and call it a night, when static sounds loud in his ear.
“Six-Three, come in,” a voice speaks, voice garbled and distorted. They’re asking for Hesh, and his curiosity is instantly piqued.
“Kick,” Hesh responds after a split second. “Talk to me.”
At the mention of Kick, Logan stops in his tracks, foot falling awkwardly to the ground mid-step. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but a rush of excitement races through his veins anyway.
“Mission— A success— Had— Go dark—” Kick’s voice cuts in and out, and Logan groans in frustration.
Hesh speaks up. “Glad you made it out safe. Everyone in one piece?”
Logan holds his breath.
There’s a beat, a pause, too long. It feels as though the world has stopped spinning, time has frozen, he’s been left behind. Static eats away at his brain and the hairs on the back of his neck, his arms, stand on end. He feels like he’s going to pass out, and then—
“Affirm.”
He sighs, eyes closing in relief.
“You’re cleared for landing, Kick. Good to have you boys back.”
Logan is reaching for the door before Kick has a chance to respond, and the heavy sound of his boots in the hallway drown out his reply. His walk quickly turns to a jog, and then he’s running through the base, skidding around the corner at the end of the hall and not caring who he passes as he makes his way to his destination.
He’s the first one in the hangar.
The huge room is dark; Logan flicks the light switch and watches as, one by one, the bulbs on the ceiling flicker to life. Smells of gasoline and exhaust and rubber fill his nose as he walks over the concrete floor. A chill surrounds him, the metal walls doing nothing to trap heat.
His footsteps echo as he moves through the hangar, around crates and cans of paint, sidestepping armoured trucks and an empty gun rack. By the time he reaches the far door, he hears another set of boots behind him.
“He can skip the debrief tonight, Logan,” Hesh’s voice rings loud in the relatively empty space. “But I’ll need him tomorrow morning if he does.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Logan calls, looking over his shoulder.
His brother stands against the doorframe, back to the base’s hallway. The smile on his face is barely visible from this distance, but it can be heard in his tone as he says, “Sure, you don’t.”
“I don’t!” Logan laughs to himself, turns his attention back to the door in front of him. The metal latch is cold, finicky, and he has to wiggle it a few times before it springs loose.
Night air washes over him, ruffles his hair and the loose fabric of his clothes. He breathes it in, the fresh smell, and listens carefully for the telltale rumble and roar of the helicopter he knows is approaching.
Stepping out of the hangar, Logan leans his back against the cool metal wall just beside the door, arms crossed over his chest.
As the whirring gets closer, louder, Logan looks to the sky. It’s a clear night, and amongst the stars he can see bright lights flashing, indicating the long-awaited return of the rest of the Ghosts. He squints, can’t make out features, but knows which two people sit at the front of the helicopter.
Kick pilots swiftly, as perfect as always, and then the aircraft has landed, rotor blades still spinning and wind whipping.
Logan stays against the wall, waits.
One by one, Ghosts exit the helicopter. Neptune jumps down first, rifle slung over his shoulder and mask held in a loose fist at his side. He nods his head at Logan as he passes, claps him on the shoulder, enters the hangar. Torch follows, then Grim. They all look exhausted, all barely acknowledging Logan as they trudge their way over the helipad, through the door, and into the hangar.
The last two soldiers place their feet on the concrete right as the helicopter’s blades still; the wind dies down, the night is silent.
Chewing on his bottom lip, he can’t help the small smile that tugs on the corners of his mouth.
Kick walks up to Logan with a knowing look, a roll of his eyes and a fist bump.
“Hesh is inside,” Logan tells him. “He wants to debrief.”
“Sure. Thanks, Logan.”
“Glad you made it back alright.”
That look again, and then he disappears inside the building.
And then there’s one man left, hovering near the helicopter and shrouded in the darkness of nighttime; the bright lights from inside don’t reach him, yet Logan knows exactly who he is, knows that he stands there with his arms open.
Logan does a quick look behind him—the Ghosts are all inside, handing over their weapons and stretching their arms high above their heads, pulling off helmets and masks and gloves. The coast is clear, and then he’s pushing off the wall, walking quickly toward the aircraft.
He’s met halfway, and then strong arms wrap around his middle, pulling him in quick and close.
Wrapping his own arms around Keegan’s shoulders, Logan pushes his face into his neck, lets out a little laugh.
“Hey, kid,” Keegan speaks into his hair, soft. “Miss me?”
Despite the dirt and sweat and grime, the bunched-up fabric of his mask, the black face paint that sticks to his skin, Logan presses his lips against Keegan’s jugular—just to feel his pulse, to know he’s alive and unharmed. He pulls back, keeps his hands on Keegan’s shoulders. “You smell like shit.”
Keegan makes a sound at the back of his throat, an indignant huff. He pitches his voice up an octave, mocks, “Oh, Keegan, I missed you so much! I can hardly sleep when you’re gone! I’ve been worrying away! I’m so glad you’re safe and alive and back!”
Logan can’t stop his smile. “Fuck off.”
In that same tone, he continues. “Oh, Keegan, kiss me! Make love to me! Don’t ever leave my side again!”
“‘Make love’?” He rolls his eyes, scoffs. “Are we eighty?”
“You don’t want to?”
He rubs against the tough fabric of Keegan’s tactical vest with his thumbs. “I want you to shower.”
“Alone?”
“You’re relentless.”
“But did you miss me?”
Logan softens. He moves one of his hands from Keegan’s shoulder to the side of his face, palm cupping his cheek and thumb against the delicate skin under his eye. “Of course, I missed you. A lot.”
A gentle smile, hard to see in the shadows of nighttime but felt under Logan’s hand. “I knew it.”
“C’mon, it’s cold out. And you really do smell like shit.” Logan tugs on the strap of Keegan’s rifle, begins to pull it off his shoulder to return to the gun rack to be checked.
Keegan squeezes Logan’s middle, begrudgingly lets go. He gestures with his hand, beckoning Logan to lead the way.
The walk into the hangar, through the base, is silent. Most everyone is in the debrief meeting, and the others are sleeping, eating, relaxing. No one bothers them, no one stops for meaningless conversations.
They walk side by side, arms brushing with every swing but hands to themselves; they maintain an air of professionalism around one another, despite a few people having learned how much deeper their relationship goes. It just feels safer, puts both their minds at ease, to save things for behind closed doors.
“How was the mission?” Logan asks, both because he’s interested in the answer but also to hear Keegan’s voice—he’d been gone for almost three weeks, and the group had needed to go dark for over half of it; he’d spent days worrying about all of them, and he would never admit it, but Keegan’s mockery had been right: Logan barely sleeps when he doesn’t know he’s safe.
All he gets in response is a low hum, an intentional brush of the backs of their hands. When he glances over, he sees Keegan’s eyes trained on the ground, watching every footstep.
Logan frowns. He looks over his shoulder, looks ahead, carefully grabs Keegan’s hand in his own. Their fingers lock easily, naturally, and he gives it what he hopes to be a comforting squeeze.
“You sleep much out there?” He knows the answer, yet asks anyway.
“Slept enough.”
“You’re a shit liar. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Keegan lets out a little laugh, low in his throat. “Only you, kid.”
Logan smiles, squeezes his hand again. “Everyone else is too nice.”
They walk further down the hallway, passing by closed door after closed door, until they reach their destination. Logan stops, but Keegan keeps going.
Arm getting tugged by where their hands are still connected, Keegan stills and looks over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“You’re cleaning yourself up.”
“Are we not… Not together?” Keegan furrows his eyebrows.
Hand closing around the door handle, Logan pulls on Keegan’s arm. “What? You’ve been gone so long that you forgot that your room isn’t the only one with a bathroom?”
The light in the hallway is dim, yet he can still see the smile creep over the man’s face. “I’m coming with you?”
“You’re an idiot.” Logan opens the door to his room and steps over the threshold, drags Keegan in with him. The door is closed, locked, and the overhead light is turned on; before he can even take in Keegan’s appearance, he’s pushing him back against the now-closed door and grabbing at his body. One hand on his waist and the other grasping at the strap of his vest, Logan kisses him.
Keegan takes a second to react, and then he’s holding the side of Logan’s face, grabbing a handful of his shirt and tugging him close enough where their bodies are touching.
It’s surprisingly gentle, the kiss, despite the way they both grapple at one another; Logan finds himself melting against Keegan, leaning on him and smiling into it. The feel of Keegan’s gear pushing into him, tactical vest and its millions of pockets against his chest and belt and pouches against his waist and thighs—it’s uncomfortable, borderline painful with the way Keegan pulls them together as if there’s nothing blocking them. And it’s unfulfilling, to not be able to feel the warmth of Keegan’s body, the physical reminders that his heart is still beating.
Logan pulls away carefully, allows Keegan to chase his lips once, twice, before smiling and shaking his head.
The light in his room isn’t much better than that in the hallway, so he still struggles to see all of Keegan. But he can see the paint smeared over his face, the places it’s been rubbed or washed off—he wipes at his own face, knowing some of it has transferred to his skin.
Keegan laughs, the sound lighter than it had been before. “You too much of a pretty boy? Scared of a little face paint?”
He has no snide remark, no witty response; on the rare occasions Keegan pulls out some type of pet name, some type of compliment that sits heavy in his gut, his mind goes blank.
“There it is,” Keegan smiles. “Missed you. Missed this.” His thumb rubs back and forth against Logan’s cheek, where he’s sure he’s blushing. With his other hand, he lets go of the shirt and trails down his chest, grabs one of Logan’s belt loops and gives a slight tug. “Missed you.”
Logan grabs Keegan’s wrist, stops him from slipping his hand down further. “Not tonight.”
And Keegan doesn’t argue, of course, he doesn’t. He pulls his hand back up without complaint, rests it innocently on Logan’s waist. “I missed you.”
A quick kiss—he can’t resist. “Shower first, and then you can get all emotional and sappy.”
“I don’t get sappy.”
He rolls his eyes. “Sure.”
They cross the room in three strides, Logan leading. He pushes open the door to the adjoining bathroom, flicks the light switch, pulls Keegan in front of him and pushes his tailbone against the counter. For the first time since he returned, Logan takes a good, long look at the man.
Under the better lighting, Keegan’s exhaustion is evident in his features. The downturn of his lips, the droop of his eyelids; the lack of light and life in his eyes. His shoulders slump and his gear weighs him down. Logan starts there.
With careful and practiced fingers, he unclips the vest, pulls it up and over Keegan’s head and sets it gently on the floor. He works at his belt next, and with the same speed, it’s removed, pouches going with it.
Neither of them speak, yet he feels Keegan’s eyes following his every move; it’s something he’s gotten used to, something he’s missed with him being gone.
Gear on the floor, Logan returns his attention to Keegan’s face.
As he had suspected, the paint on his face is mixed with grime and dust and dirt, patches of it rubbed off. When he looks over Keegan’s shoulder, into the cracked mirror, he sees his own nose, his chin and lips, covered with the stuff. There’s a vague handprint-shaped splotch of dirt on his cheek, too. He can’t help but smile, roll his eyes, focus entirely on Keegan again.
He’s still wearing that damned beanie, his half-mask pulled off his face and bunched up around his throat. His clothes are covered in the same grime that his skin is, though there’s mud caked on his pants up to his knees, the fabric of his jacket feeling damp to the touch.
“Go for a swim?” Logan asks.
“It poured rain. Had to wade through some deep puddles.”
Logan hums in response, reaching up to take his own earpiece out of his ear, wrap the wire around the radio he pulls from his pocket and turns the entire thing off. He sets it on the counter behind Keegan, and then touches the pads of his fingers to the zipper on the jacket.
“Here’s the plan,” he mumbles, tugging on the zipper until it gives. “You’re disgusting—”
“You’re so romantic,” Keegan cuts in. There’s no malice to his voice, no bite or bark; his words are slightly slurred, spoken slowly, as he begins to let himself relax.
The jacket is eased off his shoulders, dropped to the floor. Logan ignores the interruption, pulls Keegan’s beanie off his head, then his mask. “We shower quick, okay? Get all the mud and stuff off of you. Give your hair a rinse too.”
“Then?”
“Then,” Logan smiles at him, touches the tips of his fingers to Keegan’s jaw, “we have a bath. Sound good?”
All Keegan does is nod, give him a small grin.
“Good.”
Keegan’s shirt is damper than his jacket had been, and it sticks to his skin as it’s pulled up and over his head. The silver of his dog tags’ chain glints against the light.
It’s instinctual, how Logan checks over Keegan’s body for injuries—he doesn’t quite trust the man to tell him the truth when asked if he’s wounded, and looking for cuts and scrapes and bruises himself gives him peace of mind. He drags both hands down his shoulders and chest, over his stomach and navel, watching for signs of discomfort on his face and simply enjoying being able to feel him again.
Satisfied, Logan looks in the mirror over Keegan’s shoulder again, traces his gaze down shoulder blades and the length of his spine; his skin is muddied, dirty, but he doesn’t see any signs of injury. When he returns his attention to the man in front of him, he finds blue eyes staring straight at him.
“Are you hurt?” Logan asks anyway, just in case.
“No.”
And he doesn’t ask again.
Logan lets Keegan watch him silently as he fiddles with the button of his pants, unzips them; he lets Keegan watch as he lowers himself down to his knees in front of him, keeps his head down as he unties the laces of his boots. Without needing to be prompted, Keegan lifts one foot after the other, allowing Logan to pull the boots off one by one and set them to the side.
Hands coming back up, he traces his fingers along Keegan’s navel, hooks them under the waistband of his pants and eases them off his hips, down his thighs; Logan stays on his knees, nudges Keegan’s left leg, then his right, and pulls his pants off, adds to the ever-growing pile of clothing on the floor. Before he stands back up, Logan presses his lips to a nasty-looking scar running jagged over the meat of Keegan’s right thigh; he’s never been told the origins, something the man refuses to talk about, but he’s kissed it every time he’s seen it.
Keegan grabs at him, paws at his shoulders as he stands back up. Logan expects to be pulled in for a kiss, but strong arms wrap around his middle and then Keegan is burying his face in the crook of his neck, nosing at his shoulder and breathing hot against his skin.
Logan holds him in return, keeps him close, knows that, after missions, Keegan needs some type of reassurance; he never outright asks for it, never even clarifies that he needs it, but he always hugs Logan a little tighter, sleeps a little closer, kisses a little harder.
Neither say anything for a few minutes, merely enjoying the feel of one another. Logan kisses the side of Keegan’s head, rubs up and down his spine, soothing. He appreciates these moments as much as Keegan does, the physical contact greatly needed after spending their time apart wondering if they’ll ever reunite—he holds immense amounts of trust for all of the Ghosts, but he still feels most comfortable when he’s the one watching Keegan’s back.
They stand and hold each other until Keegan begins to stir, shifting weight from foot to foot. His lips press to the soft skin under Logan’s jaw, and then he’s pulling back, leaning his weight against the counter.
“You ready?” Logan asks, kind. He watches Keegan with a steady smile.
“Sure.”
“Alright.” Deft fingers find home along the elastic of Keegan’s boxers. Logan touches his hip bones. “Take ‘em off, then. Socks, too.”
As Keegan does what he’s told, Logan steps away from the man and the counter and over to the bathtub, reaching his hand around the ratty curtain and fumbling with the faucet. He turns it, waits a few seconds for the water to start spitting out, and then switches the flow to the shower head.
Before he can turn around, he feels hands grab his waist, fiddle with the hem of his shirt.
“C’mon,” Keegan urges, tugging lightly. “Your turn.”
Rolling his eyes, Logan raises his arms above his head and lets his shirt get pulled off of him. It makes a soft sound as it lands on the floor and then he’s being turned around, spun by hands on his hips.
Although he exudes an air of exhaustion, Keegan’s eyes rake over his now-bare chest with an intensity Logan finds he had missed while he was alone. But the longer Keegan looks, the more Logan begins to fidget.
Eventually, after what feels like hours but can’t have been longer than a minute, Logan mumbles a quiet, “Stop looking at me like that.”
Keegan takes a step forward, moves a hand to splay flat against Logan’s stomach. “Don’t know how else to look at you.”
“Then stop looking.”
“We both know that won’t happen, gorgeous.”
Logan can feel his face warm, can feel the flush travel down his throat and shoulders. He leans into the hands on him, breathes deep. “Get in the shower.”
A kiss, a nod, and Keegan does as he’s told. The shower curtain squeaks against the metal as it’s moved, and then Logan can hear the water hitting Keegan’s body instead of the floor of the bathtub.
He undresses quickly, kicks his boots off to the side and adds the rest of his clothes to the pile. Within a minute, he’s stepping into the bathtub in front of Keegan, breathing in the humid air.
Water pours down onto the man in front of him, sticks his hair to his forehead and causes his face paint to run down his cheeks. Dirt washes off his shoulders, splatters at their feet, gets carried down the drain. Logan makes quick work of grabbing a washcloth and soaking it. The small bar of soap is grabbed from the inset shelf and rubbed over the cloth until enough suds form, and then it’s put back.
It’s gentle, quiet, how he carefully scrubs away at Keegan’s body; his throat and shoulders first, down his arms, in between his fingers; his chest, stomach, waist. Logan takes care in kneeling down once more, feeling the water spit onto the top of his head and down his back—he washes Keegan’s legs with the same gentleness, kisses the scar on his thigh again before standing up.
“Turn around,” he whispers, and his voice is barely louder than the water. He grabs the soap, suds up the cloth again, puts it back.
But Keegan hears and does what Logan asks, turning in place and dropping his chin to his chest, letting out a sigh as the washcloth makes contact with his shoulder blades.
Logan repeats the process, making quick work of washing the dirt and sweat off of Keegan’s spine and down his sides, the backs of his thighs and calves. This time, on his way up, he presses his lips to the two small dimples right above his tailbone. A hand on his hip turns Keegan back around so they face one another once more.
“You want me to wash your hair now?” Logan asks, hooking his index finger under Keegan’s chin and raising his head, blinking through the water to make eye contact. “Or in the bath?”
The water has washed away parts of his face paint, but the rest is smeared and smudged, running down his face in streaks. Black hair sticks to a dirty forehead. “Don’t need to wash it.”
A roll of his eyes. “Yes, we do. It’s filthy.”
And there seems to be no fight left in him. Keegan doesn’t argue, doesn’t push. He blinks at Logan once, twice, and says, “Now.”
“Okay.” Logan adjusts his hold and cups Keegan’s jaw, uses his other hand to brush the hair out of his face and slick it back against his head. He lets the water run over his face as he leans forward to kiss Keegan. Against his lips, he says, “You’re in luck. I managed to find some actual shampoo hidden away somewhere.”
Keegan presses their lips together. “You spend all our time apart rummaging around in closets and cupboards?”
“Only when all the tears have run dry.”
They both fall silent, and Logan pulls away. He busies himself with grabbing for the soap once more, rubbing the bar into the washcloth. When he turns back to face Keegan, he’s met with a soft smile.
“What?” He asks, grabbing Keegan's face again and rubbing the cloth against the opposite cheek. Slowly, carefully, he moves the cloth in circles, watches as the soap eats away at whatever remains of the paint. He focuses, makes sure to not get any suds on Keegan’s lips, up his nose, in his eyes.
“Just like lookin’ at you.”
“You said you don’t get sappy.”
Keegan hums, closes his eyes when Logan starts washing his forehead. Strong hands find home easily on Logan’s waist, and he squeezes. “Is it wrong to look at you?”
“I just think that that’s being sappy.”
“Whatever you say, kid.”
Satisfied with the state of Keegan’s skin, clean and clear of everything, Logan guides him forward, letting the water wash away the soap. He’s quick to wash his own face, smiling at how it got dirty in the first place, and then he, too, is tilting his head back, closing his eyes as the lukewarm water rolls over his forehead, cheeks, chin.
“Keegan,” he calls, taking a small step back so he’s completely out of the water. Hands are still on him, and Keegan steps with him. “I’ll make it quick.”
Normally, he would take his time. Spend precious minutes massaging into the man’s scalp, scratching with his nails and letting the water warm him to his core. He would lather his hands in soap or shampoo—whatever product he could find—take care in ensuring each section of black hair gets covered in suds, washed clean. Sometimes he would wash it twice, rinse and repeat, be just as gentle the second time as he was the first.
But he knows the look Keegan is giving him, knows the droop of his lip that he tries to hide. Knows the dull colour of his eyes, the sag in his shoulders.
So he raises his hands to Keegan’s head quickly, is still gentle but not as methodical; he runs his fingers through soaked strands, ensures every inch is thoroughly wet.
There’s not much in the bottle he had found, but he still manages to ration the shampoo, pouring a small glob of it onto the centre of his palm and rubbing his hands together.
A pleased sigh leaves parted lips as Logan begins washing Keegan’s hair. His eyes close and his thumbs rub circles into Logan’s hip bones.
Again, Logan is quick; a whispered promise to spend more time on a later date, knowing the man enjoys the feeling yet appears too tired to stand for much longer. And then he’s rinsing the shampoo, watching it rush down the drain with the water.
“Almost done.” His words resemble a coo, soft and gentle, and he’s sure he would be teased and made fun of if Keegan were more alert, aware.
What he gets in response is a quiet sound from Keegan’s chest, a squeeze of his hips.
Logan pauses for a moment and then grabs the bottle again, having decided to wash Keegan’s hair twice anyway; it’s dirtier than he expected, and he figures that the man is worth sparing more of the precious product for.
“Said we were almost done,” Keegan quips.
“You said your hair wasn’t dirty.”
“It’s not.”
“Really?”
Keegan waits until Logan rinses his hair a second time before saying, “Thanks, kid.”
He reaches behind him to fumble with the tap, turn it off. The room goes silent, spare for the drip, drip, drip of water falling from their bodies to the floor. Logan holds Keegan’s face in both of his hands. “You’d do the same for me.”
“I’d do anything for you.”
Something in his chest flutters as his heart skips a beat—he feels his face flush, feels goddamn butterflies beat their wings against his ribcage. It’s not the first time Keegan has said something along those lines, not by a long shot. Logan’s said similar, too, words whispered into hair and promises kissed onto skin. But there’s a deep vulnerability to his voice, clinging to their bodies; Keegan is looking at him as though he means something, as though the days spent apart were agonizing.
And, maybe, Logan realizes, he would do anything for him. Maybe Logan would return the favour.
“Yeah?” He tests it out.
Keegan nods. “Yes.”
A gentle kiss, barely more than a peck. Keegan’s hands burn marks into his skin. “Go grab us clothes, then?”
“You want me to walk around the base in nothing but a towel?”
Logan rolls his eyes. “Oh, so anything does exclude some things.”
“Kid, I look like a wet dog.” To emphasize his point, Keegan shakes his head, droplets of water raining down and his hair fanning out. Now clean, the strands have started to curl.
“At least you don’t smell like one anymore.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“It sure fucking was.” Logan grabs for the shower curtain, pulls it back and gives his side a nudge. “Go on.”
He watches as Keegan steps out of the shower, unashamedly stares as he grabs for one of the towels hanging from a hook on the wall. Logan steps out onto the floor after him, touches Keegan’s shoulder.
Keegan wraps the towel around his waist before turning around, grabbing Logan’s hand and adjusting it so it still sits comfortably on his skin. “I’ll walk through the base looking like a wet dog for you.”
Logan wets his lips with his tongue, smiles sheepishly. “You don’t have to. I, uh— There’s some of your clothes in my room.”
“I took ‘em all out before I left.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Kid.”
Trying to change the conversation, embarrassed all of a sudden, Logan asks, “You still wanna have a bath?”
“Logan.”
“You were gone a long time, okay?”
And Keegan looks smug, as he taps his fingers against Logan’s knuckles. “Run the bath, I’ll be right back.”
Still naked and not caring about the water he’s dripping onto the floor, Logan, again, watches Keegan’s back as he turns around and exits the room, eyes roving over strong muscles and soft skin, the towel sitting snug and low on his hips. The man is out of view before Logan can admire the rest of him.
He busies himself with kneeling down beside the bathtub, moving the shower curtain out of the way and shoving the old plug into the drain. The faucet spits out water, and he holds his hand under it to adjust the temperature. Through the sound of running water, he can faintly hear Keegan sifting through a drawer of clothing.
“What, no bubbles?” He hears behind him, voice deep and deadpan.
Logan can feel Keegan’s presence behind him, can feel the eyes on his back and he fights the embarrassment that tries to wash over him as his whole body is on display. To shift the attention, he says, “Sorry, princess. Couldn’t find any.”
A hum, and then a shadow falls over him, Keegan standing close enough to block out the light. “Does that make you my knight in shining armour?”
Looking over his shoulder, Logan blinks up at Keegan through his eyelashes. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a small pile of clothes on the edge of the counter, and he can see tired blue eyes looking at him, a matching smile tugging on thin lips. Dramatizing his movements, Logan grabs one of Keegan’s hands and raises it to his mouth, kisses it, replies, “I would kill every dragon if it means you get to be mine.”
Not often does Keegan blush, not often does he fluster—the man is a machine, a statue, rarely showing emotion through anything but his eyes. But a red flush spreads over his face, his nose, and he blinks quickly while avoiding Logan’s eyes.
Satisfied, Logan breathes a light laugh through his nose, returns his attention to the bathtub, now full of water. He twists the tap, shuts the water off, stands up and runs his fingers along the rough towel at Keegan’s hips.
“In,” he says simply, tugging the fabric away from Keegan’s body and dropping it to the floor.
It’s quiet as Keegan lifts his foot, steps into the water. He sits down gingerly, sporting strained muscles, hugs his knees to his chest in a way that makes him look so small. His chin rests on top of his knees.
Logan climbs in behind him, feels the warm water on his feet and legs, goosebumps raising on the parts of his body exposed to the bathroom air. He sits, slides one leg on either side of Keegan, leans against the back of the bathtub. The water goes up to his armpits.
Squeezing his thighs lightly, Logan reaches for Keegan.
Hands paw at shoulders, pull a body onto his own. Keegan’s back rests on his chest and his head on his shoulder. When Logan looks, he sees blue eyes staring straight ahead, watching the ceiling.
Moving his hands, Logan touches Keegan’s chest, his thigh. “You can relax,” he whispers. “You’re safe. I promise.”
It’s something they all struggle with, the concept of safety. So rarely do they get it, so rarely can they guarantee it.
For Logan, he feels it the most during the nights; the quiet gets to him, eats away at his brain, and he finds himself straining to hear approaching footsteps, gunshots, anything. He often has to remind himself of where he is, who’s around him. Even then, the feeling of always being in danger lingers.
For Keegan, Logan’s noticed, there doesn’t seem to be anything specific that causes it. He’s always watching everyone and everything, checking rooms for exits and assessing the surroundings. He rarely sleeps, can’t sit still, hates overwhelming silence. And while Logan has wormed his way into his life, managed to bring a small sense of comfort, it seems harder for Keegan to remember he’s safe whenever he returns from missions.
So he takes care in reminding him, reassuring him; it’s no hassle to Logan—he would walk through fire if Keegan so much as hinted he wanted him to.
He draws patterns along Keegan’s stomach with his fingers, breathes in the subtle scent of shampoo that clings to his hair. Tells him again, “You’re safe.”
And maybe he believes it, maybe he doesn’t; but he lets out a low sigh, closes his eyes and sinks into Logan’s chest, his touch. He straightens his legs out as much as he can in the small bathtub and tilts his head back. “I missed you, Logan,” Keegan says, and it sounds like a confession, like he hadn’t allowed himself to actually admit it until right this very moment.
“I know,” Logan whispers. It’s a reassurance, a reminder—It’s okay, he’s saying; You’re home, he’s saying.
With light fingers, he traces over the jagged line of Keegan’s scar, wonders where it’s from but never asks.
Logan turns his head, presses his lips to Keegan’s temple, lays his left hand flat over his heart, feels the thump, thump, thump of it through his chest. Against his skin, he says, “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Logan…”
“I know.”
In the silence that falls over the bathroom, Logan takes his right hand from Keegan’s thigh.
He points his thumb and index finger out, his pinky finger, too. Drops his middle and ring finger to his palm. The tip of his thumb is pressed to the centre of Keegan’s chest.
The sign isn’t technically directed the correct way, but he knows Keegan understands.
It’s something neither of them have been able to say properly. Something that lights fear inside Logan’s chest, ignites desire within his core. He’s scared to say it, scared of the implications and how much harder it will be to spend time apart, wondering if the other will return alive and unharmed.
So, he signs it. Sometimes Keegan signs it back, sometimes he doesn’t—there’s no need for him to, either way. Logan knows.
He always knows.