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The jet lag was a special kind of torture.
Roach had been staring at the ceiling for approximately two hours now. He'd counted the cracks. He'd counted his breaths. He'd mentally replayed the last mission in excruciating detail – every doorway, every shot, every decision he'd made and every one he hadn't. He'd even tried the military-issue solution to insomnia, which was, apparently, just close your eyes and pretend you're asleep until your body gives up.
It wasn't working.
The room was unfamiliar. That was part of the problem. Everything about this place was unfamiliar – the smell of the sheets (too much bleach), the temperature of the air (too cold), the sound of the ventilation system. They'd been here less than twelve hours, dropped in for a joint exercise with a unit they'd never worked with before. Allied, supposedly. Friendly, supposedly. But Roach had learned a long time ago that friendly didn't mean safe.
The base itself was a temporary structure – prefab walls, corrugated roofing, the kind of place that was thrown up in a week and meant to last just long enough. There were other soldiers here, from different countries, their languages blending into a constant background noise that Roach's brain refused to tune out. He'd heard Czech earlier. Polish. Some German. A lot of English with accents he couldn't quite place.
Not their space. Not their home. Not their rules.
The accommodation layout was typical for a stopover of this size. Price – being Price, being the Captain, being the man who had earned his right to a moment's peace – had been given his own room. A small one, four walls and a door that closed. Roach didn't begrudge him. If anyone deserved a room to himself, it was the man who kept them all alive.
The rest of the 141 had been split across two rooms. Archer, Meat, Royce, and Frost were in another room down the hall – four beds, four lockers, the same gray blankets, the same flickering overhead light. Roach had passed them earlier, heard Archer's low laugh and Royce's muttered complaint about the coffee.
And then there was this room. Roach, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost. Four single beds arranged in a neat row.
This was not a place designed for sleep. This was a place designed for transit. For passing through. For existing just long enough to move on to somewhere else.
And yet here they were. Stuck. For at least a week.
To his left, Soap was dead to the world. Flat on his back, mouth slightly open, one arm thrown over his forehead like he'd been mid-thought when the sleeping pills finally dragged him under. He'd taken two. "For emergencies," he'd said, shaking the bottle like a maraca. "Jet lag's an emergency, aye?"
Roach had watched him swallow them dry, too tired to find water, too stubborn to care. Soap could sleep anywhere. Roach had seen him pass out on a concrete floor, on a moving vehicle, on a pile of sandbags while bullets whizzed overhead. The man had a gift.
One bed over, Gaz was equally unconscious. Curled on his side, knees drawn up slightly, one hand tucked under his pillow. His breathing was slow and even, the kind of deep sleep that came from exhaustion and pharmaceutical assistance. He'd only taken one pill. "I like to be able to wake up if there's an invasion," he'd explained. Soap had thrown a pillow at him.
And then there was Ghost
He was in the bed closest to the door. The farthest from the window. The position with the best sightlines and the quickest exit. Because of course he was. Even half-asleep – even in a temporary base full of allied soldiers – he positioned himself between his team and any potential threat. Old habits. Good habits. The kind of habits that had kept them all alive more times than Roach could count.
His mask was off.
That hadn't surprised Roach. Not anymore. Not for a long time.
The first time Roach had seen Ghost's face, they'd been alone. Back before the team knew. Back before Ghost trusted anyone else with that part of himself. They'd been in Ghost's room – their room now, though Roach still thought of that as Ghost's sometimes – and Ghost had reached up, slow and deliberate, and pulled the mask off like he was dismantling a bomb.
Roach had held his breath.
And then Ghost's face was there. All of it.
"There you are," Roach had said.
Ghost had looked at him like no one had ever looked at him before. Like Roach had just given him something he didn't know he needed. Like Roach had just said I see you and meant it.
After that, the mask came off more often. Just when they were alone at first. Then, slowly, when the team was around but not looking. Then, eventually, all the time.
Price had seen Ghost's face long before any of them – back when he'd found Ghost, saved him, pulled him out of whatever darkness had been trying to swallow him whole. Price had earned that trust the hard way, through years of patience and loyalty and quiet, steady presence.
But Roach had been the first of the team. The first person Ghost had chosen to show himself to, without obligation, without history, without debt.
He had spent every day since trying to be worthy of that trust.
Now the whole team knew. Now Ghost walked around bare-faced in front of all of them, comfortable in a way he'd never been before. Soap had cried. Gaz had pretended he wasn't emotional and then immediately texted his mum. Price had just nodded, like he'd been waiting for this day for years. Even Archer and the others had adjusted quickly – a raised eyebrow here, a knowing look there, but no questions
But Roach never forgot that he'd been the first.
He turned onto his side. Stared at Ghost's silhouette in the dim light.
His boyfriend.
Boyfriend still felt like too small a word for what Simon was to him. Partner. Person. The other half of his heartbeat. The one person in the world who could make him feel safe just by existing in the same room.
He was on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. His breathing was slow – maybe asleep, maybe not. It was hard to tell with him. The man could fake unconsciousness better than anyone Roach had ever met.
But Gary knew him. Knew the difference between resting and sleeping, between relaxed and waiting. Ghost wasn't asleep. He was close – close enough that his body had started to soften, his guard had started to lower – but not all the way under.
His face, even in shadow, was soft. Unguarded. The sharp lines of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the faint crease between his brows that never quite went away.
Roach knew every part of that face. Had traced it with his fingers in the dark. Had kissed every line, every scar, every place where life had left its mark.
He wanted to crawl across the room, slide into that narrow military-issue bed, and press his face against Simon's chest. He wanted to feel Simon's heartbeat under his cheek – steady, alive. He wanted Simon's arm around his back, heavy and warm. He wanted to sleep.
He sat up.
The bed creaked.
He froze.
Soap snuffled and turned over, muttering something in his sleep that might have been Gaelic, might have been a curse on someone's ancestors, or might have been a grocery list. With Soap, it was impossible to tell. Gaz didn't move at all. Ghost's breathing didn't change.
Roach waited. Counted to thirty. Listened to the sounds of the base – the distant hum of generators, the muffled voices of the night shift somewhere down the hall, the occasional thud of boots on concrete.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched the cold floor. The concrete was freezing through his thin socks, but he barely noticed. His whole body was focused on one thing
He stood up.
He took a step. Another step. Another.
Ghost's eyes were closed. His face was relaxed. His lips were slightly parted. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only movement. He looked younger in sleep. Softer. Like all the weight he carried during the day had been set aside, just for a few hours.
He climbed in.
The mattress dipped under his weight. Ghost's eyes opened immediately – not startled. Like he'd been awake the whole time. Like he'd been waiting.
"Gary," Ghost whispered. His voice was low, rough with sleep or lack thereof. Not angry. Just... soft. The way he only ever sounded when it was just the two of them.
"Can't sleep," Roach whispered back.
Simon looked at him for a long moment. His hand came up, almost automatically, and brushed a strand of hair from Gary's forehead. The touch was feather-light. Intimate. Loving.
"Jet lag?" Ghost murmured.
"Jet lag," Roach confirmed.
"Should have taken the pills."
"Didn't want to."
Simon was quiet for a moment. Then he shifted over – made room on the narrow mattress – lifted the blanket.
"Get in," Ghost said.
Gary didn't need to be told twice.
He slid into the narrow space, pressed his back against Simon's chest, and felt Ghost's arm wrap around his waist. Tight. Secure. Home.
Simon's nose brushed against the back of his neck. His breath was warm against Roach's skin. His lips pressed a soft, slow kiss to the curve of Roach's shoulder.
The bed was too small for two grown men.
Gary didn't care.
He lay with his back pressed against Simon's chest, knees tucked up. Simon's arm was draped over his waist, heavy and warm. Their breathing had synced minutes ago.
Gary's eyes were finally getting heavy. His body was finally unwinding. Simon's thumb was tracing slow circles on his stomach, just above his navel, and the rhythm was pulling him under.
For a few minutes, there was nothing but silence. The distant hum of the base's ventilation system. Soap's soft snoring from across the room. Gaz's occasional shift in his sleep.
Then Simon's hand moved lower. Just a fraction. Just a shift. His fingers slid down Roach's stomach, grazing the waistband of his sleeping shorts.
Gary's breath caught.
His hand pressed more firmly, feeling Gary through the fabric, and Gary had to close his eyes against the rush of heat that flooded through him. Simon's lips found the back of his neck – soft, slow kisses that made Gary's skin prickle with goosebumps.
They're right there, he thought. Soap and Gaz are right there. Asleep.
Ghost didn't seem to care.
"Simon," Gary breathed, barely audible.
Simon's answer was a low rumble of approval against his skin. Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of Gary's shorts. Fingers wrapping around his cock. Thumb swiped across the head – once, twice – spreading the wetness that was already gathering there.
Gary bit his lip. Hard.
Oh God. Quiet. Be quiet.
But Simon's hand was moving now – slow, steady strokes that had Gary's toes curling against the sheets, his back arching, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp. The pleasure built low in his belly, warm and insistent, spreading outward with every pass of Simon's hand.
"Simon," Gary whispered again, wide-eyed this time. A question. A plea.
"Shh," Simon's lips brushed the shell of his ear. "Gonna fuck you nice. Slow. And you're gonna sleep like a rock."
His hand kept moving. Slow. Steady. Knowing exactly how Gary liked it.
Gary's eyes fluttered shut. His body was betraying him – relaxing into the touch, hips rocking forward into the fist, every nerve ending lighting up.
Simon pulled his hand away.
Gary almost whined at the loss. A small, broken sound escaped his throat – desperate, needy – and he felt Simon smile against his skin.
Smímon shifted a little behind him. Tugging at Roach's shorts, pulling them down his hips, down his thighs, down to his knees.
His hand returned. Wrapped around him again.
Gary gasped. His eyes flew open – wide, searching the darkness. Soap hadn't moved. Gaz hadn't moved. The room was still.
"Simon," he whispered, voice cracking. "What if they-"
Simon hushed him. His hand found Gary's leg, bent it at the knee, lifted it slightly.
Gary's breath stuttered. He knew what came next.
Simon's fingers – slick with something – when had he?! – pressed against him, circled his rim. Gary's hole clenched involuntarily, then relaxed, then clenched again as Simon's fingertip pushed inside.
Gary's forehead dropped to the pillow. His eyes squeezed shut.
Simon added another finger. Stretched him wider. Opened him up with that familiar, devastating patience that Simon had come to know so well. He crooked his fingers, searched for that spot, found it, pressed.
Gary bit the pillow. Hard.
"Been too long," Simon murmured against his neck.
It had been. Days of travel, shared rooms, no privacy. Gary's body was hungry for this – for him – and Simon knew. Simon always knew.
His fingers curled again and Gary forgot how to breathe.
By the time Simon withdrew his fingers, Gary was trembling. His body was ready – open, aching, desperate. His cock was leaking against his stomach.
Behind him, Simon shifted. Fabric rustled. The bed creaked.
Then Simon's cock was there – pressing against his entrance, hot and heavy and familiar.
Gary held his breath.
Simon pushed in.
The head of his cock pressed against Gary's rim, stretching him wide, spreading him open. Gary's body resisted for a moment and then he relaxed, and Simon slid deeper.
Gary's mouth fell open. No sound came out. Just a rush of breath, hot and shaking, as Simon filled him. The familiar stretch. The familiar heat. The familiar rightness of having Simon inside him.
Simon stopped when he was fully seated. Buried to the hilt. His breath was a warm puff against the back of Gary's neck, uneven in a way that told Gary he wasn't the only one affected.
They stayed like that for a moment. Simon's cock throbbing inside him. Gary's body clenching around it, trying to pull him deeper.
Then Simon moved.
Slow. Deep. A long, devastating thrust that had Gary's eyes rolling back in his head. Simon pulled out almost all the way – paused – pushed back in just as slowly. Letting Gary feel everything.
He kept his mouth closed. His breathing was shallow, controlled. His eyes were fixed on the sleeping forms of Soap and Gaz – watching for any sign of movement, any flicker of awareness.
Please, he thought. Please don't wake up. Please don't-
The bed creaked.
Gary froze.
Simon didn't.
Another thrust. His cock dragged against that spot and held there, pressing, grinding, making Gary's legs shake.
"Simon," he breathed. "Simon, wait-"
Simon breath puffed against the back of his neck. Warm. Steady. His hips never stopped moving – a slow, relentless rhythm that was driving Gary slowly, inexorably insane.
"They're asleep," Ghost murmured.
"They could wake up-"
"Then you'd better be quiet."
Gary's eyes widened. Simon's hand left his hip, grabbed the edge of the blanket, and yanked.
The fabric flew to the foot of the bed.
Cold air hit Gary's skin. His bare legs, his exposed ass, the place where their bodies were connected – all of it suddenly visible in the dim emergency lighting.
"Simon-" Gary gasped, half-moan, half-panic. "What the fuck – ah – are you doing-?"
Simon didn't answer. He just grabbed Gary behind the knee, lifted his leg, hooked it over his own arm. The new angle made him sink even deeper. Gary's breath caught in his throat. His mouth fell open. A broken moan slipped out before he could stop it.
Simon bit his neck. Not hard – just a sharp little nip of annoyance. A warning.
Then he started to fuck him in earnest.
The room filled with a new sound – quiet, wet, rhythmic. Skin meeting skin, muffled by the narrow space between their bodies. Simon's hips slapping against Gary's ass with every thrust, that seemed impossibly loud in the silence of the shared room.
Gary whimpered.His whole body was shaking now – from the cold, from the pleasure, from the sheer terror of being caught. He watched Soap and Gaz with wide, desperate eyes, tracking every breath, every tiny movement.
Still asleep. Still asleep. Still asleep.
He lowered his head to the pillow. Bit down on the fabric. Ground his teeth together. Tried to breathe.
"Close," Simon murmured against his shoulder. His voice was barely a vibration, lips brushing sweat-slick skin.
Gary nodded frantically. He couldn't speak. His whole body was wound tight, coiled like a spring, pleasure building and building and building-
Simon's cock hit his prostate dead-on and Gary's vision went white. His toes curled. His back arched. A moan tore out of his throat – muffled by the pillow, but still too loud, too much.
"Simon," he gasped. "Simon – wait – fuck – ngh-"
His voice was too loud. He knew it was too loud. But Simon was fucking him so deep, so good, and his cock was leaking against the sheets, and his hole was spasming around Simon's length, and he was so close-
And then-
Soap moved.
It was small. Barely anything. A shift of weight, a rustle of sheets. Soap mumbled something in his sleep and rolled onto his side.
Both of them froze.
But the damage was done.
In their frozen panic, Ghost had shifted. Just slightly. Just enough.
His cock slipped out.
Gary felt the loos immediately – the stretch, the fullness, the perfect pressure against that spot inside him – all of it gone in an instant. His hole was left open, clenching around empty air.
His body was screaming for Simon to push back in, to fill him up, to stop the horrible, aching emptiness.
Simon didn't move. His breathing was ragged, uneven, hot against Gary's shoulder. His cock was pressed against the cleft of Gary's ass – hot, hard, right there.
Gary could feel it. Could feel the heat of it, the weight of it, the way it twitched against his skin.
Please, his body screamed. Please, please, please.
Seconds stretched into eternities. The room was so quiet Gary could hear his own heartbeat, could hear Simon's slow, controlled exhale against his shoulder, could hear the faint creak of Soap's bed settling.
Stillness.
Soap's breathing evened out. Deep. Slow. Asleep.
Simon didn't move. Not yet. He waited another beat. Two. Three. Making sure.
Then, slowly – so slowly – his hips pressed forward. The head of his cock nudged against Gary's entrance – still slick, still open, still waiting – and pushed back inside.
The rhythm was different now. Harder. Faster. More desperate. Simon was fucking him like he was trying to make up for the interruption, like he was trying to drive himself so deep that Gary would never be empty again.
The pleasure returned. Stronger this time. Sharper. The interruption had reset something in Gary's body – had made him more sensitive, more aware, more hungry.
Every thrust sent lightning up his spine. Simon's cock was hitting that spot – that spot – over and over and over, and Gary was falling apart.
His moans were getting louder. He could feel them building in his chest, crawling up his throat, desperate to escape. His whole body was shaking – his legs, his arms, his hands fisted in the sheets. His cock was leaking, smearing wetness against the already ruined sheets, and he was so close – so close – he could feel his orgasm building again.
Simon's hand clamped over his mouth.
Gary's eyes flew open. Simon's palm was hot and heavy against his lips, pressing down, silencing him. Gary's muffled sounds vibrated against Simon's skin – a desperate mmph, a pleading nngh, a broken hmm that was almost a sob.
Simon loved Gary's sounds. Loved them with a fierce, possessive hunger that he'd never felt for anything else. Loved the way Gary's voice cracked when he was close. Loved the way he gasped Simon's name like a prayer. Loved the way he moaned – loud, uninhibited, unashamed – when Simon did something right.
But not tonight.
The walls were thin. The base was unfamiliar. And if Gary got too loud – if he woke someone up, if someone walked past, if anyone heard-
Simon's hand pressed harder against his mouth.
Gary's orgasm crashed over him like a wave.
His eyes rolled back.
His vision went white at the edges, stars bursting behind his eyelids, and for a moment there was nothing but sensation. Nothing but Simon. Nothing but the overwhelming, all-consuming wave crashing through him.
His cock pulsed.
Hot stripes of cum spilled onto the already ruined sheet beneath him, soaking into the thin fabric. His body jerked with each release, hips twitching, thighs trembling. He couldn't control it. His hole clenched around Simon's cock – pulling him deeper, refusing to let go.
Simon followed him over the edge almost immediately.
His hips stuttered – lost their rhythm, their control. His body went rigid behind Gary, every muscle locking up at once. His arm tightened around Gary's leg like he was holding on for dear life.
He buried himself as deep as he could go – balls pressed against Gary's ass, cock buried to the hilt – and Gary felt everything.
The first pulse. Hot. Sudden. Spilling inside him, filling him up.
Simon's forehead dropped to the back of Gary's neck. His breath was ragged uneven – a low, shaky groan pressed into Gary's skin, barely audible, gone as soon as it came.
Simon's hand finally moved.
Sliding down from Gary's mouth. His fingers trailed across his jaw, his cheek, his neck – leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Then his arm wrapped around Gary's waist, pulling him closer, holding him tight.
They stayed like that for a long moment. Breathing hard. Hearts pounding. Both of them acutely aware of the two sleeping bodies just a little away
Simon's chest was pressed against Gary's back. His heart was pounding – Gary could feel it through his shirt, through his own sweat-damp skin. His cock was still inside him, softening now, but still there.
Gary didn't want him to move. He wanted to stay like this forever – tangled together, still joined, the world narrowed down to this narrow bed and this dark room and the warmth of Simon's body against his.
After a while, Simon shifted. Slowly. Carefully. He pulled out.
Gary felt the drag of Simon's cock against his oversensitive walls, the sudden emptiness when he slipped free.
Simon didn't move to clean him up. He just reached down, pulled his sleeping shorts back up over his hips, and settled back against his back. His arm wrapped around Gary's waist again. His nose pressed against the back of Gary neck.
Gary lay there in the aftermath. His body was boneless, satisfied, thoroughly wrecked. His thighs were sticky. His hole was wet. He could feel Simon's cum still inside him, slowly leaking out
He should have been uncomfortable. The sheets were damp beneath him. His body was a mess – sticky, sweaty, thoroughly wrecked in the best possible way.
He should want to clean up.
But he didn't.
He was too tired. Too satisfied. Too safe in Simon's arms.
His eyes closed. His body relaxed, piece by piece. His breathing slowed.
His mind went soft at the edges.
The last thing he felt – before sleep finally pulled him under – was Simon's lips against his shoulder. Soft. Gentle. Loving.
And then nothing.
Just warmth.
Just darkness.