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Nobody knew what Ghost had done.
Only that he’d done something.
Because Roach wasn’t speaking to him.
At first it was subtle.
Ghost realized it before he was fully awake.
Usually, mornings were… predictable. Roach ran warm, all restless limbs and unconscious movement, the kind of man who migrated in his sleep like he was trying to escape the bed. He always ended up half on top of Ghost by morning – an arm slung across Ghost’s chest, knee hooked over his thigh, forehead pressed somewhere beneath Ghost’s jaw.
Today, there was space.
Actual space.
Ghost surfaced slowly, senses ticking online one by one, and immediately clocked what was wrong. Roach was on his side, facing the opposite wall, back turned so decisively it felt intentional. His shoulders were tense, pulled up like he was bracing against something. No hand reaching back. No foot tangled with Ghost’s. Not even the habitual unconscious shuffle closer when Ghost shifted.
Ghost didn’t move at first. “…Roach,” he murmured, quiet, not quite a question.
Roach made a noncommittal sound that could generously be described as awake.
Ghost waited. Nothing else followed.
He stared at Roach’s back, the sharp line of his spine, and tried to run through possibilities. Had he come back late? Said something wrong? Forgotten something important? He’d survived worse interrogations than this, but this – this was unfamiliar territory.
Ghost reached out. Not much. Just fingers brushing Roach’s hip.
Roach immediately pulled away.
Ghost froze.
“…You good?” he asked, carefully neutral.
“Mm,” Roach replied.
Still facing the wall.
Still not touching him.
Ghost lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling a slow, unfamiliar irritation coil in his chest. Roach cuddled. Aggressively. He treated personal space like a suggestion. The absence of it felt louder than any argument.
The walk to the mess only confirmed it wasn’t a fluke.
Roach didn’t fall into step beside him like always. Didn’t bump shoulders. Didn’t complain about the coffee before even tasting it. Instead, he slowed, then sped up, then conveniently ended up next to Soap.
Ghost adjusted his stride.
Roach adjusted faster.
In the mess, Roach usually slid into the seat beside Ghost without looking – sometimes half-sitting on him if he wasn’t paying attention. Today, he took the long way around the table. The long way. Like Ghost was a puddle he didn’t want to step in.
Ghost clocked it. Said nothing.
They ate in relative silence, punctured only by Soap’s chewing and Gaz complaining about powdered eggs like this was somehow new information.
Roach reached across the table. “Salt,” he said.
Ghost’s hand was right there. Inches away.
Soap blinked. “Mate, it’s right next to-”
Roach stared pointedly past Ghost’s shoulder, expression neutral to the point of being icy. Like Ghost was a chair. Or a wall. Or a mildly offensive piece of furniture.
Soap slowly, cautiously, picked up the salt and handed it over like he was diffusing a bomb. “…There you go,” he muttered.
Ghost didn’t reach for anything. He just watched.
Roach sprinkled salt with surgical precision, movements controlled, almost exaggerated. He nodded once, satisfied, then stabbed his fork into his food.
“So,” Ghost said lightly, testing the waters, “you heading to the gym later?”
“Maybe,” Roach replied.
One word. Flat.
He stood immediately, tray still half-full, and walked away without another glance.
Soap watched him go, brow furrowing. “That’s… new.”
Gaz followed a moment later, eyes flicking between them. “He didn’t even take your pudding.”
By midday, the silence had become its own mission.
The mess hall was packed in the usual way: chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly near the coffee machine, cutlery clattering against plastic trays. The air smelled like overcooked vegetables and something fried beyond recognition
Roach entered with Gaz, talking animatedly about something – some in-joke from the range, Ghost caught only half of it. Roach’s hands moved when he talked, expressive, loose. He looked fine. Great, even.
Ghost stood when he saw him. He pulled out the empty chair beside his own. An invitation.
He waited.
Roach stopped talking.
For a second, Ghost was sure he’d misjudged it – sure Roach would roll his eyes, make a comment, take the seat like always.
Instead, Roach turned slowly, tray in hand, took in the offered chair – and then deliberately walked past it.
Ghost remained standing, hand still on the chair, for exactly long enough to register it had been intentional.
Roach crossed the room and scanned for a seat with exaggerated care. He bypassed two open spots nearer the table. Passed one that would’ve put him in Ghost’s peripheral vision. And finally chose the one empty chair that put maximum distance between them.
He sat. Set his tray down. Adjusted his cutlery.
Didn’t look back.
Ghost exhaled slowly through his nose and let the chair slide back in. He sat, shoulders tense beneath his jacket, gaze fixed on Roach’s across the room.
Soap leaned closer, voice dropping to a stage whisper that was absolutely not subtle. “Congratulations. You’ve been emotionally exiled. Whatever you did, ye better fix it.”
“…Right,” he muttered.
The rest of the day was a masterclass in petty restraint.
Roach spoke to everyone except Ghost. Asked Soap to pass equipment that Ghost was actively holding. Addressed briefings to the room at large, eyes skimming right over him like he was an inconvenient typo. At one point, he physically adjusted his path to avoid walking within arm’s reach of Ghost, nearly colliding with Price instead.
Price paused. Looked between them. “…Am I interrupting something?”
“Nope,” Roach said brightly, already walking away.
Ghost stared after him, jaw tight behind the mask.
Whatever he’d done – whatever he’d missed – Roach was milking it.
Ghost’s first attempt was quiet. Practical. Reasonable.
Which, in hindsight, was wildly optimistic.
In morning Ghost had woken up alone.
Not because Roach had slipped out early – no half-warm imprint on the mattress, no discarded shirt, no grumbled complaints about alarms – but because Roach hadn’t been there at all. His side of the bed was untouched. Cold. Empty in a way that felt wrong.
By mid-morning, Ghost decided to address it - the lull between breakfast and lunch when the mess hall smelled like burnt coffee and regret. A few operators lingered over second cups, killing time before drills.
Roach sat at the end of the table with Soap and Gaz, boot hooked around the chair rung, fork idly pushing food around his plate. He was talking – actually talking – something animated about the range, hands moving as he explained.
Ghost entered carrying two mugs of tea.
Not the standard-issue sludge everyone tolerated. The good stuff. Leaves he’d brought back himself. The kind Roach had once called “acceptable, surprisingly,” which was practically a love letter.
Soap saw him first. Mid-sentence, he stopped talking.
Gaz followed his gaze. Went quiet.
Price, already seated with his tea, didn’t look up – just sighed like a man bracing for impact.
Ghost crossed the room and set one mug down in front of Roach.
“Tea,” he said.
Roach didn’t look at it.
Didn’t look at Ghost.
“I’ve got water,” he replied, lifting his canteen pointedly and taking a sip.
The mug sat there. Untouched. Steam curling upward, hopeful and foolish.
Ghost stared at it for a beat too long. “…Right.”
He sat anyway. Close. Not crowding. Just there. Like this was normal. Like they did this every day – which they did.
Roach shifted his chair an inch away.
Soap’s eyebrows climbed.
Ghost folded his hands on the table. Waited.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then a full minute.
Roach spoke – to Soap. “Did you finish those reports?”
Soap glanced between them, uncomfortable. “Uh – yeah.”
“Good,” Roach said. “Send ’em over later.”
Ghost cleared his throat. “You want-”
Roach stood.
Picked up his plate. Didn’t acknowledge the sentence, the mug, or the man sitting next to him. “I’ll eat outside,” he said casually. “Too loud in here.”
The mess hall was absolutely normal-volume loud.
He walked away.
Soap stared after him, then slowly turned to Ghost. “Wow.”
Gaz leaned back. “He didn’t even pretend to consider it.”
Ghost picked up the untouched mug.
Then the other.
He stood.
Soap winced. “Brutal.”
Ghost paused, then, without ceremony, he turned, walked to the sink, and dumped both mugs out at once.
Price finally lifted his eyes. “Tea diplomacy failed.”
Ghost muttered something that sounded suspiciously like work in progress and stalked off.
Soap watched him go, then looked at the sink. “Shame. That was the good stuff.”
Gaz nodded. “Man brought out the premium leaves and still got iced.”
By the second evening, everyone was invested.
Archer had started a notebook titled Ghost’s Fails of Affection. Soap had added a tally system and was taking it very seriously. There were rules now. Categories. Bonus points for public humiliation.
The rec room smelled like burnt popcorn and cheap disinfectant. A loud action movie played on the TV – something with explosions every thirty seconds and dialogue no one was listening to.
Roach sat on the couch with a bowl of crisps, posture deliberately relaxed. Too relaxed. Boots hooked under the coffee table, eyes locked on the screen like his life depended on it. He laughed at the right moments. Reached for crisps without looking.
Ghost walked in.
Conversation died on impact.
Ghost didn’t acknowledge anyone. Didn’t even glance toward the TV. He crossed the room and sat down beside Roach. Close enough that their knees touched.
Roach went rigid for exactly half a second. Then he forced himself to relax again, jaw tightening as he stared at the screen. He didn’t shift away. Didn’t look over. Just kept eating crisps like this was fine. Normal. Nothing to see here.
Ten minutes passed.
Soap’s leg bounced so hard the table rattled.
Ghost shifted, slow and careful. He rested his arm along the back of the couch, fingers brushing Roach’s shoulder.
Roach stiffened. Didn’t pull away.
Ghost leaned in just enough for his voice to be felt more than heard.
“Gary.”
Roach’s fingers paused in the bowl.
Then he crunched another crisp, louder than necessary.
Ghost dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Roach’s hair.
Soap made a strangled noise and turned it into a cough. Gaz elbowed him on reflex.
Ghost didn’t look up. He stayed exactly where he was – steady, patient, infuriatingly calm.
A few seconds later-
“Love.”
Another kiss. This one just behind Roach’s temple.
Gaz slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, he’s romancing him.”
Roach’s jaw tightened. A faint flush crept up his neck, but he still didn’t turn.
Ghost’s thumb brushed absently against Roach’s shoulder.
“Sweetheart.”
A kiss to the temple this time. Unhurried.
The movie exploded loudly. No one noticed.
Price lowered his mug. “He’s escalating.”
Soap whispered, horrified, “He kissed him. In public.”
Roach finally spoke, still staring at the screen. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
Ghost hummed.
“Baby.”
The kiss landed just at Roach’s hairline, softer than the rest.
Gaz groaned. “This is too intimate for government property.”
Price closed his eyes. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”
Roach turned his head slowly, finally meeting Ghost’s eyes. His expression was tight – annoyed, flustered, and very clearly losing ground. “You done?” he asked.
Ghost didn’t move his arm. Didn’t back off.
“No.”
Roach stared at him for a long second.
Long enough that Soap held his breath.
Then – quietly, almost against his will – Roach huffed a laugh.
“Idiot,” he muttered.
Ghost’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not yet. But close.
Roach reached into the bowl of crisps and held it out without looking.
Ghost took one.
Then Roach added, immediately, “This does not mean you’re forgiven.”
“…For what?” Ghost asked.
Roach froze. Just for a fraction of a second.
Soap choked. Gaz made a noise like a dying engine.
Roach slowly turned back to the screen. “Unbelievable.”
Ghost tilted his head. “Gary.”
“No.”
“Love.”
“No.”
“Sweetheart.”
Roach grabbed another crisp and shoved it into his mouth. “Stop calling me things.”
Ghost leaned back, confused and still absolutely not enlightened.
They made up later.
No one knew exactly how.
What they did know was the noise.
The next morning, the team sat in the mess in exhausted silence.
Soap was already there, slumped over the table like gravity had personally singled him out. Dark circles sat under his eyes, deep enough to qualify as field camouflage. He stared into his coffee as if it had betrayed him.
“I didn’t sleep,” he said hoarsely.
Gaz shuffled in next and dropped into the chair beside him, rubbing his face like he was trying to erase memory itself. “They weren’t even trying to be quiet,” he muttered.
Price was already seated across from them, posture immaculate, expression weary in a way only long experience could earn. He took a measured sip of his coffee. “Thought we were under attack,” he said calmly. “Woke up halfway to my sidearm.”
Soap groaned and let his forehead hit the table. “I heard Roach,” he said into the wood. “He was-”
“Do not,” Price said immediately, “finish that sentence.”
Chemo wandered in next, eyes bloodshot, hoodie half-zipped, clutching a mug like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. He paused when he saw the table.
“…Let me guess,” he said slowly. “You all heard how they made up.”
Soap lifted his head just enough to glare.
Chemo sat down carefully. “I swear,” he said, staring into his mug, “I heard things that will haunt me forever.”
Meat came in behind him, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought the bed was gonna collapse.”
Toad nodded grimly from the doorway. “Same. I was honestly impressed.”
Frost grabbed coffee and joined them, looking far too awake for someone who’d clearly heard everything. “Yeah, how is the bed still standing,” he asked, genuinely curious. “That thing’s older than me.”
Silence fell again.
Gaz rubbed his temples. “I changed rooms at three.”
Meat blinked. “Did it help?”
“No.”
Gaz muttered, “The acoustics carry.”
They all stared at the table in silence again.
The door opened.
Ghost walked in first.
Composed as ever. Movements smooth, unbothered. Like he hadn’t personally committed psychological warfare on his own unit.
Roach followed.
He was wearing one of Ghost’s hoodies.
It hung loose on him, sleeves covering his hands, collar stretched just enough that Soap’s eyes immediately zeroed in on the faint marks peeking out along his neck and shoulder.
Small. Dark.
He looked relaxed in a way he hadn’t in days – hair a mess, eyes bright, mouth tilted into a lazy, satisfied smile. Like a man who had been thoroughly worshipped and had no regrets about it.
Roach grinned. “Morning.”
Soap stared at him with a hard eyes. “I’m requesting hazard pay,” he muttered.
Price sighed into his coffee. “Request denied,” he said. “But noted.”
“Next time,” he said tiredly, “try reconciling without acoustics.”
Roach glanced at Ghost, then back at Price. “No promises. He’s… very effective.”
The mess hall cleared slowly.
Not all at once. One chair scraping back, a muttered excuse, someone suddenly remembering a very important task elsewhere. No one wanted to be the last one out.
Eventually, it was just the two of them.
Ghost leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, quiet as ever. Roach hovered close, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, rocking slightly on his heels like he had excess energy he didn’t know what to do with.
“You know,” Roach said casually, “you could’ve just talked to me.”
Ghost huffed. “You stopped listening.”
“I was sulking.”
“You were being dramatic.”
Roach huffed. “Well. You made me mad.” Then he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Ghost’s mouth – brief, easy, like punctuation rather than an argument.
Ghost froze for half a second.
Then exhaled.
Roach pulled back just enough to look at him. “What?”
Ghost cleared his throat. “Didn’t expect that.”
Roach blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re kidding.”
“What?”
“You were all cuddly yesterday,” Roach said, eyebrows climbing. “In front of everyone.”
Ghost looked away. “Different circumstances.”
Roach laughed softly. “You kissed me on the head. Repeatedly.”
“That was strategic.”
Roach leaned in again, grin wicked. “You called me baby.”
Ghost’s shoulders tensed. “I was trying to fix things.”
“And now a kiss is surprising?” Roach shook his head, amused. “Make up your mind, Simon.”
Ghost sighed, defeated. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” Roach said cheerfully.
He stole another quick kiss, just to prove the point.
Ghost didn’t freeze this time.
He kissed him back.
Slower. Deeper. Like he was making a decision and committing to it fully.
Roach’s hands curled into the fabric of Ghost’s hoodie, fingers gripping tight, grounding himself there. Ghost’s hand slid to the back of Roach’s neck, thumb resting just under his jaw, steady and sure. His other hand found Roach’s waist, pulling him closer without hesitation.
Too close.
Roach made a quiet, pleased sound against Ghost’s mouth and leaned in, weight shifting naturally, familiar, like they’d always fit this way.
They didn’t stop.
Didn’t rush either.
Just stayed there, wrapped up in each other, the mess hall forgotten – doors, witnesses, and all.