Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There are good days and bad days, John comes to understand. And the deciding factor is usually determined immediately upon waking, his body giving itself a yes-or-no diagnostic before he can even roll his head on the pillow.

Today is a bad day.

And while he grits his teeth with the recognition, gearing up for a morning full of discomfort and stress, Johnny fosters the tiniest bit of relief. 

Because there are bad days and there are worse days. He knows to count his blessings where he can.  

Even still—it’s pure torture forcing himself to move, the ungainly tumble across the bed to reach his nightstand feeling like a death-match against his sheets.

A sharp stab radiates up his core, accompanied by dull, throbbing muscle tension. Most days like this, it’s a matter of which body part is going to complain loudest; seems they’re all vying for attention right now.

He lets out a low groan, squinting at his clock. Well past 0900, but Johnny reckons he could’ve done with an extra twelve hours, what with the way his back wants to concave, a warning sign that any movement might set it into a spasm. Which will then set his neck off, then his shoulders, then his leg.

The prospect of getting up is sounding more and more like a threat on his life by the second.

So Johnny lies there for as long as he can, teeth tightly clenched in his mouth as his feet start prickling, that odd, fiery twinge taking root at the base of his heel. Ah, shitty option number two it is then.

The doctors had said this was one of the side effects—nerve damage from his SCI can sometimes flare up in various parts of his lower body, altering his perception of temperature and touch. Currently, it feels like his right leg had been barbequed overnight, an internal fire tickling from the center of his foot outward, the blanket on top like a literal sheet of flame.

Johnny kicks clumsily, attempting to dislodge the damn thing, but it just instigates the nerve pain in his leg, spreading up his entire right side and forcing him to curl up in distress, whining out the most pathetic sound.  

A low point, surely, but he’s in too much pain to care.

There’s medicine in his side drawer, anti-inflammatories and a muscle relaxant, though he can’t will himself to reach for it. Or shove the damn hell-fired blanket from his lower body. It would be far too pitiful to call out to his mam to move it for him, but fuck if he doesn’t consider it…

Instead, Johnny just lies there like a beached seahorse, curled into the worst shape his body can manage, closing his eyes as if that might make it all go away.

It doesn’t.

But when his mother finally does call up to him, the clock reads half-ten, so somehow, he’d slipped away enough to pass some time.

“Johnny, child—yer sister an’ the kids are here. Get yerself down ‘fore I put away breakfast.”

If anything can get him out of bed, John supposes, it’s food.

Suppressing a groan, the man fixes his palm on the side dresser, using his still impressive upper-body strength to heave himself up off the mattress. There’s a brace for his leg—the fucking right one had been damn near shattered from his fall, broken in four places—that he tirelessly straps around his knee, even though he doubts he’ll be doing much walking today.

Both his crutches are tucked against the closet, so he launches his body in a direct arc, quickly grabbing them to support his aching form.

Up and at ‘em, he mocks in his head, using sheer sarcasm to force himself to trudge out of his bedroom.  

Downstairs, he can already hear the sounds of his niece prattling away, Caro and mam striving to appear enthusiastic as she divulges her latest interest. Johnny makes his way to the bathroom to freshen up, reluctantly giving himself a glance in the mirror. Yeah—he’s not looking too hot today, dark shadows under his eyes, tension written in the furrows of his forehead. But what can you do…

He struggles back down the hall, facing the staircase with a healthy dose of apprehension. Shite—he might actually be regretting his insistence on retaining his upstairs bedroom, despite his parents’ suggestion they trade their room downstairs for better accessibility. But Johnny’d been feeling guilty enough about, well…everything, so he’d put on a good show about how he’d need the exercise getting up and down every day. Now it feels like a cruel slap in the face.

Grunting under the strain, he does manage to make the short trip down the stairs without faceplanting, so that’s something.

“Ahh, there’s the boy! Took ‘is sweet time, the lazybones,” his mam exclaims, and he shuffles over to her on his crutches with a brief kiss and a low grumble of “Mornin’,” his trajectory steered more by the smell of warm oats.

They’re huddled round the kitchen, mam and his older sister Caroline, seemingly gossiping over their coffees like a couple of grans, though one might hesitate to confirm their relation. John had inherited his dark hair, blue eyes, and stubbornness from his mother Elaine, while Caroline and their younger sister took more from da, mousy dark-blonde and rosy-faced. Caroline’d claimed a bit of height though, nearly of a piece with himself; taller probably, on account of his new-found stoop.  

“Y’a’right, Caro?” Johnny greets her now, trying to scoot by to get to the last of the porridge. He’d seen her round in the few weeks he’d been home, her visits becoming more regular, he reckons, since his injury.

“Aye, peachy. Ye're lookin’ a wee bit peely-wally though, John.” She puts down her mug, eyeing him with concern.

He shrugs indifferently, dropping down onto the stool with the last of his strength and an involuntary wheeze.

“He’s pushin’ his luck, I’d say he is, climbin’ up them stairs when we’ve got a perfectly good room down ‘ere—”

“It’s fine, mam,” Johnny shushes her, plainly not in the mood for this conversation. Again. “Just give it a rest, aye?”

Elaine huffs indignantly, taking a forced sip from her coffee. “Fine then, but hell mend ye if ye go topplin’ down again.”

“Mam,” Caro accuses, appalled at their mother so casually mentioning the taboo topic of falling down. John couldn’t give a damn.

He leans into his porridge, lethargically slumped against the counter, but offers no protest when his sister sidles up behind him, her deft hands pressing into the base of his neck, making short work of easing some of his tension.

“Shite, ye're as rigid as a corpse.” Seems death metaphors aren’t off the table then…

“Language, Caroline,” their mother chides, but she’s watching the siblings with a fair amount of empathy, coming over to stroke Johnny across his buzzed head. “Ye can go an’ have a lie-down in a bit, babes, just wanted ta get a meal in ye, aye?”

Johnny nods, more focused on the heat unfurling from his spine with every pass of Caro’s palms. So far, he’d had his fair share of coddling, but he’d take mam’s sympathy over her nagging any day.

Within a minute, there’s the sound of pattering feet, and Johnny lifts his head just in time to see a child-sized whirlwind spin into the room.

“Uncle John! Uncle John!” comes the cheerful call, and after she’s done spinning, Johnny chuckles at the dazed look on his eldest niece’s face, her purple glasses askew on freckled cheeks.

“Watchit, Ags, you’ll be topplin’ over like me at this rate.” That earns him a terse slap from Caro, still the sole advocate of playing dumb to his injury.

“Uncle John, look at my new sketchbook!” little Agatha exclaims, rushing over to him with a sparkly pink book in her grasp.

“Aye, it’s almost as bonnie as you!” John scootches on his stool, letting his niece attempt to plant herself in his lap.

“Careful, darlin’,” Caro warns her daughter, but Johnny’s got a good grip on her, only a few scant pains indicating this probably isn’t the best idea.

“Let’s see then—ooh, what ‘ave we got here? Looks proper quality, that,” he embellishes his reactions, watching the girl flip through the pages of her sketchbook, prattling away with each drawing.

They get through about a dozen before John senses the pattern; all of the sketches seem to be of robot-like characters wearing ballerina outfits.

“Huh,” he remarks, nodding along with every addition. Well, it’s certainly…unique.  

“An’ this one’s called Tilly,” Agatha explains. “An’ this one’s Joojoo, he’s my favorite. See—he’s got the best crown.”

“Aye,” Johnny agrees, grinning as his niece goes on and on about these little characters she’s created, and to be fair—they’re not bad.

“Aggie, let’s leave Uncle John to his breakfast, aye? He’s not feelin’ well today.”

Johnny scowls at Caroline, but reluctantly lets Agatha slide off him, her sad little pout guilting him to say, “Go on, rascal, I’ll come play with ye in a bit.” Wrapped around the finger of a seven-year-old, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

She scampers off excitedly, Caro huffing, “Johnny, ye dinnae have to…” but he bats away her concern.

“Aye, she’s a bombshell, isnae she? I envy tha’ energy.” He smirks around his last spoonful of porridge, finally lifting his head from its stoop. “An’ where’s the wee barra then?”

Mam nods cheekily towards the living room and Johnny has to squint his eyes through the dim light to scout out his nephew. “Proper pair they make, aye?”

Snorting with an honest chuckle, Johnny savors the sight of his father sprawled in his favorite armchair, the bundled form of his infant grandson, little Frankie, nestled against his plush torso. “An’ I’m the lazybones, am I?”

Elaine tuts, swiping away his bowl and spoon and giving him a loving pat.

“How’s Greg?” Johnny turns to ask his sister, aiming to keep the attention off himself for the moment; that brief lap-sitting had really stirred up the cramp in his back.

“Keepin’ on,” Caro remarks. “Work’s gone down the brae a wee bit, but he says things’ll start pickin’ up again near spring.”

Johnny nods, regrettably out of enough steam to properly pretend to care about his brother-in-law’s real estate dealings—not that he’s a bad bloke. Just a bit dull.

“Ah, ye’ll never guess. I ran inta Shelly Kirkland down at the Wellgate Centre, says ye’ve been doin’ a’right with the PT.”

A low exhale belies John’s strained smile. “Aye? She’s a right ball-buster, I’d wager. Keepin’ me on my toes, so ta speak.”

“Who’s that then?” his mam chimes in by the sink, nosy as ever.

“Lass I used ta play shinty with, remember? She’s one of Johnny’s physios.”

“Right, right.” Elaine nods while she scrubs the dishes, but Johnny can tell she’s got no clue who they’re talking about. “Helpin’ ye with yer exercises then, John?”

He reluctantly nods, not liking where this conversation’s headed. The inevitable—

“Is she pretty?”

And Johnny can’t help but roll his eyes. “Really, mam?”

“Wha’? It’s an honest question!”

“Aye, she’s well fit, she is,” he plays along, smirking as Caroline shakes her head, while mam perks up in interest. “Strong as an ox. Can probably bench-press me if she tried.”

Elaine’s posture sags. “Oh.”

“An’ wha’s wrong with tha’, then? Cannae a woman be strong?”

“Aye, it’s no matter. Just…hopin’ ye might meet someone a bit less…” she stalls, tossing her head around for a suitable adjective while Caro just mouths, “Lesbian,” behind her back; Johnny has to stifle his snort when his mam decides upon, “…athletic.”

“Gosh, mam, is’at yer criteria?” Caroline scoffs, crossing her arms in mock offense. “There goes half the bloody population.”

“Oh, haud yer wheesht! Cannae I be concerned fer my son’s future?”

“Ach, mam! When did this become about me?” Johnny hisses, his face burning.

“Lay off him, ye bat,” Caro defends, while mam tosses the towel down in a huff. “He doesnae need yer damn matchmakin’.”

Another noise of frustration settles into a genuine frown on Elaine’s face, and Johnny watches her struggle for a bit. But then she suddenly rounds the corner, and within seconds, there’s a fervent squeeze around Johnny’s shoulders. It would be sweet if she wasn’t pressing into his sore spine.

“Naw, a’course no’. I just worry fer ye, lovie.” He lets her pet his head, forgiving her all her previous antics, even though he knows he hasn’t seen the last of them. Especially when she teases with a pepper of kisses, “Ach, it’s jus’ that my son is so young and handsome and—”

“Crippled,” Johnny supplies, earning himself a sharp tap that’s less sweet than the hug.

“John Laith MacTavish, ye’ll say no such thing!”

“Thought ye taught us not ta tell lies, mam.” Elaine scrunches her nose at that, conflict in her expression.

“Hush, child!” She detaches from the hug, returning to the washing, while Caro reinstates the massage behind him, fingers digging into the exact spot his mam had just molested, bless her.

After some time, a grunt from the living room sees Jack finally stirring from his mid-morning nap, a bleary squint and a slurred, “A’right, Johnny?” discrediting his wakefulness. John just gives him a thumbs-up.

“Ah, cripes, wha’s the time?” Elaine murmurs, already fussing with something else in the kitchen. “Ruth said she might be poppin’ in by noon. Got ‘erself an interview round Blairgowrie, think she said.”

Johnny hadn’t seen his younger sister since his homecoming. Not that he finds that out of character; they’d hardly been very close growing up. Four years his junior, Ruth had always been a bit…complicated. 

“She’s got a nice new fella, she has,” mam adds, sounding unusually positive. “An’ this new job opportunity sounds promisin’. Reckon she’s finally got a good thing goin’, so don’ be hard on her when ye see her, John.”

Johnny grunts, slightly offended. “Just poppin’ in then, is she?”

“Aye, she asked us ta watch Emily while she’s out,” Elaine says.

He squints at that. “Mam, who the hell’s Emily?” 

“Language, Johnny,” she tuts, spinning around to tilt her head while she answers, “Yer goddaughter, ye dafty.”

That only intensifies John’s squint, a blinking realization. “Aye, ye mean Jessie?”

There’s a physical reaction in Elaine, her eyebrows furrowed, lips stretched taut. From behind him, he hears Caroline attempting to abort his further questioning.

“Christ, mam, ye're still goin’ on about tha'?” Johnny shakes his head in disbelief. “Cannae ye just let it go?”

Like his mother, in all her stubborn glory, might simply let something go—particularly something this notorious.

As far as controversial topics in the MacTavish household go, Johnny would rank his traumatic, life-threatening injury at about an eight; all antecedent topics belong to the youngest child, Ruth.

Number one—that rat fucking cunt bastard Jessie Cowan.

It had been bad enough when Ruth found herself head-over-heels for the dirtbag shite-stain in high school, even worse when the fucker got her pregnant at eighteen. But to mam, perhaps the most unforgivable act her daughter had committed had been naming the newborn baby girl after the bastard.

That’s right—Jessie Cowan number two.

Johnny’s daft, air-headed, impossibly naïve sister had actually named her newborn daughter after the man caught cheating on her six times, selling eccies to the Scottish Youth Parliament, driving a goddamn tractor into the side of the local parish, and other such heinous deeds.

But no, Ruth had been convinced that he’d turn himself around. For her. For the fucking baby. And Johnny might’ve excused her for all that immature stupidity had she not colluded with him on several drug gigs, nearly landing herself a sentence if John himself hadn’t intervened.

She’d come to her senses eventually, albeit after Cowan got arrested and shipped over to Barlinne, and devoted herself to raising the little girl right, spoiling her rotten, calling her JJ—which Johnny later discovered, regretfully, stood for Jessie Junior.

So, understandably, the whole thing had become a bit of a no-fly zone in their household, his mam going the extra petty mile to refuse to call the poor lass by her name.

“Ye cannae take it out on her,” Johnny reasons, watching his mother’s mouth twitch in obstinacy. “Christ, she must be about six now. Jus’ leave it be.”

“Ach!” Elaine grouses, returning to shuffle around the kitchen while muttering more nonsense under her breath.  

Caroline just shakes her head at them both, clearly having no effective opinion about the matter.

As if the troubling topic had only further aggravated his wellbeing, Johnny struggles to lift himself from the counter, Caro handing him his crutches to send him limping into the living room. Having promised Aggie to play, the man pushes himself to reach the cupboard, biting his lip enough to bleed with the sudden exertion. Shite—he really ought to lie the fuck down or something.

Persevering out of raw spite, Johnny nearly stumbles into the closet, trying to dislodge some of the old boxes to find what he’s looking for when a firm grip takes hold of his upper arm.

“Aye, boy, ye're fixin’ ta hurt yerself, ye look proper loused.” Jack slips his arm under his, propping Johnny up while edging him out of the cupboard. “I’ve got it, lad.”

Caroline had taken baby Frankie from da, probably to the bedroom round the side to give him a feeding. Entering the living room, Johnny spots Agatha sprawled across the carpet, doodling in her bright pink notebook and humming tunelessly. He deposits his crutches, dropping into a painstaking collapse beside her, causing her eyebrows to raise.

“Are ye feelin’ any better, Uncle John?”

Always an advocate for truthfulness around kids, Johnny pulls his face in a dramatic grimace. “Not so much, hen, but I think I’ll make it.”

Agatha seems appeased. She scoots up beside him, going over her latest doodles while da drags in the box from the closet.

“John, ye shouldnae be on the floor—”

Johnny ignores his father’s valid point, opting to reach out and search through the contents of the box—childhood mementos, a whole lot of crap, really—to pull out what he’d been after.

“Aye, here we go.” He shuffles next to Agatha, handing her the toys as he pulls them out. “Thought ye might like some’a these since ye're keen on robots an’ such.”

“Uncle John, these aren’t robots!” Agatha proclaims, and she’s got reason for doubt.

“Naw, lass, these are transformers, aye?” Johnny holds one out, seemingly a car until he starts flipping it apart like he’d remembered from his youth. “Robots in disguise, they are, see? Just like yer pictures.”

Agatha’s eyes widen, a noise of delight from her lips. “Wahh! Cool!”

“Ach, musta been a long time since I’ve played wi’ these.” Johnny lets her inspect the collection, more than a little dented, her swift fingers converting each toy into their robot personas in record time. “Aye, believe it or no’, yer Uncle John was a wee bairn once too.”

Squinting in suspicion, Agatha seems unconvinced.

“Here’s a thought—why dinnae we nick some paper from the printer and start makin’ these fine robots some crowns, eh?”

Her enthusiasm is enough to compensate for the aching in John’s body, his leg outstretched on the carpet radiating lashes of fire every fourteen seconds. He kneads his fist along his brace while Aggie fetches the paper and supplies, yet it does nothing to combat the constant splinters. His teeth actually start chattering with how tense he feels.

But it’s fine. Because he and his niece have a blast making crowns and tutus for the odd little circus of automatons, and da settles back in his favorite chair, dozing in between commercial breaks on the telly, and Caro comes back round with Frankie and the wee tot seems fascinated with the texture of John’s buzz cut.

It’s fine. He makes it fine.

“This one is Jiminy!” Agatha proclaims, debuting the recently beautified bot; Optimus Prime, if Johnny’s not mistaken.

“A’right then,” he challenges, adjusting the floppy sombrero-like shape he’d fitted on the head of another. “This one’s called…Rooster.”

“That’s no’ a name, Uncle Johnny!” Agatha stresses, shaking her head with what might be outrage.

“Sure it is!”

“Ach, no! That’s a…a thing!”

“Cannae a thing be a name?” God, what is this conversation…

“Nooo,” Agatha insists, perhaps inheriting mam’s stubbornness as well. “A thing is just a thing!”

“Really?” John teases. “I’ve got a friend called Ghost, y’know.”

His niece eyes him even more suspiciously than before. “I dinnae believe ye, Uncle John…”

“Naw, honest,” he swears. “Says so on his birth-certificate and everythin’.” Now he’s just taking the piss, but it does help distract from the sudden pinch in his heart. He holds up another robot. “Aye, he’s about as big an’ blocky as one’a these guys as well.” Yeah, definitely taking the piss…

Agatha seems to chew on that, her eyes scrunched underneath her glasses before finally conceding. “If ye say so…”

John considers it a victory, enough so that he’s inclined to celebrate by lengthening his sprawl, shoulders bracing into the couch behind him.

“Aye, Johnny, ye're still tense as fuck,” Caro whispers from the side, cradling her son in gentle swings.

All he gives in response is a low grunt, eyes shutting for just a minute or two, wishing he could be as comfortable as that babe right now.

In the background, he can hear mam talking briefly on the phone, her footsteps leading into the den as she states, “Tha’ was Ruth. Says she’s gonnae be late, but she’s still bringin’ round the girl.”

The girl, John winces, ready to call his mother out again but she beats him to it.

“Johnny, mo luran, get yersel’ up off tha’ floor a’fore ye break yer back further!”

Again, all he can reply with is a grumble, while Caro hisses out a protest on his behalf.

“Hell slap it intae ye,” Elaine mutters before retreating back into the kitchen, always the drama queen.

Jack snuffles out a disgruntled sound, roused from another eight-second nap as he scratches his head. “Roo’s comin’ round?”

“Aye,” Caroline answers, still sending daggers Johnny’s way to get him up off the floor.

He doesn’t move. Can’t, in all fairness.

Da sniffles some more, eyes half on the telly, flipping through channels. “No’ sure I really trust tha’ Turk fellow…” he says after a moment, apropos of nothing.

Johnny frowns at him. “Who, the bloke that cuts yer hair? That’s a bit racist, da, aye?”

A chuffed snort has Jack shaking his head. “Naw, I meant tha’ gadge Ruthie’s sweet on. Wha’s his name…?”

“Alan Turk,” Caroline clarifies, her lips tweaked at the earnestness of John’s defense. How was he to know the bloody guy’s name; he’d only just heard of his existence. “Been seein’ him fer two months now. A record, I’d say.”

“Right,” Johnny mutters. “An’ what’s wrong with this one, then?” A loaded question, that, seeing as Ruth’s list of suitors usually reads like a who’s-who of Central Scotland’s next top inmate.

“Dunno,” his da muses. “He’s just…kinda squirrely.”

That gets a chuckle from John, deciding he trusts his old man’s judgment. He slumps further in his awkward sprawl, leg twitching as he tries to give it a stretch.

The telly provides a momentary reprieve, as does Aggie’s constant chattering. He smiles at her despite his pain, asking, “Gonnae play with yer cousin Jessie when she gets here?”  

Aggie’s mouth pulls into a scrunch, and her, “Aye,” needs a bit more convincing.

“She’s ‘round yer age, yeah?” Johnny muses, estimating his other niece had been born within a year of his first. He hadn’t been around much then…

“Aye,” Agatha says again, before adding, “She’s weird.”

“Aggie,” Caroline scolds, but there’s no real backing to it.

“Ach, there's nothin’ wrong with bein’ weird, reckon,” Johnny says, pinching the skin around his brace while his leg muscles flare. He feels unexpectedly defensive of Jessie despite having only met her maybe four times. “Jus’ give her a chance, wouldya, Ags?”

His niece nods, and her, “A’right, Uncle John,” is worth its salt this time. Johnny takes that as a minor success, letting her play with her ballerina-bots solo for a bit as he commits to his slouching.

There’s a news show on the box, some reporter droning in a monotone that ladens his eyelids, and he’s thinking a kip might be the right idea when he hears a sudden shift of tone in the broadcast.

“Breaking—the latest from Egypt, where an armed attack on the international airport in Cairo this morning leaves around 30 suspected dead, more than 150 injured—” 

Johnny’s eyes snap to the screen, having heard just enough keywords to feel that buzz in his gut.

“According to officials, the twelve identified attackers were members of an independent terrorist organization, also responsible for the EAF attacks in September, as well as the takeover of a government checkpoint—”

“Jesus,” Caroline mutters, watching as the feed flickers through footage of mayhem outside the terminal, several bodies strewn across the ground. “Aye, Ags,” she says, voice higher pitched as she tries to distract her daughter. “Why dinnae ye see an’ help gran in the kitchen?”

“Nuh-uh,” Aggie whines, but she’s still well occupied enough by her toys to notice the news.

Johnny, on the other hand, can’t turn his gaze away from the footage, eyes locked, searching, hoping he’s wrong about his gut instinct…

And sure enough—

“Reports are claiming EAF and counterterrorist officers initiated a lockdown at the Cairo International Airport after suspicion of terrorist activity. Multiple explosive devices have been discovered on site, with shots fired in one of the terminals at approximately 11:30 this morning. Full casualties have yet to be divulged, but estimates claim around thirty civilians as well as further members of the Egyptian Armed Forces and…”

His vision must blank for a bit, sound fluctuating in a harsh rhythm.

Counterterrorist officers…

God…it has to be, right? Just enough intel to inform the public, but the hidden language of ambiguity masking the whole truth…

He knows from experience. He knows which units might’ve been given that call.

He knows how easy it is to project someone’s name on that casualty list…

“Y’a’right, John?” That could be Caroline, shaking his shoulder briefly to snap him out of it; he can’t really hear her, ears ringing, too much noise.  

“Aye,” he mutters with a nod, head feeling alarmingly fuzzy. He catches his da peering at him intensely, back and forth between the telly.

There’s more footage of the violence, this time with audio—gunshots and civilian screams. Aye, not exactly child-proofed.

Caro hisses again, nudging Agatha with her foot. “Aggie, babes, go on an’ run along ta gran now.”

Agatha gives out a dramatic huff, stomping to her feet and pouting. “I dinnae want to!” She jumps where she stands, doing one of her signature dramatic twirls.

“Aggie.” The command in Caro’s voice is more decisive this time, and the girl completes another half-twirl before surrendering.

“Fiiiine,” she croons, and she shifts off her feet to attempt a sort of departing leap, but—

“Aye, watchit!” Caroline warns too late—

Agatha stumbles her jump, tripping over Johnny’s outstretched leg.

And—holy fuck.

John can’t contain the rattled scream that escapes his mouth, even if he tries to bite it back with his teeth.

“Ahck, ahm sorry! Ahm sorry!”

He’s pretty sure his vision’s gone to an impossible spectrum of white, the center of his limb coursing with a torrent of razors.

“Ahh, fuck…fuck…fuck.” That might be him muttering, voice seized with the aftershock.

He thinks he can hear Caro yelling from behind him, another hand on his shoulder before he pitches into a fetal curl, the rest of his body reeling from the reverb in his leg.

Christ—that fucking hurt.

“Ahm sorry, Uncle John!” comes the tear-stained cry again, and Johnny’s able to hone in on it, cracking his eyes to see Aggie sobbing on the floor next to him. “I didnae mean to!”

“S’a’right, hen,” he croaks, speech still strangled.

“Jesus Christ,” Caroline hisses, dropping next to him while still trying to cradle Frankie, who’s now, appropriately, screaming his little head off; John can relate. “I told ye te be careful round yer uncle, Ags!”

That just incites more sobbing from Agatha, but it takes the heat off John, his face pressed into the bottom of the couch, wheezing like a nursing home patient.

“Wha’ happened?” mam yells from the kitchen, and now it’s a proper commotion. “Didnae I tell ye not to be messin’ aroun’, Johnny—”

“It’s no’ his fault, mam!” Caro yells back with accusation, adding fuel to the fire.  

Agatha sobs louder, “Ahm sorry, ahm sooorry!” and da has to pull her back from Johnny, as she’d almost sat on his fucking leg again. 

“Lyin’ on the bleedin’ floor, hell mend ye—I told ye—”

“Fuck off, mam!”

“Caroline Elizabeth—”

Frankie shrieks in Caro’s arms—

The newscast still churns out screams and gunfire—

And Johnny just—

Digs his face into the carpet, his breathing and heart rate well on the verge of hyperventilation.

“Quiet down!” Jack barks, and it’s sharp enough to break the mayhem.

Damn—da rarely raises his voice. But when he does, he means business.

All at once, Johnny feels a shift in the mood, Caroline taking Frankie back to the bedroom to quieten his cries, while mam comes to console Aggie with a juice-box in the kitchen. His father shuts off the television and slips down beside him, coasting a gentle hand up and down his back.

“Y’a’right, laddie?” Jack murmurs, always the most considerate in the household.

But Johnny’s well past beating around the bush. “Hurts like a fuckin’ cunt,” he growls, watching his da grimace in sympathy. His damaged nerves keep sending out agony-inducing warning bells, and all John can do is keep his teeth padlocked on his bottom lip, riding through it. Doesn’t help that the carpet smells of must, and he’s fairly certain he’s lying on a few pieces of stray robot anatomy.

“Aye, we’ll get ye back ta bed with some meds, take it nice an’ easy.”

Johnny gives an affirmative hum, unwilling to unfurl from his sheltered hunch, but da’s arms slide under his back, eventually a second pair as Caro returns, the both of them managing to get him into a sitting position on the couch. He only lets out a few distress sounds, fighting off the urge to vomit on the carpet.  

“Shite, John, ye still weigh a ton,” his sister teases, but it’s more of a dig than she probably means; John knows he’s lost a fair bit of muscle mass since his injury.

He rolls his head, fingers dropping to his aching kneecap, but the touch just sends more splinter shards up his body along with another embarrassing groan, so he doesn’t offer protest when his mam holds out a double dose of paracetamol and a glass of water.

“Let me see,” she urges in a mild, sensitive tone, slipping into a kneel to remove his knee brace with a low hiss. “Looks a tad swollen, loves, gonnae get ye an icepack an’ we can set ye's up in our bedroom.”

“Ye dinnae have’ta, mam. I’ll be fine upstairs—”

“An’ how will ye manage tha’, then? Gonnae crawl up there on all fours?”

“Enough, mam,” Caro reprimands, but she seems to have lost her bite as well.

“Aye, I’ll carry ye, John-boy, if need be,” his father asserts, and they all collectively roll their eyes at that.

But Jack takes that as a worthy challenge, and soon thereafter, Johnny finds himself half in a bridal carry, Caroline bulwarking at his hip while da heaves and drags his son up the stairs.

It’s a nice gesture, he supposes, dodging his head to avoid smacking the railing.

“Watchit, watchit,” Caroline coaches, father and daughter successfully navigating the minefield of Johnny’s messy bedroom to all but drop him like a sack of potatoes on his bed.

Da’s wheezes are comically loud at this point, and John doesn’t blame him for the muttered, “Aye, gonnae go have a lie-down meself, if ye don’ mind," as he quickly makes his way back downstairs to his favorite armchair.

Caro lingers, scooching around John’s bedside and procuring the muscle relaxant gel from his drawer. “Gaun, take this off, ye lump,” she urges, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Ye’ve been bloody tense all day.”

Johnny groans out a childish whine, his body still radiating pain from that awkward trek, but he allows his sister to untangle the t-shirt from his torso, doing his best to ignore the sharp exhale of air she lets out upon revealing the extent of his bare back.

The surgery scars had just been superfluous additions; Johnny knows his skin is littered like a dirty urban street. Bullet holes, stab wounds, burns, etc. Not the prettiest graffiti, that.

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” leaves Caro in a hush, and he senses her hesitation as she plops down beside him.

They don’t ask, his family.

About…before.

About his experience in the service, about his familiarity with armed violence, about his scars, about the screams that ricochet from his bedroom walls on those worse days, about why he knows that a news report in Cairo is only half the truth, about why it leaves chills up his spine…

“Ok, jus’ tell me where it hurts most.” Caroline starts spreading the gel up the center of his back and Johnny struggles with the inability to properly explain to her:

Everywhere. It hurts fucking everywhere.

All the goddamn time.

Caroline leaves him for his nap after propping his leg with the icepack. And Johnny lies there, epitomizing his potato-sack performance, nodding off for a bit before he makes up his mind.

They never ask. But that doesn’t mean he still can’t think about it.

Straining, John gropes for the mobile on his side dresser, doing the math in his head. Eleven-hundred in Egypt had been nine this morning in Scotland, about the time he’d woken. Must be around two there now…

He takes the risk. And before he can talk himself out of it, John pulls up the abandoned message chain, typing out a hasty status update:

It fucking figures he’d be the first one to breach the months-long communication draught, in all his neediness, but his thumb stupidly presses send and then he has to wrestle with the fact that he can’t take it back now.

Johnny waits.

Approximately thirty-seven minutes.

Not like he expects a response right away; if he’d been right, if 141’s been sent after that terrorist cell then they’ve undoubtedly got their hands full.

He doesn’t know what he hopes for in a reply anyway. He may not even get one, considering…

No. He won’t think like that.

The buzz from his phone nearly sends him into cardiac arrest, regardless.

“Steamin’ Jesus!” he exclaims, having nodded off again, almost bloody dropping the thing in his haste to read the answer.

And, justifiably, he’s not all that surprised when the single message reads:

Ghost: No.

His heart rate continues assaulting his interior nonetheless, and Johnny holds his breath.

Waiting.

Four minutes.

Five…

Well, that’s just bloody typical, isn’t it?

No explanation. No follow-through. Damn fucking blunt as ever.

He’s about to start angrily responding back with a list of his grievances when his surprise gets tested by the sight of the typing sign on Ghost’s end.

Ghost is typing...

He waits until:

Ghost: We're in Faiyum.

Ghost: Airport was a diversion.

Ghost: Waiting on OPSEC to see about hitting their main base.

Johnny blinks, reading the report as if he’d just gotten the memo himself. The lack of personality in Simon’s reply should offend him, but he’s still choking down the ballistic lump in his throat at the sheer relief of receiving that familiar brusque vernacular.

Fuck, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

It’s clear that this threat in Egypt had been larger than advertised, no such thing as an ‘independent terrorist organization’ as far as John’s concerned. Ghost’s reply suggests a target higher up in the food chain, likely connected to one of their familiar ultranationalist adversaries. And that thought doesn’t sit well with his current consolation.

But still—he can’t help the sag of his shoulders, the almost-smile.

Ghost is typing...

Leaning closer to his phone, Johnny watches the type sign continue.

Ghost: SIGINT’s got a trace near Tamiya.

Ghost: Should be meeting with the QRF before all-clear.

Ghost: CO says tomorrow morning at earliest.

Exhaling out deliberately, Johnny nestles his head against the pillow, clutching his mobile like some ditzy girl with a diary. He breathes. Stutters. And only hesitates a second before sending his reply:

It’s painful how desperate it is. And he’s left waiting again, those typing dots popping in and out. But the answer hurts just as much, despite its reassurance:

Ghost: I'm solid.

That…that does something to him. A feeling he can’t describe, no tac term designated to give it a noteworthy abbreviation. Just a self-inflicted clench around his ribs.

God—he’s pathetic, isn’t he?

But Johnny can’t help but push the envelope, and he finds himself impulsively typing out:

He waits.

His heart punishes him with every breath-held second, but he waits.

One minute.

Two.

Ghost is typing...

Those three dots take their sweet time before:

Ghost: Good.

 And he’d taken a kick to his gammy leg not an hour past, but this one stings far worse.

Because it’s what he’d wanted to hear.

He shuts the screen on his phone, laying it on his bare, battered chest for a moment just to memorize what this feels like. This double-edged confession, hooked into his life-support, that seems so much like a hemorrhage to the chest he nearly searches the sheets for crimson stains.

Good.

That’s all he’d needed, really. Four months ago, out of the ICU. Just to hear that someone had been glad that he was ok. Solid. Good.

A buzz from the mobile sees another quick, deadpan report, something about having to go to receive the PCI from their temporary base of operations. But John somehow finds it in himself to type:

The perfunctory reply of:

Ghost: Will do.

just further substantiates his compulsion for playing with sharp objects.

Never did learn, stubborn as his mam, that MacTavish brat…

John does manage to sleep, astonishingly, sprawled out on his stomach and letting that relaxant work its magic.

And he’s sure he could have snoozed well into the afternoon had a small noise in his room not woken him up in a panic. Caught off guard, Johnny blinks awake to the sight of a child standing right next to him, head tilted, and hell if he doesn’t release the most pathetic squeak.

“Are ye dead?” the girl asks in a low, husky voice.

He has to blink a few more times at the odd question, sure he’s still dreaming, before he can connect the dots.

His niece, Jessie.

Shaking his head, John gives her a vague frown. “Not quite, lass.”

“Oh,” she says, and Johnny can’t discern if she sounds disappointed. It’s alarming as it is that a six-year-old is informed enough to know what a corpse looks like.

“Ye're Jessie, aye?” he prompts, shifting slightly on the mattress, feeling more than a little exposed at the moment; he’s still lacking a top, down to his shorts, and the little girl is gaping at him like he’s some kind of scientific experiment gone wrong.

Her shoulders shrug in an exaggerated motion, accompanied by a garbled ‘I’dunno’ sound, and it causes John’s mouth to perk into a smile.

“Gran’s still callin’ ye Emily, eh?”

She nods.

“Aye, but I’ll call ye what ye want, hen,” he assures, waiting for her to nod. “Can I call ye Jessie then?”

She takes a moment to ponder, enough that Johnny gets a proper look at her; small for her age, tawny, frizzy hair, a patch of freckles on her nose to rival a plover's egg. She’s got hazel eyes like his sister, scrappiness from Cowan.  

“Aye,” she decides eventually. “I like Jessie.”

“Good,” John declares. “Ye can call me Johnny, or Uncle Johnny, aye?” With her nod, he gets an unexpectedly silly thought. “Or—if ye're really keen, ye can call me Uncle Soap.”

Jessie tweaks her lips in suspicion, but she doesn’t seem ready to call his bluff. “Aye.”

It’s then that John comes to the realization that his niece likely doesn’t recognize him at all, having only seen her when she was a wee one, he wagers.

And that only gets confirmed as Jessie continues staring at him intently, before finally blurting out, “Are you my da?”

If the noise John had made upon waking was embarrassing, he’s glad she’s the only one here to witness his squawk. “Cripes, no! Wha’ gave ye tha’ impression?”

“Mammie said me da was dead,” Jessie states, so matter-of-factly John just blinks at her with an open mouth.

“An’ why would ye gaun thinkin’ I’m dead?” There’d be time to try to unpack all of Ruth’s grade-A parenting later.

“I dunno!” Jessie tosses her hands up, gesturing his scarred-up body. “Ye’ve go’ lots of scratches! Plus…plus, mammie says me da was a knobhead, ’at’s wha’ she said!”

Johnny nearly chokes into his pillow, unsure whether this conversation is depressing or downright hilarious. “I’m a knobhead, am I?” he challenges, fixing to have a word with his scunner of a sister ASAP.

Jessie raises her eyebrows to a ridiculous level, pointing at his head while saying, in the utmost earnestness, “Ye’ve got no hair!”

And Johnny doesn’t try to repress his cackle this time, even with the blow to his ego. But he’d take his niece’s ignorant interpretation of what a knobhead is with a grain of ‘my sister’s a fucking idiot’.

“Fair enough, ye’ve got me there, lass,” he allows, still chuckling into his pillowcase. “Still doesnae make me yer da. But I’ll do ye one better an’ admit tha’ I’m yer godfather.”

“Wha’s that?” Jessie asks, batting a thousand with her familial comprehension.

“A godfather’s like a protector, of sorts,” he says with small pride. Granted, he’d only been given the title because he’d had leave and Jessie Senior’s brother was in lockup. Not exactly heart-warming. Even more so considering they’d had the ceremony in the parish Cowan had later tried to ram with that tractor. “Means I’ll take care’a ye at any cost, aye?”

“But I dinnae even know you…” Jessie reasons, and it tugs at Johnny’s guilt for not being around more. “Ye wasnae even in the Christmas card.”

He recalls receiving the notorious MacTavish family holiday card while on base last year; mam had really gone overboard with the elf costumes, so he’d not felt too choked to have missed that one, aye.

“Tha’s because I’ve been away fer a while, hen,” he explains, not prepared to get into details. “But I’m here now, an’ I reckon it’s as good a time as any fer us to get to know each other proper, aye?”

Jessie pushes her cheeks, freckles scrunching, contemplating. “I s’ppose.”

“Right then.” John shifts upwards on the bed, reluctantly rolling off his belly. Not that the view is any more child-friendly; he doesn’t know what Jessie gapes at more, that shrapnel scar or his chest hair. He tugs the blanket up, giving the mattress beside him a pat. “Why dinnae ye tell me ‘bout yerself, Jessie?”

She seems a tad hesitant, which is only fair, so Johnny takes the initiative.

“Are ye fond of unicorns then?” he asks, gesturing her top, which has a magical purple horse surrounded by glitter, and a few patches of dirt if he’s not mistaken. “I like yer shirt.”

“I hate it,” she states bluntly.

Taken aback, John smirks at her. “Yer mam pick tha’ out fer ye, huh?” He’d been remiss in not immediately recognizing it as Ruth’s signature style; all it’s missing is the cheetah print…

“Aye, it’s terrible,” she stresses, tugging at the hem and scowling at all the sparkles. Now that she’s closer, he can also see various plasters swathing her arms, a few scratches accompanying the dirt. So not a pageant princess then; noted.

Johnny perks up, a sudden idea providing a two-problem solution, grinning with his cleverness. “Hm, let’s see then—” He attempts to get up from the bed, but his body gives him a definitive no-thanks, so he flops back down, pointing over at his closet to a scrutinous Jessie. “Aye, hen. Think I got somethin’ ye might prefer.”

He directs her to the proper drawer, watching her shift through bundles of old, forgotten relics. He really ought to tidy up one of these days…

“Cheers, tha’s the one,” he says as Jessie pulls out the specific jumper for inspection, ostensibly unimpressed until she turns it to the front side.

“Oh,” she utters, and it might be the first time she’s sounded excited.

It’s one of Johnny’s old knits, something his grannie must’ve made when he was a tot, forest green with a bright blue J woven into the front. The girl strokes over the letter, and Johnny feels a decent amount of pride in providing her something that gives her name proper acknowledgment. 

“Go on, Jess, try it on.”

Jessie looks adorably confused, holding up the sweater with wide eyes. “I can keep it?”

Nodding with a grin, Johnny tosses her a thumbs-up. “Sure, reckon it’ll look good on ye. Jus’ make sure ye wear tha’ round gran, y’hear?”

That’ll teach the bat a lesson…

“Aye,” she mutters, already shrugging it over her gaudy t-shirt. And when she stands there, the arms slightly too long, Johnny helps roll them up for her, tousling the frizzy hairs on the top of her head. Jessie still looks befuddled, but she does stutter out her gratitude in a shy, raspy, “Th-thank ye, Uncle Soap.”

God—consider his heart a pile of goo…

“See, now we’re twins, eh? J and J, right?” She smiles up at Johnny with more spirit and he takes that as the icebreaker he’d been waiting for. “So, go on then—tell me ‘bout yerself, Jessie. Ye like playin’ sports, aye?”

He’s not surprised when the girl nods exuberantly, confirming his suspicion about those bandages. “Aye! I like footie best!”

“Ah, ya bandit! Y’know, I used’ta kick around meself?”

That riles Jessie’s enthusiasm further. “Really, Uncle Soap?”

“Aye, was a keeper, mostly. What d'ye play?”

“Striker, an’ middie, an’ defense, an’ rocket, an’ hooper, an’…” Now he’s sure she’s just making them up. But he’ll excuse her for being six.

“Awa ye go, reckon ye’ve got a whole team in ye, ya rascal!” His niece practically beams at that, and Johnny ruffles her hair again, tugging her into a quick hug.  

“Mammie says it’s too danj-rus, bu’ I think it’s really fun!”

“Tha’ where ye got all them boo-boos?” He nods at her scrapes and the girl pulls a hilariously affronted face.

“Ye dinnae need’ta call them boo-boos, Uncle Soap. Ahm no’ a baby.” Again, she’s so deadpan it nearly sends John giggling.

“Right, I stand corrected.”

He ooh’s and aah’s as she shows off all her war-wounds, with a dramatic retelling of each, the unavoidable segue to his own scars making him squirm a bit. But he lets her ask.

“Wha’s this one?” Jessie’s propped up next to him now, gawking at a bullet hole in his shoulder, careless enough to reach out and jab it with her little finger. Christ…

“Got meself poked by a unicorn, aye? Like tha’ bastard from yer shirt!” His track record with lying to kids takes its hit, but Jessie’s astonished laugh makes it worth it.

“Ye're teasin’, Uncle Soap!” she accuses, but she listens in rapt attention as Johnny begins fabricating increasingly ridiculous alibis for his scars.

“Aye, an’ this one was on account’a some real nasty troll called Gaz,” he explains, considering it proper payback for the time his fellow sergeant failed to dunk a Guinness bottle in the bin, taking out a chunk of John’s elbow, the prick.

He’s about to come up with an age-appropriate alternative for one of his stab wounds, when he hears a call from downstairs.

“Ach, Emily? Where’ve ye run off ta, lassie?”

His niece flinches, and Johnny gives her a sympathetic cringe. “Reckon it’s about time she’s noticed ye missin’.”

Jessie pouts, fiddling with a stray thread on her new sweater. “Aye. Gran had me down fer a nap!” she exclaims with disgust. “Ahm no’ a—”

“Not a baby, aye,” Johnny teases, giving her a wee nudge off the bed. “But she’ll be worried about ye, she will. Might even call a search party, so gaun get back down.”

Still scowling, Jessie chews her bottom lip, looking every bit the young rebel-in-the-making his mam is likely worried about.

“Listen, how ‘bout this,” Johnny propositions. “Ye go along with gran an’ yer cousins, an’ I promise I’ll make time te see ye soon, right?”

“M-maybe…” she stutters, pulling at her lip again before committing. “Maybe ye can come round te my next footie match, Uncle Soap?”

“Aye, tha’s a mense idea, Jess!” he agrees, cherishing the punkish little grin on her face. “It’s a plan then.”

They both wince at the second call of, “Emily!” but Johnny sends her on her way with a cheeky wink, his only regret not having enough energy to be downstairs when his mam catches her wearing his monogrammed sweater.

Here they’d all been walking on eggshells trying to keep a lid on the poor lass’s unfortunate legacy. But Johnny knows there’s nothing to worry about.

Aye, she’s not Jessie Cowan number two. She’s Jessie MacTavish.   

He sleeps again, not sure for how long. But the aches and spasms from his leg have died down by the time he rolls onto his back, the sight of his messy room bringing him a sentimental sort of comfort.

Mam knocks on his door soon after, with a gentle pat to his head and another icepack.

“Ye missed Ruth,” she says, and Johnny feels only partially guilty; he’d still be needing a word with her eventually, and he's not exactly looking forward to it. “Aye, an’ Caro an’ the babes have gone, said ta tell ya they hope ye're feelin’ better soon. Ah—little Aggie left ye this.” She procures a piece of paper with a fond smile as she places it on his bedside. “I’ll have da bring up dinner by later if ye dinnae feel like comin’ down, alright?”

Johnny just hums, draping his arm across his forehead and enjoying the little patterns mam’s fingers make across his buzzed hair.

She leaves him be, as his family have come to understand is what he often needs most—privacy. A chance to breathe. Chosen silence.

Something he used to hate—the absence of noise. Too much empty space to fill with his paranoia. Blank sheet music for all the echoes in his head.

He wades in it now, eyes still open, fixed on the speckled ceiling, begging himself not to crave bomb blasts and artillery fire in his childhood bedroom. Although…there might be something beautiful about it all, Johnny supposes, those noises in the thick. The gasps in between discharge that say: I’m here, I’m a part of this song too. 

He doesn’t know who he is anymore; just a broken boy with a messy closet and a J on his jumper.

He doesn’t know who he wants to be.

Johnny covers his eyes with his elbow, nose tickling that glass-bottle scar, crescent-shaped. He breathes in the scent of his own skin, and he holds it there.

At least until da brings up his meal.

It’s nineteen-hundred in Scotland, twenty-one in Egypt.

As he glances at his clock, Johnny remembers the piece of paper from his niece, and when he draws it into his lap, a low, easy chuckle fills his belly.

She’d really outdone herself, he reckons.

The drawing is a new ballerina-bot, ballerobot?, character, incorporating elements from the transformers they’d played with, but also with a fresh new spin. A big, chunky crown sits atop its head, with what looks like a white sheet veiling the upper torso, a whimsical face etched on top. And for a seven-year-old’s sketch, it’s not bad at all.

Especially her very astute designation, the scribbled name of Ghost written in pink marker above its head. 

It nearly unhinges him, how quietly Johnny tries to shake around his giggles. But Christ—he can’t take it.

The man grabs for his phone, taking a quick shot and hitting send before he realizes Simon’s still on mission.

Not having the chance to regret his lack of discretion, Johnny startles at the immediate typing sign.

He can’t contain his laughter now, rolling on his bed in a near fit.

he writes back, no further explanation necessary.

He can practically see the flustered expression, even discernable under his mask, as the typing continues on Ghost’s end with frequent stutters, until eventually:

Ghost: Are you fucking mad, Johnny?

Snorting into his fist, Johnny chews his thumb, a vague sunburst in his chest upon seeing his name. Like that. How it’s supposed to be.

Like nothing’s changed.

he teases, rolling into a more comfortable position, far too pleased with himself.  

Ghost: WTF

comes again, this time with more fervor. Johnny cackles against his palm.

he finally explains, waiting for the three dots to come and go multiple times before adding:

He waits for Simon’s reply, wishing he could be there in person to witness the disgruntled huffs he’s no doubt inflicting on his mask.

Ghost: That looks nothing like me, Johnny.

It’s so matter-of-fact John nearly concedes him his point. But he can’t pass up another opportunity to yank the bastard’s chain.

If his mam only knew…

Johnny receives Simon’s reply with a naughty kind of glee.  

Ghost: Damn right.

He glances at the drawing again, the little googly-eyes and toothy smile.

Amongst other things.

There’s a pause for a bit, both of them hovering over keyboards, wondering which lines to cross and which to hide behind.

But ultimately Simon plucks up enough courage to write:

Ghost: Thanks.

And Johnny simply smiles, filling all that space in between, the silence, the words unspoken, with the echo of a laugh that might’ve snuck out from behind a mask, mixing with the sand on a cool night somewhere in Egypt, music for the dusk.

he says.

And he holds his phone to his chest, just to feel the reassuring buzz when it chirps out:

Ghost: Night, Johnny.