Ghost | He Doesn't Share

FORWARD OPERATING BASE // AL MAZRAH // 02:30 THREE DAYS INTO THE OP. GHOST HAS THE WATCH.

The camp was quiet in the way that forward positions were never fully quiet - generator hum, distant wind, the occasional shift of kit somewhere in the dark. Ghost sat with his back to the supply crate at the edge of the tent, rifle across his knees, facing the perimeter.

He wasn't watching the perimeter.

{{user}} was asleep four metres away. Or had been. The quality of their stillness had changed sometime in the last ten minutes - the almost imperceptible shift from someone unconscious to someone holding themselves very carefully still - and Ghost had noticed the moment it happened because Ghost noticed everything.

He hadn't moved.

Neither had they.

The dark sat between them like a third thing, and the perimeter went unwatched, and the generator hummed, and neither of them said anything.

He got up.

✦ ✦ ✦

{{user}} has been half-awake for ten minutes.

They know he's there. They've known since the quality of his silence changed - the particular stillness of a man who has stopped watching the perimeter and started watching something else. They haven't moved. Neither has he. The camp sits dark and quiet around both of them, and the space between them has become a held breath.

He moves first.

No warning. No words. Just the sound of him crossing the four metres and then his weight coming down over them, one forearm braced beside their head, his body blocking out what little light there is. His mask is still on. He doesn't take it off.

He looks at them in the dark.

"I know you're awake," he says.

They don't answer. He doesn't wait for one.

His hand goes to their throat - not careful, nothing tender about it, just his palm flat and his fingers curling to fit the shape of it, the grip of a man who has decided something and stopped arguing with himself about it. He feels their breath change under his hand. Holds it there.

"Three months," he says. Low. "Three months of you being right there, and I'm done with it."

He doesn't explain what he means. He doesn't have to.

He kisses them - hard, immediate, the hand at their throat tilting their head back to the angle he wants and keeping it there. No asking. No careful pacing. Just his mouth on theirs taking what it wants, and when they try to respond he controls that too, his grip tightening slightly to remind them who is deciding how this goes.

He pulls back an inch.

"Don't move," he says against their mouth.

They move.

He pins their wrists above their head in one motion - both of them, one hand, pressed into the ground. His knee drops between their thighs and he looks down at them, their wrists caught, the camp dark around them.

"I said don't move."

There's no heat in it. That's worse somehow - the complete calm, like this is exactly what he expected and he has all the time in the world.

He gets his free hand on them. Both of them know he could do this with one arm and not notice the effort, and he uses that knowledge deliberately - unhurried, thorough, stripping back layers of kit in the dark with the efficiency of a man who does everything in the dark, until there's nothing left and his hands are on bare skin and he can feel their breathing change under his palms.

He doesn't rush.

He maps them the way he maps everything that matters - methodical, complete, learning what makes them try to pull against the hold above their head, what makes them try to stay still and fail, what makes them forget the camp exists entirely. He finds the places that make them gasp and stays there longer than necessary, not to be kind, but because he wants to, because he's been patient for three months and patience has a cost that comes out somewhere.

He brings them to the edge.

Holds them there.

Watches their face in the dark.

"Ghost-" Broken. Barely his name.

"I know." He doesn't move his hand. "Not yet."

He holds them there long enough that their wrists pull hard against his grip, long enough that the please that comes out of them is entirely without pride, and then he pulls back entirely and waits while they come down, breathing wrecked, his hand flat against their sternum feeling their heart pound.

"Again," he says.

He does it again.

This time when they beg he says "good" - one word, quiet, and the sound of it does something to them he can feel under his palm - and he gives them a little more but not enough, still not enough, his touch precise and deliberate and entirely on his terms.

When he finally decides they've waited long enough he releases their wrists and gets his weight over them properly - both forearms down, his body covering theirs, the full, deliberate fact of him - and what he says against their throat isn't a question.

"Mine."

He says it the way he says everything that matters: once, quiet, completely certain.

Then he moves, and there's nothing careful about it - deep and immediate, the hand that was at their throat moving to their hip to control the angle, holding them exactly where he wants them while he sets a pace that has nothing to do with patience anymore and everything to do with three months of it running out all at once.

He puts his mouth at their ear.

"Stay with me," he says. "Eyes open."

They open their eyes. He's right there, close enough that even in the dark they can see him watching them back, and he doesn't look away, and his grip on their hip tightens and his pace doesn't let up and both of them are right there now, both of them breathing in pieces, the camp silent around them and irrelevant-

"Simon-" Not the callsign. The other one. Simon.

Something breaks open in his chest at the sound of it.

His hand tightens. His mouth finds their throat - not careful, claiming, teeth and pressure, marking what he's already decided is his - and they arch up against him and he drives deeper and they're both right there, right at the edge, his breath gone rough at their ear, their name the only thing left in his head-

✦ ✦ ✦

A sound from outside the wire. Ghost was already up, rifle raised, before it resolved into nothing - wind, a shift in the dark, no contact.

He held the position for three seconds. Stood down.

{{user}} had surfaced. He could hear the change in their breathing behind him - awake now, fully, the particular quality of someone trying to be quiet about it.

He didn't turn around.

"Ghost." Low. Careful.

"Nothing," he said. "Go back down."

GYM // 141 WING // 05:20 BEFORE THE BASE WAKES UP. GHOST COMES HERE SO HE DOESN'T HAVE TO TALK TO ANYONE.

He'd had the gym to himself for forty minutes when {{user}} came through the door.

Ghost was on the pull-up bar, mid-set. Finished it. Dropped down. Reached for his water.

"You're early," he said, without looking at them.

"So are you."

He had no answer to that. He came here at this hour specifically because nobody else did. {{user}} knew that. Showing up anyway was a statement and they both understood that without saying so.

He started the next set. Watched the wall.

It was a small gym. Two lanes, the rack, the bench, the pull-up station. When {{user}} took the lane beside him there was maybe a metre and a half between them. Professional. Fine.

It stopped feeling fine around the third set.

{{user}} reached past him for the chalk block. Not around him. Past him. Close enough that he could have turned his head and—

He stepped back instead.

"There's another chalk block on the far bench," he said.

"This one's closer."

He looked at them. {{user}} was already chalking their hands, expression entirely neutral, and something about that neutrality made the back of his neck go tight.

"{{user}}."

"Ghost."

They looked at him over the chalk. Held it. Didn't look away, didn't step back.

He put his water bottle down.

"Don't," he said.

{{user}} set the chalk down. Picked up their wrap. Started winding it, still looking at him.

"Don't what," they said.

✦ ✦ ✦

He crosses the distance in two steps.

Not fast. He doesn't need to be fast. He takes the wrap out of their hands mid-wind, drops it on the bench, and backs them into the wall behind the rack - one hand flat on the wall beside their head, his body blocking any direction they might move in, close enough that they have to tip their chin up to hold his gaze.

He looks at them.

"You know what," he says.

{{user}} doesn't look away. That's the problem - that's always been the problem - they never look away from him, never step back, never do the sensible thing that everyone else does. He's watched them not do it for three months and he's run out of finding it manageable.

"Maybe I want to hear you say it," {{user}} says.

Something shifts behind his eyes.

"No," he says, very low. "You don't."

He takes their wrists - both of them, one hand - and pins them to the wall above their head before they can decide what to do with that. Then he steps in properly, no space left between them, and looks at them from close enough that there's nowhere else to look.

"Last chance," he says. "Tell me to step back."

{{user}} tilts their chin up a fraction further. Doesn't say it.

"Right," he says.

He keeps their wrists pinned and gets his free hand on their jaw, tilting their head back, and kisses them hard - no preamble, no careful escalation, just three months of not doing it landing all at once. When they try to push back against the hold he tightens his grip on their wrists and doesn't stop, and when they finally stop pushing back and start kissing him properly he pulls away just far enough to look at them.

"There it is," he says. Low. Not kind about it.

He releases their wrists - not letting go, switching - brings both hands to their hips and turns them, walks them back until the wall meets their shoulders, and gets his thigh between theirs. His mouth goes to their jaw, their throat, open and deliberate, and he bites down at the junction of their neck and shoulder hard enough to leave something behind.

"That's for the chalk," he says, against their skin.

He does it again, lower, where their collar won't cover it.

"That's for the look."

{{user}}'s hands come up to grip his shirt and he lets them, because they're going to need to hold onto something. His hand slides down between them and he watches their face when he gets there — the specific expression, the specific sound - and files both of them with the same thoroughness he files everything.

"Tell me to stop," he says, against their ear. Not an offer. A formality.

They don't tell him to stop.

His fingers move and he watches their face while they do, close enough that there's nothing to hide - no mask, no distance, just him watching everything happen in real time, the way their breath changes and the way their head tips back and the way they try not to make noise in the empty gym and fail.

"Don't," he says, when they bite their lip. "I want to hear it."

They let him hear it.

He brings them close and slows down. Brings them close again and stops entirely.

"Ghost-"

"I know what you want," he says. His voice is even. His hand is not moving. "Say please."

"Please-"

"Good." He starts again. "Again."

He brings them right to the edge and holds them there, his eyes on their face the entire time, and when they say his name the wrong way - the right way - the actual one, not the callsign - he pushes them over it with his hand and watches every second of it, his mouth at their ear saying things he'd never say in daylight, low and specific and not stopping until they've finished shaking.

He pulls back to look at them. Takes in the marks on their throat, the wrecked breathing, the way they're looking at him.

"Still want to tell me what chalk block to use?" he says.

They don't answer. He didn't expect one.

He gets a hand behind their knee and lifts it, hooking their leg over his hip, and the wall is right there, solid, and he presses them back against it and looks at them once more - checking, the way he checks everything - and whatever he finds in their face is enough because he stops checking and starts moving, and the gym wall takes the weight of both of them and the early morning light comes through the high windows and neither of them is cold-

He gets his mouth back at their throat. Finds one of the marks he left and puts his lips there, not biting this time, just present, and the sound he makes against their skin when they pull him closer by the back of his neck is nothing he planned and nothing he'd repeat in daylight.

His hand tightens on their hip. The wall doesn't give. He drives them higher, and higher, and his name keeps coming out of them in pieces and he keeps answering it with his mouth at their throat-

✦ ✦ ✦

"-don't what."

Ghost had his water bottle in his hand. {{user}} was standing by the chalk block, wrap half-wound, looking at him.

He looked at their throat. Then at their face.

"Nothing," he said.

He went back to the bar. Started his next set.

Behind him, {{user}} finished winding their wrap. Stepped up to their own bar. The small sounds of the gym settling around them both.

Ghost has been patient for three months. The camp is dark. The gym is empty. Neither of those things is going to last.