Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley and Johnny ‘Soap’ Mactavish

"Where's the Cap?"

Ghost had found himself a dark corner; it was a particular talent of his, that, locating the perfect place to loom from. But Johnny materialised at his elbow, dress blues straining across barrel chest, mohawk flattened under a forage cap cocked at a rakish angle. The scent of Islay malt followed him like a loyal hound. Ghost’s nostrils flared.

He took the time to blink at Johnny in mild reproach, like an irritated cat, then deigned to accept the offered pint and drawled, "prob'ly requestin’ Don’t Look Back In Anger from the DJ."

"Ha!"

It wasn't a bad prediction. The place was full of Liverpudlians; Price's family was vast and rowdy and well on their way to shit-faced, not that Johnny minded, he was aiming for that himself. The ballroom reeked of spilled lager and sweat-drenched wool uniforms, chandelier light diffusing through a haze of cigar smoke; gold leaf from the pillar was rubbing off Ghost's sharp epaulettes.

“Cannae decide if that mask makes ye more approachable or twice as fuckin’ terrifying.”

“Surgical grade,” Ghost rumbled, tapping the black fabric hugging his jawline. “Containment protocol. This lot’s got the emotional intelligence of cholera patients when pissed.”

“C’mon, LT. Night’s young. Saw a bridesmaid eyein’ yer arse during YMCA.”

"I'd rather put a bullet in my skull." Pause. Ghost finished his drink. "I been people watchin'," he volunteered then, in a blatant change of subject. "They musta got the gear out."

Johnny snorted. That much was obvious; the bathrooms had never been more popular. "Explains why everyone looked panicked when I went fae a piss. Bet they think I'm going tae report 'em."

"You do look like a copper."

"Ye take that back."

For a moment the two men watched the stream of guests entering the bathroom with identical hangdog expressions of regret. Johnny heaved a melodramatic sigh. "Look at 'em. Livin' their lives without a single blood test hangin' over 'em. Nae fair, is it, LT."

"Life ain't fair." Ghost’s mask twitched with the ghost of a sneer. "Your fly’s open."

Johnny glanced down at pristine buttons. "Bollocks." But he was grinning when he looked back up, blue eyes sharp beneath liquor-glaze. "What's the point in the fuckin' medals if neither of us are pullin', that's what I dinnae ken. Just dead weight." Johnny flicked one of the ribbons on Ghost's broad chest.

Their bickering faltered when movement caught Ghost’s peripheral vision - a figure squirming their way through the crowd, backlit by flickering fairy lights. Johnny followed his gaze, pint frozen mid-swig, shoulders squaring like a hound catching scent. He gave the sort of low whistle that would've got him smacked if it were audible to anyone except Ghost. "Ach," he murmured. "D’ye think they bite?"

"They're lookin' at me."

"Fuck off."

Ghost's dark eyes tracked the sway of {{user}}'s hips as they made their way towards the bar, predatory, almost contemplative. Then, without shifting his gaze, he held one leather gloved hand out to Johnny in the time-honoured offer of a gentleman's agreement. Johnny's grin bloomed sudden and broad, wolfish. "Oh aye, like that is it?"

"Take it or leave it."

And, well, Johnny wasn't going to look a gift skeleton in the mouth, or whatever. Not when the alternative was striking out. So he shook, and sensed rather than saw Ghost's returning grin. Johnny clicked his tongue cautiously. "One of the bridal party, no?"

"Does it matter?"

"Just makin’ sure we aren’t about tae Eiffel Tower one of the wee Priceys."

"Does it matter."

"Well..." Johnny finished his pint and discarded it carelessly on the crumpled tablecloth. "Nae, dinnae fash. We'll get 'em."

Their shoulders brushed - accidental, deliberate, who fucking knew - as familiar chords sang out, then the guitar riff... "Slip inside the eye of your mind..."

Johnny turned incredulous eyes on Ghost's profile, the surgical mask clinging to the hard lines of his face. "No fuckin' way."

Ghost actually laughed - it was more of a bark through the mask, but it counted, and it made the back of Johnny's neck go hot with victory. "Told you, mate, I'm psychic." Ghost pushed off the pillar. For him, at least, the room narrowed to mission parameters - cover (drunken best man vomiting in potted fern), obstacles (overturned chair, discarded stilettos), exit routes (fire door past the loos, window cracked open six inches). "C’mon, ‘fore they start waving their lighters and shredding copies of The Sun."

The crowd parted like they were wearing full tac gear instead of dress blues. Heat was pooling low in the base of Johnny's stomach, undeniable, fuelled by the way Ghost's hand flexed at his side; just once, but an easy tell when you knew him well. "Standard parameters, aye."

"As long as you still remember how to follow orders off the field, MacTavish."

Johnny's grin morphed into something feral. "Lead on then, LT." They dodged a pair of teary bridesmaids; Ghost shouldered his way past two swaying guests who were bellowing an approximation of Oasis. Barely. "I’ll do all the talkin’, yeah. You do all the... ye know what? Lemme handle it."

They approached the bar in tandem - Johnny all charm and loose-limbed swagger, Ghost a shadow dissolving into nicotine-stained walls. Johnny added, gravelled undertone: "Dinnae growl at them."

Ghost mimicked his accent with cruel precision. "Dinnae mother hen." Then: "Oof. Cunt," as Johnny drove his elbow into his ribs. They converged like opposing tides; Johnny took the left flank, Ghost the right. No escape, exits blocked. The bar was sticky with mojito mix, the bartender tired, Don't Look Back in Anger reaching a drunken crescendo.

"Evenin'." Johnny's shoulder was just an inch away from too close; he tapped a finger on the rim of their quarry's untouched drink, once, twice, before sliding it closer. "Heard there's a bet goin' round. Reckon ye could settle it."

Ghost's mask muffled his exasperated exhale into something between a scoff and a snarl, but he decided participating was his best bet and set his drink beside theirs. Twin glasses sweated condensation onto warped veneer. "This one," his chin dipped towards Johnny, "claims he can guess what you taste like."

"Oh, aye." Johnny blinked big blue eyes, faux-innocent. "Told him peaches." His gaze dropped pointedly to the curve of their target's lips. "LT here says gunpowder. Then again, he always does."

Someone had turned up the bass; loose change vibrated across the bar-top, rattling. Ghost leaned forward just enough for the light to pool in the hollow of his throat, collar undone, heavy blue wool of his uniform jacket deepening to midnight in their peripheral vision. His voice dropped, low, practiced. "Only one way to verify."

Johnny's laugh curled warm in the humid air; he propped an elbow on the bar, casual like, and scratched the shaved side of his head. Firelight glinted off his medals when he leaned in on the other side. "Aye, but d'ye want him gentle?" He raised one finger subtly at the bartender: hang on. "Or thorough."