#The way John is looking at Simon's chest is particularly *chef's kiss*

[starlightvld]

(Additional sketches by @kibagib of scenes from chapter 5 of Broken Bones and Shattered Hearts, my angsty ghostsoap fic. Snippet of chapter 5 is below [spoiler-y parts under the cut])

__

John grits his teeth against a wave of longing as he stands and slowly walks across the room toward the embodiment of everything he's been both hating and missing all these years. The embodiment of everything he's lost. Simon goes preternaturally still, perhaps sensing John's change in mood as he stops less than a foot away, his gaze scouring that familiar broad chest.

All the old scars are there. He knows the stories behind some and even treated a few of them himself in dark alleys or cold safe houses, but others — especially the most vicious of them — are still a mystery. 

I was scared of losin' you like I lost my family.

Ghost was never one to share much of his past, and Soap, though he might've pushed things when teasing or bantering, had never crossed those lines Ghost drew for him, even during those nights when he thought maybe... just maybe... Simon was coming to see him more often than Ghost. 

There's so much he doesn't know.

He tells himself he doesn't want to know, but the lie chimes a sour note in the chaos of his mind.

A few new scars peek through the dusting of blond chest hair, and John thinks maybe it would be worth the pain to learn them — one last night with the man he'd thought forever lost to him, one last rush of feeling before Simon leaves him again. Because despite Simon's assurances, despite all the words shared between them today, the leaving still feels as sure to him as the changing of the seasons or the rising and setting of the sun.

The trust is gone.

But everything else?

It's all there, pushing up from that deep ocean and pressing against his sternum like a boulder pinning him to the ground.

His chest hitches with a shaking breath as he reaches out and rests his palm between Simon's pecs. A corresponding soft rush of air over his face is the only indication the touch affects Simon at all. The silver disks that state name, number, and blood type sit just above his fingertips, and he frowns as he realizes there are more disks on the standard-issue silver chain that there should be.

He slides his hand up to brush over the Riley on display, and Simon's chest convulses. His hand shoots up to cover John's, obscuring the tags, but not before they're jostled around to reveal a different yet wholly familiar name on the tags underneath.

MacTavishJ C

He jerks his head up to finally look Simon in the eye, but Simon has turned his head to the side, blotches of color forming high on his bare cheeks.

"Simon," he says in a low and disbelieving tone. "Are those my tags?"

Simon still doesn't look at him or respond, but he does drop his hand. John stays still. Waits. It takes a few seconds, but Simon finally glances over at him.

His curt nod is like a kick to the chest. 

John's breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, and the boulder bares down on him as he looks down at where his fingertips touch the silver disks — the tags he was told were lost during his final mission. He'd come into the hospital without them, setting off a chain of endless paperwork for Price.

"Ye've had them? All this time?"

"Just... just wanted to have somethin' of you. In case..."

"In case I died again and they couldn't bring me back?" 

John whispers the question even as the hope he doesn't want — can't afford to indulge — digs in like a splinter in that hollow place inside. Simon hums, and it's answer enough to have John clenching his jaw to fight the pressure behind his eyes.

"We weren't owt in the military's eyes," Simon says in a low rumble. "They woulda sent 'em to your family. And I knew how much you hated those fuckers. Well. Almost all of 'em."

"But ye kept 'em even when ye knew I was still alive?"

Simon doesn't respond. And John... 

John frowns as logic bullies its way into those warm feelings. "Wait... Ye mean to say ye've been wearing these for years? What if ye were injured and the medics didnae know which one to use? We're no' even the same blood type, ye wee radge! If yer vest gets damaged or removed before they can see it, ye could get yerself killed—"

"Negative," Simon interrupts. "O positive is safe for B positive blood types."

"But—"

"If you want 'em back, just say so," Simon rasps. "Otherwise, they stay where they are."

Simon looks away. His whole body is coiled tight like a spring, as if he's bracing for another barrage of angry words from John. And John should be angry. Simon has been wearing John's tags all this time like some sort of fucking military widower, when he was the one who destroyed everything they were to begin with.

Fucked me up seein' you die like that.

Light begins to dawn as he puts the pieces together.

"I'm no' fucking dead, ye bastard," John growls, though the words don't have the bite they should. Instead, his voice is graveled. Desperate. "I'm right here. I've been here all along."

When John's hand slides up and grips hard at the back of Simon's neck, Simon whips his gaze back to John, and something clicks into place in his stance and expression. Perhaps it's the familiarity of the action. Perhaps it's something about John's face, though he can't begin to imagine what he must look like — can't image what the information that Simon has been wearing John's tags next to his own for three and a half fucking years has done to his expression.

He's so tired of fighting. So tired of the anger and grief that's festered inside him for years. It's not gone. Far from it. But standing here in front of the only person he's ever truly loved with his whole heart, his need outweighs his caution.

And maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it never mattered. If he's destined to live a tragedy, what's one more crack in the pieces of an already shattered heart? 

Right now, all he wants is one more night and damn the consequences.

His fingers curl tighter around Simon's neck. Simon drags in a shaking breath.

Everything clicks into place like no time has passed at all. The white t-shirt falls to the floor, and Simon's hands are gripping John's waist before their lips even meet.

The world explodes into light and heat...