Chapter Text
Ghost has ants crawling around beneath his fucking skin, and it’s all the fault of that stupid fucking fortune teller.
He’s cooped up in the safehouse, no release in sight, as his mind returns again and again to Soap’s voice, almost shy, admitting he might have his eye on someone. It was just part of the act—just a distraction to avoid suspicion—and yet—
Ghost has played poker with Soap. He knows the man can’t bluff to save his life, at least not to Ghost. Is that what it was? A bluff? Ghost was only able to see the back of his head from his vantage point, so he could have easily missed some telltale flicker in Soap’s face. But his voice had sounded sincere.
In that moment, Ghost felt like someone had picked him up and shaken him like a snow globe. The possibility of Soap having a romantic interest filled his mind with a whole flurry of restless thoughts and unpleasant sensations. Why didn’t I know? competes for space with, Of course he has romantic prospects, he’s Johnny fucking MacTavish, and all of it is overshadowed by the pounding hail of Who? Who? Who??
The storm has yet to settle. All he can do is hope that he’d played off the turmoil as simple teasing.
It has, in the following hours, occurred to Ghost that the “other person” in Soap’s reading sounded a lot like him—that whole analogy with Johnny as his sun was uncomfortably accurate—but Soap’s reaction was far more telling.
This person, they’re the light. I’m the one who needs tae measure up.
Nobody, and especially not someone as incredible as Johnny MacTavish, would ever say that about a man like Ghost. And then the damn fortune teller as good as told him to pursue a relationship with this mystery person. Promised a positive outcome.
Ghost wants Soap to be happy like he wants to keep drawing breath. And yet the thought of Johnny being with someone else feels like acid in Ghost’s veins.
Gritting his teeth, he sits forward on the edge of his bunk and runs his hands beneath his balaclava, trying to soothe an itch that he knows is only partially physical. He needs to get out of this damn safehouse. He can’t sit here and think while Soap is one room over, oblivious to the devastation he’s causing to Ghost’s sleep schedule. But Ghost has no place to flee to.
What he really wants is to march over and demand to know the truth. How many of Soap’s responses were just to play along? Did he really believe a random woman in a market stall could—
The idea takes root quickly, and before Ghost can stop himself, he’s up and moving. If he can prove, even just to himself, that the stupid fortune teller was just making vague, educated guesses, he might be able to quiet this raging storm in his mind.
Maybe then he can sleep. Maybe then he won’t dream of Johnny.
The night market has come to life by the time Lissa packs up her cards for the day. She’s made decent money, despite the one reading she’d given away for free. The poor man had seemed uncomfortable the entire time he was sitting across from her, and she just hadn’t felt comfortable taking his money. He’d left in quite a rush, too. Lissa likes to think he spotted the object of his affections from across the market.
She smiles to herself as she packs away the decorations she uses to give her booth some ambience. She’s halfway through the process when a loud thud causes her to yelp in alarm, fingers fumbling to keep a pair of large crystals from tumbling to the ground.
Whirling around, she feels her throat constrict at the sight on the other side of the table.
An enormous man is sitting in the querent’s chair, dressed in dark colors that make his hulking outline blurry against the night. But the lights from within Lissa’s booth catch on the white paint around his face, where he wears a black balaclava painted with a skull. His eyes are dark, searing with intensity.
Cartel, Lissa thinks immediately, a twist of panic in her gut. She’s already paid her protection money for the month—unless that other thug pocketed her payment—and she’s working herself into a panic when the man speaks, revealing a deep voice and an aggressively British accent.
“I want a reading.”
Lissa’s lips twitch nervously as she tries to smile. “O-of course. Just a moment—” She bites off the end of her sentence as her mind short-circuits at the thought of calling this man love or hon. “...Sir,” she settles for.
Turning away to fetch her deck, she’s glad for the moment of reprieve from those dark eyes. She takes a steadying breath as she rummages through her half-packed belongings. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She feels herself slip back into a comfortable, intuitive mindset.
When she turns around again, deck in hand, she’s pleased to find her knees are no longer shaking. Taking a seat across from the masked man, she braces her hands on the table’s smooth surface and allows the well-worn tarot cards to slip through her fingers in a practiced riffle and bridge shuffle. The familiar motion further grounds her, and she manages to look her querent in the eye with a smile.
“What’s on your mind tonight? Do you have a specific question for me?”
The man tugs at the fingers of his gloves. He’s quiet for a long moment.
Normally, Lissa would have picked up on something from him by now. As she explained to one customer this afternoon, she reads people as often as she reads cards. But perhaps she’s still on edge—or maybe just thrown off by the skull mask—because no insights present themselves. So she continues to shuffle, calmly, letting the silence stretch on.
When the man speaks again, it’s with far less authority than his initial announcement. “Heard you do love readings,” he says, as though love readings are an infestation he’s been sent to take care of.
Lissa’s lips press together for a brief moment. He seems almost nervous. “I do,” she says, keeping her tone friendly, as though she hadn’t picked up on his discomfort. “Mostly I do simple three-card spreads, representing you, a partner, and the connection between you. Does that sound good?”
The man gives a stiff nod. His back is ramrod straight.
Lissa gives an internal sigh. She’s going to have to seriously cleanse her deck after this, she suspects. Still, a querent is a querent, and a client is a client. Her eyes focus on her cards as she shuffles one last time, setting a clear intention in her mind.
“This first card will represent you and your current situation regarding love,” Lissa explains as she flicks a card onto the table. Her face immediately falls.
The Tower stares up at her, and a phrase presents itself in her mind. I’m too goddamn broken to have a chance.
The man’s shoulders twitch a degree as though bracing for a blow. Either he knows what the card means or he caught the way Lissa tensed. And that won’t do, Lissa decides firmly, because tarot is meant to uplift, not break down.
“Well,” she says cautiously, “that’s a minefield if I’ve ever seen one.”
There’s a tiny shift of the balaclava, and she wonders if the man beneath is smiling or frowning. With nothing else to go on, she forges ahead, letting her words flow freely from a place of trust in the art. “This is a card of upheaval, grief, and destruction. I get the feeling you’ve come through a lot of that, and you still feel the weight of it when it comes time to put your trust in someone else.”
A deep inhale from behind the mask. No other reaction. Lissa swallows down her doubt and presses on. “When faced with a question of love, it might feel like you’re flying completely blind, with nothing to catch you if you fall. But look.” She taps the picture in the card. “See how the foundations remain? That’s your strength, your sense of self, and the connections you’ve made with others. You have more solid ground to stand on than you think.”
The man shifts slightly, shoulders squaring up. “So is it a bad card or a good card?”
Lissa gives him a gentle smile. “There are no bad cards and good cards in tarot. Just cycles. The Tower is the end of one cycle. What comes after is up to you, I think.”
The man sits back in his chair, arms crossing. Lissa thinks that’s probably a bad sign, but then he nods toward the table. “Go on.”
Taking encouragement where she can get it, Lissa slips another card free of the deck. “This one will represent a partner—someone you’re seeing, someone you’re seeking, or maybe someone who hasn’t even entered your life yet.” She flips the card face up and feels a smile lift her whole face.
“...Strength.” She glances up at the man, and thinks she can see a quirked brow behind the balaclava.
“You either already know who I’m going to tell you about, or this is someone you haven’t met yet,” she continues. “This person has such a huge impact on your life, whether in the present or in the future, that you start measuring time in terms of before and after.”
The man’s head jerks up a degree at this, like he’s been caught off-guard. Still, he doesn’t interrupt her.
“They’re a patient, steadying force for you. Someone to call you back to the light when the shadows get too dark. You like who you become around them.”
The man shifts again, restless. “But does he feel the same? I—” He cuts himself off, then huffs and looks away. From the way his dark eyes skitter slightly, Lissa gets the feeling he’s embarrassed about getting into the reading.
“This last card will answer that question,” she assures him. “It’s meant to represent your relationship, and whether there’s potential for romance.”
Cards slip through her fingers in a practiced motion, and one snags slightly. Lissa encourages it gently, tugging it loose with a care not to disturb the cards surrounding. When it finally comes free and flips face-up, she feels a warmth suffuse her chest.
“Oh— The Chariot.” Lissa meets the man’s eyes again to find him studying the card cautiously, as though worried it’s a potential threat. She gives a little laugh, and those dark eyes narrow at her. She holds up her hands in apology and returns her focus to the illustration, tracing the black and white cats pulling a figure in a cart.
“Well, it’s already plain to see that you compliment each other with your differences. Is this a person you work with? Or maybe travel with...? You make for an unstoppable team, that much is clear. You know each other, you trust each other, you communicate well—that’s a very strong foundation for a relationship. I get the feeling that whatever you put forward, this person will meet you halfway.”
The man shifts, his gaze falling on some other stall in the distance. “...I’m not really the ‘put forward’ type.”
“You’ll have to be,” Lissa says firmly. “The Chariot demands action, movement, or you risk being left behind.” She holds up her hand as the man stiffens, looking like he’s about to protest. “I know, I’m just a stranger with a tarot deck, I’m in no place to cast judgements on your relationship with this person. But let me ask you something— What do you stand to lose right now that you wouldn’t still stand to lose if you continue to wait? Will time magically give you safety? Or will it only delay what’s already overdue?”
The man is silent for a long time. His eyes flick from Lissa, to the cards, to an empty point in the distance. Then, without a word, he rises from the chair, making only a whisper of noise as he does. Lissa feels herself shrink slightly as he draws to his full height—he’s even bigger than she’d realized. She flinches again when he slaps a wad of cash on the table. And then he’s leaving, not another word spoken.
Lissa blinks in confusion, then checks the stack of bills and realizes there’s about three times her normal asking price there. She looks up, mouth opening to call out, but the man is gone, lost to the shifting crowds.
Ghost spends the drive back to the safehouse in a barely-lucid daze. So much of what the fortune teller said rang true that he’s honestly considering her parting words.
Will time magically give you safety?
He knows the answer to that. He will always be at risk of losing Soap. He will always be at risk of losing his military career—the only life he has left.
With that established, he has everything to lose. And what would he gain, by asking Soap for the truth? What’s the best possible outcome, a quick fuck and a mutual agreement to never discuss it again? Can he really expect anything more?
The Chariot demands action.
He shouldn’t be considering a fucking fortune teller’s words on the matter, that’s for damn sure. So many cards, and at the end of the day, he’d already known most of what she said. Soap is an unattainable goal. Ghost is a broken satellite in orbit. What else is there to understand?
He throws the wheel to the right and half-skids into the driveway. There’s some satisfaction in the risk and execution. It isn’t until he’s locked up the garage and ducked inside that he realizes his actions might have consequences besides burned tires.
“Where in the godforsaken fuck have you been?” Soap hisses as Ghost steps inside the safehouse. “I was ten seconds from callin’ Price! Steamin’ fucking Jesus, Ghost! Ye cannae just run off on us!”
“I was out an’ about,” he growls. “I don’t need you mothering me every step I take.”
“Well, by all appearances ye do! Fuckin’ hell, Ghost! Ye could’ve told me where ye were off to, at the very least!”
“The market.”
Soap pauses at that, though Ghost can still see the tension simmering beneath his still muscles. “Did ye forget something at the church?”
Ghost finds it incredibly difficult to maintain eye contact, so he drops Soap’s gaze. “Negative.”
Soap makes a gesture of frustration when no further explanation is forthcoming. “Then what? We got what we needed, aye? Unless there’s some secret second objective that’s need tae know. Again.”
“No. I had personal business there.” Even that feels dangerously close to the unspeakable truth. He tries not to imagine the fallout of that conversation.
Soap’s expression doesn’t shift. After a long moment, he scoffs and looks away. “Fine. Keep yer secrets. Tight-lipped bastard.” He walks away towards the kitchen, his motions betraying the anger still coiled in his body.
Ghost watches him leave, feeling a heavy weight settle over his shoulders. It should relieve him, Soap keeping his distance. It makes things easier. Cleaner. Less likely to spill over into something...more.
Instead it feels like a fucking punch.
His eyes track Soap as he moves around the kitchen, washing dishes and cleaning up. With a jolt, Ghost realizes that Soap’s been drinking coffee—a lot of coffee, if the empty pot is anything to go by. Meaning he likely intended to stay up all night.
Waiting for Ghost.
A curious rush of emotions settles in his gut at the insight. One tugs free of the others, and he feels...warm. Soft. He can’t remember why he snapped at Soap, when Soap was so clearly just worried. Ghost has to admit, he’d be angry if Soap took off without telling him first.
He steps into the kitchen, moving to stand a little ways behind Soap where he’s rinsing out the coffee pot with aggressive motions. Suddenly Ghost doesn’t know what to say. He’s not used to trying with his relationships; he usually figures if people can’t handle him how he is, that’s their problem. But it’s different with Johnny. It hurts to consider the possibility of him deciding Ghost isn’t worth the effort. It really fucking hurts.
Has Ghost always had this vulnerability? When did it start? Maybe it was the time they got drunk together and he let Johnny lean against him as he laughed, their arms tangled together in a way that warmed Simon as much as the bourbon. Maybe it was that moment on a rooftop in Chicago, feeling fear freeze his chest in a way he didn’t know was possible as Hassan dragged Johnny toward that open window.
Or maybe it was one night on the tarmac, where a sergeant with an idiotic grin bumped his shoulder and promised to save him a seat. Like he was talking to a person, not a 6’4” killer in a skull mask.
Simon clears his throat. “Johnny...”
There’s a clunk as Soap sets the coffee pot down in the dish drainer with more force than necessary. “Don’t you ‘Johnny’ me,” he grumbles, though Simon is relieved to hear there’s no heat behind the words.
Simon pushes his balaclava up to the bridge of his nose, finding it a bit difficult to breathe. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you where I was going.”
“Aye, ye should have,” Soap huffs. He still hasn’t turned around, instead bracing his damp hands against the edge of the sink. Still covered in his namesake.
“Not just because running off was tactically a stupid thing to do,” Simon says. He swallows. “Sorry for...sorry if I made you worry.”
Soap’s head tips back as he inhales slowly. “‘Preciate that, Ghost. Yer right, I was— You’re so fuckin’ quiet, I dinnae hear ye leave. Just came tae ask ye something and found ye gone.” His voice is soft, unaccountably soft, and
Simon realizes he’s letting it be. He’s letting Simon see his own vulnerability.
Johnny turns his head, looking at Ghost over his shoulder with a slightly lost expression. “Can ye just tell me...what was so important that ye couldn’t even let me know?”
Simon’s mouth goes dry. Ghost wants to deflect, to disarm, to lie. Simon doesn’t let him.
“Went to see that fortune teller.”
Johnny’s mouth drops open as he whirls to fully face Simon. “Ye what?”
Simon shrugs, trying to play off the highly nervous, highly awkward tension writhing beneath his skin. “Wanted to know about my love life.”
Johnny is staring at him like he’s just sprouted horns. He opens his mouth again, closes it, then weakly says, “Oh, aye? What did she say?”
They’ll meet you halfway.
Simon takes another steadying breath, glancing away. It occurs to him that while the distance between them had seemed fine while Johnny was leaning against the sink, now that they’re facing one another there’s a lot less space. He hopes the rising heat in his face isn’t visible behind the balaclava. “Just that I should stop fuckin’ around and take the damn risk.”
A tiny bit of motion draws his gaze back to Johnny in time to see the man lick his lips. While staring at Simon’s exposed mouth.
Oh fuck.
“And?” Johnny presses. His blue eyes are intent, gleaming. “Are ye gonna?”
Fuuuuck.
Well, he’s in it now. Might as well fully commit.
He leans forward, crowding Johnny against the sink and bracing an arm on either side of him. Johnny’s eyes go wide, pupils blown as he stares up at Simon. His soapy hands automatically brace on Simon’s shoulders, curling in the fabric of his black hoodie.
Simon tips his head a degree, smirking, causing Johnny’s gaze to flick down to his lips again. The man visibly swallows, and Simon watches his throat work with rapt attention before finding Johnny’s eyes again.
“I just might,” he says in a low growl.
“Steamin’ Jesus,” Johnny breathes. There’s an almost awed look to his expression, like he’s witnessing a miracle. Then his hands curl tighter, and he yanks Simon the rest of the way forward.
Johnny’s lips meet his like a thundercrash. Simon swears he can feel the shock through his whole body, rumbling down to his bones. He’s imagined this moment—ached for this moment—a hundred times, but nothing could have prepared him for the way Johnny grips him like a lifeline, hands sliding up to guide his head to the perfect angle. Or the way Johnny’s body presses against him, hot as the sun. Or the way Johnny moans open-mouthed into the kiss like he’s starved for this, for Simon.
He’s not the only one. Simon can’t remember the last time he was touched gently, deliberately, and Johnny’s warmth is driving him mad. He thinks he could stay here forever, needs to stay here forever, pressed up and against and into this man he loves. He’d do anything to keep Johnny’s lips and hands on his skin.
Johnny’s teeth graze his lower lip, and Simon hisses as he presses into the sensation. His hands are on Johnny’s hips—when had that happened?—and seem inclined to push higher, beneath the man’s shirt, fingers splaying over taut muscle. Johnny inhales sharply, and Simon pauses.
“Can I—? Is this okay?”
“Fuck, yes,” Johnny whispers. He buries his face against Simon’s neck with another tiny moan. “Touch me, Simon.”
Those words in Johnny’s accent absolutely shatter his restraint. He nearly tears Johnny’s shirt in his haste to get it off, fumbling like a teenager. The sight beneath is worth it, though, with those broad shoulders and rippling abdominals on full display. His hands are reverent as he traces newly revealed scars, like a message in braille telling the story of Soap’s life. Not as many as Ghost has—thank God—but enough that he wants to bundle Johnny up in a blanket and guard him against anything else that might try to do him harm. Ghost would kill for him. Simon would die for him.
With a deep breath, Simon leans down to press his lips to the hollow of Johnny’s throat, just above his dog tags.
Johnny laughs, low and breathy, fingers slipping under the balaclava to thread through Simon’s hair. “Been waiting long tae do that, LT?”
Part of him wants to tease, wants to see if he can get Johnny red and squirming beneath him. But he hasn’t felt this raw, this Simon, in years, and it’s addictive, this give and take of honesty. There’s something downright relieving about being vulnerable to Johnny, like soothing aloe on a burn.
“Christ, Johnny, since I fucking met you.”
He doesn’t register exactly what’s slipped out until a wide, self-satisfied smile forms on Johnny’s face.
“So ye did take a shine tae me.”
“Sergeant?”
Soap’s spine straightens a bit, and Ghost’s willing to bet it’s a subconscious reaction. “Yes, sir?”
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
Johnny’s shit-eating grin just stretches wider. “But sir, I haven't shown ye what I can do with it yet.”
And Simon really should have expected that, but it just about kills him on the spot. He’s lost any semblance of control, and he’s opening his mouth to order Johnny to his knees when the comm crackles in the other room.
“This is Bravo 0-6 to 0-7, how copy?”
The smile fades from Soap’s face, though he still smirks and nudges Ghost’s shoulder. “Better get that, aye?
Ghost grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him one last time, giving Simon a moment to linger before he fades again.
“You’ll find me,” Ghost growls. “Once this is done, you’ll come find me.”
Soap gives him a salute, grin returning. “Aye, sir. Never been one tae leave a job half-finished.”
Ghost hums in amusement before stepping aside, tamping down the disappointment that surges at the loss of contact. He tugs his mask back in place, pauses to toss Soap his shirt, and strides out of the kitchen.
If asked, he still doesn’t believe in fortune telling. The woman in the market had even admitted to reading people as much as the cards. But as he sneaks a glance back at Johnny, still shirtless with a kiss-bruised smile on his lips, he thinks of the Star, and he hopes.