Chapter Text
Simon trudged onto the tarmac. The knowledge that he would be working with a team he didn’t know all that well shouldn’t affect him one little bit. He was thirty six years old, and a fucking Lieutenant in the SAS for Christ’s sake.
And yet, he still felt nervous.
Every time he had to meet new people the feeling refused to shift, no matter how experienced he was, or how senior a member of the team he had become. It had always been there, like a shitty little childhood companion that didn’t get the memo to fuck off once he’d become an adult where they had no use for one another any more.
It was worse when Simon was a child, of course. He’d always been different, even before he’d presented as an alpha. It had begun to feel easier after he’d joined the army and his twat of a father was no longer breathing down his neck and berating him for any little habit or emotion that wasn’t normal. That wasn’t alpha.
Simon had finally found a place for himself in the army, and then Roba happened. What a shit show he’d been after that debacle. Thank fuck Price had the patience to coach him back into a semblance of a functioning human being. The mask had been his idea. It helped Simon fake the confidence and indifference he’d needed to carry on in the military.
He’d become Ghost.
It hadn’t changed who Simon really was though. A scared little boy who struggled to fit in and make friends. A weirdo. A nerd. A failure of an alpha. Anxiety issues and PTSD wrapped up in a dysfunctional probably-on-the-spectrum package.
Sometimes it was still just easier to hide behind the mask.
“You and the Sergeant are leading the way on this,” Shepherd remarked through Simon’s ear piece.
Simon sighed and looked around at the approaching truck. It was too much to hope that it would be someone he’d worked with before. “The Sergeant?”
“Soap MacTavish.”
The name was familiar. Sergeant MacTavish was almost as widely known about as Ghost was. Not often an omega climbed the ranks as MacTavish had.
The soldiers unloaded, and a single figure- presumably MacTavish- walked towards him. Or perhaps swaggered was a better description. He was shorter than Simon, but then, most people were. Although MacTavish was wearing the usual baggy practical attire for a soldier, Simon could tell from the way he jumped smoothly from the transport that the man was well built. His standard issue helmet prevented Simon from getting a glimpse of his hair, although he presumed it was the standard buzz cut- dark haired though, if his eyebrows were anything to go by. They were closely set over the Sergeant’s eyes, drawing Simon’s gaze down a straight nose and across lips quirked into a lopsided grin.
“Let’s get ourselves a win, yeah, L.T?”
Simon continued watching MacTavish’s lips as he spoke; a habit to lip read over the noise of the chopper and shouts around them.
So the last thing Simon noticed about the Sergeant, as the beam of headlights illuminated the man’s face, was his eyes. Bright blue. Warm. Enticing.
It was then the fucker reached over and punched him gently on the shoulder.
“Save ya a seat, sir.”
Without even waiting for a reply, MacTavish turned back towards the chopper, strutting after the others.
Simon could do nothing but stare after his receding form. Sergeant Soap MacTavish was not just attractive. He was the stuff of wet dreams gorgeous. And worse than that, he was nice.
“Fucking hell.”
“Ghost? You copy?” Shepherd demanded in his ear, and Simon swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away from Soap’s arse.
“Yes, sir.”
“Any issues?”
Apart from the fact that Simon had a huge crush on his new Sergeant within twenty seconds of meeting him? And he would have to spend the next however many hours trying to ignore that fact and act like a normal person around him? Act like his Lieutenant?
Or overlooking the way that Simon’s nerves had progressed to full-blown panic that he was going to get Soap killed before he’d even had a chance to attempt to interact normally with him? Or worse, make an absolute tit of himself any time he opened his mouth?
Simon mentally shook himself, rolling his shoulders just to feel the solid presence of his vest, letting the heavy sensation soothe his heart rate, pulling the metaphorical mask more securely in place aside the real one.
Simon needed to be Ghost.
“Negative, sir. Out here.”
He strode towards the heli and up the ramp, noting the fact that Soap had indeed saved him a seat.
Ghost took it.
The only other available seat was right in the middle; is was tactically better to be nearest the exit. And a professional courtesy to sit with his new Sergeant. That was all.
He ignored the way Soap grinned as Ghost sat next to him, and indicated to the waiting ground crew they were ready.
“Wheels up,” he called, nodding at the pilot, before exchanging a nod with Soap. “Sergeant, you’ve been briefed?”
“Aye, sir,” Soap agreed. “Primary target: Hassan. Kill or capture; preferably capture. We’re sweeping building one and two while Alpha Team take building three.”
Ghost nodded, satisfied that Soap had the basics clear in his mind already. Relaxing back in his seat, he let his legs fall open a little more, nudging Soap’s knee in the process. Silently cursing his long legs, heat warming his cheeks, Ghost began to pull them back in.
Until Soap nudged his knee right back.
In annoyance? Or maybe an unspoken agreement that it was fine that their legs were touching? Ghost glanced up at Soap’s face but he had tilted his head back against the side of the chopper, eyes drifting closed in a picture of utter relaxation.
Cautiously, Ghost let his legs relax back again, until his knee was just resting against Soap’s. The Sergeant didn’t react at all, which Ghost took to mean that he didn’t mind.
He let his own head drop back too, ignoring the way his heart was pounding a little too fast, and his cheeks were still a little too warm.
Fucking hell. This was going to be a long mission.
* * *
“Ghost.”
“Soap,” he replied quickly, keeping his voice purposefully calm.
“Watch the window.”
After Johnny’s comms had gone quiet, with neither Gaz nor Price able to get eyes on, Ghost had been practically vibrating out of his skin with the need for action. He’d been stuck on the top of a high-rise in Chicago across from the actual fight, and it was slowly eating away at his self-control. So after finally receiving instruction from Johnny, Ghost was relieved when he caught the flash of explosives at one of the windows.
Ghost had not noticed when Soap had become Johnny. It had been some point between being betrayed by Graves and getting out of Las Almas. Around the time that Ghost resorted to telling his Sergeant some of his shitty dad jokes to keep him awake and moving. Soon after Johnny got shot and was bleeding out. Alone.
The fear Ghost had experienced when he watched Johnny get hit by Graves’ bullet was matched only by the foreboding he felt when he found the right window.
Hassan had a hold of Johnny by his vest, clearly having to support some of his weight if the way the sergeant staggered backwards was anything to go by. He was ranting and shaking Johnny for emphasis, but slowly and surely walking him back towards the gaping chasm of the broken window, fifty odd floors between them and the street below.
Simon swallowed down the dread and fear attempting to claw their way out of his ribcage, as Ghost steadied his hands, and slowed down his breathing. As soon as he had a clear shot of Hassan, Ghost took it.
The recoil dragged his view away from Johnny for a moment, and by the time Ghost could stabilise his sights again, Hassan was dropping to the floor, Johnny in tow. Heart in his throat, Ghost didn’t move- didn’t even blink until…
“Perfect shot, L.T.”
Ghost had never heard anything sweeter than the sound of his sergeant’s Scottish brogue crackling through the comms, praising his handiwork. He finally took his eye away from the sniper’s sight and blinked hard several times as he took a couple of calming breaths.
“You called it, Sergeant,” Ghost replied, determined to keep it together just a little longer; just enough to keep up appearances. “All stations. Hassan’s down. Enemy KIA.”
He barely heard Price’s reply, nor Laswell chiming in about some logistical instruction or another. Ghost’s job was done. Johnny was safe.
Simon silenced the radio and ripped off the headphones and mask in one smooth motion, gasping down a lung full of chilly Chicago air. It burned in his chest as he fought past the after effects of barely restrained panic, bullying his autonomic nervous system into compliance. Simon let out a strangled sob as he rubbed his fingers into his eyes as if to force the building tears into reversing their formation.
The reality of almost losing Johnny was too painful to examine, and Simon couldn’t even fathom how he’d grown so attached to the man so quickly. On paper the sergeant was an overachiever, which usually meant arrogant and cocky, but instead he was simply quietly confident. His temper was almost as unpredictable as his explosions; quick to take offence and react with righteous anger when he knew something was wrong. He was extroverted and brash; easily made friends no matter what situation he was dropped into.
Simon had never met an omega the likes of Johnny before. He wasn’t the expected simpering princess who was afraid of getting their hands dirty. Not that Simon had met enough omegas to build his own opinion of them. His mother and father were hardly representative role models to base his expectations off.
In any case, Soap seemed to be everything Ghost wasn’t, and no matter his secondary gender, Johnny should only have reminded Simon of all the kids he’d hated growing up.
But Simon didn’t hate Johnny at all. Not one little bit. Not when Johnny was competent, decisive, and unafraid to speak his mind when he had something genuinely important to say. Not when Simon had seen first hand how brave and skilled Johnny was.
If it had started out as a crush, it had turned into admiration and a genuine desire to actually call Johnny a friend.
That, and the desire to bend his Sergeant over the nearest available surface and fuck him until he couldn’t remember his own name.
But that was an impossibility. Men and women alike were probably tripping over themselves to be in with a chance to court Johnny. The lad had his pick of admirers who weren’t damaged or weird or built like a particularly unattractive fridge. Admirers who also weren’t his commanding officer.
The notion of starting a relationship was ludicrous on all levels.
Simon would settle for Johnny’s friendship. The only hurdle was how absolutely fucking terrible Simon was at making friends.
He replaced the mask, grimacing at the sensation of cooling sweat against his skin, before pulling on the headphones again. With a sigh, he packed up the rifle before finally heading down to the street below.
It didn’t take him long to spot Johnny. He’d recognise that ridiculous haircut anywhere.
“L.T,” Johnny greeted wearily as Simon strode up to him, gaze darting across his body for any sign of significant injury.
“You solid?” Simon asked gruffly, relying on the facade of simply being Johnny’s superior office as a smokescreen for how much he really cared.
“Aye. Still in one piece. Kept more of my blood in this time,” Johnny answered with a lopsided grin that made Simon’s chest ache.
Simon nodded, unable to tear his eyes away. “You did well, Johnny.”
He hated how fucking soft his voice sounded. Even Johnny’s eyes widened for a moment at his uncharacteristic show of emotion, ducking his head as he hummed a noise of affirmation. Inwardly cursing himself for making it weird, Simon cleared his throat.
“Did you know I used to play piano by ear?”
Johnny looked back up at him, a startled expression of confusion on his face. “No?”
“Yeah. I play with my fingers now.”
After a blink, Johnny barked out a surprised laugh, before shaking his head. “I think your jokes are getting worse, Simon.”
Heat spread up his neck and into his cheeks, and Simon just knew his fair skin would be lit up like a beacon if it hadn’t been for the mask. Price called him Simon relatively frequently, yet when Johnny said that name, it was like he was melting from the inside out. Worse when Johnny was smiling at him with those eyes looking so warm and blue. His expression verging on a tenderness that Simon wasn’t used to receiving; hardly knew what to do with. Barely recognised it, in fact.
It was just as likely that Johnny’s expression meant nothing at all. That Simon had told a shit joke and Johnny was pity-laughing. Indulging his superior officer to garner favour. The context of what they had just been through together to stop Hassan suggested otherwise, but then, Simon never had been any good at reading social cues.
He was fucking diabolical at reading social cues, in fact. Even worse when they were all on military grade hormone suppression most of the time and he didn’t have a clear enough scent to go off either. His sense of smell had been injured by Roba; damage to the olfactory nerve, the doctors had said, so it was even more difficult to pick up the clues that scent could have helped him with.
The last time Simon had acted on what he had thought was a reciprocal interest in something more than friendship, it had not ended well.
Pain and suffering were pretty much inevitable in Simon’s life. Happiness was not.
“I’ll stop tellin’ ‘em when you stop laughing,” he muttered finally, noting how Soap was shivering- either from the Chicago chill, or from the adrenaline. Probably both. Hopefully not because of blood loss from an unseen injury.
“I’m not laughing, I'm moving! Freezing a bollock off out here!” Johnny replied with a grin, wrapping his arms around himself but making no attempt to leave Ghost’s side.
Huffing a sigh, Ghost rested his rifle against his leg, shrugging off his jacket which he thrust into Soap’s chest. “C’mon. Let’s get you checked over by the medics.”