Author's Note: So. Hi. I started this account a long long time ago and then promptly forgot about it. Now that I've rediscovered it, I figured maybe I should post something. This is my first fanfiction in YEARS so hopefully its improved past the Mary-Sues that have (thankfully) never seen the light of day. Please let me know what you think, I'd love any constructive criticism. And hopefully no one is totally OOC.
Warnings: AU-ish. Crack, probably. Swearing (the F-bomb is used in here, so if that bothers anyone, here's a heads up). Slash (guy on guy kissing). All mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Really.
Summary: Probably crack. Slash. It started with opening a bar and Roach's old XO showing up out of nowhere in the middle of November. After that it all started going downhill, or maybe uphill, from there.
It was easier than Roach expected, assimilating to the civilian world. After the Great War had ended, after Makarov's death and a call of cease fire and treaties, after months of hospitals and rehab Roach and the remaining Taskforce members were given honorary discharges and a large monetary compensation for what happened with Shepherd. As if somehow that made it any better. Roach and his teammates- his friends- were given not much more than a check, a pat on the back, and a wish of luck before being forcibly inserted into the general population.
Roach wondered, sometimes, over the five months following how the rest of his team was doing. What Ghost, MacTavish, Price, Archer, Toad, Worm, Robot, and Zach had done after their dismissal. Nine members were left out of over eighty. Ghost and MacTavish, Roach could imagine, had probably reinserted themselves into the military either ignoring their money or refusing to accept it. Price had undoubtedly found his family, a wife and several daughters, maybe retiring somewhere quiet and peaceful. Archer, Roach thought, had done the same or created a college fund for his two children. Toad, Worm, Robot, and Zach had all probably returned to their families, maybe bought a sports car or a speed boat or a bachelor pad in the heart of a city.
Roach, on the other hand, bought a bar.
It wasn't like he did it on purpose. Roach didn't secretly pine throughout his life to be a business owner or even a bartender, he had never even thought of it before he stumbled upon the place. He never did have a head for business, too spacey, according to his father. Roach kind of agreed. But he had had run across the bar while apartment hunting of all things. Roach found it in a rundown part of Lawrence about two weeks after he had returned to the States, situated between an acupuncturist shop and a small loan office. If Roach hadn't seen the old man exiting the bar, he wouldn't have even noticed the place.
"Excuse me," Roach said uneasily with a frown. Google Maps wasn't nearly as helpful as his sister had led him to believe.
The man turned from where he was placing something on the door. He had peppered gray hair, a shaggy beard, and crinkled brown eyes. His back was bent over a cane and his face was impassive.
"I'm, uh, I'm looking for an apartment building owned by a Mr. Kramer." Roach told the man.
The man stared. And didn't answer.
Roach bit his lip. "Do you-"
"You don't want to live there," the man said abruptly.
Roach blinked. Um.
"His place's got rats," the man went on, scratching his neck absently.
Roach shuffled his feet and frowned. "I see." Well, he had slept in worst conditions when he was with the Taskforce. He also seriously needed a place that wasn't his parents' house. He was twenty five for God's sake.
The old man cocked his head thoughtfully. "You were in the war." It wasn't a question.
Roach cleared his throat. "Yes."
A pause. Then, "This place has an apartment." The man shoved his thumb over his shoulder to the door behind him and shuffled to the right.
It was then that Roach noticed the small 'For Sale' sign posted on the door behind the man.
Oh.
"I don't." Roach waved his hands in front of himself, eyes wide. "I don't, uh, know anything about bartending. Or bars. Or anything."
The man snorted.
"It isn't rocket science," the man informed Roach dryly.
Something must have shown on Roach's face, probably horror or nervousness or the fact that Roach was about to tell him hell no, because the man's eyes softened.
"Tell you what." The man said. "You come take a look. If you still don't like it, I won't say another word; just let you go on your way. I'll even show you to Kramer's place if you want."
Roach couldn't really say no to that.
The bar was small and cramped- Roach's mother would call it cozy- with dark wood panels on the ceiling, bar, and lower walls. The stools and walls were a dark red and the place was loaded with shelves upon shelves of old decorated bottles along with the occasional record and movie poster, all predating the 1950s, and a honest to God cellar where the liquor was stored. The place even had a pool table and dart board, both of which looked as if they had seen better days. It needed work to be sure, the hardwood floors looked like they hadn't been cleaned since its opening, the bar and tables were scuffed, the tiny bathroom was covered in graffiti, and it didn't even have a TV, but it was a nice place all together. It was the kind of place Roach would have chosen to frequent.
But it was the apartment that really got Roach's attention. It was above the bar, accessed only through a spiral staircase outside the back of the building. The place was small, like the business below it, and consisted of two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen and living room, and a cramped coat closet. The bathroom was by far the best feature. While it was just as small as the rest of the apartment and the shower had almost zero water pressure, the bathtub was the saving grace. Clawed foot and very old, it took up half of the tiny room but Roach had never seen a clawed foot tub before. His mother had one growing up and always lamented that his childhood house never had one. Roach had secretly, very deep down and often late at night and after a few drinks, wanted one.
And here it was.
The man introduced himself as Harold Gardner, and he had owned the bar for forty years. The apartment, he explained, hadn't been lived in for several months since his last long-term bartender had left. That was when he had decided to throw in the towel, sell the bar, and keep to the suburbs- where he lived with his wife- full time. Harold's wife, Lynnette, he had told Roach with fond exasperation, fully supported his decision. Now all Harold had to do was find someone who would take care of the place, someone who would love it like he did.
"I don't want it turned into some goddamn night club." Harold told Roach darkly. "Or one of those ridiculous condos. I can tell you'd take care of it. Love it. You look like you need a place like this."
Roach didn't argue.
So, Roach bought the bar and even had a good chunk leftover. He wasn't sure what else to do with the money. His sister, Lindsay, was in grad school and probably would've thrown a fit if he tried to help with tuition giving him a lecture on feminism and independence. His parents didn't want anything to do with military money, they had never really approved of his joining the army in the first place. He didn't want a car- not a fancy one anyway- or a boat- they made him seasick- and he really didn't like the trendy downtowns of cities- they were too loud.
And the bar, as it turned out, was exactly what Roach needed. It took him two weeks to move in and get the bar ready. He covered the tables, chairs, stools, and bar with liqueur, clears the cobwebs in the corners and underneath the bar, and even found an old jukebox to put near the pool table and filled it with the classics: the Beatles, The Doors, Metallica, Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, The Who. Roach, with the help of Harold over the phone, established a relationship with alcohol suppliers, learned to take inventory, and began to clean the old dusty glasses with the industrial washer in the back that has a tendency to overflow with water if Roach filled it more than halfway. It gave him something to do during the day, to focus on. It also kept him so busy that when it came time to sleep, Roach slept hard and dreamless.
Roach liked it that way.
That didn't mean that Roach was really cut out for the bar business. As it turned out, Roach was an absolutely horrible bartender. Oh, he passed the exam, sure, but he was a lousy showman. His hands, because of the burns, were stiff even on his best days which made holding and pouring the bottles of hard alcohol difficult. It was also hard to resist on the really bad days, when Roach would work twelve hour days and the loss of his teammates on the Taskforce would hit him hard, not to just drink his liquor cellar dry.
So, to give himself a bit of a break, Roach got himself a bartender two months in. The kid's name was Danny, a high school student with pasty skin, dark hair, glasses, and a plethora of tattoos and piercings who inexplicably reminded Roach of Worm. They both had the same ornery glint in their eyes and the same cocky attitude. Roach could remember many times when Worm would subtly barb MacTavish with pointed comments and observations, mostly just to see his reaction. Roach, after spending more than six hours with Danny, wondered how MacTavish let Worm live. However, Danny had redeemed himself to Roach by being scary good with numbers. Like, in Advanced Calculus kind of good. Roach was able to corral Danny into doing the books for him every Saturday, something that Roach suspected the kid liked a lot more than he let on.
Then came his waitresses, Jess and Lauren, two cousins who attended the University in town. They were sweet, easy-going, and a little shy. Roach often felt a fraternal overprotective instinct when around the two girls, mostly because they reminded him a bit of his own sister. Together, the two worked the entire week- except Sundays when Roach kept the bar closed- giving Roach a little time to breathe between preparing drinks and speaking to The Regulars.
Most of the customers were, in fact, regulars from when Harold had owned the bar, most of whom had taken a liking to Roach immediately. There were the older women, usually three or four, who came in a group and stayed until eleven or twelve, gossiping and lamenting their families' lack of appreciation while drinking Appletinis and Cosmos. And then there were the younger men, college kids mostly, who lived in the cheap apartments a few blocks down and played pool and darts almost constantly, steadily drinking Roach's cheapest beer until closing. And finally there were the older men. Sometimes they came alone, sometimes in pairs- like Paul and Jeff, two businessmen who often came in straight from work- sometimes loud and boisterous- the soccer dads, usually, or blue collar workers done with their shifts- and sometimes quiet and contemplative- like Mr. Franklin, who sat alone at the far end of the bar and was always nursing a whiskey. They were all good customers, respectful. Well, for the most part. Often though, any newcomers were quickly informed about Roach's status as an ex-soldier and that he could easily kick anyone to the curb if he so chose.
Roach had even picked out a name for the place. It was actually thanks to Toad, who he regularly e-mailed to keep up with what everyone else was doing as Toad could be quite the gossip, when he pointed out that Roach's bar didn't even have a name.
"What the hell does everyone call it?" Toad had written, "'That hole in the wall'?"
So, Roach brainstormed and within the hour he had picked a name.
One night of internet searching and three days of express shipping later, Roach was outside the door of his bar on a ladder putting up a simple sign that read in green: "One-Four-One."
Roach really couldn't think of a name that he was more proud of.
For the next three months afterwards, Roach and his bar had finally established a routine. Either Lauren or Jess- and on weekends, Danny- would come in around four to help him set up and then stay to help him close at two. During the days Roach would sleep until nine, go out and get coffee from the local coffee place two blocks down before getting groceries or books from the library. In the afternoons, Roach would read or nap or write a letter to Zach or Toad- the two of his teammates he spoke with most often- before going down to the bar at quarter to four and begin checking inventory for the night.
Roach liked his routine. He liked Danny, Jess, and Lauren, he liked Mr. Franklin, and he liked the college kids and the groups of laughing women. Roach liked One-Four-One. He liked that he was adjusting.
He should have known better than to think he would get to keep it that way.
It was a slow night in November. The street lamps were on, the sky was dark, and sleet fell from the sky. Roach hadn't noticed at first, not until Danny pointed him out. It had been a bad night: Roach's hands were stiffer than usual and were so bad that he had to call in Danny to finish up the night around ten. Frustrated, Roach holed up in the storage cellar, taking inventory until about an hour later when Danny found him.
"Hey, Sanderson?" Danny called. That was what everyone knew him as. Not Gary. Not Sergeant. Not Roach.
Roach looked up from where he was bent over a crate of imported beer and frowned. "Who's watching the front?"
Danny waved a hand and then said in a bemused tone, "Jess is keeping an eye on it for me."
Then why-
It was then that Roach noticed the tightness around Danny's shoulders and jaw.
"What's wrong?" Roach asked.
Danny furrowed his eyebrows. "There's a guy here. Says he knows you."
Instantly Roach's alarms went off in his head. What? Then he squashed them. There was no reason to be upset, it wasn't as if he had many enemies, certainly not since both Shepherd and Makarov were dead. He was probably just a military vet, maybe, who had heard about Roach. Both Roach and his bar were well known despite not being visited often.
Roach nodded and followed Danny back out to the main room.
Roach noticed the man almost immediately. He was sitting at the far end of the bar where Mr. Franklin, who never showed up on Thursdays- a phenomenon which Danny, Lauren, Jess, and sometimes Roach theorized about together during slow nights- usually sat. Because of the bar's dim lighting, it was difficult for Roach to see the man completely. But what he did see was the man's short and messy auburn hair and that he was wearing jeans and a plain grey shirt. A dark green jacket was thrown over the stool beside him while a worn duffel bag sat at his feet. As he moved closer Roach honed in on the man's arms and neck straight away: they were covered in large scars that went all the way across his right cheek underneath his eye. When Roach had finally made his way to the man and asked what he wanted the man glanced up at him, blue eyes lazy.
"Can I help you?" Roach asked after receiving no response, trying not to look too uncomfortable. He never liked talking to new people, even as a child. It drove his parents crazy.
The man smiled. It was more of a smirk, really. "You don't recognize me?"
Roach blinked. The voice, coupled with the man's scars, pressed at something in the back of his mind until it hit him like a freight train. Or a round into his chest.
Roach gaped. "Ghost?"
Ghost smiled. "Good to see you, mate."
Roach didn't remember moving, but he must have because the next thing he knew he was hauling Ghost up off the stool and pulling him into a crushing hug. Oh God.
The last time he had seen Ghost was in a civilian hospital in England where they had been taken to after the war when Roach had been in a drug-induced haze for much of the time. Roach had shared a room with Ghost where his teammate had been without a mask for the entirety of their stay, he remembered, and Ghost was the last he had said goodbye to.
Roach expected Ghost to stay in England. To only see him maybe a handful more times in their lifetimes. To keep touch by letters, and snippets from other Taskforce members, and maybe occasionally through phone. But there Ghost was, calm as you please, in the middle of the U.S. and in Roach's bar no less.
Ghost, to Roach's surprise, gripped him back just as tightly before allowing Roach to pull away.
"Sanderson?" Jeff asked from behind him.
Roach turned, slightly embarrassed. He had forgotten where he was.
Smiling, Roach said, "Just an old friend, Jeff. Thanks."
Jeff nodded before returning his attention back to Paul and their conversation regarding whether the Chiefs or the Rams had a better shot that season.
Roach turned to Ghost, ignoring the stares from the other patrons, not to mention Danny and Jess.
Roach knew he could've said many different things. He could have told Ghost all about the bar. He could have asked if Ghost was still active in the military. He could have asked if Ghost had visited any of the other members, how they were doing. He could've asked Ghost how he was doing, surely the man wasn't nearly as stable as he seemed. But no.
Instead what came out was, "You need a place to crash?"
Ghost's lips turned up into a genuine smile. "That'd be great, mate."
Roach nodded. It was late, and if Ghost had traveled that day, which Roach hoped was at least from within the country and not straight from England, he was bound to be tired no matter what sort of front he was putting up.
Danny, who was unabashedly eavesdropping, said, "I'll close the bar up, boss."
As Roach led Ghost out, he gave Danny a nod of thanks. Together the two made their way out into the cold night and up the stairs to the door of Roach's apartment. Unlocking the door, Roach could feel his ears turn pink. Despite all of his time in the military, Roach had quickly become pretty lax in his housekeeping. His place wasn't exactly dirty- though it had been several months since he used a vacuum and his windows could probably do with a good scrub- more messy and cluttered than anything. But, Roach reflected, Ghost had always been pretty manic about cleanliness. Roach remembered one particular incident with Meat, who was not in any way hygienic about his bunk and surrounding area, when Ghost made Meat scrub the entire rec room because of the state of his personal area with only half a bottle of dish soap, a single sock, and a butter knife with a one hour time limit.
Meat was a lot more regular when it came to cleaning after that.
"I, uh," Roach began after closing the door behind them and turning on the lights, "Sorry about the mess."
Ghost said nothing, but he didn't look irritated or like he was ready to clean Roach's apartment like there was no tomorrow and Roach could've sworn Ghost looked pleased.
Ghost dropped his duffel onto the couch at Roach's gesture.
Scratching his neck Roach asked, "Do you. Do you want a shower or anything?"
Ghost smiled and, God, was it weird to see him without a mask, "Sure, Roach. That'd be great."
Smiling back, Roach showed Ghost the tiny bathroom and where the towels were. Once he heard the shower begin to run, Roach turned on the lights in his bedroom before going into the second bedroom to prepare it for Ghost: getting out sheets and blankets, turning on the bedside lamp, and checking to make sure the small radiator in the room was still working. The last time anyone had stayed in Roach's second bedroom was Lindsay a few weeks after he moved in. Since then it had remained unoccupied.
Roach was so engrossed in getting the room ready- his mother would call him focused, his father would say nitpicky and obsessive- that when he finally stepped back, he noticed the lack of running water coming from the bathroom.
Biting his lip, Roach waited a few more minutes before heading down the cramped hallway towards the bathroom. He never made it there, though, because as Roach passed his own bedroom he noticed the figure sprawled on his bed.
To his surprise Ghost was asleep- or at least looked it, you could never be too certain with Ghost- on top of Roach's unmade bed, wearing a pair of gray sweats and a plain blue t-shirt.
Roach's bed.
Roach sighed. He didn't really have the stubbornness to wake Ghost up just to move him. It was only for one night and it wasn't as if the bed in the second bedroom wasn't completely uncomfortable.
But it wasn't Roach's bed.
As quietly as he could, Roach came up next to his bed and pulled a few of the many blankets and quilts over Ghost's still form. Leaning over to turn off the bedside light, Roach noticed the bright red numbers of his alarm clock. He had spent over a half hour getting Ghost's room ready. No wonder Ghost had decided not to wait.
Roach couldn't help but smile as he shut the bedroom door behind him and turned off the lights in the living room. He had missed his teammates, sometimes more than was probably healthy. And here Ghost was, visiting Roach like it was nothing special.
But it was.
And tomorrow they would talk and laugh, trade stories and insults just like the good old days. Just like their time in the Taskforce.
Roach could hardly wait.
Roach never did get his bed back. Well, not entirely anyway.
About a week into Ghost's visit, Roach began to realize that maybe Ghost was there for the long haul. His first clue was that Ghost had, with all the subtly of a brick to the face, emptied out half the drawers of Roach's dresser and made them his own. The second was that after two weeks Ghost had made no sign of wanting to leave. He had even asked Roach how one would become a private investigator in the States.
The third was perhaps the most irritating. Ghost was still sleeping in Roach's bed. Now, Roach didn't mind having Ghost as a roommate even if he had never been given a say in it but he was sick of sleeping in the guest bedroom.
So, three days after Roach figured out that Ghost was living with him on a permanent basis, Roach moved back into his bedroom.
To Roach's confusion and slight embarrassment, Ghost didn't take the hint.
And two grown men were stuck sharing a queen bed.
It was a lot less awkward than Roach expected and was something Roach tried not to dwell on too often. It was, however, a lot harder. Neither of them were small guys. Roach may have been on the scrawny side but he was still 5'10 and Ghost hit six feet easily. Inevitably they would wake up with an arm across the stomach or a leg pushed under another or shoulders bumping. But other than that, it wasn't all that bad. Roach had even grown used, for the first time, to having another person in bed with him.
Or even another person in his life period.
And, well, if Ghost sometimes looked at Roach so intensely that it made Roach squirm and blush? That was something Roach was learning to adjust to.
His sister, Lindsay, was unexpectedly thrilled. She met Ghost just five days after he arrived, and while she seemed a bit baffled by Ghost's rather blunt and sarcastic personality, she warmed up to him almost immediately. Roach's parents were oddly silent about the whole thing and pointedly avoided any Ghost-related topics when they spoke with their son, which was about the best that Roach could hope for.
After the initial dust settled, a surreal sense of normalcy went for about two months: Roach would get up around eleven for lunch, usually sandwiches that Ghost would haphazardly throw together from whatever was in the fridge- which ranged from the traditional, such as BLTs, to the bizarre, such as honey and pickles or mayo and sesame noodles leftover from takeout- and then Roach would either read, or shop for food, or watch the news on his tiny television before getting the bar ready to open at five. Then he would either tend to the bar or work in the back until Ghost would return from wherever and whatever he did during the day and they would sit at one of the corner tables to have a beer together until they stumbled off to bed.
But, since it was Roach's life, it meant that everything would be back up in the air once more.
He just didn't realize that it would be his teammates who would do it.
It was actually MacTavish who got the ball rolling. It was a Tuesday afternoon when Roach's ex-captain called. Roach was on his own, Ghost had left for whatever he did during the day after a lunch of chili and cornbread- the only thing Roach could cook well and be something that Ghost would actually eat- and Roach was left to read the latest sci-fi novel he had picked up at the library. He wasn't really all that interested because it was one of those that were set in a parallel universe with cyborgs and aliens, only they weren't called cyborgs and aliens- who were more like elves, not blobs or giant insect-like beings that Roach figured was more realistic- and people had weird superpowers only they were called "gifts" or some bullshit and the laws of physics were completely ignored. Roach was struggling through the second chapter when his cellphone rang.
Now, Roach only had about ten people who actually called his cell. After several weeks he had coerced Ghost into getting one, but he never used it when he was working. His parents never really called, he usually had to do it, and his sister was usually in class or at the library in the afternoons. Thinking it was maybe Jess or Lauren or Danny calling about a shift, Roach reached over and answered, glad to be away from his book for the moment.
"Hello?" He asked, setting the book down on his chest.
"Hello Roach."
Oh, Jesus. It was MacTavish.
"Sir?"
God, it had been months since Roach last heard from his captain. Before Ghost arrived, even.
"Now, Roach. You know there's no need for that anymore."
Roach smiled. "Okay."
A snort of laughter drifted across the line. "How are you, mate? Been awhile, hasn't it?"
"It has." Roach agreed. "I'm fine, M'bar is doing well. Danny's still around, gives me some free time. How have you been?"
Another laugh. "Just fine, Roach, just fine. Still working in London mostly. A lot of consulting. And paperwork."
Roach bit back a laugh. He could remember quite clearly that Ghost had always done the paperwork because otherwise MacTavish would ignore it on principle.
"That must keep you busy."
"It does, mate, no doubt. Price is no help either."
Roach didn't really doubt it.
"How's he been?" Roach wanted to know. He may have only worked with Price briefly, but Roach respected, even liked, the man.
"Oh, fine. He's living in Winchester now, bought a little cottage. The missus made him retire."
That had probably gone awesome. Roach told MacTavish so, and they both took delight in it. Together they systematically went over what the remaining Taskforce members were doing. Toad was back in Australia living on the outskirts of Sydney. Zach was living in Chicago with his girlfriend, Worm was in Oregon with his wife, and Robot was back in Boston living in a brownstone he bought with his apology money. And Archer was steadfastly ignoring the British military's multiple attempts at recruitment and was living in the town of Crowborough in Sussex with his wife and children. MacTavish reported that Archer's little girl had just entered primary school and that Archer and his wife were also expecting a third child.
"And Ghost-"
"He's fine." Roach said immediately because it was pretty true.
There were a few moments of silence between them after Roach's interruption. Roach was about to ask if MacTavish could still hear him when MacTavish spoke.
"You've spoken to Ghost, mate?"
Roach frowned. "Well, yeah. He lives with me."
Another stretch of silence. Then, "Ghost is with you, Roach? For how long? Is he still there?"
Roach's frown deepened. This probably wasn't good. "Yeah, he's lived with me for a couple months now. He showed up in November. Sir, I don't und-"
"Roach, Ghost has been missing for three months now."
What?
"Missing, sir?" asked Roach, biting his lip.
"Yes. He was meant to check in with the S.A.S. for recruitment after being cleared for combat but he never showed. We checked his flat but it was empty. His phone and keys were left behind. We didn't know what to think."
A sigh came across the line. "But I'm glad he's safe. He isn't being too difficult is he?"
Roach smiled wryly. "No more than usual."
"Good, that's good, Roach. I- Well. As long as you're both okay. As long as you're okay."
"Of course, sir." Roach said honestly. "Don't worry."
Another sigh. "Sure, mate. I'll let you go, I best talk to the S.A.S. let 'em know."
"Alright," Roach agreed. "And sir?"
"Yes, Roach?"
Roach took a breath. "Don't be afraid to call. Whenever."
A soft breath of a laugh came across the line. "You too, moppet. Take care."
Roach echoed the sentiment before flipping the phone closed and leaning back against the couch arm, doing his best not to get up and bang his head into a wall.
It was almost twenty-four hours before Roach could speak to Ghost about his talk with MacTavish. When he had stumbled back from the bar after closing it was well past two in the morning and Ghost was nowhere in sight. While it didn't happen often, Ghost had been known to disappear for a day or two for his job and he would usually turn up at an odd hour, let Roach know he was home, and then crash on the bed.
So when Roach heard the tell-tale noise of the apartment door opening and closing the following afternoon he relaxed, glad to know that Ghost had arrived back safe.
What he didn't expect was knock on the bathroom door before it was pushed open with a good deal of force.
Roach cursed and sat up quickly, wincing as the water sloshed over the edges of the bathtub. Grabbing a handful of shower curtain, Roach pulled it across the tub to keep some resemblance of separation between them.
Behind the curtain, Roach could hear Ghost laughing quietly.
"Hey, man." Roach greeted weakly.
Roach listened as Ghost crossed the tiny bathroom, put down the toilet seat, and sat down. "Hello, Roach."
Awesome.
There were a few moments of silence before Roach decided to ask, "How was the recon?"
Roach watched Ghost's silhouette lean back against the tank. "Uneventful. But I got what I needed."
Even though Ghost couldn't see him, Roach nodded. Then figured he should just get it over with.
"So, I talked with MacTavish yesterday." Roach said carefully, mindful of Ghost's silhouette going stiff, "He mentioned you."
Ghost didn't answer for a long time. Finally, in a pretty mild tone, Ghost said, "That so?"
Roach cleared his throat before answering, "Um, yeah. He sounded worried."
"He's always worried." Ghost replied, voice tight.
Roach resisted the urge to sigh. Tightening his fist against the edge of the tub, Roach went on, "Look, this really isn't any of my business. I just. I just want to make sure that you're okay. And if you need to, uh, talk or whatever. Well."
The bathroom was quiet for several minutes. Roach was almost convinced that Ghost had left, not brave enough to look in the other man's direction, before Ghost spoke.
"I was tired." Ghost's voice was so quiet that at first Roach thought he was imagining it. "Of everything. It's always the same."
Roach exhaled shakily.
"And after. After. I just wanted," Ghost sighed tiredly. "A safe place. For a while."
Grabbing the shower curtain, Roach pulled it back a few inches to look at his friend. He was surprised to see Ghost already staring at him, blue eyes blazing.
"I get it." Roach told him, the most sincere he could ever remember being. "I get it, Ghost."
And Roach really did. After the war, after the cluster-fuck at Makarov's safehouse, after everything, Roach wanted nothing to do with that old life. The nightmares that had followed were more than enough.
Something in Ghost's face softened at Roach's words. "Yeah, mate. I know."
At the back of his mind, it dawned to Roach that Ghost coming to his doorstep wasn't just the split second decision that Roach always assumed it was.
Roach smiled, a rush of affection for Ghost warming his chest. "You know, I think MacTavish misses you."
Ghost snorted, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards.
Roach widened his eyes innocently, doing his best to smother a grin. "Just saying, man."
To Roach's surprise, Ghost let out a laugh. "Alright, Roach." Standing up, Ghost stretched his arms above his head. "I'll see what I can do."
And without another word Ghost exited the bathroom and shut the door behind him with a soft click.
With an exhale Roach relaxed against the tub, tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, and reached up to rub the heel of his hand against the scar on his neck.
Through the door, Roach could hear Ghost say smugly, "You been worrying about me, darling- I mean sir? How sweet."
Roach rolled his eyes fondly before frowning at the lukewarm water.
Why did all of his heartfelt conversations seem to happen when he least expected it?
Roach really needed to work on his timing.
A few days later, Roach woke up to Ghost trying to push him out of the bed. The resulting scuffle left Roach and Ghost sitting at the kitchen table twenty minutes later nursing a bruised shoulder for Ghost, a clipped jaw for Roach, and coffee for both. Neither could hide their grins.
Later that afternoon, after Roach had cooked up some chili and then pressed the Tupperware into Ghost's hands before the man left, Roach made the mistake of checking his e-mail.
Twenty-two new messages greeted him, all from his old teammates. Goddamn MacTavish.
"Hey, Roach, heard the news!" was along the lines of what both Robot and Zach wrote, "You and Ghost definitely need to come for a visit. Make it happen, okay?"
Archer and Toad both wrote their own congratulations, Archer a bit more concisely while Toad added on instructions to call him immediately so he could hear all about it, the nosy fuck.
It was Worm, however, that really made Roach do a double take. "I'm sure your adopted babies will be adorable."
Whoa, whoa.
"Adopted babies?" Roach had asked Toad, calling him soon after he finished reading his e-mails. "What the hell?"
"Roach it was a joke." Toad explained, "You know Worm isn't exactly the king of subtle."
Subtle? "Subtle? About what?"
There was a long uncomfortable pause. Finally Toad said hesitantly, "You mean you guys aren't- Wow. Uh, okay. I can. I can talk to him. If you want."
Now Roach was officially lost. And kind of irritated. "What are you talking about, Toad?"
Toad's voice went decidedly nervous. "I mean, we always thought. Me and Archer. That you and Ghost, well, and now you two are living together. And, well."
Wait, wait, wait.
Roach's mouth fell open. "You mean. Like, together-together?"
"Um." Toad said eloquently. "You know what, mate, I gotta go. Uh, important stuff to do. Gotta feed the cat. Get the mail. Okaytalktoyoulaterbye."
Numbly Roach hung up the phone, mind reeling.
That night Roach went through the motions of running the bar, his thoughts elsewhere. He knew Danny and Lauren could tell something was wrong if their concerned glances his way were any indication. But Roach couldn't bring himself to care.
After the bar closed and Roach was safely in his living room before he took out his cellphone and dialed MacTavish. Who really didn't help all that much.
"Ghost has always… fixated, Roach. Revenge. The Taskforce. Missions. It got even worse after Shepherd. I'm just glad it was on something that might be good for him this time."
Well.
Roach didn't get much sleep that night, or at least he didn't plan to but the next thing Roach knew was that it was morning and he was spread out on the couch one arm tucked under his head while the other clenched a blanket that he didn't remember getting.
"Hey, Roach." Ghost said from behind him.
Sitting up quickly, Roach blinked when Ghost pressed a mug of coffee into his hands. "Hey. You're home?"
Ghost pushed Roach's legs off the couch to make room before sitting down himself, "Yeah, closed a case last night. Nothing lined up that can't wait."
Roach nodded and flexed his toes, ignoring the press of heat against his knee from Ghost's leg.
"You okay, mate?" Ghost wanted to know, frown pulling at the scars along his face.
Roach nodded again. And then before he could stop himself, "Can I ask you something, Ghost?"
If anything that caused Ghost to look even more concerned. "Sure."
"Are. Do you." Roach bit his lip. "You look at me sometimes."
Ghost snorted but Roach noticed his breathing getting shallow.
"I just," said Roach, keeping his eyes trained on Ghost even as his friend looked away. Almost as if he was scared. "Tell me the truth, Ghost. Tell me why."
Roach watched, breath hitched, as Ghost's face morphed into something vulnerable.
Finally Ghost whispered, eyes pleading, "I don't actually like chili."
And damn, that was about the biggest admission Roach would probably get.
Before Roach's brain could come with any number of reasons why it was a bad idea, Roach reached across the couch, grabbed Ghost's face between his hands, and brought Ghost's lips hard against his own.
Now, it had been quite some time since Roach had kissed anyone, and the first time he had ever kissed another man, so he figured it wouldn't be the best. But the sparks that zipped up and down his spine and the heat pooling low in his gut begged to differ.
Against his lips, Ghost let out a soft grunt of surprise that melted into a short and quiet moan. Pulling back, Roach studied his friend's face. Ghost's eyes were blown wide, his cheeks were flushed, and his face was full of the most heartbreaking hope Roach had ever seen.
"I think I can live with that." Roach told Ghost solemnly, whose face split into a wide grin.
Roach flushed when Ghost leaned back in, gently nipping at Roach's lower lip. And, yeah, Roach had never thought about being with another guy, much less one of his commanding officers.
But Roach decided, smiling against Ghost's kiss as the other man cupped his jaw, he could adjust.