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Johnny pants for breath. One foot after the other, he climbs higher and higher into the ritzy corporate skyscraper, trying to keep up with Ghost. A week ago, new intel had come in proving that Makarov has agents with a headquarters in the states, and that they’re operating out of an office in the middle of a metropolitan city, of all places. Ghost and Soap had been assigned to a reconnaissance mission. The techies had been kind enough to cut the power to the whole place for a few hours, knocking out the building's security system. Only problem is, no electricity means no elevators. Hence, climbing twenty stories of god-forsaken stairs on foot.
As they reach a landing between two stories, Johnny pants, “Christ. Am fuckin’ dwynin awa.”
Ghost, looking only mildly annoyed with having to stop again, quips back, “English, MacTavish.”
“I fuckin’. Hate. Stairs,” he overly-enunciates with a snide tone.
“That a direct translation?” He can hear the sarcastic smile in his voice.
“Aye. Use it on the Scottish lassies when A take ye back to Glasgow. They’ll love it.”
Ghost lets out the short puff of breath that he excuses for a laugh and Johnny grits his teeth. From what he can see, Ghost hasn’t so much as broken a sweat. He’ll never understand the dauntless stamina on this mountain of a man. Johnny isn’t exactly in bad shape himself, yet his chest is burning with the exertion of their ascent. Thank Christ it’s only a recon op – light gear, light clothing – though Ghost, as usual, apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. Every inch of his skin is still covered, including his face and hands, with blacked-out clothing, skeleton gloves, his balaclava and skull mask.
“Ye know ye look like a fuckin’ Haloween store, don’t ye?”
“Never heard that one before.” His voice is dripping in sarcasm. “You forget that only yanks celebrate Halloween, Johnny?”
“Aye but we’ve seen the movies, LT.”
“Come on, or I’m telling Price I had to carry you.”
Johnny says a little prayer of thanks when they finally make it to their floor, along with a promise to add more cardio to his workout regimen. It’s light work from there. The office is empty and the laptops they’re looking for are right in the middle of the first room they check – couldn’t be easier to find if there was a neon arrow above them. Johnny reports back to Price while Ghost downloads everything they need.
Before long, Ghost mumbles, “Almost done.”
“S’a hell of a view, isn’t it, LT?” Johnny stares out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the cityscape below, for a moment marveling at the array of lights and movement. Shrouded in the darkness of their building, he can even peer into the windows of other skyscrapers, the one or two offices that still have lights on, the silhouettes of a few people burning the midnight oil at their desks. Johnny nods at one of the windows. “Ye ever wish that was yer life?” He can barely say it without laughing, and Ghost returns the sentiment. “Absolutely not.”
“Ye sure, sir? I think it’d suit ye. Ye’d be a CEO. Get yerself a cute secretary, call home to the wife that yer buried in paperwork, drive a flashy car.”
“I think you’ve been watching too many American movies.”
“Yer right. Ye shouldn’t be allowed to drive anyth–” Johnny jumps hard as a deafening CRACK rings out and the massive window suddenly shatters open. He can feel the movement of the air as the sniper round whizzes between him and Ghost and drives through the wall behind them. He barely has the chance to raise his rifle and move before Ghost grabs his arm in a bruising grip and yanks him hard through the first open door he sees that will get them out of sight. Unfortunately, that “room” on the other side of that door happens to be a six-by-six coffin of a fucking closet. Johnny’s rifle snags as Ghost attempts to close the door and Ghost barks, “Drop it!” The weapon clatters to the floor outside and Ghost snaps the door shut. They fumble to figure out how to stand. There are boxes on the floor, a thin vacuum, some other shit knocking into Johnny’s ankles that he can’t see in the pitch black room. He waits, breathless, for another shot – for a bullet to blow through the wall and straight through both of them. There’s some sick joke here about two birds with one stone or something but before Johnny can string it into a sentence, Price’s voice is in their ears, loud enough that they both flinch a little.
“GHOST. SOAP. COME IN.”
Ghost reaches up to his chest to click the button on his mic, elbowing Johnny in the face in the process. “We’re ‘ere, Captain.”
“Tell me that wasn’t what it sounded like.”
Johnny sticks an elbow in Ghost’s side to go for his own radio. “Like a fuckin’ cuckoo? Aye, ‘fraid so.”
“Bloody hell. You two secure?”
Johnny continues as Ghost shoves his rifle behind himself, having been unable to find a way to still keep a grip on it in the cramped space. “Like a pair of sardines in a can are secure, aye.”
“Sit tight till we clear the rooftops.”
Ghost picks up, “10-4, sir.”
For a moment, they just stare at each other, eyes adjusting to the near-blackness. Johnny’s heart pounds against his ribs as the adrenaline rush works its way out of him. He is, as usual, the first to speak, “Tighter than a nun’s fanny in here.”
Ghost groans. “Fuckin’ hell, MacTavish.”
“Oh ye dinnae like that one? Alright. It’s tighter than a camel’s arse in a sandstorm, then.”
“I’m gonna open this door and chuck you out.”
“You’d never.” Johnny can’t help but smile, but the expression fades as something jabs into his back. He reaches behind himself and pulls away whatever broom or pole found its way into his ribs, and he adjusts his stance. The reality of the situation is a little daunting. “There’s no way we’re sneakin’ out of here ‘til Price finds the fucker, huh?” He can barely see Ghost shaking his head. “S’all window out there.” Johnny quips in a joking tone, “Maybe he gave up.” Ghost answers more seriously, “Would you?” Johnny sighs. “I would not.”
The conversation lapses naturally, both of them seemingly having mutually resigned themselves to waiting it out and conserving the last of the cool air in the cramped space. It is in this silence that something absolutely terrible begins happening to Johnny. Without the distraction and sound of their constant banter, Johnny begins to unconsciously take inventory of his own body – and what he finds is a whole bunch of contact; Ghost’s legs tucked neatly, one inside and one outside of his, Ghost’s hand on his shoulder, bracing them each against the opposite walls of the closet, Ghost’s solid chest beneath his forearm, bracing just the same, and all of it shifts slightly every time one of them takes a breath – just enough to feel it. Everything is warm. He can smell Ghost’s aftershave and sweat. He can hear his breath, feel his heart beneath his palm. There’s a joke here somewhere about Ghost actually having a beating heart – but Johnny can’t find the humor in it, because in the midst of it all, he can feel the unmistakable, horrifying sensation of his own cock beginning to fill. His internal monologue turns to a furious litany of “No. No. No. No. No–” as he begins to strain against the front of his pants and his belt. It’s of absolutely no use. Fifteen seconds of fruitless pleading, and all he’s got to show for it is a rager so hard you’d think someone showed a teenager a pair of tits for the first time. The knowledge that there are probably crosshairs trained on the doorknob waiting to turn them to corpses should make this physical state an impossibility. Then again, Johnny has always had kind of a thing for danger. He needs fuckin’ help, he thinks, if this shit is what turns him on.
He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes on the door, a visible look of agitation on his face as he wills his mutinous body to fucking cooperate. He attempts to reach through the ether into Price’s brain, demanding that he find whatever throat needs cutting and let them out of this box before Ghost catches on to the mortifying problem occurring two inches from his knee.
Johnny barely registers when Ghost speaks, “Didn’t know you were claustrophobic, Johnny.”
“M’not,” he mumbles mindlessly, eyes still fixed on the door.
There’s a beat before, “You solid?”
Johnny shakes his head as if coming out of a daze. “Am fine. Don’t–”
Ghost shifts his weight in an attempt to give Soap a little more breathing room, but all he manages to do is drag his thigh straight up the center of Johnny’s legs, giving himself a good feel of Johnny’s problem in the process. Johnny’s breath catches, his head falls back against the wall and he squeezes his eyes shut, face burning with shame, heart pounding in his ears. Ghost goes dead quiet and completely still, and Johnny manages to choke out, “Am sorry–” “It’s fine,” Ghost interrupts too quickly, and his tone says that this is anything but fine. Johnny stares up at the ceiling of the closet. Disobedient, defiant, bastard of a body. The overwhelming rush of gut-wrenching embarrassment should be more than enough to make him go soft. Even the idea of being caught by Ghost like this should be bad enough that he never gets another hard-on again just from the memory of the humiliation. But no. Ghost’s presence is making it worse. Because if Johnny were to be honest with himself for three seconds, he would know that it’s not just being pressed too close to a warm body that’s doing this to him. It isn’t that he hasn’t gotten laid in too fucking long, either – though god knows, he hasn’t. It’s him. It’s Simon. His superior officer. His Lieutenant. His best fucking friend. The six-foot-four hulking mass of skeleton-faced death hovering above him. And, if Johnny were to be honest with himself for three more seconds, the object of quite literally all of his affections since the day he’d joined the 141.
Hell, the reason Johnny hasn’t gotten his dick wet in the better part of two years is because the second the last bloke pushed his face into a pillow, all Johnny could think about was Ghost. So, no more sex. Whatever. It’s not like they have the chance often, anyway, with how often they’re on the move. But then he couldn’t even jack off without thinking of Ghost’s hands, his voice, what he might have between his legs and exactly how he might ruin Johnny for life with it. So, no more touching himself. His best friends became aggressive compartmentalization, cold showers, and an iron-clad belief that the attraction would pass if he just gave it long enough. Pass, however, it has not – and in the rare moments he allows himself to think about it, he can’t figure out why his heart and body have chosen to betray him by becoming so utterly fixated on the most impossible, useless desire. Sure, his voice hits like scotch and honey and sure, he’s gorgeous. There’s his size, those arms, the tattoos, the mystique. Pretty much exactly Johnny’s type. He has the face to match it, too. The one and only time time he’d had seen him without a mask it fucked Johnny up so bad he couldn’t think straight for weeks. Strong jaw, pink lips, scars, and those frostbite-blue eyes all underlined with dark circles like the poor thing wasn’t sleeping enough. Then again, none of them were sleeping enough on that op. And fucking sure, he looks so goddamned hot when he slits a hostiles throat that Johnny wants to lick the blood off the knife but Christ –
It isn’t as if Johnny isn’t happy with the relationship they have – he is. It isn’t often you find friendship like this in their line of work. Trauma-bonded battle buddies? Sure. But knowing without a shadow of a doubt someone always has your six? That’s something else. Not to mention Ghost’s friendship had always made him feel kind of special – like when you’re at a house party and the bitchy cat the host warned you about takes a liking to you, and no one else. It makes it worse, Johnny thinks, that Ghost seems to care about him so much. It makes the attraction worse, and it makes the existence of the attraction more deplorable. A part of him really wishes it was just a gross sex thing – some unresolved kink he could let someone else fuck out of him if he really needed to. But it isn’t. He care about Ghost just as much – if not a lot more – And here Johnny is – about to fuck all of it up with one abysmally-timed boner and a tense silence that is lasting way, way too long.
His subtle movements trying to put distance between himself and Ghost aren’t so subtle when they’re touching in so many places. Worst of all is that Ghost isn’t helping at all , seemingly more than comfortable staying still right where he is. For a moment, Johnny seriously considers running out the door and risking the sniper rather than staying in this closet for another second. He makes another attempted adjustment and suddenly Ghost breaks out of whatever state of torpor he’d been sitting in to grab Johnny’s sides and pin him hard against the wall. He snaps, his voice low and dangerous in a way Johnny had never heard used toward him. “Quit fuckin’ squirming.” Johnny’s eyes go wide, his lips parting, his stomach sinking violently in guilt, shame, fear. “Am sorry. A didnae mean to– A–” He is silenced all at once by Ghost moving again, his hands pushing roughly down to Johnny’s hips. He leans in closer then, and grabs two of Johnny’s belt loops and forces him toward him into a firm grind against his thigh. Johnny sees stars for a second at the sudden pressure and friction right where he so desperately needs it and a choked sound climbs up his throat. He shoves Ghost’s shoulders, but Ghost is, of course, completely immovable. “What the fuck are–” Ghost pushes him back and pulls again. “Ghost–” He’d meant that to be an exclamation, but it comes out instead as a bit-off moan, dripping in desire as his cock throbs against his lieutenant’s thigh – and his hands that had been pushing at Ghost’s shoulders are suddenly grabbing hard at his vest, almost pulling him closer. His heart feels like it might just give up with how hard and fast it races, and he feels his limbs threatening to tremble with an adrenaline rush so much worse than when the bullet splintered the window.
Ghost shifts his weight forward until he’s pinning Johnny to the wall with his bodyweight, his thigh lifted and pressed against him almost too hard. He braces one of his hands on the wall above Johnny’s head, keeping the other locked into his belt loop over his hip. Johnny chokes out, “Don’t fuck with me, LT.” Ghost spits back, “S’it feel like I’m fuckin’ with you, Johnny?” Johnny’s brain is short-circuiting. He wants to ask what the fuck this is, what the fuck this means , but he can’t, because Ghost is guiding his hip in a fucking rhythm against him and Johnny’s hands, now badly trembling, are holding onto Ghost’s sides, and the only sounds Johnny can make right now definitely aren’t words. His forehead falls to Ghost’s shoulder and he tries so hard to swallow back the string of needy moans spilling from his lips, but all he can do is keep them kind of quiet. He’s reeling so hard he almost doesn’t notice the way Ghost’s breathing changes – gets sharper, more ragged – almost like he’s actually fucking affected.
In a stroke of madness and desperation to know he’s not alone in getting rocked to the core by this, his hand slides down Ghost’s stomach – but he snatches it and pins it to the wall before it can get anywhere near where Johnny wants to touch. He leans instantly into Johnny's ear and seethes, “You gonna be good or do I need to keep this here?” He squeezes his wrist and Johnny concedes, a little too meekly, “I’ll be good, sir,” and Jesus Christ if those words coming out of his own mouth don’t make him throb. Therapy. Therapy or god damned castration is what he needs because he’s clearly fucking sick in the head. Can’t think about it now, though, because Ghost is releasing his wrist and sliding his hand around his side to the small of his back and pulling until Johnny isn’t rubbing against his thigh anymore, he’s almost rutting against his hip and he can feel Ghost hard against his own hip he’s sure of it but he knows better now than to test it. Johnny’s hips move without Ghost guiding them now, but Ghost doesn’t take his hand from his back. In fact, for a second, Johnny thinks he can feel his thumb rubbing into the muscles there. He’s done for – toppling toward the edge with no rope and no god damned parachute. Ghost’s breath is in his ear and Johnny’s cock is nestled in the hollow bit between his hips and his thigh and he’s fucking done for.
“Am close,” he breathes, and god he wishes he didn’t sound as wrecked as he is.
“Already, Johnny?” There’s a slight mocking tone to his voice that Johnny can’t really get himself to be mad at when his name sounds so good coming out of Ghost’s mouth. Still, he bites back, “Fuck off–”
“Price to Ghost.” The sound crackles through both of their earpieces and Johnny freezes up completely other than the slight tremble throughout his body that he can’t seem to control. He’s a breath away from the edge and Price’s voice cuts through the white-hot certainty of it all and dumps ice in his veins. Ghost stills and seems to process for all of two seconds before reaching up to press the button on his mic. “Sir.”
“Located the bastard in the–” As Price speaks, Ghost takes Johnny completely off-guard by once more digging his fingers into Johnny’s sides and pulling him against his leg. “Ghost– What the fuck are y–” “Shut up.” He does it again and Johnny’s eyes flutter closed as Ghost leans just a little more of his weight into him again, the pressure sending a shock of pleasure straight into his core. A soft moan slips from his lips and he really hopes Ghost is listening to whatever Price is saying, because he sure as shit isn’t. “–down. You’re all clear.” Okay, he heard that part. Price could have eyes on the room from wherever the sniper was. They need to move. They need to stop what they’re doing and fucking move. Johnny’s just reaching up to push Ghost’s shoulders back when a gloved hand comes down hard over his mouth and pins his head against the wall. “Copy that, Price.” Cool as a fucking cucumber. Bastard.
In a flash of movement too quick for Johnny’s frenzied mind to process, Ghost presses his palm harder against his mouth and shoves his free hand between them to cup Johnny’s cock and squeeze. “You’re gonna come for me.” His voice is low and dangerous. He says it like it’s a matter of fact. He says it like an order, and the string of blissed-out whimpers clawing up Johnny’s throat are smothered into his glove as Ghost’s palm runs, rough and firm, up and down the length of his cock. He’s right there. He’s right there , every muscle in his stomach so tense it could snap, every stroke of Ghost’s hand exactly where it needs to be – but the panic of their captain watching, the idea of the world outside this fucking closet crashing down the second it’s over – it holds him back, stuck behind the wall he’d been building for years in an attempt to not be doing exactly what he’s doing right now. Johnny’s brow knits together tight, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming out in shaking panting through his nose.
“Go on, sweetheart.”
And if the bastard didn’t know Johnny was in love with him, he must know now, because that growled endearment is all it takes to push him over the edge and into oblivion. Johnny’s back arches. His hands dig into Ghost’s sides. He mindlessly tries to turn his head out of Ghost’s grip on his jaw and thank god Ghost doesn’t slip or let go, because Johnny’s sure he’d be whimpering his name. He sees pure white for a second, his ears ringing, his chest burning. He throbs and pulses against the pressure of Ghost’s palm – against the two thin layers of fabric keeping their skin from actually touching. He’s making a god damned mess of himself. He couldn’t possibly care less. Ghost is ceaseless until Johnny, well past spent, is nearly writhing from the overstimulation and has to shake his head and push his hand away. Ghost releases his jaw at the same time and Johnny only gets two deep breaths, the walls spinning a little in his vision, before Ghost lifts his chin. “Pull it together.” Johnny is already nodding. He knows. He’s trying. “You solid?” He nods again, though he most definitely isn’t. “Let’s go.” Ghost pushes the door open and Johnny follows him out, half-blind, his vision still dark around the edges. He nearly trips over his own rifle, then leans down to pick it up from where it had fallen.
Ghost nods toward the exit and Johnny pushes through and back into the staircase, Ghost at his six. Not losing his step hurrying down the stairs is a feat in and of itself with how weak his legs feel. He forces himself harshly into focus – away from encroaching anxiety about what the fuck just happened and what the fuck it means. The mission isn’t over until they’re back on base. There’s always time for another sniper round to go whizzing past or through them, so he keeps his eyes up, his ears sharp, and they finally push out of the building, out into the frigid night air, and into the back of the vehicle that had left them there – now driven by Price. And thank god for a dark night and dark clothes and a dark van – because no one can see the mess he’d made – or rather the mess Ghost had made – of his pants. Ghost is considerate enough to do all of the talking during the usual mini debrief with Price, and then the van goes silent. Johnny’s usually the one to keep up the chitchat, but finds his mouth cemented closed as the events of the last hour replay on a loop in his mind with varying iterations of lust and fear. Ghost is dead quiet on the other side of the van, his head back against the wall, opting to keep his eyes closed and feign rest rather than chance a glance at Johnny – but his grip on his rifle is tight. In fact, he’s so stiff all over that the sway of the vehicle barely moves him. When Johnny finally stops staring at him and diverts his gaze to the window, he swears he can feel eyes on him.