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He's firmly decided this is the softest blanket he's ever touched in his life. Probably the softest he'll ever touch.
Last night was the best sleep he's ever had.
For once, they lucked out with a safe house. Full pantry, an actual bed, warm blankets—and he gets to share it with Soap.
What more could he possibly want?
A fire, probably. That's not any fault of the safe house, though. It's perfectly equipped with a wood stove and a whole shed full of kindling. Whoever keeps this place supplied deserves a raise. It's just that the smoke would put them at risk, being that they are on an op and safety is rather the whole point of the safe house.
There's a chill in the air for certain, but it's not terrible. No hypothermia risk, just the risk of being uncomfortable. But that's where these godly blankets have come in.
Dawn is breaking. One curtain is open, letting in the dull pink light of an overcast sky at sunrise. The other is shut, throwing the bottom halves of their bodies in shadow.
Soap snores next to him. Looks like Ghost wasn't the only one getting a good night's sleep. There's a drool stain on the pillow beneath his slightly open mouth. Disgusting. It's so endearing his heart might burst.
Thankfully, they've each got their own blankets. Ghost is no stranger to sharing a bed with Soap on missions, and he knows exactly how the single sheet equation pans out every time. Soap steals all the blankets in his sleep, even though he runs hot, only to end up throwing them on the floor before the night's over. It never fails. Simon wakes up shivering every fucking time.
But not this time. He burrows deeper into his four layer burrito. Johnny only has two, and true to form, they are dangling off his ankle into the floor below.
How does that bastard not have icicles growing out of his nose? Ghost is warm, all things considered, but his hands and feet are always icy, no matter place or time, and right now is no exception.
He wants those blankets that Soap is wasting, but grabbing them would require him to break free of his warm cocoon. And his freshly woken brain just can't comprehend why he'd ever want to move.
As if psychically linked, Johnny's blue eyes blink open.
"Cold?" Soap's voice cracks with disuse from sleep. Funny how he knows exactly what's on his mind right upon waking. Nobody knows him like Soap. Nobody has, or ever will, know him like Soap.
"Just the extremities."
"Shite. Here."
Soap raises the corner of Simon's blanket nest, effectively letting cold air stream in.
"What are you doing?"
"What's it look like? Warmin' ye up."
Soap scoots underneath the layers and pulls his own two covers off the floor, throwing them on top of the pile. Instant body heat soaks into his skin. Like being on a beach in summer instead of a cabin in the middle of freezing winter.
His feet immediately tuck themselves under Johnny's legs, seeking warmth from the human furnace.
"Bleedin' frostbitten Jesus, Ghost," Soap hisses, leg jerking in surprise, but not pulling away.
"Bad circulation Jesus, actually."
Soap takes that as an invitation to wrap his arms around him, pulling him close and rubbing his hands up and down his arms. Simon doesn't ask what he's doing again, because he'd say the same thing. Warmin' ye up. That's all it is.
He wouldn't let just any brazen sergeant manhandle him.
Simon's eyes start to grow heavy again. This is—he could get used to this.
"Look," Johnny says. Of course there won't be any going back to sleep now that Johnny is awake. Simon peeks his eyes open to see Soap nodding at the window with a soft grin plastered to his lips.
Turning over in Soap's arms takes far more effort than it should, but seeing the fat snowflakes falling in the morning light makes overcoming orneriness worth it. Especially when he turns back to face Johnny again and his face looks like that. Absolute wonder. Like a child on Christmas.
"Maybe it'll stick and we can go out later," Soap says, eyes still stuck on the window.
Soap wants to go play in the snow just outside enemy territory, in the frigid temperature—when there is a perfectly warm bed right here. Because Soap is classically and certifiably insane.
And Ghost already knows he'll be obliging him later.
"If it accumulates, we can kiss tomorrow's exfil goodbye."
"Well. Least it's not a bad place we got here."
"Be better with a fire."
"Were ye cold all night?"
Would that have made you do this quicker?
"Nah. Blankets are good."
"They're too hot."
"You're too hot."
He didn't—
He didn't actually mean for it to come out that way. He meant it literally, as in Soap's body temperature is literally too hot. All the time.
Christ.
An utterly devilish look crosses the other's face. Simon is in for it. There's no use in even trying to backpedal. He's just going to have to let the demon run his course.
"How hot is too hot, LT? Would ye say I'm pure smokin'?"
"It's not too late to learn how to sleep with one eye open, you know."
Soap barks out a laugh, and the morning breath hits Simon square in the face. He doesn't mind at all.
It grows quiet between them once more, and if he didn't know any better, he might think Soap had fallen back asleep with a pleased smile still on his face. But he does know better. Soap doesn't go back to sleep. Once he wakes up, that's it.
Just playing possum, he is. Just relaxing in this rare, comfortable moment. So he stares. At long black lashes that hide the colour of the snow clouds outside. At the curve of his nose. At overgrown stubble and a faded chin scar. At the warmth.
He could stay right here forever. Cold be damned. All the warmth he's ever needed is tucked in beside him.
"Was that an instant coffee pack I saw in the cupboard last night?" He eventually breaks the peace.
"Aye," Johnny says, eyes still closed.
"Could you make some?"
"I could. Will I?"
"Soap," he grouses. "I'm your lieutenant."
Johnny opens his crinkling, amused eyes, and removes his hands from Ghost to prop his head up on his elbow and look down at him. It makes him feel like he's under a microscope. He swears he can almost see snowflakes reflecting in his eyes.
"Gonna order me into the kitchen, sir?"
"If that's what it takes."
"Maybe I'll do it for a wee price."
"And what's that?"
Johnny just keeps looking at him, face going softer by the second. Simon's stomach does a little tumble, because he thinks, maybe, for some reason…Johnny is about to kiss him.
And he'd let him. Of course he would. All the flirting, the jokes, the touches—maybe they're past due for a kiss.
"If it snows enough, we at least have to go for a walk out there. And if I smack you with a snowball, it cannae be helped."
The butterflies in his stomach are promptly replaced with disappointment. He really thought—
"And maybe…," Johnny starts, but doesn't finish the thought, eyes dropping down to his lips for just a split second. Ghost catches it, and the butterflies are suddenly swarming again.
"Maybe what?"
Johnny gives a small shake to his head, grinning down at him.
"Nothin'. You'll have to go out in the snow with me for that one."
Hm. Good thing he was already planning on it.
Soap leaves the protection of their blankets—he bets he was close to coming out anyway, regardless of his coffee request, due to overheating. Insane.
There is something cosy about the sparkling flakes falling outside as Soap rattles around the kitchen. He's never been much of a winter fan, but for Johnny? He could be.
Maybe he already is.