Disclaimer: I don't own CoD, so on and so forth. Minimal editing, perhaps a second part somewhere down the road.

When Simon Riley initially enlisted, it was with the intention of not coming home. It happened all the time, after all, young men- too young for the horrors of war, he now thought, despite his cynical track record- enlisted in hopes that it would take them away from what they had, which, in Simon's case, was a resounding "nothing".

It wasn't as if he was looking to get himself killed, but if death happened to put a bullet through his skull or sneak up on him with a serrated kitchen knife, he couldn't say he'd actively avoid it.

But, as fate would have it, he did end up back home, and far earlier than he'd wanted to be. It was a temporary leave that he spent breaking open countless skeleton- filled closets and "recovering" from the mental trauma he'd been given leave for in the first place. He knew it was all bullshit, he'd been mentally unstable his entire life, but now the doctors just had a clean cover-up explanation as to why: torture. Something else which had never been on the agenda, but Simon had figured not long after being selected for the SAS that he could kiss his "agenda" good-bye.

They tried to keep him home, of course, told him over and over that he "wasn't psychologically fit for service". But Simon went back, stubborn and confident and dreadfully to-himself with a new-found affinity for alcohol and a tremble in his hands that hadn't been there before. He was, unfortunately, also short a mother, a younger brother, and a father (though this particular death was more of a cause to celebrate). At least now, even if he were to be sent home, the only home to go back to would be an empty flat in the heart of London. He doubted he would ever see it again, discharged or not.

The One-Four-One wasn't what Simon would have called an "elite force" so much as "what should be the bloody standard". And for reasons he couldn't place, the company felt a lot more homey than the SAS. Despite the comfort of knowing that nearly everyone around him had a few ghosts of their own, it also left a bad taste in his mouth, because his hard exterior was still telling him that he didn't need comfort, sympathy, or therapy. And to make it worse, it seemed that the higher you moved up in the ranks, the more disturbed the men became. There was a sergeant with a knack for killing and loud noises and he had so many odd habits that hardly anyone wanted to be near him, save for Simon and a select handful of others. The second lieutenant hardly spoke, which was nice because he never gave you trouble, but chilling because his silence was almost unbearable.

And then there was Captain MacTavish.

Simon had learned early-on that the man had his secrets and his scars, most of which he could tell were fresh. He had also learned, by his own experience, not to bother trying to pry open a friendly mouth that was unwilling to speak.

Despite the conditions in the One-Four-One, Simon, now known solely as "Ghost", had begun to open up and pull what was left of his deprived and depleted youth with him in the barracks, wearing it as a mask just as he wore the skull balaclava. With a cocky mouth and a tendency to sass and undermine authority, he'd managed to temporarily shake off the feeling that he was slowly falling deeper into insanity. And the longer he served, the more he said "to hell with it" and pushed protocol to the wind in favour of doing things his way, which was usually more efficient.

Everything about him began to bleed confidence just as it had before the "torture" incident. It was in his step, in the slight curl to his lips when he took off his mask. The way he sipped his coffee, the way he smoked, the stubble clinging to his jaw even after he shaved and the smirk in his cool blue eyes. It was all confidence and a hard, carefully maintained shell. Even his reports now showed that he was psychologically fit, due to a bit of doctoring on his part.

But he did slip up.

At nightfall, when the barracks silenced and no-one was still awake to knock at his door, he often found himself crippled. It was a pathetic process that began with him clinging to rational thought with a weather-worn book in his hands and reading glasses propped on his nose, but his lids would grow heavy despite his best intentions, and soon he would find himself nodding off only to reawaken not an hour later. He'd be in a cold sweat with a sickening feeling coiling in his stomach and a relentless migraine. Images burned themselves into his vision and everyone was trying to kill him, and he welcomed it, and the frightening part was that it never came, no matter how much he wished for it. And at that point he would break. He would be five years old again, freshly bruised and crying into his mum's shoulder.

Part of him knew that MacTavish could hear him. The walls did nothing for sound-proofing and the look the man would cast him every morning said it all- He was sympathetic. Ghost couldn't tell if it was general concern or condescending pity, but either left an equally unsavoury feeling in his gut. Because it was MacTavish that was the only other witness to his demons, both in the protection of night and the field, when Simon had a poor bastard chained to a chair and found the most imaginative ways to coerce information from bloodied, beaten lips.

MacTavish knew, and Simon knew he knew, and neither of them ever mentioned it.

And it was lonely.

And "lonely" had never been a thing Simon planned on fixing. He deserved it, he thought.

The halls were silent, save for the shoddy ceiling fan whirring quietly above and the occasional crinkling sound that Simon associated with a long pull from a cigarette. It was his cigarette, but not his lips. The lips belonged to his Captain and this newly-habitual sharing of a cigarette before bed was what Ghost liked to call "mutual loneliness" and it was almost as pathetic as anything else he could be doing instead.

He wasn't quite sure if the tension he felt was due to the other or his own mounting stress, but knowing that he'd subconsciously put it off as stress regardless, he avoided paying it much mind.

He felt Soap's eyes on his hands and realised they were trembling- something which he could have sworn he'd almost gotten under control- and flattened his palms against the wooden floor to still them.

"You don't have to hide it, Ghost." The familiar, though seldom-heard Scottish brogue broke the silence. Ghost clenched his fists. "We both know how y'are. You're doing nothing but stressing yourself out."

Ghost liked to pretend that it wasn't true, but he knew it was, they both did. He tried to keep his walls up all the time, even in front of the only person who had seen them down since his mother died, and the toll it took on him was one of stress and worry. He plucked the cigarette from between MacTavish's fingers when it was offered to him, lolled his head back to stare idly at the ceiling, and pursed his lips around it.

After his pull, he tapped the ash from the end, and handed the smoke back to his captain- he wouldn't get another drag, the cigarette was on its last leg- and pushed himself out of his careless, slouching posture to hunch forwards, elbows resting on his knees.

"Can't even pretend not to notice, eh?" Ghost asked, and though he said it light-heartedly, it wasn't hard to tell he meant it. He would've preferred if his captain just turned the other cheek. The fact that he didn't made him squirm.

A tense, wordless moment passed after Soap had stubbed out the cigarette, in which the two of them simply sat, keeping whatever thoughts they had to themselves. Simon entertained the possibility that maybe, just maybe, it was time to start chipping that shell off. He was a psychopath regardless, and always would be, and he was beginning to question the harm in letting someone else know just how far the world had gone to fuck him over. But the last thing he wanted was pity- He wanted an ear to listen or a mouth to tell him to shut the fuck up and leave it in the past- Neither of which he was sure he would get. He knew that his wounds were ripe, ready to be explored and smoothed over.

MacTavish's are still fresh, he thought. As far as pain goes, I am his superior.

His mind halted at the thought of mutually benefiting from the presence of each other. Entering a symbiotic process of recovery.

Simon wasn't keen on acting on the thought, but he wasn't about to dismiss it. For someone who was the equivalent of a genius, he'd never been good with social interactions, what's acceptable and what's not. He didn't know if he'd be able to properly convey his intentions.

So when MacTavish began to stand, no doubt headed back to his room for some due rest, Simon spoke on impulse.

"Fancy company?" he asked.

John furrowed his brows and Simon realised that a question like that could be interpreted a thousand different ways.

"Define 'company'." John slowly replied.

"Myself."

"You've been 'company' for the past half hour, Riley."

Simon pursed his lips in thought. The ball was in his court, all he had to do was figure out how to word his wants.

"-Company to take the edge off," he said finally, his own brows furrowing. It was the closest he could get without outright saying "I'm lonely and pathetic and want to stop having nightmares".

It seemed to do the trick, because when MacTavish pushed open the door to his room, he held it open for Simon to follow. He pushed himself up, brushed his palms off on the front of his jeans, and slipped inside.

The captain's room was surprisingly neat. It was a bit cooler than it had been in the hall, and the lighting was a bit dimmer, making it easier on the eyes. It was obvious it wasn't done on purpose, of course, a few of the overhead bulbs had simply expired, but Ghost guessed that MacTavish purposely avoided telling anyone in order to maintain it.

The only thing that was out of order was the bed, with the sheets in a heap and both pillows pressed against the wall. A shelf, much like the one Ghost had piled high with books, sat neglected in the corner. He saw it as a pity.

The table was covered in short, neat stacks of paperwork, manila files topping a few, and a few ink pens placed in a shot glass. A moleskin journal topped one pile and Simon narrowed his eyes at it, curiosity piqued, and ran his index finger over the black strap that held it closed.

-Until his hand was pulled away, of course.

Simon took this as a sign that the journal was more of a "for captain's eyes only" deal, and his desire to get ahold of it only increased. I'll leave it, though, he decided, sighing in resignation as he met MacTavish's narrowed gaze.

Maybe, one night, when he isn't so guarded-

He lost his train of thought as he noticed the fact that Soap was still gripping his wrist.

-When he isn't so guarded, I'll ask him-

Soap pulled his wrist, tugging him away from the table entirely, and mumbled something about company under his breath.

-Ask him to show me-

Lips covered his own, hungry and notably greedy, and Simon's eyes closed instinctively. This was a method of coping that Simon knew well.

A rough, calloused hand knotted in his brunette hair and pulled his head back. Soap had gained the upper hand and he pressed a firm kiss to the corner of Ghost's mouth, afterwards veering off to pepper the line of his jaw. The lieutenant swallowed hard, an action that wasn't missed by his commanding officer, and the swell of his neck was promptly seized by those fast, feverish lips. He opened his mouth to speak, to suggest that maybe they should talk first, have a drink, another smoke maybe, but his mind was slowly being devoured by the pounding, pulsing blur that came with the strong hand forcing its way beneath the hem of his shirt.

Simon's submissiveness was something he really was not proud of. His neck was his weakness, and of course, as if he had a line to his inner-conscious, John was spending a copious amount of attention making sure that it was appreciated. Simon gasped, forced a hand between their bodies, and began to blindly unfasten the other's belt.

And so an innocent suggestion for extended company had turned into this. It wasn't what Simon had been after- In fact, his initial intentions were innocent. Stay a while longer, drift to sleep in the presence of another, maybe then his nightmares would halt, if only for a night, and perhaps get the stoic Captain MacTavish to open up. But this was what John wanted, what he needed, just as Simon had found himself craving the same thing as a method of coping, and now that it was happening, he couldn't find it in himself to stop it. He was going to enjoy it, his mind was blinded by the heat and his body was running on auto-pilot. Instinct had taken over for both of them.

John was a natural leader, apparently even in the bedroom- When he felt the deft fingers of his XO at his hips, he slammed him back against the wall, reminding Simon of his authority, his control, and most importantly his dominance. Ghost got the impression that maybe there was a bit more drive than normal as far as "authority" went, a possible kink, or maybe the fact that he was just satisfied by the idea of putting his cocky lieutenant in place.

And Simon would've been lying if he said he wasn't drinking it in.

He responded the only way he knew how, lips parting, a low, enthused groan muffled against MacTavish's lips. He tugged his shirt off and John wasted no time in seizing the plane of his chest and collar as well, lips latching on and sucking and leaving a trail of reddening marks in their wake. Ghost's hands traced over countless scars beneath the cover of Soap's shirt, noting that the more raised ones were likely fresher, and the ones he could hardly feel at all were faded with age. It wasn't until he removed his shirt as well that Ghost saw all the ones he had missed- all of the light, jagged lines that had long since smoothed over, and he made a mental note to pay each of them their own attention on another less-heated occasion.

It wasn't much longer before they found themselves on the bed, all clothing long discarded, Simon on his back and John between his legs, hips rough and relentless and drawing a series of breathed, barely audible curses from the lieutenant's lips.

When it was over, the two of them were a tangled mass of limbs and sweat. Both were panting, John more so than Simon, which allowed him to get the first word in. He pointed to a red and purple mark on his chest, traced it with his finger, and tauntingly remarked: "How many more of these?"

John, who had his face pressed into Simon's side with an arm slung over his hips, peered up at him with a lazy gaze. "Lots."

"And I've nothing to show for it."

Simon hadn't been expecting a reply- If anything, he was expecting for his unwavering impertinence to once again land him a resounding "go away" as it normally did- but John grabbed his arm by the wrist, and held it up for Simon to plainly see.

"Your hands aren't shaking," he said.

Simon lowered his voice. "Will be by tomorrow."

"Then we'll have to fix it."

Oh. He swallowed, and pulled his hand from the other's grip. He glanced down at him, searching for any sort of external signs that he'd benefited too, that this hadn't been some sort of act of pity, a sign that he hadn't been misunderstood from the start.

It was hard to see, with John's dedication to maintaining his cool demeanor, never failing to hide his demons from anyone with less than an expert eye, but he looked more relaxed. He was talking more, he was actively seeking the warmth of Simon's body. That had to count for something.

Simon didn't leave before morning, like he'd thought that he would. He slept the entire night, the nightmare was just a fleeting little image, it seemed; there one second, and gone the next. He didn't find himself waiting to be killed, and he didn't find himself wishing for it.

After he'd managed to untangle himself from the heavy force that had kept him pressed to the mattress, and after he'd started running the water in the showers, John joined him, even though he'd been sound asleep when Simon left. He was silent, but the arm that he wrapped around Simon was needy, childlike almost, affirming the fact that this wasn't the one-way street that Simon had feared. This was going to help both ways.

A little company. A smoke, a drink, sex, a talk- it would be mutually beneficial. Simon would sate his curiosity, drive away his own paranoia and insomnia and hallucinations if his subconscious permitted. It felt undeniably selfish.

But the following night, when John upheld his promise of keeping Simon's hands from trembling and assuring that he get a good night of rest, something shifted. It was a little something, an idea- Simon's view of home wasn't just an abandoned flat in the heart of London. It wasn't a lifetime of deserved loneliness and alcohol-reliance and self-loathing.

And if it was any indication that the idea was mutual, John became the first to call him "Simon" in years.