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The room was full of the small noises of domestic silence, filtered through the warmth of the bedside lamp Simon had turned on and adjusted so it wasn’t casting any direct illumination across his sleeping partner’s face. He sat with his back against the headboard, pillows shoved behind his spine as support, and his current book resting against the slope of his duvet-draped knees. Looking up from the printed words, index finger crooking against the page to mark his spot, he catalogued the noises around him out of sheer habit.
Beyond the curtains, it was quiet. If he listened carefully, he could catch the distant, muffled, call of a tawny owl pair declaring their territory. His lips quirked at the corners as he recall the ornithological titbit he’d picked up years ago, that the iconic “twit-twoo” noise was actually generated separately by the pair. As he’d gleefully informed Johnny, the female called “twit” and the male responded “who?!”. His partner had groaned in despair and thumped him on the arm, thinking it was a terrible joke, only to curse up a storm of disbelief when he discovered that – despite the deliberate wording – Simon had been correct.
Pulling his attention back to the bedroom, he listened to his own breathing forming a soft rhythm with the slow, relaxed, breaths coming from Johnny. The man had muttered incoherently and flipped over to face Simon when he sat up, flinging an arm over his lap before burrowing his head against Simon’s hip and slipping back into sleep. Tiny rustles of the duvet and sheets adjusting in response to little movements from both of them formed another layer of not-really-noise in the calm peace. Simon looked down at Johnny and the lingering smile of amusement softened. He could even feel the corners of his eyes relaxing when he studied the sleeping man beside him.
Simon went back to reading while letting one hand drop to rest lightly on Johnny’s head, fingers stroking the shaved sides of his head and palm resting against the longer strands of his mohawk. Johnny moved under the contact, nestling deeper into Simon’s hip without waking up. Simon turned the page, letting the sharp slide of paper interrupt the silence for a split second. His eyes flitted from line to line, following the retelling of Greek mythology with interest. He had reached the folly of Minos and Poseidon's wrath at being offered a substandard sacrifice, resulting in the Minotaur’s birth and the subsequent construction of the Labyrinth, when his attention fell on the name Icarus.
Isn’t that the one who flew too close to the sun? Sticking a finger in the pages, he flipped ahead slightly, scanning for the information. Within a few turns, he had found the story of escape via wax wings and disaster through overconfidence. Without meaning to, he found his gaze turning to Johnny. More than once, he had heard Price refer to Johnny as ‘Sunshine’. Gaz had occasionally joked that he needed sunglasses when Johnny had his ‘million-watt grin’ turned on.
Simon’s thoughts drifted on this current, analysing the comparison thoughtfully. If Johnny was the sun, and he was Icarus, his wings would have melted long ago. That was a pairing destined to fail, with one watching the other plunge into cruel depths, without ever reaching out to catch them. He had thought of their relationship in those terms, once. His hand rested on Johnny’s head again, resuming the soft pattern of movement his fingers fell into so naturally. He’s not the sun, Simon thought. He’s the moon … and I’m the night.
It felt right to view them in that way. To see Johnny as his moon, reflecting the light of the sun that no longer welcomed Simon with the shadows that clung to him so determinedly, bringing illumination to the darkness, standing out in front, visible and shining and beautiful. Johnny’s smile and the joy in his face when it was bathed by the light of his explosions were potent reminders of warmth that sank into Simon’s tired soul. His hands brought the warmth of summer to Simon’s skin without ever burning or hurting.
His mind dug deeper into the metaphor he was constructing for them, despite knowing that he would grimace in the morning at the unwonted poetic turn of his thoughts. The night lurked behind the moon, protecting it, looming silently and sometimes forgotten while people admired the moon itself. He knew that described his behaviour on base, a black-clad guardian with a tendency to appear over Johnny’s shoulder and cause other soldiers to nearly swallow their tongues in surprise. His ability to startle Johnny was long gone – his partner was so attuned to him that he just tilted his head up with a smile or reached behind himself to pat Simon absently while continuing to talk unabated.
When the pressure of shining for the world was too much, when the moon turned away and its light was briefly eclipsed, it was the night who saw the dark side of its brightness. Similarly, it was Ghost who witnessed the ice in Soap’s eyes when he made a long-deserved kill, and the sorrow that dulled them under the weight of empathy for victims. It was Simon who held Johnny in the aftermath of nightmares, wrapping him in silent safety until he felt ready to shine again, or let him lean in to support himself for as long as he needed to refocus.
Blinking away the mistiness threatening to take over his vision, Ghost took his bookmark from the back pages and slid it into his current spot. The book went back on the small pile he kept for when he couldn’t sleep easily and he eased himself back down into the bed. A deft flip of his pillow and an arm under Johnny, and a brief groping motion down the flex of the lamp, and the room was plunged back into near-darkness. He curved his arm coaxingly, guiding Johnny, who mumbled and moved easily to sprawl against him. Johnny’s stubble rasped gently against Simon’s skin as he nuzzled into his pec, callused fingers petting unconsciously across Simon’s chest and down to his stomach in tiny scratching motions.
“’s t’m’?” The slurred Scottish accent was barely comprehensible. Simon bent his head and kissed the mussed mohawk, noting that it was halfway to looking like a rooster on a bad hair day. He made a mental note to enjoy its full glory in the morning.
“Ya don’ wanna know,” he assured Johnny, who grumbled incoherently into his side. “Go back t’ sleep, love.”
“Ye g’na tae?”
“Mebbe.” That got a gruff scoffing noise and Johnny heaved himself up before plopping back down half on top of Simon. Simon grunted faintly as the man, no lightweight, sprawled across him and wrapped his arms under his torso. Simon draped one arm over Johnny, hand resting on his back.
“G’t tae sl’p, ye w’p’n.” Simon felt his mouth lift into a crooked grin. Only long familiarity gave him any idea of what Johnny was actually saying in his half-awake state. He reached up and slid his fingers through his partner’s hair, cradling the back of his neck tenderly.
“Y’ too,” he mumbled, eyelids already drooping under the comfort of Johnny’s weight pinning him into the mattress. As he drifted back towards sleep, his mind tossed up a final idea. Wonder if he’d teach me how to say ‘my moon’ in Scots Gaelic?