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Canal Fever	By : LisbetAdair Category: +A through F > Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Views: 2103 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from this work.

Chapter List
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Chapter Four

He'd found the intimacy of it quite unsettling: standing still whilst Roach washed him, especially given that he'd being doing the same thing as a rapid prelude to sex just a few minutes ago. It was different now, and he felt unnerved as Roach's strong hands massaged his hair. His touch was gentle and the sensation was not unpleasant; he let his head bob and roll with the pressure, but deep down it didn't feel quite right.
When he returned the favour, he was nervous. Even though he'd touched more private parts of Roach's body, running his hands through his hair felt like it was crossing a boundary. He remembered how he felt on Sunday morning, the horror and shame coming back to him. He stopped twisting Roach's hair in his fingers and let his hands drop. Roach leant forward into the stream of water and rinsed. When he turned to Ghost, blinking water from his eyes, Ghost couldn't look him in the face.
“What's wrong?” said Roach.
“Nothing” he said, automatically, and then he stopped himself. He thought for a second and continued “It's just like... I mean... this is weird. Doing this together, it's...” he trailed off, unable to properly frame what he wanted to say.
Roach propped himself against the tile, out of the way of the water, and began to clean his skin. “Weird in a bad way?” He asked.
“Just weird.” said Ghost. “Like... it's not real.”
“Mm...” Roach shrugged. “Do you like it?”
Ghost thought about this. “I don't know. It's just... all so different.”
Roach turned off the water and there was a sudden, awkward silence.
“You and me need to have a talk.” said Roach. He pushed open the door and a waft of cold air made Ghost shiver. Roach threw him a towel. “And I'm starving. You want to get dinner before hitting the bars?”
Ghost remembered MacTavish's orders and groaned. “I hate fucking gay bars.”
“Yeah well, work's work.” Roach buried his hair in the towel and rubbed it furiously. Ghost found his eyes automatically drawn to the dark patch of hair between his legs and his cock swinging below. He felt embarrassed at Roach's shameless confidence and started to pull on his clothes.
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” said Roach. “What are you going to wear to go out?”
Ghost looked at the clothes he was holding: a pair of pastel blue denim jeans and checked shirt.
“I don't think so.” said Roach.
“What?”
“You look like you were dressed by Jeremy Clarkson.”
“And?” said Ghost, insulted.
“Come here.” Roach slung the towel around his shoulders and sauntered out into the room. Ghost watched his round, pale bottom as he walked around to the far side of the bed and picked up large, glossy, square bag with the name of an upmarket department store emblazoned on it. He held it out to Ghost.
“What's this?” he asked.
“Clothes.”
“I've got clothes.”
“Better clothes. You've got to look the part, remember?”
Ghost took the bag gingerly, like he expected it to explode at any moment. Carefully, he peered inside and pulled out the first thing he could reach.
“Are these... flares?” Ghost held a pair of jeans against his body.
“They're bootcut! They make your arse look nice.”
“And this is a shirt, I've got a shirt!”
“You've got a dog blanket that was made into a shirt.”
“This has got flowers on it! And pants!” Ghost pulled out a small box of designer briefs. “Why do I need pants?”
“Admittedly those are for my benefit.” Roach grinned at him.
“I'm not wearing this! And what is this? A cardigan?” Ghost spat the last word out like it was coated in filth.
Roach looked at him with a derisive expression. “If I have to call Archer and Doc to cram you into them, I will, but I am not going out with you looking like that.” He pointed to Ghost's usual clothes. His face softened “Look, if it was just you and me, I'd go out with you whatever you wanted to wear. I still think you're pretty fucking hot.”
Ghost shuddered, embarrassed at the compliment.
“But this Velvet Whossname place is a high-class joint.” Roach continued. “They've got cocktails and shit like that. You have to look like you eat Vogue and piss champagne.”
“It's in Manchester. It's not fucking Monte Carlo.” snapped Ghost.
Roach looked affronted. “It's still filled with guys who want to look good, and party hard. Just put the fucking gear on. I'm starving.”

Ghost stared at the mirror, looking at Simon Reeves. There had been a new passport in his bag, and he'd spent a few minutes memorising the details. Simon Reeves. He rolled the new name round in his head. Cardigan-wearing, man-fucking, shirt-lifting Simon Reeves. Ghost didn't like to admit it, but the cardigan wasn't as bad as he thought. It was a black, soft knit that plunged deeply across his chest, showing the monochrome floral pattern of the shirt. He had rolled the cuffs up to his elbows and left the shirt unbuttoned at the collar, mimicking the model in the fashion magazine Roach had slipped into the bag. Shoving his hands in his pockets he tried to work out what was an acceptably gay expression.
What an utter fucking farce! He thought, annoyed. And now what? A romantic dinner? The very thought made him feel slightly queasy. He didn't know how he was supposed to get through that, given that he could hardly look Roach in the face without being reminded of something indecent. He didn't do dates. He didn't do relationships. He didn't get involved. Well you're involved now! He thought.
There was a knock at the door and Roach burst in uninvited, a huge grin on his face. He had a white shirt, open at the collar and covered with a fine navy pullover. It clung to his body, outlining his massive shoulders and his narrow waist. Ghost had to admit that he was right about the jeans, because Roach looked great. His heart fluttered at the sight of him.
“See!” Roach gesticulated at the mirror “Told you that you'd look great!”
“Shut up!” said Ghost, scowling.
“Just take a compliment for once!” Roach said, rolling his eyes, pulling on a short jacket with a designer crest on the breast pocket.
Ghost stayed silent, glowering.
“Fine.” Roach rolled his eyes again. “Be that way.”

They hardly spoke for the short U-Bahn ride to Nollendorfplatz, Ghost still grumpy, pulling and shifting in his clothes like a child dressed up for a portrait. He followed Roach sullenly, his hands rammed into his coat pockets and his collar against the cold. Eventually, they stopped outside a modern restaurant. Inside Ghost could see several same-sex couples dotted about. One of the pair of men were holding hands across a fat bottle of sparkling wine.
“Oh my bloody God.” said Ghost, under his breath. He tried not to stare.
Roach spoke in rapid German to the waiter, who looked him up and down with a particularly ravenous expression.
“Did you see the way he looked at you?” said Ghost, incredulously.
“You jealous?” Roach winked at him.
“It's bloody disgusting!” Ghost snapped.
“Leave it out, Anne Widdiecome!” Roach rolled his eyes. The waiter appeared at his elbow. "Zwei Biere, bitte" said Roach.
The waiter retreated, with a parting flutter of his eyelids at Roach that grated across Ghost like a saw.
“You make a great jealous boyfriend.” observed Roach with a wry smile.
“Fuck you!” snapped Ghost.
“You did.” said Roach, a smug expression on his face. “It was great, remember?”
Ghost stared at him, incredulous. “I can't believe you just said that.”
Roach smiled at him, like a cat who'd just found a jug of cream within a paw's reach, and then his expression changed. “Seriously though, is it so bad?” The waiter reappeared, silently depositing bottles of lager and menus. “Danke” said Roach.
“Is what so bad?”
“This.” Roach pointed at the table with both hands. “Us. Getting a chance to legitimately go on a date.”
“This is not a date.” snapped Ghost “This is work!”
“Oh.” said Roach. “Was it work in the shower? You keen to fit in with the gays, so much, you let me suck your cock?”
“Shut up!” hissed Ghost. “Fine! You play out your fantasy life. It's a fucking date!”
Roach stared at him for a second, looking slightly hurt and then he picked up the menu.
“Fish sounds nice” he said, after a few minutes.
Ghost looked at the menu, which was written in English. He didn't care much for fancy food: food was fuel and putting ribbons and bows on it wasn't going to change that.
“How did you end up doing this?” said Roach, putting the menu down.
“I thought it was obvious? They thought us Brits wouldn't stick out so much in Manchester.”
“No.” Roach rolled his eyes again. “This task force job.”
“Mac asked me, after he was promoted. The money was good. The work sounded interesting.”
“You knew him before?”
“Yeah. We go way back. We joined the paras together, passed Selection together. They split us up after that and we kind of lost touch for a few years. Then I heard he was doing this, and when I was over in the States we met up again. A few months later, I get a phone call asking me to ship out to the arse end of Germany.”
“What were you in the States for?”
“Got a flat in LA.”
“Really?” Roach looked incredulous.
“My sister lives there. She works in the films, you know, making dresses and stuff like that. She couldn't afford somewhere to live without help, so we bought this house together and made part of it into a flat.”
“That's amazing!” said Roach. “I can't believe you didn't mention that!”
Ghost shrugged and he found himself explaining about how it had all worked out, telling Roach the story of his last few years easily, as if the words wanted to come out. He caught sight of himself in the reflection of the window and it was like he was watching himself from outside. Simon Reeves, on a date with his exotic boyfriend.
He was really not himself anymore.
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Canal Fever