Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Thin Red Line
The mission had been a nightmare. The kind Ghost would have welcomed if it meant never waking up again. Blood caked under his fingernails. Smoke residue coated his throat. His ribs throbbed where a bullet had struck his vest, but the pain felt distant, almost comforting.
TF141 had done the impossible. Again. The target eliminated, intelligence secured, zero civilian casualties. Price had even clapped him on the shoulder afterward, a rare gesture of approval that should have meant something.
Ghost didn't care.
Now, as the rest of the team loaded equipment onto the waiting helicopter, he slipped away. The abandoned building's shadow embraced him like an old friend. He pressed his back against the crumbling wall, the hard skull mask suddenly suffocating. His finger traced the outline of his sidearm.
One bullet. That's all it would take.
His radio crackled. “Ghost, what's your position?” MacTavish's Scottish burr cut through his thoughts.
Ghost didn't answer. The chopper blades were spinning faster now. They'd leave soon. Without him. His husband would be furious. Another punishment to endure. The thought made his stomach clench.
“Ghost! Simon!” Footsteps approached, kicking up dust.
Simon closed his eyes. Johnny MacTavish's face appeared, flushed with adrenaline and concern. The sergeant's eyes widened when he spotted him.
“There ye are! Bloody hell, mate, Ah've been looking everywhere!” Johnny grabbed his elbow, grip firm but not unkind. “That thing ye did back there, taking out three tangos while hanging upside down from that ledge? Fucking mental!” There was always something soothing, strong, protective in Johnny’s touch. A fucking ray of sunshine in the dismal overcast that was Simon’s life.
Ghost let himself be pulled toward the helicopter by the only person that didn’t incite his rage when he touched him. Johnny's excitement washed over him in waves, his mouth moving a mile a minute about the mission. He was absolutely contagious. Burying those thoughts, that feeling of safety as far down as he possibly could, he followed his sergeant.
“And when ye threw yerself between Price and that grenade? Christ, Ah thought we'd lost ye, but then ye just stood up like nothing happened! Ye're something else, Lt.!”
The words barely registered. Simon's gaze drifted to his phone. Three missed calls. His husband would be waiting.
“Hey.” Johnny's voice softened as they approached the chopper. “Ye alright?”
“Solid.” Ghost nodded mechanically.
“Ye dinnae seem fine.” Johnny hesitated, lowering his voice beneath the roar of the rotors. “Ye kin ye ken talk ta me, right? About anything. Always got yer back, Lt. Partners, remember.”
For a moment, Simon almost broke. The words bashed against his teeth like a battering ram, desperate to escape. No, no sense in involving someone else that man could ruin the career of at a whim. He liked Soap. Liked him way more than was healthy for either of them. Good guy. Didn’t deserve to be a part of any of his personal horror. Instead, he swallowed the words down with the bile that welled in his throat at the thought of going home.
“Nothing to talk about, Soap.”
Johnny frowned but didn't push. As they climbed aboard, Simon felt his phone vibrate again. His husband's name flashed across the screen. The message was simple.
💩 Home. Tonight. That’s an order, Lieutenant.
The helicopter lifted off, carrying him away from one hell and toward another. It was enough that he made certain to let his captain know he was more than available for any solo op that might pop off while they planned their next move as a unit. The smile from Price was always uplifting. He appreciated the enthusiasm. Always reminding Simon he deserved his days off and should take them. Fuck his days off. Fucking hell. If he only knew.
--
Later that evening, the mess hall buzzed with the familiar din of soldiers winding down. Trays clattered, laughter erupted in waves, and the odd curse punctuated the air. Johnny poked at his food, appetite gone, eyes flicking toward the entrance.
“That door won’t open any faster with you staring at it, Soap.” Price said around a mouthful of what passed for mashed potatoes.
Johnny shrugged, forcing nonchalance. “Just wondering who else might show up.”
The truth was, he hadn’t seen Ghost since they’d touched down and finished debriefing a few hours ago. Simon slipped away immediately afterward, muttering something about “personal leave.” Johnny still couldn’t shake the memory of Ghost’s rigid stance when he’d read that text on the chopper.
Gaz leaned in, voice low. “So about that warehouse in Kandahar… Ghost hanging upside-down, taking out those three men? Brilliant.”
“Aye.” Johnny said, perking up at the mention of his partner. “Though we’re skipping the part where he nearly got himself blown to bits jumping on that grenade.”
Price frowned. “The casing was intact. Risky, but calculated.”
“Calculated my arse.” Johnny muttered. “He didn’t even check before diving on it.”
The others carried on around him, but Johnny’s mind stayed fixed on the door. Finally he couldn’t keep quiet.
“Anyone seen Ghost since we landed?”
Gaz and Price exchanged looks.
“Personal leave, I thought.” Price said, wiping his mouth.
“Maybe he’s off on some secret romantic getaway.” Gaz suggested with a grin.
Johnny felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. The fork in his hand suddenly weighed a ton. The idea of Simon with someone else shouldn’t bother him. It absolutely shouldn’t. Yet here he was, drenched in ice water.
Price snorted, dragging Johnny back. “Riley? Romantic? Not in a million years. In all my time knowing him, I’ve never seen him show interest in anyone. He tolerates you, Soap. That’s practically a declaration of love by Ghost standards.”
Gaz laughed. “You two on the field are a sight. The way you move, anticipate each other, almost telepathic.” He lifted his cup in a mock toast. “Almost as good as me and Price. Almost.”
They all laughed, though Johnny’s came late. His gaze drifted once more to the empty doorway.
“He’s been gone all day.” he said softly, more to himself than the others.
“He’ll turn up when he’s needed.” Price said firmly. “Ghost always does.”
Johnny nodded, but unease gnawed at him.
--
The black SUV delivered Simon to the sprawling estate on the outskirts of London as dusk settled over the manicured grounds. Stone gargoyles guarded the entrance to the three-story Georgian mansion, their granite eyes following him as he approached the massive oak doors. His combat boots felt heavy on the imported marble steps.
Inside, the foyer opened into a cathedral-like space with a crystal chandelier that must have cost more than what Simon made in three years. Oil paintings of stern-faced military men lined walls covered in silk damask wallpaper. The place reeked of old money and older power. Antique furniture arranged with military precision, not a cushion out of place. Medals and commendations displayed in custom-built glass cases. Books that looked like they'd never been opened.
Simon's gear felt suddenly filthy against all this pristine wealth. Blood and cordite still clung to him from the mission, his tactical vest heavy across his aching ribs. He hadn't been allowed to change or clean up. Orders.
A thin red line had been inlaid into the marble floor of the study, actual fucking red marble, cutting through the white like a fresh wound. Simon took his position behind it, boots aligned perfectly with the line, back ramrod straight, eyes forward. Waiting. Like a dog trained to heel.
Major General Grayson Murphy entered from a side door, tumbler of amber liquid in one manicured hand. At sixty-nine, he carried himself with the arrogance of a man who'd spent a lifetime giving orders that couldn't be refused. Silver hair cropped close to his skull, not a strand out of place. His uniform immaculate, decorations gleaming under the recessed lighting. Cold blue eyes assessed Simon from head to toe.
“Phone.” Major General Murphy demanded, holding a hand out to the lieutenant expectantly.
“Sir.” Ghost grunted out. He relinquished his tether to his job, his mission, his Johnny, his salvation.
“Still wearing that ridiculous mask, Lieutenant Riley?” Murphy's voice carried the polished accent of expensive schools and elite military academies. He circled Simon slowly, like a predator. “I've told you how I feel about it in my home.”
Simon remained at attention, staring straight ahead. The mask was his last defense, the final barrier between himself and this man.
“I asked you a question, Lieutenant.” Murphy stopped directly in front of him, close enough that Simon could smell the expensive cologne mixing with whisky.
“Just arrived from mission, sir. No time to change.” Each word felt like broken glass in his throat.
Murphy's lips thinned. He reached up, fingers brushing the edge of the skull mask. Simon fought the urge to recoil. “Take it off.”
Simon's hands remained at his sides. “Permission to shower first, sir. Ah've been in combat for seventy-two hours.”
The blow came without warning. Murphy's open palm connecting with the side of the mask hard enough to snap Simon's head sideways.
“That wasn't a request, Lieutenant. In this house, you don't wear the mask. You don't hide from me.” Murphy's voice remained eerily calm. “Now remove it before I decide your recent... heroics... need to be reviewed by the disciplinary board.”
Simon reached up slowly, unclasping the mask. The cool air hit his face, making him feel naked, exposed. He tucked the mask under his arm and resumed position.
Murphy smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. He traced a finger along Simon's jawline, over the three-day stubble and dried blood that wasn't his own.
“There you are.” Murphy's thumb pressed against Simon's lower lip. “My husband.”
Simon's stomach clenched, but his face remained impassive. This was just another mission. Survive. Endure. Find an exit strategy.
“I heard about your performance in Kandahar.” Murphy circled behind him, voice close to Simon's ear. “Throwing yourself on a grenade? Hanging from a ledge to eliminate targets? One might think you're trying to get yourself killed, Lieutenant.”
Simon stared at the painting on the opposite wall, some naval battle, ships burning on a stormy sea.
“Your Captain Price called me personally.” Murphy's hand rested on Simon's shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle. “He thinks you deserve a commendation. I think you need to remember your primary duty is to return home in one piece.”
“Yes, sir.” He couldn’t imagine Price ever having a reason to call Murphy personally, but he wasn’t questioning it. Someone had given him the information.
“To me.” Murphy's other hand slid around Simon's waist, pulling him back against his chest. “You belong to me, Simon. Or have you forgotten our arrangement?”
Simon's jaw clenched so hard his teeth might crack. “No, sir. Ah haven't forgotten.”
Murphy's lips brushed against his neck. “Good. Out back, now.” he stepped back, allowing the lieutenant to execute a precise turn and follow his orders.
Simon marched across the polished floors, each footstep echoing in the vast emptiness of the mansion. The French doors opened onto the back garden, a pristine expanse of green that might have been beautiful under different circumstances. Perfectly trimmed hedges formed geometric patterns around flower beds bursting with color. A covered swimming pool gleamed in the fading light, its surface undisturbed as glass. He found himself longing for that broken down, husk of a shelter Johnny had pulled him from that morning, before forcing him to come home.
Another red line, this one painted on the stone patio, waited for him. Simon took his position, boots aligned precisely with the marking. Behind him, Murphy's footsteps approached with measured precision.
“You're filthy.” Murphy said, disgust evident in his tone. “Can't have you tracking this... battlefield into my home.”
Simon heard the garden hose being unwound, the metal fitting scraping against stone. He braced himself, but the first blast of ice-cold water still knocked the breath from his lungs. Murphy directed the powerful jet methodically across Simon's body, the pressure painful against his already bruised ribs. Water soaked through his tactical gear, weighing him down, but Simon remained at attention, eyes fixed on the horizon.
“Strip.” Murphy ordered once Simon was thoroughly drenched. “Everything off. Leave it there.”
The wet gear clung to Simon's skin as he removed each piece. Tactical vest first, side arm, then his shirt, revealing purpling bruises across his torso. His boots squelched as he toed them off, followed by socks, thigh holster, trousers, and finally his underwear. The evening air raised goosebumps across his exposed skin as he resumed position, naked and shivering. He secretly hoped his balls crawled back up inside so they survived this visit. There had to be another fucking mission. Just had to be. Fuck. He should have called Laswell first. The major general would have to be cordial to the CIA regardless of what he wanted.
Murphy sprayed him again, more thoroughly this time. The water pressure stung against his bare skin, but Simon welcomed the pain. It was clarifying, something to focus on besides the humiliation burning in his chest.
A towel hit him in the face, thrown with calculated force.
“Your room. Now.”
Simon wrapped the towel around his waist, preserving what little dignity remained to him. He walked through the house, leaving wet footprints on the imported marble, up the grand staircase to the east wing. His “room”. A space smaller than the servants' quarters, contained only a military-issue bed, a wooden bench for activities he would rather not consider, and a small dresser. No personal items. Nothing that marked it as his.
Murphy followed him in, shutting the door with a soft click that somehow sounded more threatening than a slam. Simon stood at attention beside the bed, water still dripping from his hair down his back.
“Bend over the bench.”
Simon's muscles locked in refusal for a fraction of a second, an instinctive resistance he couldn't quite suppress. Murphy noticed. Murphy always noticed.
“That's an order, Lieutenant.”
Simon moved to the wooden bench, positioning himself as commanded. He heard rather than saw Murphy unfasten his belt, the soft metallic clink followed by the sound of a zipper.
What followed was mechanical, brutal efficiency. No preparation. No warning. Just pain that tore through Simon's body like white-hot lightning. He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, refusing to make a sound. His fingers gripped the edges of the bench until his knuckles turned white.
Murphy's breathing grew heavier behind him, his rhythm unfaltering, precise as a metronome. His uniform jacket brushed against Simon's back, the buttons cold against his skin. The light scratching proving to be more of a welcome distraction than he would ever admit. The contrast, Murphy fully clothed while Simon remained naked and vulnerable, was part of the humiliation, part of the control.
When Murphy finished, he pulled away abruptly. Simon felt warm liquid splash across his back and buttocks. He remained perfectly still, waiting for permission to move.
“Welcome home, husband.” Murphy's voice had regained its composure, as if they'd just finished a business meeting. He tucked himself away, straightening his uniform with practiced motions. He set Simon’s phone on the sparce dresser. “We're hosting dinner guests at eight. The Brigadier and his wife. The Ambassador to France. Several members of Parliament.” He checked his watch. “That gives you just under two hours to make yourself presentable.”
Simon remained silent, still bent over the bench.
“I expect you downstairs at precisely seven-forty-five. Wear the blue suit I had tailored for you. And for God's sake, shave properly.” Murphy's hand came to rest on Simon's shoulder, squeezing with false affection. “Don't embarrass me tonight, Lieutenant. Your career depends on it.”
The door closed behind Murphy with the same soft click. Only then did Simon straighten, every movement causing fresh waves of pain. He limped to the adjoining bathroom. The one luxury his room contained. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. Eye black streaking like mascara tears from hollow eyes that stared back at him from a face he barely recognized anymore.
Simon turned on the shower as hot as it would go, stepping under the scalding spray. He scrubbed at his skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the feeling of Murphy's hands, Murphy's body. It never worked. Why couldn’t that fucking grenade have gone off?
As he towel dried, his gaze fell on his phone, retrieved from his tactical vest before he'd been ordered to strip. Well, at least he had been spared that. Three new messages from Johnny. Simon's finger hovered over the screen before he set it down unopened. Better not to drag Johnny into this darkness. Better to keep him safe, untainted.
The blue suit hung in the closet, a perfect fit for a body that didn't feel like his own anymore. Simon began to dress mechanically, preparing for another performance in the endless theater of his life.
--
Johnny paced his quarters, checking his phone for what felt like the hundredth time. Still no response from Simon. The three messages he'd sent over the past few hours stared back at him, each one increasingly desperate.
🧼Just checking if you're alright
🧼 Let me know you made it home safe.
🧼 Ghost? Come on, just a word.
He tossed the phone onto his bunk with a frustrated growl. The device bounced once before settling among the rumpled sheets. Something wasn't right. The way Ghost had looked on the chopper, that text message, the immediate disappearance after debriefing. It all added up to something Johnny couldn't quite piece together.
“Fuck this.” he muttered, snatching his phone back up and pulling up Ghost's contact information. His thumb hovered over the call button before he reluctantly set it down again. If Simon wanted space, he should respect that. But the knot in his stomach tightened, warning him that whatever Ghost was dealing with went beyond needing space.