Archive of Our Own

The pub was loud enough that Ghost could pretend he wasn't paying attention to anything in particular.

That was the only thing he really liked about these nights—the noise gave him cover. He could perch at the edge of it, drink in hand, mask in place, and let the sound wash over him like a cleansing downpour. There wasn't any need to participate or an urge to perform—not when Gaz and Price were at the centre of it all, doing that for him, while the rest of their joint team crowded around.

"Right, so I'm gonna be the best man, aye?" Johnny laughed, voice carrying easily over the noise as Kyle elbowed him with a grin. "I'll take the good Captain dress shoppin', make him the bonniest lad in the whole country!"

More laughter followed, Price grumbling something good-naturedly under his breath. Ghost's thumb circled the rim of his glass.

He was happy for them. Truly. Genuinely. Price had earned this—god, he'd known the man for well over a decade now, watched him pour everything he had into the people around him, and now? He finally got his reward—Kyle's soft, warm gaze looking up at the grizzled Captain like he'd personally hung every star in the sky.

Which was exactly why Ghost didn't look at Johnny.

The noise of the pub pressed in a little harder around him. Someone jostled him, too close to his shoulder, too drunk to know any better, and he absorbed it without shifting. Didn't turn, didn't react—he didn't want to break the fragile stillness he'd started clinging to before he'd realized it. If he didn't move, he wouldn't shatter.

Simple as.

Across the table, Johnny said something that made the entire group collapse into laughter and grinned—that full-mouth one, that one that made his face soften and his eyes crinkle at the corners, that made Ghost's heart kick a little harder against his ribs.

He rubbed at his wrist without thinking, the sleeve of his hoodie bunching up beneath his touch. He glanced down, pulling the fabric a little higher, just enough to check—

—the ink of his tattoos looked… wrong.

Ghost's eyes narrowed.

It wasn't dramatic, not even really obvious to anyone who hadn't spent his entire adult life looking at the same swath of death and destruction… but the stark black lines had… shifted, almost. Warmer around the edges, almost amber. Almost… gold? But that wasn't—

Kyle's voice startled Ghost from his thoughts, warm and boisterous and filled with that tone that promised nothing but trouble. Ghost glanced up, brows furrowed for a second as he watched Kyle turn his own shit eating grin on Johnny—

"Alright, Tav," Kyle leaned in until he was practically in Johnny's lap, blinking up at him with wide, earnest eyes. "Price and I are finally sorted. When's it your turn, then?" He paused, lips curling up even wider, practically glowing with delight, "don't think we haven't noticed you makin' eyes at someone—"

Johnny flushed scarlet, clearing his throat. "Another round?" he asked loudly, attempting to deflect as the table dissolved into laughter and noise once more. Ghost saw Johnny's lips move again, but the words never made it to his ears.

Don't think we haven't noticed you makin' eyes at someone.

It landed like a blow, heavy and thudding against his chest. Johnny had been chatty, sure, but not his usual self, not the easy smiles and jokes and menace. He'd been acting like something was sitting heavy on him, like he was stressed about something—or someone, he supposed now—and Kyle had noticed, and Ghost—

Ghost hadn't known.

Hadn't asked. Why would he have? That wasn't… that wasn't them, no matter how much he craved for it to be. He knew Johnny inside and out, sure—or so he'd thought and hoped—but he didn't… get that kind of intimacy. Kyle was his best mate, his peer, of course they confided in each other. Kyle made it easy, Kyle would actually respond and be able to have that emotional connection that Ghost never let himself crave—

He looked down at his glass.

Empty.

Right.

Ghost turned the thought over one more time in his head, carefully, like he was handling a bomb that he couldn't tell if it was ticking down or not.

Kyle noticed.

Kyle, who knew Johnny better than he could, apparently, who'd been watching the Scotsman back with that particular fond, brotherly attention… had noticed.

Which meant there was someone worth noticing.

Ghost quietly set his glass down on the table. Said something to no one in particular about calling it a night, though if anyone answered he didn't hear it as he let his body autopilot itself outside. He barely felt the cool night air rushing by him as he turned and started walking—

—and pulled his sleeve back into place.

There wasn't anything wrong with his tattoos. It was just the pub lighting. That was all.

— 🌻 —

The walk back took exactly twelve minutes and fifteen seconds. He only knew that because he'd counted his steps without meaning to, the way he did when he needed something to focus on that wasn't the frantic thump-thump, thump-thump of his own heart every time a pair of crystal blue eyes appeared in his thoughts.

He found that he didn't quite mind the cold night air, either—it was useful. Something to catalogue, something that didn't demand his attention or energy. It just was, and that was exactly what he needed right now.

He almost stopped under the streetlight at the pedestrian entrance to the base.

Almost.

His right hand moved before he managed to catch it, fingers reaching for his left sleeve, but he forced himself to keep walking and shoved his hands into his pockets instead. Kept his eyes forward, and tried to convince himself that it was nothing. He'd know for sure once he got back into his room, but… it was nothing. The pub had been warm and the weather was cold and his skin was doing exactly what skin did by reacting to the different temperatures.

It wasn't worth stopping for. Certainly not worth standing under a streetlight like a bloke waiting for drugs—someone would stop and ask questions and see—

He walked faster.

And all the while, the itch didn't stop. It sat at the inside of his wrist with this patient, maddening presence, and he refused to touch it, refused to look at it, just counted his steps and made it all the way back to the 141's barracks thirty whole seconds faster than usual not that he was keeping track.

He didn't look at it until he'd locked himself in his bathroom. Perks of being an officer, he supposed—his own private en-suite, tiny as it was, meant he didn't have to stare at other soldiers' hairy bollocks any more than strictly necessary.

And, it meant the door locked, too.

Privacy at its finest.

Except this time… he didn't have the pub lighting to blame. No amber glow to chalk any of this up to, no noise and crowd and booze to distract himself with, just the stark white overhead lights and his own arm and the thing that was happening to it.

The ink looked wrong.

Not all of it. Not even most of it, either, which scared him more. Just—at the edges of the skull on his wrist, where the black lines bled out into pale skin, something else had crept in.

He poked it experimentally.

No bruise.

Just warmth where there hadn't ever been anything but blue veins under white skin and black ink. Almost amber. Almost gold. And there, at the base of one of the barbed wire lines curling around his arm, it… shifted. Morphed, somehow, because it wasn't wire anymore, it was a vine, and the barbs were something small and petaled.

Ghost stared at it for a long time. At the flowers blooming where death and destruction lingered.

He knew what this was, too. Of course he did, he wasn't stupid, just… filed it away under superstition, other people's problems, old wives' tales and left it there where it belonged. It didn't happen in the real world, to real people, and certainly not to men like him who didn't fall in love so much as tolerated the existence of others—

Besides. He knew better than to let himself want something he couldn't have. He'd seen what happened to others, how they'd suffer and mourn for things that were never real and that wasn't him. He'd spent the better part of two decades making sure that he either killed or hid all the soft parts of himself that stubbornly clung onto life, onto hope, because he couldn't afford that luxury. Had spent hours choosing every mark, sitting for every needle, building his own tapestry layer by layer until his skin showed exactly what he wanted everyone else to see and nothing else.

Except for now.

He stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment through the mask—through the balaclava that clung to his face like a second skin, leaving only his eyes visible—and then glanced away.

It would be fine, he decided. Go to bed, bury this like everything else, and wake up in the morning like nothing happened. Eventually it would sort itself out like everything else did. He just… had to not look at a certain sergeant's stupid fucking face for a while, and it'd all be fine.

It had to be.

— 🌻 —

Simon 'Ghost' Riley was fine.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself. Besides, the long sleeves were nothing new—Johnny liked to tease him for having the body temperature of a corpse, and he'd always preferred the extra layer anyway. If anyone noticed he'd added his usual skeleton gloves to his off-duty rotation, well… at least they were smart enough to keep their mouths shut.

Nothing had really changed. He still wore the mask, still kept to himself, still preferred to watch versus talk—

—and he checked his arm every morning the second he woke up, and every night right before he went to sleep.

It was meant to be a quick, clinical look, at least at first. Just like he would check a healing wound for infection—push the sleeve back, assess, pull it back down again. In and out, quick and clean because he was not dwelling on it in the least.

He just… knew some of the flowers' names, that was all. Certainly not because he'd looked them up late one night when he grew tired of tossing and turning, flat on his back in the dark with his phone held aloft and an eerie blue glow on his skin.

Marigolds. Jealousy. Grief.

Sunflowers. Adoration. Loyalty.

Carnations. Longing. Regret.

He let his phone drop to his side, staring at the ceiling long after the screen went dark. Pretended his eyes weren't wet as he rolled onto his side and tugged his flat, lifeless pillow close. Forced himself to dismiss the idea of ever holding anyone like this, or being held in return, because he was fine.

Except for the fact that the flowers kept blooming beneath his sleeve. Red and orange and golden hues bleeding against the edges of the ink, petals and vines replacing bombs and smoke. They almost pulsed at times, warm and yearning when Johnny laughed too loud and too bright, seeking and hopeful when they'd brush against each other—it wasn't unbearable, just… persistent in reminding him of everything he couldn't have.

But Ghost could—would—manage it.

He'd managed far worse, after all.

It would go away eventually—it had to. He'd convince his mind, body, soul—whatever—that he'd learn to live without it, that even though it felt colder now he'd survive this, too.

— 🌻 —

The second week was harder.

Not dramatically so, just—the flowers were… louder, somehow. He didn't have a better word for how they'd grown insistent, creeping further up his arm until they came to caress his elbow, shifting and stretching every time he let his guard slip and found himself looking at Johnny for a heartbeat too long.

He started taking the long way to the mess.

Started timing his tea runs for when he knew Johnny was on the range so there wasn't any chance of them bumping into one another.

Except Johnny found him anyway, because of course he did. Because apparently the universe had a sick, twisted sense of humour and wanted to keep dangling the one thing he couldn't have before his face in the hopes that he'd reach up and grab it so God or whoever could knock him flat on his arse and laugh.

"Hey," Johnny leaned against the doorframe of the armoury, calm and warm and sounding almost genuinely happy to have finally crossed Ghost's path. He sauntered in slow, pausing beside Ghost's shoulder to start disassembling his rifle, reaching for Ghost's cleaning supplies like he'd done a thousand times before. "You alright, LT? Haven't seen ye around much, been worried."

Ghost kept his eyes on his own gun, polishing the stock with more force than necessary to keep his hands working. "Busy."

"Right." A pause, and Ghost could feel Johnny looking at him like he always did—that particular quality of patient curiosity, like the man somehow knew he burned bright around the edges but was trying to dial it back for Ghost. "Seem stressed, 's all. Price been buryin you in paperwork—"

"I'm fine."

The pause lasted longer this time. And Johnny, in typical Johnny fashion, let his fingers brush Ghost's own, and Ghost jerked away as if he'd been burned—

"Simon—"

"I said I'm fine, MacTavish." It came out harder than he'd meant. Not cruel, not really, but… final.

Johnny didn't move for a moment, and that made the flowers beneath Ghost's sleeve do something complicated—a pulse of heat, sudden and sharp, like it was reprimanding him before settling into a dull ache that matched the soft, almost sad look in Johnny's sky blue eyes when Ghost finally glanced up.

He nodded once, slow. "Alright," Johnny murmured. "Just… if you need anything, you know where I am."

And when Johnny turned to put his rifle up, to walk away and go do whatever it was he'd started doing now that Ghost was avoiding him…

The flowers burned all the way up to his elbow like a brand. A reminder. A punishment.

You caused this.

— 🌻 —

By week three, Ghost couldn't meet Johnny's eyes.

It wasn't a conscious decision so much as a survival mechanism dressed in a pathetic attempt at avoidance—he'd look up, find Johnny already watching him with that maddeningly patient, hopeful expression, and something in Ghost's chest would cinch so tight he'd forget to breathe.

He stopped looking after fifteen. By day eighteen, Johnny had stopped reaching out. Not completely, at least—he still talked, still filled every second of silence with that relentless warmth and confidence, still cracked little jokes and quips that left entire rooms gasping for breath and clutching their sides—he just stopped directing them at Ghost. Stopped nudging him in briefings and chattering his ears off in corridors, stopped appearing in the mess right at his side and in his office's doorway.

It was… better. Easier. Exactly what he'd wanted and asked for.

On day nineteen, the flowers had reached his shoulder.

— 🌻 —

Week four, the excuses started tasting wrong.

He'd spent so long rehearsing them that they should've felt smooth by now—worn down to nothing but rounded edges instead of jagged shards by sheer repetition alone. it's not allowed, it's not safe, he deserves better, there's someone else—but somewhere between day nineteen and day twenty-three they'd started to catch, snagging on something he couldn't identify, clawing him to shreds inside. They felt like reasons he'd borrowed from someone else and never examined too closely but—

Price gets to have this. I don't.

The thought arrived quiet yet suffocating, sucking the air from the room until all he could focus on was the burning in his lungs and the way his skin crawled with it. Price gets to have this because he's different. Price gets to have Kyle's hand on his arm at the mess table and Kyle's laugh aimed just at him because he's a good person. Price gets to have someone look at him like he's worth looking at because Kyle will be safe with him unlike Johnny with you, because unlike you Price doesn't destroy everything he touches—

It clung like ivy. Echoed like gunshots. And every time it came back, it stole a little more of his sanity, a little more of the self-denial he'd subjected himself to for years and reminded him that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong.

Maybe it wasn't that he couldn't have this. Maybe it was that he was too much of a coward to reach for it until it was too little, too late.

Ghost spent night twenty-one sitting alone on his bunk, tracing the vines with his fingers as the petals pulsed and bloomed under his touch.

They'd spread past his elbow now, creeping up towards his shoulder in slow, relentless waves. What had once been doom and destruction now erupted with colour—marigolds and carnations and sunflowers rendered in vibrant oranges and brilliant golds and deep burning reds, winding through the skulls and barbed wire and all the careful death he'd constructed. Ghost pressed his thumb hard against the centre of one of the flowers, but… nothing. No pain. No give. Just warmth and the faintest pulse of something that almost felt like longing—

—for a moment, he imagined what it would feel like to dig his nails in and drag. To rip through his skin, to tear the flowers away until nothing but viscera remained, until his skin said what he told it to say and nothing else.

He didn't.

He just… pulled his sleeve down. Laid back on his cold, empty bed. And stared at the ceiling until his eyes stopped burning.

— 🌻 —

By day twenty-five, the flowers had reached Ghost's neck.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, half-dressed and still half-asleep. His fingers rose, lightly caressing the space behind his ear, tracing the tendril of gold curled around his skin like it wanted to whisper something to him.

He pulled his hand away. Pulled his mask on. Skipped breakfast.

— 🌻 —

Price cornered him on day twenty-eight.

Well, okay. Ghost supposed he was being a little dramatic about it as he fussed with his paperwork, pretending like he was working on reports instead of staring blankly at his computer in the hopes that he'd spontaneously combust. No, if anything, he just… appeared, much like Ghost himself did. Karma, he supposed, catching the carefully neutral expression on his captain's face.

"Briefing room," Price said, low and calm. "Five minutes."

Ghost looked up, contemplating for a moment. He couldn't exactly deny the man, but… the thought of being in a room with his team made his skin crawl with more than just blooms. It'd been weeks since he'd spoken to any of them more than he had to, but…

"What's the op?" he asked finally, pretending to tidy his desk in an attempt to escape the weight of Price's gaze as the captain studied him, cataloguing, assessing—

"Five minutes, Simon."

He left without waiting for an answer.

— 🌻 —

Four minutes and fifty-three seconds later, Ghost lingered just outside the briefing room door. Not that the extra seven seconds mattered in any real way—it wasn't like he'd been avoiding going in until the last possible moment so he wouldn't have to stay any longer than strictly required—he was on time, he could take his usual spot opposite Garrick and next to Johnny—

Fuckin' hell.

He could do this. He'd just… focus on anything else. Like how Price's left foot always dragged a little, scuffing against the tile thanks to the fact that his entire leg probably went numb from sitting wrong no matter how often anyone scolded him. The shuffle of paper as Gaz sat down, spreading his own notes across the table, chair creaking as he shifted his weight…

And Johnny.

Or, more specifically, Johnny's laugh—short, surprised, trailing off into something quieter as Ghost's pulse roared in his ears, as the sound hooked under his ribs and tugged at his heart and stole his breath along with it. He braced against the doorframe, one hand clutching his chest like it'd somehow help, like maybe if he ripped the stupid thing straight out he'd finally be free of this—

No.

No.

This… this was normal. Johnny laughed all the goddamn time, always lit up every room he entered, never failed to make everyone smile. It didn't mean anything. And even if it did, Ghost was far from allowed to want it aimed at him the way Kyle got Price's jokes and smiles and affections—

But god, did he miss it.

The flowers pulsed again. He felt it like a second heartbeat, warm and insistent beneath his sleeve as another bloom unfurled somewhere near his elbow, and fuck—when had he started to feel them spread like this? It didn't hurt, just… shifted somewhere just below his skin.

He didn't look. There wasn't any point in it, not when he already knew what it'd look like—garnet and saffron, bright and relentless as the sun, just like Johnny.

Ghost shoved the thought down, forcing himself to straighten. He tugged his sleeves lower—even though every inch of skin was well-covered by his usual getup, even though no one could see beneath the layers of black fabric he swathed himself in—

"You comin' in or what, LT?"

—he jumped at the sound of Johnny's voice, far closer than he'd expected. The man stood just a few steps away, eyes bright and warm but grin softening into something more… uncertain, almost like he wanted to say something—

Ghost didn't give him the chance. He slipped by quietly, claimed his usual spot across from Gaz, kept his sleeves and his gaze down. The seat beside him stayed empty for a breath before Johnny dropped into it, close enough now that his warmth caressed Ghost through his layers, close enough to touch if he wanted, close enough that Ghost could smell him—gunpowder and orange blossom soap and the musk beneath that was just Johnny—

God. Too close. Always too fucking close, Johnny had no sense of boundaries OR concept of personal space and Ghost bloody loved that about him, he did, except he fucking couldn't right now because every time he breathed the flowers would pulse and he swore they were creeping across his collarbone now, spreading towards his heart and if Johnny noticed he'd know they were for him and Ghost couldn't—

Ghost shifted. Not obviously, he hoped. Just… a fraction of an inch away. Shoulders twisting, his broad back a pathetic, useless shield, as if distance could ever stop the way Johnny managed to fill every corner of every goddamn room like he owned it all—

Across the table, Gaz's gaze flicked between them, measured but curious before he looked back at his own notebook. He didn't say anything, which was… that was good, right? That meant he wasn't being too obvious, or so he hoped, because if Gaz had noticed that meant Price would and Johnny would pick up on it soon after and then they'd ask and see and—

Price cleared his throat. "Right."

A stack of folders thumped onto the table, and Ghost once again nearly jumped out of his skin. He forced himself to relax, eyes darting around the room to make sure no one noticed as Price flicked the overhead projector on.

Of course, before Price spoke again, he looked directly at Ghost. Calm. Assessing. Knowing in a way that left Ghost's breath hitching in his throat, but before he could do anything—

"Intel came through this morning," Price slid a few pages across the table, clicking through the projection. "Narrow window on this one, so listen up."

Price kept talking—coordinates, extraction points, timeline…

Ghost tracked maybe half of it. Nodded when it seemed appropriate to. Pretended he was reading the thick folder Laswell and Price had spun up regarding their mark. None of it stuck, not when all he could focus on was the way Johnny shifted beside him, arms and hands brushing when he leaned forward to study the map—

"Standard teams," Price was saying now, like it was just an average op on an average day for an average team—and maybe it was that simple for everyone else in the room. Not for Ghost, not when—

"Ghost, Soap—you'll take the north entry. Gaz and I will cover the south. Reconvene in the middle, get our mark, and get the hell out."

Of course.

Of fucking course.

The flowers pulsed again—warm and insistent, spreading another inch towards his throat. Ghost didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't react, even though it felt like the vines were wrapping around his lungs, creeping toward his heart—

Beside him, Johnny grinned, easy and bright. "Aye, Cap. Same as always."

Ghost said nothing.

— 🌻 —

The night was cold.

He knew that logically, knew that his breath should've fogged up the scope of his rifle just a hair, but he couldn't feel it.

Actually, he couldn't feel much of anything, save for the creeping, relentless wrongness spreading across his skin like rot.

They'd dropped in clean—no contact, no complications, just the low thwupthwupthwup of the helo's rotor fading into the distance as he and Soap trekked through the treeline. A standard two-man approach. They'd done it together hundreds of times.

Should've been routine. Muscle memory, really—

—except every few steps, instead of sweeping the way forward like he was supposed to, his gaze dropped down to his arms instead. It was barely more than a fleeting glance, just enough to confirm the black fabric still covered his forearms, still hid the cacophony of colour blooming beneath—against—his pale skin the marigolds and sunflowers and carnations blossomed in shades of orange so bright they looked like they'd been pulled straight from an explosion, straight from the coloured sketches he'd caught brief glimpses of in Johnny's notebooks—

"LT."

Ghost's head snapped up. A few metres ahead, Johnny crouched low beside the chain link fence circling the perimeter of the compound, working the bolt cutters free from his pack. His gaze settled on Ghost for a few moments before flickering back to the area ahead, scanning for movement even as he spoke again.

"You good?"

The edge of concern in Johnny's voice made Ghost's chest tighten.

No. "Fine," he bit out, clipped and final.

Johnny's jaw worked for a second, expression tight like he wanted to push but thought better of it. He nodded once and turned back to the fence, cutting through the links until he'd formed a hole big enough for them to squeeze through.

Ghost scanned the compound while the metal snicked apart—perimeter clear. No lights in the upper windows. Two guards on each side, stationary. Predictable.

He could do this. He had to do this.

They slipped through the gap one at a time, Soap first, Ghost trailing close enough to catch the faintest scent of him even through the night air—gunpowder, sweat, the orange blossom soap Johnny swore by… it hit Ghost like a fist to the gut as the flowers pulsed again, warm and insistent beneath his kit.

It's not real. You can't feel them. They're not moving.

Except they were. He knew they were, and that scared him more than almost anything, because he could feel them wrapping around the column of his neck, creeping towards his jaw, reaching higher and higher—

"Stackin' up," Johnny murmured, voice low as he pressed his back against the outer wall of the building, shocking Ghost back to the present. His eyes flicked up, all traces of humour and mirth gone, frozen into that laser focus he always managed to tap into when it mattered most. "On you, LT."

Ghost shifted into position. Pressed his shoulder to the wall. Lifted his rifle. Breathed. Each movement felt mechanical, almost robotic, even though his pulse hammered so hard it felt like an earthquake in his veins.

Johnny's hand came up—three fingers, counting down.

Three.

Two.

For the first time in his adult life, Ghost—Simon—prayed to a God he didn't quite believe in. Please let me hold it together. Just this once. Just long enough to get out of this alive—

One.

Execute.

The door gave out under Johnny's boot with a crack that echoed like a bomb detonating in the silence. They moved fast—Soap high, Ghost low, sweeping the room in synchronized arcs that had long since become second nature. It felt like something almost clicked into place, quieting the storm of his thoughts as his body moved on instinct.

The first room turned up empty. Nothing but dusty concrete, overturned furniture, and flickering lights that buzzed like trapped insects. No hostiles. No movement. Just the evidence that someone had left in a hurry.

"Clear," Johnny muttered, already crossing towards the far door, rifle ready.

Ghost followed. Tried to, at least, but the moment he'd stopped moving his feet must've turned to lead. His breaths came too loud and too shallow in his ears, and the flowers—

—god, the flowers were relentless. He could feel them, how they crept across his collarbone towards his right arm, vines stretching and wrapping tighter with every heartbeat as another bloom unfurled at the hollow of his throat, it didn't matter that he knew it wasn't real, that he knew this… this disease didn't work like that, it didn't spread that quick the madness was part of it all but knowing didn't stop the sensation of foliage crawling up his neck and slipping past his lips like fingers made of petals and thorns—

"Ghost."

He blinked. The room snapped back into focus, Johnny standing a foot or so away, head cocked, eyes narrowed in concern and confusion. How long had he been standing there? How long had Ghost been—

"You with me, LT?"

"Yeah." The word came out rough, rougher than he'd intended, but he managed to force himself to move anyway, to push past Johnny and toward the stairwell. They had a job to do, they were on a bloody op, he couldn't—

He needed to focus.

The stairs before them stretched into darkness, narrow and made of metal grating that rang under their boots as they climbed. Ghost let Johnny lead, keeping his eyes on the sergeant's back, on the way his shoulders and hips shifted on each step and how his rifle swayed with every movement, trying to ground himself in the familiarity of it all…

Except the flowers pulsed again. Warm. Spreading. Ghost's hand twitched towards his neck before he caught himself, forcing it back to the grip of his own weapon as he gritted his teeth and climbed.

It wasn't enough.

With every step, the sensation climbed with him. Past his collar. Across his cheeks. Down his chest, tracing his pectorals like they were looking for a way to wrap around his heart—

"Second floor," Johnny whispered, pausing at the landing. His hand came up—hold position—and Ghost nearly stumbled forward before he managed to freeze, to follow what Johnny had noticed—

Voices. Two, maybe three—one was too low to properly make out, blending with another—somewhere ahead. Four closed doors. Four chances.

He didn't like their odds. But they couldn't call for backup, either—not without giving themselves away. It was a miracle that whoever was ahead hadn't heard them climbing the stairs, too engrossed in their own argument to pay any attention. Johnny glanced back, waiting, and Ghost nodded—

Well. Tried to nod. The second his head jerked, his vision swam, going soft and hazy, forcing him to blink hard to clear it.

It's not real. You're fine. Focus, goddamn it.

Johnny moved first, slipping into the corridor beyond. He paused at the first door, ear pressed against the wood before creeping forward to the next one up… and for just a moment, a flicker of a second, really, Ghost lost track of him.

The flowers surged again, and this time he couldn't help it—his hand jerked to his neck, fingers scrabbling at the fabric of his mask but when he looked up Johnny was gone—or, no, not gone, just around the corner, just out of sight but—

A door cracked open. Unfamiliar shouts filled the hallway. A crack—

—"Fuck!"

Ghost moved before he thought.

His boots pounded against the dusty tile, rifle snapping up as he careened over the last few steps, rounding the corner where he’d lost sight of—fuck, there he was, back against the wall with his free hand pressed to his ribs, the other trying to get a shot off with his sidearm. Two hostiles in the corridor alongside him—one already down, blood pooling in a vicious halo on the concrete, the other raising his knife—

Ghost fired.

Double tap. Centre mass.

The man dropped.

Silence.

For a brief, flickering moment, nothing but silence reigned before it all came rushing back—the ringing in his ears, the dull throb from where his rifle kicked against his shoulder, the pained wheezing coming from just ahead—

”Soap,” Ghost crossed the space in a single stride, already reaching, checking for blood and holes and anything that would tell him how bad it was fucking hell, this is all my fault please don’t let him be hurt, please let him be fine, please please please I can’t lose him— “Where—“

“‘M fine, LT,” Johnny bit out, voice tight as he tried to straighten before hunching right back in on himself. “Plate caught it. Just—ribs. Blood’s from where the first guy got lucky on my shoulder—“

“You’re not fine,” Ghost’s hands hovered over Johnny’s side, torn between continuing his frantic examination and bolting. He wanted to touch but couldn’t, couldn’t press because if he did and something shifted and he made it worse he could puncture a lung with one of the man’s ribs and there’d be nothing anyone could do out here in the middle of nowhere—

“LT, I said—“

“Bravo 7, Bravo 0-7, sit-rep,” Price’s voice crackled through the comms, sharp and immediate. “We heard gunfire.”

Ghost’s jaw clenched as he keyed his mic. “Contact neutralized. Soap’s hit.”

”Where?”

“Ribs—“

“I’m fine—“

“—needs medical,” Ghost cut Johnny off with a withering look, desperate to hide the terror in his gaze as he watched the man still trying to stand, trying to brush it off like it was nothing, like he wasn’t wheezing with every breath and clearly in agony—

This is my fault. I wasn’t watching, I wasn’t paying attention—

—Johnny almost died because of me. “We’re extracting,” he added, flat and empty.

”Copy. We’re Oscar Mike. Two minutes. Got what we came for at least. Bravo 6, out.”

The line went dead.

Johnny shifted again—tried to take a step—and Ghost's hand shot out on instinct, gripping his uninjured shoulder in an attempt to steady him. His eyes snapped up, startled, and for a moment they just… stared.

Christ. He'd almost forgotten how blue Johnny's eyes were—

"Simon," Johnny said, quiet, almost hesitant, like he was testing whether he still had the right to call Ghost by his name. "I'm fine."

Ghost didn't respond.

But the flowers did. They pulsed again beneath his skin, hot and mocking and alive and he let go, stepped back before Johnny could notice how his hands shook—

Cool air kissed the sliver of exposed skin at his wrist. Ghost tugged his sleeve down hard, but Johnny's eyes tracked the movement, widening in surprise—

Price and Gaz burst through the door, boots echoing across the floor, weapons still raised as they swept the corridor in a quick, coordinated arc. Gaz was at Johnny's side a second later, gripping him by the biceps, patting him down quickly to check for injuries. "Let me see," he bit out, already reaching for the trauma kit on his vest.

Ghost stepped back. Let the shadows swallow him. Johnny didn't need him—he had his best mate and their Captain now. He'd be fine.

Except even as Ghost pressed himself back against the wall, even as he watched from as much distance as he dared put between them, Johnny kept looking at him.

And like a coward, Ghost turned away.

— 🌻 —

Three days.

It’d been three days since the op, and Ghost had managed to avoid a certain blue-eyed Sergeant for every single one of them. The circuit was simple—wake up alone in his bunk, go out for his morning PT alone, eat breakfast alone in the mess, retreat to his office where he’d be alone—

Not that it was difficult. Medical had kept Soap overnight for observation—bruised ribs, some minor lacerations, and a brief fear that he’d sustained a concussion—and by the time they’d released him, Ghost had managed to bury himself in reports and debriefs and requisition forms that really didn’t need to be done yet…

It kept his hands busy. Kept his door locked.

But that hadn’t stopped Johnny from trying. And he had, the persistent little fuck, god he loved that about the man—

Ghost had seen the messages on his phone. Short, casual things meant to put him at ease, the kind that Johnny always sent when he knew Ghost was spiralling.

fancy a pint? three cheers for savin my arse again lt

hey, mess hall’s got those biscuits ye like, the dry ones that taste like shite

lt, we need to talk, you free?

He deleted them all.

It was easier this way, in any case. Cleaner. Johnny would heal up, get assigned to another op, get so busy again that he’d eventually stop having the time to ask Ghost questions he couldn’t answer… and all the while the flowers would keep spreading, vines creeping toward his chin and down his spine, but that was Ghost’s problem. Not Johnny’s.

Except he’d forgotten one thing in his otherwise foolproof plan: Johnny had never been good at taking a hint.

The knock came just after 1900 hours—three sharp raps that Ghost recognized instantly, that froze him ramrod straight like someone skewered him through. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Hoped that maybe, just maybe, if he kept his bloody mouth shut Johnny would assume he wasn’t here and would go fuck off somewhere else—

“I know you’re in there, Simon.”

Fuckin’ hell.

Ghost squeezed his eyes shut. His hand clenched around the pen he’d been clinging to, so hard that he could feel his pulse in his fingers.

“Open the door.”

He didn’t.

”Simon.”

Ghost’s heart leapt into his throat as the knob jiggled, as the door crept open—fuck, fuck, fuck I didn’t lock it fuck—and Johnny stepped inside like he had every right to invade this one space where Ghost could lose his composure in peace and bloody quiet—

“Out.” Ghost stood, chair scraping back, eyes trained on his paperwork. “I’m busy.”

“Bullshite, Simon.”

Ghost took a step toward the door, breathing hard. “Move, Sergeant. Unless you want to be written up for insubordination.”

“No.” Johnny shifted, blocking his exit. “We need to talk.”

For a moment, they both just… stood there. A beat passed before Ghost managed to glance up, taking in the set of Johnny’s jaw, his eyes bright and sharp and determined in a way that made Ghost’s chest ache, because even after all this he still acted like he bloody cared and Ghost—*Simon* would never understand why—

He looked good, all things considered. Civvies instead of fatigues. Ribs probably taped beneath his shirt, probably aching like a bitch, but standing steady with the colour back in his face, alive and whole—

—no thanks to you.

“I’m not doing this,” he managed quietly.

“Doin’ what?”

“This. Whatever this is. Move.”

”No.”

Simon gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. Tried to push past, aiming for the Sergeant’s injured shoulder in a cheap shot so he’d be forced to move, except Johnny’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, fingers tangled in his sleeve—

—and yanked.

Simon’s eyes went wide as he fought to right the fabric, to pull it back into place, but Johnny’s breath hitched and he froze, following the man’s gaze down—

—the burst of colour that met his eyes was so bright it might as well have been a flare in the dark.

"Simon…"

"It's nothing," Simon bit out, yanking his arm away and stumbling back a step, tugging the fabric down but it was too late, Johnny had already seen— "It's nothing, Sergeant, just—"

"Nothing?" Johnny's voice cracked on the word, and Simon flinched like he'd been fucking shot as the pain in the younger man's tone tore through him. "That's—Christ, Simon, that's hanahaki disease—"

Johnny suddenly went very, very still. Stepped forward, and Simon's back hit the desk. His expression shifted—confusion, fear, horror, grief—cycling so fast Simon couldn't track them all.

"Show me," he finally murmured.

"No."

"Simon—"

"No, Johnny," this time, Simon tried to sidestep, to get around Johnny and to the door and away from this conversation before it killed him faster than the delirium from the stupid fucking flowers could—

Johnny's hand shot out, but instead of grabbing, he just… waited. Palm up. Reaching. "Please, Simon," he whispered, and fuck, fuck, when had Johnny ever begged him for anything—and more importantly, when had Simon ever been able to refuse him? "I need to see. Please."

"You don't—" Simon tried weakly.

"Please, Simon…"

Simon looked at Johnny's outstretched, callused palm. Then up to his face—to the open worry and desperation he wore, to the way his eyes seemed to shimmer with something close to heartbreak, and whatever control he'd managed to cling to finally crumbled fully.

He's going to leave. He's going to see what you've become and think you're a monster because you can't control yourself, he'll leave you and you'll deserve it.

"You'll hate me," he all but whimpered, curling in on himself ever so slightly.

"Never," Johnny whispered fiercely, shaking his head. "Simon, I could never hate you—"

Simon didn't believe him. But what other choice did he have? There wasn't any way out of this, only through, and as his trembling hands reached for the hem of his shirt he forced himself to not hesitate, to pull it over his head in one swift motion. The fabric caught on his mask, dragging it up and over his hairline, and he let it, let both drop to the floor in a heap—

—and he stood, bare from the waist up, arms limp at his sides, every inch of ruined ink on full display. Death and destruction overwritten by life and longing, black and gray replaced by reds and oranges and yellows as petals and vines overtook everything he'd so carefully cultivated.

He stood there, silent, and waited for Johnny to run.

Except he didn't.

And that… that wasn't one of the possibilities Simon had allowed himself to entertain, alone in his room late at night—there was no screaming, nothing thrown, no disgusted expression… just Johnny standing there, eyes roving across Simon's skin almost curiously. Simon watched him back—stared, really, he couldn't not—as Johnny catalogued the sunflowers overtaking the bombs, the carnations wrapping around the skulls, the colours bleeding out like fire, like light, like the reflection in the glass that rainy day as he watched Johnny stare at his handiwork—

Johnny stiffened. "These colours," he managed, barely louder than a breath as his hand lifted, hovering just shy of Simon's collarbone where a cluster of marigolds covered the leathery contours of old burns hugging his shoulder.

God. He'd never felt more naked in his life. More exposed. More vulnerable, and fuck, when was the last time he'd felt stripped this bare? When Price plucked him from that fucking desert? Or before, hanging from that fucking hook? Or maybe as far back as that shithole house his father nearly burned down a dozen times before he was old enough to walk—

"Simon," Johnny's voice cracked on the name. "These are… these flowers. They're the ones I told you about that night in Berlin. When I wouldn't shut up about me mam's garden."

His hand trembled in the air between them. "Sunflowers and carnations and marigolds," Johnny continued, voice softening with each word, almost awestruck. "How they'd look like they were on fire when the sun came out. How I spent weeks last spring tryin' to figure out the right mix of salts to make my charges burn those exact colours when they went off—"

He sucked in a breath, eyes pooling with tears. "I told ye how much I loved watchin' things explode in oranges and golds. How it reminded me of home. How it was the most beautiful part of blowin' shite to hell and back."

"Johnny—"

"These are my colours," Johnny managed, voice faltering.

Simon's chest tightened. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't blink.

Johnny's hand dropped back to his side, fingers curling into a fist as he pieced it together in real time—the colours, the flowers, the weeks of avoidance, all of it slamming into place like rounds finding their target—

"It's me," Johnny said. "This whole time, you've been—Simon, this is because of me, isn't it?"

Simon didn't answer. He couldn't—all he could do was watch the colour drain from Johnny's face, the furrow in his brow deepening.

"How long?" The question came out raw and broken and all wrong, just like he'd feared because instead of any kind of happiness, Johnny just sounded sad—

"A month," Simon grunted, flat and empty. He could feel himself withdrawing inward, retreating, trying to save himself from what he knew was coming—

"A month..." Johnny repeated, barely a breath. His eyes traced the vines on Simon's neck again as he spoke, following the deep green where it crept toward his jaw. "It's… it's everywhere, isn't it?" His hand lifted again, even more hesitant now, like touching might make it worse—hovering just above where the vines caressed Simon's throat. "Chris, Simon, your neck—how are you even—"

"It doesn't hurt," Simon muttered flatly. "Not… physically." There wasn't any use mentioning the rest—the google search rabbit holes, the horror stories of people driven past the brink of insanity as the disease poisoned their brain, as hysteria took hold of even the strongest minds. How even surgical debridement and complete destruction of parts of his limbic system via what could only be described as electroshock therapy wasn't always enough. How he'd lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling as the blooms pulsed and crawled along his skin, wondering how much more he could take before he lost himself—

—and yet he couldn't imagine a world where he didn't love Johnny, no matter how much it hurt.

Maybe that's why people kill themselves in the end. Because they'd rather die in love than live with nothingness.

Johnny flinched like he'd been slapped. Recoiled half a step, and Simon braced for it—for the disgust, the pity, the careful distance that would grow into an insurmountable chasm between them. He knew Johnny would start trying to fix this, would try to help Simon move on or find some way to make it better but it would never work—not when it was him, it was always him, would always be Johnny—

—but not even Johnny could create the kind of love Simon needed from thin bloody air.

And god, Johnny deserved everything the world had to offer. Not… not the broken shell of a man Simon was. He was good at exactly one thing—this job. This life he'd built out of the ruin of others, out of his finger on the trigger and the hot wet splatter of blood on concrete.

Riley's weren't built for love. Not in his experience, at least…

And the fact that Johnny didn't move for several long, long moments didn't help any. Simon could feel himself shrinking, withering away as the seconds dragged and Johnny stared at his chest like he wanted to memorize every petal, every vine, every inch of the mural of love and longing that finally had given Simon away.

"They're beautiful," Johnny finally murmured.

Simon's brow furrowed. "What?"

"I'm serious, Simon," This time, Johnny rested a hand right over Simon's heart, fingers spread wide enough to graze one of the sunflowers, and he could've sworn it reacted to the contact like it wanted to reach back— "This… I mean, I've seen what this disease can do to people, but I never thought it'd be so… stunning. It really doesn't hurt?"

"I… no?" Simon stammered out, blinking hard. Just what the fuck was Johnny getting at? "I mean, it… itches. Sort of. I can feel them sometimes, when they… bloom. Johnny, what—"

Johnny's hand pressed a little harder. "You've been hidin' these for over a month. Coverin' up, avoidin' me, pullin' away every time I got close—" he paused for a moment, faltering, and when he spoke again the way his voice cracked threatened to gut Simon stem to stern. "You thought I'd hate you for this, didn't you. That's why you hid—you thought I'd hate you for loving me,? That I'd be disgusted, or think you were broken or… Oh, Simon…"

Simon said nothing. He couldn't, because that was exactly what he'd feared, and hearing Johnny speak it out loud just made it sound even more pathetic than it did in his head. And for a moment, as Johnny's weight shifted, as his palm left Simon's chest to drag through his hair—

This is it. This is where he leaves. This is where he turns and runs and there is nothing you can do about it, Simon Riley, nothing because you are—

Johnny's hands landed on his shoulders. Not to push him away, but not letting him escape, either. Just… holding him. Steadying him.

"You're not broken," Johnny said, quiet and firm like it was the simplest truth in the world. "You hear me? You're not."

Simon's jaw clenched so hard it ached, stabs of pain radiating up through his skull and buzzing about like needles. He wanted to argue, to list every goddamn reason Johnny was wrong but he couldn't get the words to form past the lump in his throat—

"You should've told me," Johnny continued, softer now. His thumbs pressed gentle circles just above Simon's collarbone, just shy of where the flowers reached. "Soon as it started, you should've told me. Soon as you knew—

"What was I supposed to say?"

The question tore out of Simon before he could stop it—sharper than he meant, defensive and jagged, all the loneliness and fear he'd been choking on for over a month finally breaking free. "That I couldn't stop thinking about you? That every time you smiled at someone else, I felt like I was fucking dying? That I want—" his voice broke, but he forced himself to finish, to bring light to the ugliness that plagued his every waking moment, the catalyst of this whole stupid story of his that he knew could only ever end in heartbreak "—that I want what John and Kyle have, and I haven't done a goddamn thing to deserve it?"

Johnny went very, very still. Simon's panic spiked a moment later as Johnny just stared at him with those impossibly blue eyes, jaw working like he was chewing on something he couldn't manage to swallow. Simon opened his mouth to speak—to apologize, to deflect, to say something—

—but nothing came out. Or maybe something tried, and failed, because a second later Johnny's mouth opened—

"And what about what I deserve?"

Simon blinked. "What?"

"What about what I might want, Simon Riley?" Johnny's hands tightened on Simon's shoulders, voice quaking as he continued. "Did you ever stop to think about that? Or were you too bloody busy decidin' for the both of us that this—" he let go for a moment to gesture between them, sharp and frustrated, "—could never happen?"

"Johnny—"

"No." The word came out firm. Absolute. And fuck, he'd never heard Johnny sound like that before—at least, not at him— "You don't get to do that. You don't get to just… decide you're not good enough for me without lettin' me bloody decide! Steamin' Jesus, Simon!"

Simon's chest went tight, like the vines were rooting deeper, curling around his lungs and his ribs and his heart and squeezing— "You don't understand—"

"Then make me!"

The shout cracked through the air like a lightning strike. Simon flinched, taking an unconscious step back even as Johnny's hold tightened again, watching as his expression crumpled and tears welled in his eyes. "Fuck—Simon… I just. I need ye to see this from where I'm standin', aye? Cause from here, the man I've been arse over teakettle for for bloody years has been sufferin' in silence for a month because he thought I'd be disgusted by him—"

The world froze. Simon's brain tripped over the implication—arse over teakettle—and refused to move past it, trying to make it make some kind of sense because there was no way it could mean what he thought it did, right? Johnny wasn't—

A few seconds passed before Simon managed to whisper: "What?"

Johnny blinked. Let out a half-hysterical laugh. Shook his head. "Years, Simon. I've been gone for you for years and you—you thought I'd hate you for this?"

"You—" Simon's throat closed. His ears rang. "You've been—"

"In love with you. Yeah." Johnny's hands came up to cradle Simon's face, thumbs brushing Simon's cheeks in arcs so feather-light and gentle he almost thought he'd imagined them. "Thought I'd made it obvious. Too obvious, maybe, cause when ye didn't react I figured you were just… tryin' to let me down easy or somethin'."

He huffed out another almost-laugh, lips twitching up into a rueful smile. "Kyle kept tellin' me to just talk to ye, but I didn't think—I mean, you're you, and I'm—"

"Don't." Simon's hand shot up, catching Johnny's wrist in an iron grip and holding him there. "Don't you fucking dare finish that sentence—"

"It's the exact same shite you were just doin'—"

"You're everything, Johnny—" Simon cut him off, the words tearing out like he'd physically ripped them from his throat after choking them down for so goddamn long he couldn't take it anymore. "You're everything and I'm nothing, I'm not—I'm—"

"Mine." Johnny didn't let him finish, the word coming out fierce and desperate and broken—almost like he was bracing for the rejection instead. "You're mine, Simon, Please—please be mine—"

Simon didn't know who moved first as the space between them disappeared—not that he cared any, because one second Johnny was looking at him like he'd break if Simon said no, and the next their mouths collided, desperate and graceless and real. Teeth caught on lips. Noses bumped. Foreheads smacked together. And it hurt but god it felt so right that the pain faded immediately in the wake of the fact that fucking finally—

—finally he got to know what those lips felt like against his own.

And if Simon were to die right now, right here… at least he'd have finally had a taste of heaven.

— 🌻 —

They broke apart gasping. He had no idea how long they'd been standing there—seconds, minutes, hours maybe?—but Johnny's hands were still tangled in his hair and Simon's fingers still twisted in the fabric of Johnny's shirt. Neither had moved except to get closer, staring at each other with the same question written across both their faces.

Did that just happen?

Simon opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried to figure out what the bloody fuck to say—and apparently Johnny had been thinking the exact same thing because he laughed, shaky and wet and so fucking real before pulling Simon back in for more.

This one though… it was slower. Gentler. Less collision and more confirmation—that this was real, that Johnny meant it, that Simon was allowed to have this. Johnny's hands slid from his hair to cup his face, thumbs brushing Simon's cheekbones like he was something precious and Simon—

The flowers surged. Heat flooded through his chest, down his arms, across his shoulders in waves that left him gasping against Johnny's mouth. Not painful, never painful, but alive in a way he'd never felt before, not even when he'd watched them creep across his skin in the mirror, slowly driving him insane—

Johnny pulled back, eyes wide. "Simon, your—"

Simon glanced down—

—and this time, the flowers were properly moving.

He could see it now, watched as the vines receded across his chest, pulling back from his throat and neck—but not withering. Not disappearing, either—no, they started to weave themselves into his tattoos instead, cutting through the black ink without trying to overtake it. The foliage wrapped around the lines of barbed wire. Marigolds bloomed around the bombs. Sunflowers poked through the skulls, leaving everything to mesh together in a cacophony of oranges and golds like they'd always belonged together.

"Christ," Johnny breathed. His fingers traced along the edge of a sunflower that had wrapped itself through the crowned skull at the bottom of Simon's sleeve, slow and soft. "They're… they're stayin'."

Simon swallowed hard. "Yeah."

Johnny's hand stilled, fingers wrapping loosely around Simon's wrist, holding him steady. For a long moment, neither spoke—too busy just… looking. Staring, if Simon was being honest, because he needed to commit this to memory, needed to make sure the sight before him was burned into his brain so he'd never, ever lose it—

"It's quiet," Simon whispered, rough but honest. "In my head. It's… I felt like I was losin' my fuckin' mind, Johnny. I could feel them spreading, fuckin'… fuckin' growing—"

He stopped short, shaking his head. Not yet. He'd tell Johnny more about it later, about the madness, about the way he'd been convinced he would die from the insanity instead of a broken heart, but not now. "It stopped."

Johnny's gaze flicked back up to Simon's face, eyes roving his expression like he was looking for any trace of deceit before relief washed over his own. "Good," Johnny whispered, thumb tracing another petal in a slow, careful arc. "That's… fuck, Simon, that's good."

Something in Simon's chest cracked wide open at that. The flowers, Johnny's hand on his skin, the quiet in his head, the fact that he'd spent weeks convinced this would destroy him and now it was here to stay, all of it, instead of—

Simon's knees buckled.

Johnny caught him—of course he did, since when had Johnny ever let him fall?—and together, they sank onto the floor in a graceless heap, tangled in each other's embrace, pressed against the desk. For the first time in his life, Simon let himself be pulled in, let Johnny wrap around him like had every right to because he did, let his head rest against Johnny's shoulder and just breathed.

"I've got ye," Johnny murmured into his hair. "I've got ye, Simon. I'm not goin' anywhere."

The words should've scared him. Should've terrified him, really—made him pull away and put distance between them before it hurt too much to lose, but Simon's arms were already moving, wrapping around Johnny's waist to hold on tighter. The flowers had gone quiet, settling alongside the ink as proof etched into his skin, a forever reminder that maybe, just maybe he deserved this after all. That he was loved and could love back. That wanting hadn't destroyed his world—it made it whole.

"I know," Simon whispered. "I've got you, too, Johnny. Always."