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Every member of Task Force one-four-one was specially trained to complete missions unheard and unseen. Ghost was no different. Stealth was a necessary talent for any soldier worth his salt and Ghost exceeded expectations on all accounts. He wasn’t always just brute strength and speed. He knew how to manipulate the environment to his advantage…how to sneak up behind targets and take them out with a swift jab of the knife, snuffing out their lives before they’d even realised death had come to collect its due.
Just like his callsign, Ghost could disappear and reappear at will, using the shadows to evade sight. To hide. Or maybe he’d been called Ghost for the simple fact that he’d come back from the dead one too many times. A spectre haunting the living, fuelled by spite and grim determination to push forward, refusing to go down without a fight.
But while Ghost could certainly be stealthy, that was not what this assignment required.
The mission was simple enough, at least for Ghost. While he held no qualms against state-sanctioned violence, he also didn’t hold any of the same grudges against their enemies as his American higher-ups. A case like this was simple – following orders and nothing more.
Ghost could mentally detach from the situation, from the natural unease that came from violence. Detach from the guilt which permeated the life of a soldier like damp clinging to the walls…unseen until it was too late, until it seeped into your lungs and halted your breath. Ghost had learnt to perform his duties like clockwork, with mechanical precision.
Ghost’s responsibility here lied primarily in his position of seniority, which gave him clearance to make decisive calls. He was a soldier that could be trusted to do the job thoroughly and without bias.
Nothing about the mission necessitated stealth or secrecy – they were planning on sending a bloody missile strike for gods’ sake – and so there was no need for undercover surveillance or infiltration. Ghost was the best man for the job.
The mission didn’t require stealth, otherwise Ghost knew he wouldn’t have been the first choice. Not that Ghost couldn’t get the job done, mind, but why settle for second best when you had the finest in your possession?
“Watcher-1 to Bravo 0-7, are you in position?”
Ghost rose a hand to his comms, voice masked behind the balaclava obscuring his face. “I’m almost there.”
More importantly, the mission required a vocal soldier. An active participant in the field who’d be able to respond to their superior officers. Ghost could do that. He’d spent so long following orders that the words came to him like second nature. Every question posed by Shepherd and Laswell answered with swift precision, voice toneless. It was always the same, day in, day out. Ghost liked the expected. It meant he barely had to think before answering Graves’ inquiry. The missile was about to strike, and Ghost was danger-close to the impact zone.
Danger was an occupational hazard. Ghost replied coolly. “Copy. Approved.” The scorching heat of the desert sun beat down upon his heavy armour, the blazing star his shared witness to the destruction about to occur. “Send it.”
He watched impassively as the approaching nuke whistled through the air before striking the ground below with calculated precision, decimating everything in its wake. The wind blew madly around him, sand flying everywhere in a harsh tornado, ruffling the balaclava covering his face. Ghost remained steady, unmoving. It took a while for the dust to clear from the impact sight, but once he could see that there were no survivors, he called it in.
“Direct hit. Target destroyed.”
All in a day’s work.
Ghost remained standing, stock still, until he received permission to leave. He had a personal incentive to want this mission over with quickly but knew better than to rush his superiors. Ghost wanted to leave the stuffy, unforgiving heat of Al-Mazrah and return to the place he called home, despite its unerring impersonality. The base wasn’t a traditional home; it had none of the warm, homely touches that made a person feel comfortable, but it housed the one person that Ghost had come to care for. A person who anchored those kindred feelings of returning, of comfort and stability.
A person Ghost could truly call home, no matter where in the world they both found themselves.
The dust had cleared and the smoke from the fire billowed into the sky, the stench of mortar permeating his senses even behind the mask. He’d briefly looked away to shield his eyes from the falling debris when he caught sight of a small bug on his arm.
Somehow, it had survived the explosion and landed on his sleeve without notice, and now seemed to be making a home by burrowing its way into the folds of his cargo jacket. Ghost chuckled, ignoring the inferno below to watch the critter scurry around the expanse of his arm, oblivious to the giant observer. He stayed still, unwilling to scare it away, his smile hidden behind the mask.
Ghost wanted to go home and see his own little bug.
. . .
Heavy boots hit the ground at an even pace, while tired eyes watched as the muted grey walls began to blur as they passed him by. Repetition like a bad horror movie, the endless corridors never failed to sink their visitors into a depressive state of apathy.
The balaclava covered all but his eyes, yet Ghost was sure that should he meet anyone in the hallway, his exhaustion would be more than clear. Not even the dark paint smudged across his eyes could hide the bags beneath. His usually straight-set shoulders were curved in a tired arch and his arms felt almost too-heavy to hold, like they would fall off were they not attached to his body.
It took far too long for Ghost’s liking to reach the bland, unassuming door that signalled he’d reached the right room. Shouldering his way inside and letting the heavy metal slam shut behind him, Ghost flicked the latch to lock it tight. The last thing he wanted right now was some arsehole to come knocking when what he craved most was a reunion with the soft sheets of his bed.
It was a simple room, predictably humble and inconspicuous in a way that only a military base could achieve. Two single beds, adorned with standard white sheets and a plain, wooden side-table at their side. Placed atop them both were silver-steel lamps. On one of the tables was a well-used journal, the pages left ajar. The lamp beside it was on.
A splash was heard, immediately followed by the light pattering of water against tiled flooring. Ghost blinked and followed the sound with tired eyes to the door which stood on the left side of the room, where a small trail of steam had escaped the crack of the doorway, light spilling out into the low-lit room.
Ghost collapsed onto the bed with a sigh, leaning his weight forward and staring down sightlessly at his steel toe-capped boots. His mind drifted through a cloud of thoughtless emptiness, wandering aimlessly while he waited.
A squeak of the tap and the sound of water stopped, followed by the shuffling of clothes. Soon enough he heard the soft pattering of footsteps against the hard linoleum flooring and could smell the lingering scent of coconut shampoo. There was a surprised noise at his presence, but it soon transformed into a happy, surprised hum of acknowledgement.
Ghost registered a body in his line of vision before he felt the touch at his side; Roach, unmasked, had taken the space beside him on the bed and was now looking up at him through messy bangs, his hair still wet from the shower. His eyes were calm, and Ghost could see the slight indentation marking the ridge of his nose from the goggles he always wore. He raised a hand to follow the trail with the pad of his thumb, watching as Roach let his eyes slide shut, at the way his eyelashes kissed the apple of his cheeks. Ghost felt his throat go dry.
‘Long day?’ Roach signed without opening his eyes, lips twitching into a smile.
Ghost huffed. “Long bloody week.”
Even without the use of his voice Roach still sometimes made the slightest of noises. A gasp of surprise or painful groan when injured…but now Ghost was gifted with the lilting tune of his content little hum. Somehow, just that sound was enough to lighten some of the burden piled upon his shoulders. Ghost felt himself slowly beginning to relax.
It was only the two of them. It would remain only the two of them – the door was locked and all those on the base knew better than to dare knock on their door after hours, not when they knew Ghost’s thin patience was liable to snap should anyone interrupt his privacy.
Nimble fingers tapped against his chest in warning before they began to unclip and undress the heavy gear from Ghost’s body. Piece by piece, he felt the weight of his body lessen and with each careful movement he felt the weight in his chest lessen, too. Roach didn’t stop at the tactical gear. Fingers pressing into the ridges of his shoulders and kneading the sore muscles, experience guiding his hands, allowing him to reach the exact spots that made stars bloom behind closed eyes.
“Too good, bug,” he groaned, feeling plaint and loose. Roach hummed lightly, the sound like warm water against his skin, soothing the tightly knotted muscles even further.
For what could have been hours Ghost sat on the bed with Roach kneeling beside him, the other man too small to properly reach Ghost’s shoulders without the added advantage. It was like floating boundless – Ghost was sure the base could be raided at this very moment, and he’d be too sluggish to do much more than mumble out a weak protest for them to fuck off.
Life’s not all bad when you’ve a personal masseuse on call, he thought with a chuckle. Another tap and Ghost opened his eyes, half-mast.
‘Something funny?’ Roach asked, brows raised. ‘Other than that stupid mask?’
“Ouch, bug. You throw a low punch.”
Roach rolled his eyes playfully. ‘I’m being serious, Ghost. Take it off.’
Despite his demanding words Roach moved forward to tug at the bottom of the balaclava himself, eyes trailing the white skull sewed roughly onto the dark material. Ghost made no move to stop him, arms spread behind him, palms flat against the mattress to brace his body, allowing Roach to move into his personal space. Dark eyes watched everything; taking languid, heavy blinks as he watched Roach like a wild animal finally tamed.
Roach was careful with peeling back the mask, a smile tugging at his lips as more of Ghost’s face slowly revealed itself. Eyes lighting up at what Ghost knew was a smattering of stubble along his jawline, his days too busy and his nights too restless that he’d put off shaving. The stubble was irritating beneath the mask, but the way Roach was prone to linger on that part of his face, running his fingers along the sharp edge of his jaw made Ghost reconsider his immediate date with the nearest razor.
Ghost wanted to tease – wanted to say something corny, some cliché line from a shit movie, a cheesy like what you see? or take a picture, it’ll last longer – but he couldn’t quite get the words past his lips when Roach looked back at him with such undisguised adoration.
While looking at him. Ghost ached.
‘Hello, Simon,’ Roach signed lazily, unwilling to move too far from the other’s warmth. Arms found themselves wound around his neck and Simon naturally wrapped his own snug around a small waist, their bodies pressed tightly together.
Roach’s smitten expression could bring any man to his knees and Simon Riley had never proclaimed to be any different. “Hello yourself, bug.”
As always, Roach scrunched his nose at the nickname, but Simon took no offence. He knew Roach secretly loved the affectionate term that had become theirs – something only he was allowed to use. And so, while the other man scrunched his nose and rolled his eyes like a petulant child, signing some nonsense too quick for him to interpret, Simon allowed himself a moment to simply look at him. A privilege he thoroughly exploited at every opportunity.
Gary Sanderson was certainly pretty enough to warrant wearing a mask and helmet at all times. The sharp outline of his jaw paired with the softer cheeks, wide eyes and upturned nose certainly painted an attractive picture. That wasn’t the reason he wore a mask, of course, but Simon would take the win regardless. He didn’t fancy spending their limited down-time while on a mission having to watch as random blokes took their turns checking his partner out, and so was secretly pleased that Gary felt a need to disguise himself. Simon wasn’t a man who enjoyed sharing.
It was a double-edged sword, for course, for Simon lost out on seeing Gary’s face for days on end when they were sent on missions that required extensive recon. But it only meant that moments like this, both their faces unmasked and with their hearts worn on their sleeves, could be counted as something special.
Gary cocked his head to the side at the continued silence and Simon hummed lowly, fingers tracing the creases at the edges of Gary’s eyes where the evidence of his past happiness had carved its presence forever. Simon wanted to carve his own permanence on the other man. Yearned to burrow himself so deep inside that Gary could never get rid of him, no matter how hard he tried.
Instead, he settled for something a little less possessive. The comfort of their room, the calm ambience and the quiet, soft sounds of their breathing had lulled the atmosphere into something intimate, and Simon longed to see those creases at the sides of his eyes make themselves known because of something he did. He wanted Gary to smile because of him.
“What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie?” he asked with a completely straight face, voice monotone. He watched Gary’s face for the tell-tale signs, the scrunch of brow and the lightening of his eyes, the minute twitch of his lips at the seemingly random set-up. The smile that revealed the dimple on his left cheek. Simon catalogued them all.
Gary seemed amused, index finger moving side to side in a repeated motion of question, playing along with his silly game. ‘What?’
“Sofishticated.”
There was a moment of silence, of processing the awful pun before Gary wheezed, a punched-out little gasp that had him tightening his grip on Simon’s shoulders as he almost fell from the bed. His nose crinkled in distaste and Simon was reminded of the many times Gary had insisted that his dad jokes were beyond awful, but he knew the truth. He knew that the other man secretly loved his shitty puns but just refused to admit it. The living proof was evidence enough, as Gary struggled to hold in the laughter tumbling from his lips.
It was a muted thing, the sound of Gary’s happiness. Nothing like the booming guffaws and gaffs that Simon heard day in and day out around the base, but an underrated laughter that warmed a deeper part of him. It was benefitted by the fact that Gary barely allowed himself to be heard by others – whether it be his voice or footsteps, so accustomed to being silent on the field that it had bled into his everyday life.
But not with Simon. Not here, in the privacy of their own room and the comfortable intimacy of their shared presence. Gary allowed himself to be heard, to be seen and Simon drank it all in like a man dying of thirst.
‘You’re awful,’ Gary signed with shaking hands, still snickering, eyes so bright that Simon felt momentarily breathless. ‘Terrible.’
“Sure seem to find my jokes funny enough, bug.”
Watching Gary laugh with eyes half-lidded; Simon committed the image to memory, storing it alongside the many others he’d already commemorated within his mind. Simon felt his own lips curl in response, matching Gary’s happiness with a smile that had become easier with each passing day spent by the other’s side.