Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“So how’d it go then?”

Seeing as he’s the only other person in the car, it takes a remarkably long time for Johnny to realize that the question had been directed at him.

His father, Jack, spares him a curious glance, eyes shifting back and forth between the damp stretch of country road they're winding through, giving the wheel a few awkward taps.

It takes him about five seconds more to realize he has to answer as well.

“Was a’right,” Johnny supplies, uncertain how he really feels about that particular verdict.

“Not too rough for the first go, eh?” He’s surprised his da is even broaching the subject, seeing as they’d been driving ten minutes and the old man had already exhausted his go-to conversational topics, limited to his latest golfing trip and that flood from a few years back folks won’t shut up about.

Never ones for small talk, the MacTavish boys.

“Naw, i’was fine. Just gettin’ in the basics, y’know. Trainers seem decent.” There’s a struggle to make it sound convincing, but Jack seems to buy it.

“Reckon ye know a thing or two ‘bout keepin’ fit an’ all. Should be back on yer feet in no time.”

A grimace threatens to lock Johnny’s jaw, but he manages to convert it into a half-smile for his father’s sake. “Aye.”

They both know how shite his outlook really is.

After the career-ending injury, the coma, months of recovery, four surgeries, that bout of pneumonia, more recovery—John would say he’s had a fair amount of time prepared to face the facts. 

But he’d let his da remain optimistic.

“Caroline thinks she went to school with one of the trainers,” Jack says, doing that odd little tap on the wheel again.

“Aye?” Johnny scratches the back of his head with a spare hand, scrubbing a sore spot blooming in his neck. “Reckon that might be Shelly then.”

He recalls the physiotherapist who had been around his older sister’s age, not that he’d really taken much note of the woman; too busy trying not to let on how much pain he’d been in. And the poor lass had no doubt been occupied peeling him up off the floor to ask about family. Despite his previous admission, the PT session had been far more difficult than John had anticipated.

“Yer mam’d prob’ly ask if she’s single,” da snorts, casting a teasing smirk his son’s way.

Johnny winces dramatically, all too fair considering the ache he’s still nursing, and bats a hand. “Ach! She’s already got her grandbabes, doesnae she? Not gonnae get any more from me.”

His father’s quiet chuckle evens out, accenting the unspoken confession in John’s dismissal. As if he might as well have added: “what would anyone see in a cripple like me anyway?”   

The car reverts back to its awkward silence, at least until Jack points out a soggy patch of land up the road.

“See—this is where Ol’ Billy’s gaff got flushed damn near inna the river from the flood. Billy MacCallum, aye? Ye can see they never rebuilt it here, done moved down ta Dundee last I’d heard…”

It’s easier to let his da’s babble drive the nagging thoughts from his head, even if it doesn’t quite distract from the chronic pain still coursing up his limbs. There’s a bone-deep ache that’s taken residence in Johnny’s lower back, as well as the come-and-go palsy in his right leg. Small grievances on days like these—as opposed to the white-sharp agony he’d been in those first months after the fall.

It’s probably a blessing he can’t remember much.  

“Mind if we have a pop inna town?”

Again, his father’s direct question has Johnny spacing out, and the brief shake of his head only further aggravates his nerve pain. He winces.

“Unless ye're feelin’ knackered after—”

“Naw, it’s a’right,” he asserts, despite truthfully fancying the prospect of going home and lying on the couch for the next four to six business days.  

“The missus sent me ta get the messages.” His father gestures the pad on the dash, mam’s signature scrawl spelling out a hasty grocery list. “Figured we could pick up yer meds as well.”

Johnny nods, slumping further down the leather seat, his fist kneading the back of his neck. It’s getting that low-burn pulse now, hard to ignore. “Sure.”

“She’s makin’ stovies, she says.”

“Right.”

“Still yer favorite, eh?”

“I s’ppose.”

His da nods twice, too focused on turning through a tricky bend to pay attention to the frown settling on his son’s face.

There’s a lump in John’s throat that kindles alongside the burn in his spine. He doesn’t remember what it was like to have a favorite food; years of MREs had pretty much anesthetized his tastebuds. But it does something to him knowing his mam was making an effort for his sake.

Distracting himself further, the man fiddles with the mobile phone in his lap, idly scrolling through message chains long since gone dormant. The most recent had been some dumb meme sent from Garrick, postmarked three weeks ago with Johnny’s perfunctory clown emoji. Dumb bastard. He wonders how he’s doing. Too much of a coward to ask.

After scrolling further back, Johnny’s thumb brushes past the contact name that is most likely to worsen that lump in his throat.

He doesn’t click it, just lingers over it, unsure what the last message had even been anyway.

Better not to go down that road.

Sliding the phone back into his sweatpants pocket, John attempts to rally himself as his father parks their trusty old Corsa parallel to the market—some dingy-looking place, evidently unrenovated after the flood, seeing as those posters advertising the latest fizzy juice predate his primary-school diploma. 

Jack’s belt clicks, and there’s an uncertain shuffle. “Need me to—?” 

“I got it.” Johnny scrambles behind him for the forearm crutch in the backseat. Just the one today, as it’s his damn right leg hogging all the attention lately. That had been the main target of today’s PT, and it’s still rigid as all hell.

Making his way around the car to get his son’s door, Johnny allows his father to help him out, gripping the old man’s hand while hoisting upwards on the crutch.

“A’right, lad?” Jack’s hands still hover anxiously, and Johnny’s short bark of, “Solid,” doesn’t seem like enough reassurance.

Doesn’t help that the tactical report slides out so readily; it’d take more than a minute to beat that out.

A sharp twinge in his back threatens to sabotage his nonchalance, but the young man hobbles forward before his father can start inflicting pity. “M’a’right. Let’s get gaun.”

All things considered, it’s a minor miracle that he can even walk, albeit looking like a right fucking grannie. The crutch helps, on his decent days.

He hates it regardless.

Beating back a frown, Johnny grits his teeth, following his da into the mart with what he hopes is the last of his dignity intact.

Upon entering the shop, he’s immediately bombarded with a stale sense of nostalgia he has nothing to combat against. The whiff of tobacco and mildew, a bright orange Irn Bru display, some reedy Annie Lennox song hissing through the speakers. If Johnny had thought he’d be here, all of twenty-nine years old, retired, still in his hometown… Christ, he might’ve hoped that drop had been just a bit farther…

He shakes his head, riling the eternal knot in his back, and trails behind his da as they start making their way through the aisles.

As if to prove to the old man how capable he is, Johnny snatches the grocery list from Jack’s hands, nodding in the direction of the butcher in the back. “Go on get the meat, I’ll handle the rest.”

“Ye sure—”

“Aye.” It’s got enough snap to have his father conceding, retreating towards the back of the shop. And for Johnny, it feels like a notch loosened from the belt wrapped around his ribcage, a scant breath of air amidst all this noise.

Pressing his left palm into his back, Johnny leans into his crutch for just a second, hating the tremble that runs through his thigh. He pushes through it.

Most of the groceries are easily attainable, even his mam’s sneaky additions of some of her favorite treats; he didn’t think anyone actually likes soor plooms, nasty little things. Elaine MacTavish and her prickly tastes…

Johnny’s about finished filling up the small cart when he spots a colorful display near the corner, seemingly a collection of random, mostly Eastern European, imports. One item, in particular, captures his attention.

A grin splits his face before he can recant it.

“No way,” he mutters out loud, shifting forward to inspect if it’s really the same. Sure enough—there’s that silly little cow, plastered on the bright tube shape, the word ‘mleko’ in big block letters.

His mobile is out, ready to snap a picture before he feels a halt in his chest. And with it—

“Ye cannae tell me people actually enjoy this shite?” A squeeze from the tube provokes another grimace, but it’s the low chuckle next to him that has Johnny raising his brows in delight.

“Dunno, sergeant. It doesn’t look half bad.”

“'Not half bad’, he says. Christ, it’s like a shot of pure sugar. Very sticky, very gooey sugar.” 

“Gimme.”

He watches in rapt attention as the tube of condensed milk slips beneath the black tactical mask, an elongated slurping sound that feels astonishingly out of character.

Johnny actually giggles.

“Ye're takin’ the piss,” he accuses, grinning like a fool.

When the mask slides back into place to reveal an empty tube, he scoffs in disbelief.

“Yeah. Not half bad.”

“Jesus, LT, ye damn skyrocket! Ye're the on’y one crazy enough to enjoy that, reckon.” He inspects the tube, confirming its origin. “Well—you and the fuckin’ Polish.”

“It’s…sweet,” the man beside him confirms, and the shy snort that follows makes Johnny’s insides feel as gooey as that god-awful condensed milk.

“Aye, ye better not go replacin’ yer toothpaste with tha’, LT. Or mine, fer tha’ matter.”

Johnny gives a cheeky kick to his comrade’s shin, the both of them sprawled in some backwoods barracks, nothing to pass the time with besides easy banter and a paper bag full of foreign snacks.

But he reckons there are worse ways to spend a weeklong stint in Eastern Europe...

Johnny drops his hand, and almost his phone with it. He shakes his head, blinking through flashes of memory so bright he can nearly feel that warmth next to him.

But there’s no one in the aisle beside him; just Annie Lennox and her techno croon.

His mobile slides back into its pocket, a coffin for all those silly texts he’ll never send. For the best.

Letting out a low sigh, John shoves the cart under his arm, hobbling his way toward the till to see where his da ended up. He spots him over by the betting counter attached to the side of the shop, an old vice of his, and probably the reason he’d wanted to stop here in the first place.

Speaking of vices—Johnny leans against the checkout, slipping his wallet out before he can use his better judgment. The lass behind the counter looks fresh out of high school, and she only gives him the vaguest glance of sympathy when she notices his crutch.

“Y’a’right?” she asks, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s just the standard greeting, not a goddamn status update.

“Not bad, you?” He doesn’t wait for her to shrug before pointing at the display behind her. “Packet of B&H Gold, please.” Figures he might as well go all out, price tag be damned. Not like he has much to keep himself calm these days.

The young clerk slides him the pack, bless her for not asking for ID, as she tallies up the rest of the cart. John knows he should’ve waited for his father, but he just…he wants to get out of here.

“Thanks, cheers.”

Cigarettes discreetly stowed in his back pocket, he loops the bag through the arm still grappling his crutch, pivoting forward to go track down the old coot before he ends up gambling away their savings. He catches the cheerful, naïve look on his da’s face as he continues chatting up the clerk at the lottery desk, and again—it’s like there’s something pressing on the interior of his larynx, a sudden emotion he can’t quite put a name to.

It’s not like they’d been particularly close, what with Johnny’s teenage years being just a trial run of his eventual deployment. And over the decade since then, he’d only come home to visit his parents less than a dozen times. So why does looking at him now, his father, in this place, his hometown, feel so much like a footnote in a eulogy that doesn’t exist yet?

Jack MacTavish is a simple man, yet he’s inherently good. Set in his ways, maybe, but he’s honest in a sense Johnny can’t ever seem to replicate.

His son watches him quietly, the slight paunch, the baldness that threatens the crown of his wispy gray hairs—something that doesn’t bode well for his own hairline’s future, but as he scrapes his palm down his clipped head, John estimates he’s balder than his da at the moment. It had been one of the first things he’d done, straight out of the ICU. A fresh start, he’d claimed, taking the razor to the middle of his immature hairstyle and calling it a day. Now it’s an even buzz, just enough to tickle the pads of his fingers.

When he next looks up, John sees his father making his way toward him, a stack of lottery cards held covetously in his grip.

“When’s yer birthday again, Johnny-boy?” Jack asks, holding out a sheet like John’s just supposed to fill it in right then and there. Figures he wouldn’t know, what with the not being close and semi-intentional avoidance.

“Sixth of November,” Johnny answers, letting his da take the card back and fill in the numbers accordingly. He watches him scrunch his eyebrows in quiet consternation before adding, “Ninety-three, ya ol’ dafty.”

“Right-o,” Jack chuckles, patting his son lightly on the back. “Aye, that’s not too far off, is it? What’ll you be wantin’ ta do ta celebrate?”

John had honestly given it no thought whatsoever. Christ, is it already October?

“Thirty’s a big deal, eh?” Just more salt in the wound; put out to grass before scraping through his fucking twenties, who would’ve thought. And that young recruit had had such high hopes…

“Doesnae have to be anything special,” John says flatly. “Mam can make stovies again.”

Jack tries to nod at that, a faint frown pressing his brow. “Right.”

The two of them make their way back through the aisles, more awkwardness flanking them with every creak of John’s crutch. It doesn’t help that his leg is starting to really throb, probably having overdone it in PT. Shelly What’s-her-face ought to feel chuffed knowing what a right mess she’d made of him this morning. And that had only been the first session.

“Oi, MacTavish, is’at you?” They both swivel their heads at the interruption, an older man Johnny vaguely recognizes walking toward them. Here he’d been hoping not to run into any familiar faces. So much for catching a fucking break…

Seems the man had meant MacTavish the senior with his greeting, as when he approaches, his thick fist finds Jack’s palm, a hearty handshake.

“Aye, Ollie, ‘ow ye been?”

“Been keepin' on a’right, cannae complain.”

“Tha’s fair.”

“Elaine’s a’right? Think Wendy mentioned seein’ her down at tha’ fundraiser last month.”

“Aye, she’s fine. We’re all doin’ well.” Jack maneuvers a bit to the side, as if to emphasize his son standing next to him. Not like Johnny had wanted any attention at all, especially in his current state. 

The man—Ollie Boyd now that he recalls, some bloke his parents had been friendly with years ago—raises his brows in an almost comical fashion, giving him a proper once over. “My, this is yer young lad, inne? S’been a long time now, gotten proper big, he ‘as.”

Johnny just nods politely, feeling his leg start to pull from the spreading ache. And embarrassment.

“Wha’s his name, Jamie, aye?”

“John,” he corrects, sliding his left hand forward for the clumsy handshake. “It’s nice to see you, sir.”

“How'sitgoan, laddie? Ah mind ye now, ye done went ta school with my lad, Angus, aye?”

“Ah, yeah, we were in the club together.” Bit of a twat, if he’s remembering correctly.

“Aye, aye, tha’s right.” Ollie nods enthusiastically, crossing his arms. “He’s still playin’, y’know. Down inna wee league an’ everything. Got himself inno a proper tussle, though, his arm’s all gammy.” With that, his eyes skate over John’s crutch, a questioning glance. “An’ what happened to you, ye poor bastard?”

It catches in his throat, whatever pathetic answer John isn’t ready to give. Some paltry excuse, a little dose of poor-me that wouldn’t sit well on his tongue. Shame; that’s what it is, bubbling up his back worse than any nerve pain.

And all at once, he’s left reeling that this is his reality now—his bum leg and fucked-up spine on par with a grown man playing five-a-side. A poor bastard, indeed.

Thankfully, his da comes to his rescue.

“John here was in the service,” Jack says, somewhat reverently. “Special forces.”

“No kiddin'!” Ollie proclaims, widening his stance with his hands on his hips. “Tha’s pure class, int it?” He seems to register the crutch again, all its implications. It makes Johnny’s back twinge even sharper, a ripple up and down his center. “Wha’ happened then?”

“Wounded in action,” John finds his voice, despite it coming out scratchier than he’d like. He doesn’t elaborate.

“Shite, tha’s too bad,” Ollie says, still eyeing his stature far too critically. Johnny stands his ground, even though all he wants to do is run. “Shouldae seen Angus whingin’ ‘bout his gammy elbow. But I reckon ye're made of sturdier stock, eh, MacTavish?”

The quick clap to his shoulder has Johnny cringing, a flush building up his neck. He desperately wants to leave.

“Johnny, he…took a bad fall,” his father explains, and that’s it, isn’t it—a summation of his career, hook, line and sinker. A fall from grace, if he’d been feeling poetic. All John feels is red-hot shame. Unfortunately, his da keeps going. “It’s all a bit…classified, aye, boy?”

Johnny shakes his head, mumbling, “Da, ye don’t have ta…”

“Stationed overseas an’ everythin', not knowin’ where he’s ever gaun next. We’re not even sure of the whole story, y’see. All’s we know is he got hurt fightin’ bravely, protectin’ a good cause.”

“Da…”

“We’re just glad he’s back home again. Fall like that…Christ, yer commanding officer said it was almost thirteen meters.”

“Shite,” Ollie hisses. “Ye're lucky ye're still standin', laddie.”

John might nod; his neck’s gone numb so he isn’t sure. But he feels Ollie’s eyes on him, eating in the sight of his waning posture. He needs to leave.

“Didja get a medal then?”

The question lands like a knife to the gut, and Johnny’s had enough intimacy with the sensation to know its grade. He thinks a raspy noise escapes his lips, but it doesn’t even fucking matter.

He needs to get out of here.

“Aye,” Jack answers for him, naïve as ever, “he’s got loads. Didja know ye can get two Victoria Crosses? ‘Parently on’y three others have.” There’s a sickening amount of pride in his voice. It curdles in Johnny’s gut adjacent to the embarrassment.

“Da,” he tries to warn, but it’s still too raspy to be heard.

Ollie gives a ruddy grin, flippantly impressed. “Aye, chief, tha’s really somethin’.”

“Our Johnny’s always been brave, he ‘as.” The warm hand that cradles his son’s shoulder spreads ash in its wake, a fire burning up and down John’s spine. 

Christ…he can’t take it anymore.

“Da—I’m gonnae,” Johnny fumbles, shifting out of his father’s grip. “Just gonnae go wait in the car.”

“Aye,” Jack says with a frown, still reaching out. “Y’a’righ—”

Johnny starts pedaling backward before he can hear the rest. Before another person can ask him if he’s all-fucking-right.

He catches those slick, critical eyes from Ollie, that tactless gawking most people try to hide. And the awkward follow-up, barely hushed as they whisper behind his back.

“Poor lad. Reckon he’s needin’ a rest.”

“It’s been…difficult for him.”

“Aye, tha’s fair.”

“He’s had a rough go.”

His face is on fire, surely, each squeak of his crutch fanning the flames. Johnny staggers forward, only waiting until he’s reached the next aisle to scrape his hand along his buzzed head, a poor attempt to ground himself.

Breathe, MacTavish.

He swallows down the missile in his throat, blinking through heat that isn’t really there. 

Didja get a medal then? that fucking cunt bastard. As if all that matters is how many ribbons dangle from his big boy coat, how many pushpins jabbed into his mangled fucking body. Johnny wants to hit something.

He stumbles through the aisle, passing the checkout again and clocking the young clerk eyeballing his limp.

Fucking Christ…some bloody homecoming. He wants to shoot her a heads-up, a warning of any kind to tell her to get the hell out of this town while she can. While she’s still got a life ahead of her instead of some deadbeat’s hard-luck story.

John can still hear his da’s voice in the background, no doubt spreading more misinformation about his son’s claim to chivalry.

A splinter down the center of his back has Johnny canting his hip forward, his leg feeling proper jammed, and before he can help it, his crutch skitters against the linoleum.

All it takes is a misplaced step, his arm trapped in the grocery bag, not able to grab the shelf.

He might make an awkward yelp, but it doesn’t register—because in the next second, he pitches forward, falling, falling—

“Evac the building now, Soap. That’s a fucking order!”

“It’s not cleared, captain!”

Soap doesn’t wait for the reprimand, using his rigid instincts to keep moving up the stairs. At least he knows Gaz is hot on his heels. They’d both heard the cries.

“Withdraw now, boys! That building’s coming down!”

Sparing a breakneck glance at Garrick, Johnny keeps moving up to the fifth story, those telltale sobs steeling his resolve. And confirming his worst suspicions.

He grits his teeth, hissing over the comms, “There are fucking kids up here, sir.”

Price doesn’t respond right away, but the distant clatter of gunfire and IEDs extenuates his distraction. And after six more seconds of strained silence, the gruff, “Fuck,” is as much of a greenlight as Soap needs.

“7-6, do not hit this building, we’ve got civilians on site,” he orders over the comms, gesturing to Garrick behind him. “Gaz, on me, let’s clear this level. Watch yer damn step.”

It’s crazy what adrenaline can do; almost makes him a proper leader.

The two soldiers spread out across the rubble-strewn floor, of which the surface looks to be literally crumbling before their eyes; guess Price was right about this building being past its prime.

Chaotic noise from combat on the ground prickles his senses, but it’s not enough to drown out the sharp cries, point of origin estimated five meters into the room on the right, unfortunately the side that’s now cracking apart at the seams.

Of course there were goddamn kids in here. Some sick fucking bastards must’ve left them behind…

“Johnny—” The name through his earpiece almost halts him in his tracks, but he keeps pressing on, using insanity and pure reflex to prevent himself from looking down; half the walls and floors are just…gone, a wasted scene of urban disaster playing out like a drive-in theater. “Enemy fire’s concentrated on that block, we’ve got no overwatch—”

“Copy, Ghost,” he snaps back, perhaps a bit too harshly. “Keep the ground clear for us then.”

He has no time to be talked out of this. No time to be distracted by his nickname being used like a plea for his safety.

To his left, Gaz stumbles over a raw block of concrete, and Soap snatches the back of his tac gear to keep him from plummeting down the hole that cracks under its strain. “Easy, we’ve got this.”

He leads his fellow soldier around the minefield of detritus, securing a route to the remaining room, eyes and ears peeled for those godforsaken children.

He sees the two girls first, clinging to the edge of a wall that’s half crumbled away, the remains of some kind of balcony their only perch. One of them screams shrilly, clawing at the other who must be her sister in pure, undiluted terror.

Fucking hell…

“Gaz, this room’s not sound,” Soap warns, already seeing the glaring cracks through the structure, that balcony looking like it’s about a stray gust of air away from detaching like a hangnail. “Hold in the corner, I’ll pass them to you.”

“Soap, we should wait for air support—”

“No time,” he hisses, already scouting a hold for his rappelling clip to little success. Most of the beams carrying the ceiling above have started slanting, but he secures his rope to the nearest one, giving Gaz a pointed look before treading across the half-shattered floor.

One step at a time, MacTavish…

Holding up his hands, he waits for the girls to notice him before directing his order. “Steady. Everything’s gonnae be fine, I just need ye to trust me.”

Their fear-blown eyes as well as the fact that they probably don’t speak English excuse the lack of solid response, but Soap keeps stepping forward regardless, each splintering crack a reminder of how time-sensitive this shitshow is.

The littlest girl shrieks again when Johnny reaches the edge of the balcony, his weight threatening to separate it from the wall it’s tethered to. And beyond that—a lengthy drop, the streets overrun with combat vehicles and collapsed architecture.

Shame Johnny’d never been a fan of heights…

“Easy,” he says, and his voice is readily calm despite his growing anxiety. “Gonnae need ye to let go, sweetheart.” He nods to the little one, holding out his arm for her to reach him.

A swift shake of the head, and a whine of, “Ya ne hochy pomiraty!” but the older one mutters something in her ear, giving her a sharp nudge.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got ye, darling. Just come to me.” He leans forward to hold out his arm, mental clock already ticking. “Nice an’ easy now. Don’t look down.” More of a reminder for himself.

The older one trembles around a sob, but she helps ease her younger sister’s fingers off her shirt, teetering slightly onto the ledge to get her closer to Soap.

“Oberezhno!” she cries, letting Johnny slip his arm around the little girl, quickly and carefully turning to deposit her in Gaz’s waiting arms on the only stable patch of ground left behind him.

“Watch it!” Gaz warns, as Soap’s shifting weight jostles the support beam. He watches a stray bit of rubble tumble off the edge.

Christ…

The older sister continues sobbing, muttering out fast, frenzied words Johnny can’t translate.

“That ledge won’t hold your weight, Soap.”

“I know, I know,” he growls back to Gaz, but he moves forward regardless, jaw tightly clenched, testing the strength of his tether before leaning a touch closer to the other child.

She cries repeatedly, eyes near vacant. “Ni…ni…spochatku vizmy mogho brata…”

“Easy, hen. I’ve got ye, just reach out for me. I won’t let ye fall, I promise.” He tries the same method as the previous girl, but his weight proves to be too much for the structure, a shuddering crack breaching the floor—and he’s sent sprawling.

The girl screams, her arms beating at the side of the wall. Soap manages to snatch her right wrist, a horrible wrench exacerbating her screeches. Half of the platform drops from the pressure, crackling down onto the streets below in a concrete snowstorm.  

“Fuck!” He winds his arm, feeling something pull while the girl struggles against him, still yelling at him in repetitive words.

“Miy brat! Miy brat tam vnizu!”

“Soap,” Gaz’s voice cuts from behind him. “There’s another one down there.”

And sure enough—

Soap catches the stark, terrified eyes of a boy roosted on a lower patch of the balcony, dangling in between the fifth and fourth floors.

“Fucking Christ…”

“It’s coming down, Soap,” Gaz cautions, his presence behind Johnny still waiting for the pass-off. “You won’t make that ledge…”

Having just the barest grip on the girl, Soap grinds out a low growl, bending his taut arm in a way that threatens to snap a tendon. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get ye clear. I’ll get yer brother, don’cha worry.”

Gaz grabs for the girl, who’s still screaming her head off for the little boy below them.

“John,” Garrick hisses, and both of them are unsure if it’s a warning or a command.

Johnny knows he can’t let that boy fall.

He slides his legs further along the remainder of the balcony, pushing his luck by shouldering his weight against the broken wall. There’s a heavy groan but he begins slowly inching downwards, the tether of his rappelling rope slithering along his descent. Half of the structure had broken off in a slant, the portion the boy is huddled on barely hinged to the main platform. But John somehow manages to slide his bulk along the edge, keeping it intact enough to rappel towards him.

“Soap—status?” buzzes in his comm, Price sounding as tense as he currently feels.

“Hangin’ in there,” he mutters curtly, points lost for attempting humor at a time like this.

“We’ve got enemy artillery still inbound for your location, MacTavish. Get the hell out of there now.”

“Copy, sir.” He keeps going.

“Soap…” A second warning, he’s not even sure from whom.

The little boy is now about three meters below, big, dark eyes gaping at him as John slides into view.

“Hey, mate, gonnae need ye to work with me, a’right?”

Maybe it’s the shared dread, but the boy nods at him, irrespective of his English comprehension.

“I’m gonnae reach out my leg, an’ I need ye to grab it, ok?” He mimes the action, waiting for the sniffled nod. But the second the boy moves an inch from his perch—

The platform shudders, splintering concrete from its center.

“Goddamnit—”

There’s no fucking time.

Johnny knows the ledge he’s on is about to crack, the pressure underneath him splintering with every inch he moves. The boy is barely able to cling to his tiny platform, and each second threatens to send it plummeting.

There’s no time.

“MacTavish, don’t you dare—” he hears above him, but it’s too late.

In the quickest display of dexterity he’s ever managed, Soap unclips the grappling line from his belt, throwing it in a straight pitch towards the little boy below, effectively transferring his lifeline.

“Loop it around yer waist,” he instructs as quickly as he can, voice still shockingly calm.

In however many seconds they have left, he watches the boy strap the rope around his small body, once, twice, fingers trembling.

“Tha’s it, mate, nice an’ tight.”

“Soap—are you fucking mad?!”

There’s no time to respond to Gaz. No time to make sure the kid had tied the knot properly. No time to grieve his lack of fucking judgment.

Because in the next second—

Boom!

An IED rockets the side of the building, and the boy screams as his feet drop, the platform crumbling from beneath him, a snap of the rope keeping him tethered.

And Soap can’t help but try to reach out for him, some inherent form of desperation, because the balcony he’s still sprawled across shatters too.

He might hear someone else scream, an echo, a name over the comms. But then there’s just a resounding crack—

And with it—Johnny falls backward, arm outstretched for nothing, just the panicked shout of his callsign, that stray gust of air and—

White noise.

Static in his ears, in his mouth, in his scalp.

A rush that brings all the blood in his body to the crowns of his teeth.

Freefall.

And then—

Impact.

A full body snap, clap, crack that slams him into a blank white bottom.

Bones, blood, breath stolen in the same convulsive gasp.

He feels everything and nothing, all at once.

There’s no sound, just a frantic crackle, like one of his comms had burst in his eardrum, spilling out liquid electricity.

It takes him an indefinite amount of time to realize there are words mixed into that weird, droning soup.

“…fucking—fuck! Get the ground clear! We need a fucking medevac now! Fucking—somebody get to MacTavish…God-fucking-damnit!…”

Johnny drowns in it, the noise, the chaos. He can’t…

He can’t feel anything.

Just a strange puddle, a blanket rippling beneath him like waves under a dock, not touching. All of his fluids just ebbing and flowing, the opposite of heat, but not quite coldness either.

He ought to feel scared.

He loses time. Until—

A rush pulls at his senses and then suddenly, he’s—

Moving. His body’s moving.

There’s a wrench under his jaw, someone shouting in his face and thrusting his chin up. More noises of, “Fuck…fuck…fuck…”

A strained sound grates against Johnny’s periphery, and a jarring pop in his ear has him recognizing that it’s him; that wrecked, rasping croak is coming from his own mouth.

“Shhh. Shhh. I got you.” Rough hands cradle his face, and he can’t see, can’t breathe but—

“G-ah-ghl—” he tries to speak, choking around the plunging sensation in his chest. “G-gaz,” he manages. “Di’ Gaz ge’ out?”

“MacTavish, just—breathe.”

He needs to know; he desperately needs them all to be safe. He needs—

“Garrick’s on his way down, the kids are fine, Johnny.”

He needs to hear that. His name. Just not…like that. Not like—

“Johnny! Look at me, Johnny. Stay with me.”

He makes the most pathetic noise, a mangled gasp, and with it—fluid bursts from his throat, a gurgle of red that tastes like static and batteries and smoke.

“No, no, no…Johnny…don’t…”

Those hands are back on him now, petting, grasping. He thinks his head moves because there’s a dull thunk, his helmet cast aside as strong fingers spread along his scalp, searching, cradling.

“Fucking…don’t…I swear to God…”

More blood dislodges from his mouth. He wants to speak again. To say: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Anything to keep him from hearing:

“Johnny…Johnny…please.”

He’s never heard him sound so…

His eyes blink but Johnny still can’t really see. Just a vague outline of that hulking figure, hovering over him with red-stained gloves. Then the second silhouette.

“Price!” comes the strangled cry, so raw and desperate it sounds like a stranger’s last words. “Fucking—do something. Help him!”

Never like this. Never this…

“Jesus Christ, don’t move him, Simon, just—”

“He’s bleeding, his leg…fuck…he’s in shock already, Price…what do I—”

Sound and reality blink in and out, Johnny can’t hold both. But he wants to. He needs to.

“Keep his airways clear, we’ll wait for the med team…God…just…hang in there, son…”

He wants to say ‘ok’, he wants to say their names, watch them crumple with relief, a smile and a ‘don’t be so reckless next time, kid’.

He wants to squeeze the hand pressed in his, warm and solid and just the right size, brushing thumbs across his numb fingertips, a prayer in each stroke.

He wants to say: Don’t be scared, Simon. It’s alright, love…

Instead, he just passes out, his last thought spent wondering if he’d ever get to feel that warmth again…

“John…Johnny, y’hear me, son?”

There are hands on him again, hoisting under his arms, lifting his weight off of the stained floor. A puddle of concrete and bones and his red, red blood—

He blinks.

Tinny music, the squeak of linoleum, stale tobacco—right. He remembers now.

“’At’s it, lad, I gotcha right here, easy does it.”

His father huffs beside him, straining with the effort, practically dragging Johnny back to his feet.

“I’m solid,” John mumbles, still reeling, still half in his flashback.

Da doesn’t seem to want to let him go though, cradling under his arms in a way that’s both supportive and tender. And Johnny doesn’t fight the urge to just…lean in for a second, his body still coming back online but it’s more about the contact. The novelty of letting his da hold him up.

He’s bigger than Jack by a fair margin, taller. But da does just fine keeping Johnny on his feet. MacTavish boys and their goddamn chivalry…

“’Ere we go. Tha’s a good lad.”

The momentary reprieve is enough for Johnny to clarify in his mind what had happened; he’d fucking tripped. Right into the produce display. And his acute mortification only intensifies when he looks up to see everyone staring. The clerk. Ollie Boyd. Some other random shoppers getting more than they bargained for.

Just fucking great…

“It’s fine, da,” he mutters dryly, detaching himself from his father’s support, hating the way he reaches for him still.

“Johnny, yer back—”

“It’s fine.”

Face flushed, he doesn’t want to look at his father’s expression, so he simply shrugs off, staggering forward with no real destination in mind besides: away from here.

Johnny manages to limp out of the front door of the shop, only realizing halfway that he’d left his crutch abandoned amidst the pears and apples. He can barely walk without it, all but crashing into the nearest bench, huddling forward to tuck his arms into his sweatshirt pocket, a right sorry sack of shite.

That fall had done no favors to his back, so he digs his fist up and down it roughly, failing to remedy the lingering ache. It’s like he can still feel wedges of concrete, pressed into his spine like fucking fossils, a souvenir not really worth keeping.

He knows his da will be cleaning up his mess, probably giving everyone a proper good excuse for that pathetic behavior, so Johnny just sits there, stewing, running a hand up and down his spinal column and trying to recall the last time he’d had a real fucking backbone. Seems like a lifetime.

Sliding his recently purchased cigarettes from his pocket, he slips one through his teeth, cupping his lighter and savoring the brief flash of warmth. The smoke goes back easy, a wash of sedative air relieving the tension in his neck almost immediately. He drags out a longer hit, eyes closed and fingers loose.

So this is what feeling sorry for yourself looks like… 

He hears the door squeak behind him after a few minutes, but he keeps his eyes shut, delaying the inevitable.

Surprisingly, his da doesn’t ask if he’s alright. There’s just a low exhale of air before the bench dips beside him, his crutch propped on the armrest, groceries deposited at their feet.

“Mam wouldnae want ye smokin’,” Jack says softly, after a moment.

Johnny huffs, drawing on another hit before sliding it from his mouth. “She wouldnae want ye playin’ the bookies either, aye?”

That draws an honest chuckle from his da. “Teutcher.”

“It’s touché, ye daft bastard,” Johnny manages his own chuckle, a grin splitting around his smoke. “A teutcher’s a bloke from the bloody Highlands.”

“Aye, tha’s right,” Jack snorts, leaning in a touch closer to his son’s shoulder.

Johnny lets the odd moment of comfort settle in the back of his throat with his next drag, a cloud of grey unfurling from his exhale, the color of his mood these days.

He’s waiting for the talk. The lecture disguised as sympathy. For his father to say, not in so many words, how strong he thinks he is, how proud he’s made them all, in spite of being nothing but a fucking deadweight. How he’s better than his disability, because look at how many shiny medals he’s got.

There’s not enough nicotine in these bloody B&H Golds to wash that down with.

But instead, Jack just sits with him a bit, letting his son smoke in silence. And when he does speak, the words that come out are…unexpected.

“Dinnae think I ever told ye how scared we were.” His voice is hushed, as fleeting as the smoke from John’s cigarette. “Yer mam an’ me. After gettin’ tha’ call…”

Pressure threatens his throat again, but John tries to breathe through it, ash and bitter cold air in his lungs.

“Mind ye, it wasnae the first one we’d got over the years. But just…somethin' felt different this time, aye? S’like we knew…”

Johnny doesn’t need him to elaborate; he’d heard from Price how he’d coded in that field hospital. Twice.

“An’ then they brought ye home an’ all, me and mam went down ta London ta be with ye. Said those first few weeks ye might not wake up. It was…”

He can feel the hesitation in his da’s shoulder, pressed against his side, his sturdy cork jacket giving off a hint of a shudder.

“Ye were so…small.”

John would scoff at how it sounds like a dig to his pride, but he can’t move his lips from the clamp he’s got on his cigarette.

Jack shuffles next to him, wringing his puffy pink fingers in his lap, tracing an aimless pattern on his track pants. “Scared us ta death, ye did.”

Blinking too rapidly, Johnny doesn’t know if he’s supposed to respond. But his da recovers, his speech picking up its usual sincerity.

“Aye, but ye were in good hands. We know that now. What with all them doctors takin’ care’a ye, bringin’ ye back.” Da sniffs lightly, nodding his head at the memory. “Plus tha’ big bloke wouldnae leave yer side fer a second.”

At that, Johnny raises his head, smoke falling from his lips. “What?”

Jack doesn’t seem to notice the hitch in his son’s breath, the startled nature of his question. “Aye, tha’ scary lad with the mask. Mam thought he was some kinda thug or one’a them goths.” Johnny nearly chokes, but he clings to every word. “Yeah, he was there every time we went te see ye, those first few days. Sort of like a bodyguard, on account’a the way the nurses let him stay with ye all the time.”

He’s sure it’s written all over his face, the disbelief, but Johnny says nothing. He just cradles his cindering smoke in a hand that won’t stop shaking.

“We could tell ye were well protected,” Jack says. “Gave us some peace’a mind when ye finally decided to wake up.”

It’s still hazy, those first days after his coma. And Johnny had gone back and forth over which conversation had hurt the most: Captain Price sitting by his bedside, bitter resignation in his tone as he’d patted his good leg, said, “Eleven years is a hell of a run, kid,” before going over his discharge forms—or that hollow expression from Gaz, bastard still wouldn’t look him in the eyes from his misplaced guilt, the passive remark to the question John wouldn’t ask: “Ghost requested reassignment. He left for a covert op three days ago.”

An intimacy with knife wounds, even ones with no tangible blade. He hadn’t gotten to say goodbye.

Johnny shakes himself from his daze as his father grips him round the shoulders, one last confession to bookend this unexpectedly tender moment.

“We’re very glad ta have ye home safe, John-boy.” And it’s so fucking honest, in only the way Jack MacTavish has the right to be.

John feels his throat clamp, and he has to hide the tremble of his lips with the next hit off his smoke, nearly smoldered out.

He’s considerate enough not to remark upon the hasty way his da wipes his eyes, nor the bashful clasp to the back of his buzz cut, a quick kiss planted on the crown of his head.

Their one-sided heart-to-heart is eventually interrupted by the creak of the shop door, a cursory acknowledgment from Ollie Boyd, in all his shortness of tact. “Y’a’right, boys? Hopefully we can see ye’s down at the club one’a these days, aye?”  

Jack gives him a dry, “Cheers,” and a wave before gripping his son’s shoulders tighter in a semi-defensive manner.

And when he mutters out, “Reckon he’s a bit of a wanker, eh?” Johnny can’t help but chuckle in agreement. “Didnae help out with the flood relief in the least bit, the scunner. Plus, I hear he’s a bleedin’ Hibs fan.” The highest offense, that. Johnny can attest.

The two of them make their way back over to the car, Jack shouldering his son as Johnny limps without his crutch. He settles in the seat, nodding when da suggests they go pick up his meds at the pharmacy and head home.

Home; such a strange concept. He’s not sure he’d ever given it much stock before, and it might take him a while yet to really relate it to this cold, grey, shabby place.

But he'd have time.

When they arrive back at the house, Johnny makes sure to kiss his mam on the cheek, thanking her for dinner, eating every bite. You really can’t go wrong with meat and potatoes, he reckons, deciding it’s still his favorite after all.

And when he goes upstairs to retire, lying on his old bed, in his childhood room, he stares at the ceiling wondering if Simon Riley has a favorite too. A favorite food, favorite color, favorite time of day, favorite look on someone’s face—the way their eyes crinkle in the corners, nose scrunched—favorite laugh.

As long as it’s not condensed milk, Johnny reasons, a sad smile breaching his features as he rolls onto his stomach.

He pulls out his phone again, even though he knows how self-sabotaging it is to scroll through these messages, epitaphs in their own rights. He finds his name, the date of their last conversation June sixteenth, nearly four months ago, the day before they’d shipped out to Ukraine.

Johnny holds it in front of his face, stray breath fogging the surface, but not enough that he can’t read the texts.

That sad smile drags at his lips, probably a frown now if he’s honest, as Johnny props the mobile into his pillow, still with the Scooby Doo bedsheets—Christ, he ought to see about eighty-sixing those.

He knows how pathetic this all is, especially with the way his heart stutters, his eyes feeling too tight already. He knows why he hadn’t reached out yet, too much of a fucking coward, as always. Yet…

Da said he’d sat with him for days, by his side. A guardian.

All this time…he’d thought…

Johnny’s hand trembles around his phone, and he presses his forehead into the pillow and—

MacTavish, just—breathe.

His thumb brushes back and forth over the keyboard, but it catches in his ribcage, locking his fingers—the realization that he can’t put it into words.

How is he supposed to just…send out a greeting, a casual how-do-you-do after four months of radio silence?

Just a playful: hey ghost, how’s life treating you these days?

Or an angry: why’d you fucking leave like that, you heartless bastard?

Or a confession: don’t you know how much that hurt me, still hurts me, huh? How am I supposed to breathe right without you telling me to?

How? After four months. After years. How?

How is he supposed to understand the concept of home when it’s a person, a ghost, a laugh he’ll never hear again?

How is he supposed to spell out those words, etched in the bones of his fractured spine, in English, in whispered sobs, in fucking Polish if he has to…

How can he make him understand when all he’s got to say for himself is: 

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

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.

Chapter Text

“Johnny, mo ghràidh, I really think ye ought ta be wearin’ a thicker coat, babes—”

“I’ll be fine, mam,” Johnny grunts, for the third time, shoved into the backseat like a toddler trying not to sulk. “It’s on’y bloody October.”

As if Scotland in autumn might be bothered to defang its bite; last he’d checked, the forecast promised comfortable highs of six degrees.

“Aye, it’s a dreich day,” da observes, turning the Corsa into the small lot by the clubhouse. “John, are ye sure ye're up fer—”

“A’hm hert roasted wi’ youse!” Johnny spits out in his best angry Scots, not waiting for them both to blather further before wrenching the car door open and pulling himself out. He’d only wanted to come see his niece play football, not a goddamn variety show that pits his patience against the most unabashed display of adult overbearingness this side of the Clyde.

The man might feel better about his act of defiance had he not nearly harpooned his spleen on the damn crutch, limping it off with a muffled wheeze.

He’s pissy today, no question about it. Like the shitty weather and nagging in the car had just been salt on some long-brewing wound.

Probably, in part, due to the fact that he hadn’t heard from Simon in about two weeks.

After that brief exchange during Egypt—Ghost had texted in the next day with a very curt and perfunctory status update of: Fuckers have been eliminated, and Johnny hadn’t bothered picking him apart for details—they’d gone back to their routine of radio silence. Last Johnny’d heard from Gaz was that the mission had been successful, albeit tricky, with Price apparently pulling off some batshit enterprise that’ll likely see him a commendation. Oh, and the addition that Ghost was, in fact, ok.

Too bad he couldn’t hear that from him though.

Aye, he’s pissy. Dangerously so, but it can’t be helped now.

Johnny reluctantly waits for his parents as they begin making their way over to the small field. He has to resist the urge to give his mam a knock with his crutch as she forcefully wrestles a knit cap on his head, but he reasons it helps offer a bit of concealment, a disguise to substantiate his mortification.

“Aye, ‘ere she is!” His mood does perk up considerably when he gets a glimpse of Jessie, his niece gracelessly running in circles round the edge of the car park in some kind of harebrained warmup.

When she notices their approach, she leaps over, nearly skidding in a puddle, but her wide grin is enough to abate some of the bitter chill, at least.

“Uncle Soap!” she declares, to dubious glances from his parents. “Ye came!”

“Aye, lass, wouldnae miss it fer the world.”

“Ah knew ye’d come! Even though mammie said ye wouldnae, I knew ye would!”

Frowning at that, Johnny watches his niece hop about him, a real spitfire, admittedly a very clumsy one. There might be one or two more fresh plasters on her than the last time, he observes. Just more war-wounds.

“Whaddye got sticks for?” Jessie asks, clinging to one of his crutches like it’s a fireman's pole.

“Yer uncle’s not as good a runner as you, hen. Nor a hopper, I’d wager,” he adds, grinning as she continues jumping up and down in excitement. His attempt to give her a hug ends with him compromising by letting Jessie run off with his left crutch, brandishing it as a newfound weapon.

That’ll probably come to bite him in the arse later, he guesses…

“Ach, careful, Em—lass,” mam tuts, evidently still on the fence about bestowing her accurate recognition. “Ah, there’s yer sister, Johnny. Be nice.”

Hobbling without his balanced support, Johnny tries not to grimace as he walks up the path to the stands at the side of the green. She’s got her back turned, his sister Ruth, chatting away to a wiry bloke with an air of obliviousness she’s carried since her teenage years.

And my is she easy to spot, what with the bright pink faux-fur coat, like a serving of candy-floss with legs, Christ…

“Wha’s the craic, eh, hen?” Johnny slinks up behind her, playing up his accent, taking a small amount of glee in the way she startles with a squeal.

Hand to her chest, Ruth blinks at him with dumbstruck, overly-painted eyes. And she doesn’t really manage to keep the awkwardness from her expression upon recognizing him, putting on a show of converting her surprise to a stretched smile.

“Wh—how ‘bout ye, Johnny,” she says, without moving her teeth, and it’s even more awkward when she goes for a half-hug, clearly not certain how to navigate his crutch. “Havenae seen ye since a while back, sae it is?” While John had been exaggerating his drawl, Ruth’s is the real deal.

“Aye, it’s a sin, reckon,” he says facetiously, pressing a loud kiss to her cheek. His eyes rove up and down her, smirking in spite of himself. “On standby, are ye?” He ruffles the sleeve of her ridiculous coat at her confusion. “Fer the Scots Guards, eh? In case one of them bonnets flies awa’ in this wind? Though last I checked, they usually stick with black, aye?”

“Och, hush, Johnny!” Ruth swats at his shoulder, tugging the pink monstrosity higher up her neck. “Enough’a yer snash, you!”

Chasing off his dry chuckle, John steps back, eyebrows raised in silent greeting to the lad she’d been conversing with.

“Righ’, this is me boyfriend, Alan,” Ruth introduces, jerkily tossing her hand up to emphasize the fact that, yes, the man is standing there. Tall, gangly, blond-ish. While da had given him the diagnosis of ‘squirrelly’, Johnny’s leaning more towards weasel territory. Ferret-like, even.

“Alan Turk.” The man in question thrusts out a slack hand that Johnny warily catches in a solid grip.

“Aye, John MacTavish, cheers.” He only slightly wobbles on his single crutch, not missing the way Alan stares at it almost nervously. Distantly, he can hear little Jessie still running around with its twin, mam attempting to reel her back while da has no doubt waddled his way over to the clubhouse with his buddy Ed and the other gaffers, huddling over some smuggled brews.

“Tha’s right, ye're Ruthie’s brother,” Alan says. “The pilot, aye?”

John does well to mask his sneer; he turns it into an eye-roll in Ruth’s direction. “A pilot now, am I?”

Ruth stutters, “A-aye, well…ye know wha’ I meant.”

Alan carries on, painfully ignorant. “Aye, tha’s wha’ ye said, babes. Tha’ yer brother flies jet planes an’ everythin’. Like Top Gun, aye?”

It takes a real amount of disciple not to bark out a laugh. “SAS,” Johnny finally corrects, dying internally. “But close enough.”

Ruth’s face is nearly as vibrant as her coat, but John doesn’t get the chance to savor it because they hear a crack from behind them, immediately followed by a blaring car alarm.

“Oops,” Jessie squeaks, dropping Johnny’s crutch into a puddle and looking ready to flee the scene of the crime.

“Ach—ye little—git back here, JJ, ye mawkit scunner!”

Alan and John stand there as Ruth rushes after her, uncomfortably making eye-contact as the woman continues hurling insults at her six-year-old daughter.

“Heh, she’s got the fire in ‘er, eh?” Alan gives an awkward laugh, looking torn between going to chase after his girlfriend and staying safe on the sidelines. “Tha’ a MacTavish family trait, then?”

They’d only been together two months, Caro had said. Might be past the expiration date already…

Johnny shakes his head, a warning. “Aye, ye have no idea.”

Once all shenanigans are settled, given their disciplinary yanks of the ear, John finds himself being ushered into the stands by his mam, the woman still muttering under her breath about ‘proper parenting’ and ‘making a scene’. Johnny keeps his mouth shut on the subject of hypocrisy.

“Aye, Ruth, ye ought te keep a better leash on tha’ lass,” Elaine finally tuts out loud, as Ruth and her reluctant boyfriend occupy the bench below them.

“I do well enough, thanks,” she scoffs back, tossing her mousy hair over her fluffy coat.

“An’ while ye're at it,” Johnny cuts in, still pissed about the pilot thing, “maybe stop lyin’ ta the rascal, aye?”

“I didnae lie ta her, what’re ye awn abou’?”

“Why’d ye tell her I wouldnae come then?” he grumbles, stuffing his fists in his jacket pocket to ward off the chill, and his mam’s fussing.

“Ach, Johnny. It’s jus’ tha’ ye're still recoverin’, aye,” Ruth says, the first time she’s even acknowledged his injury, thanks, and more than likely just an excuse. “Thought ye’d be too knackered. Tha’s no’ a lie, dinnae act the bairn…”

“Fine, what about the fact tha’ ye told her her father’s dead, eh?”

“Is he?” Elaine says hopefully. “Good riddance.”

Below them, Ruth rolls her head in a melodramatic arch, scoffing. “Ach, I didnae say tha’, I said he’s dead ta me.”

“Right, tha’s much better.”

“Shut it now or I’ll melt ya’s both!” mam hisses, taking Johnny’s elbow through hers, tossing a practiced scowl at her daughter. And here she’d wanted him to play nice. “Ye havnae even welcomed yer brother home, Ruthie.”

Johnny can see his sister flare her nostrils in that typical way, even with her back turned to him, and when she dryly mutters, “Aye, ceud míle fáilite, John,” in the most sarcastic tone possible, he struggles to prevent himself from kicking her in that ridiculous fur nightmare, even if he is a tad envious of how warm it probably is. Maybe a thicker coat had been the right idea…

Alan Turk hastily clears his throat, turning to regard the field. “Right, who’s in the mood fer some footie, eh?”

A crowd of six-year-olds screaming after a ball might be too apt a metaphor for the tension between the siblings…

“Awa’, there’s Midge!” Elaine says, lifting her arm to wave over her friend, and Johnny’s forced to scoot aside further, thankfully away from Ruth as the older woman joins them.

“Och, well spotted, Lanie, was hopin’ ye might be poppin’ by. An’ with young Johnny too, now it’s a show!” John knows her well as Midge McDuffie, one of mam’s oldest friends, who’d come around the house a few times already, a regular magpie. She comfortably seats her bulk next to him, grabbing his other arm through hers like they’re a couple of schoolgirls. “How’ve ye been, gorgeous? This one keepin’ ye all locked up, bet’cher dyin’ fer a day out, aye?”

Johnny smirks at her effortless nature, finding himself surprisingly at ease with his elbows being warmed from both ends. “Y’a’right, Midge. Reckon I’m all scunnered out already, on’y been home a few weeks. Dinnae know how much more I’ve got in me...”

“Hell, stop yer mumpin’, John,” mam grouses, but she pats his arm fondly as they turn their attention to the kids toddling out onto the pitch.

Jessie’s easy to mark, seeing as she’s the only one that’s got a giant purple bobble on her head; courtesy of mammie dearest, no doubt, on account of the eye-glaring glitter.

“Christ, Roo, ye forget which one’s yers, eh?” John taunts. “Next time go with a bleedin’ strobe light.”

“Piss off, Johnny!” Ruth’s retort is met with a scathing glance from Elaine, and they both shut their traps once more.

Starting to feel like old times, Johnny muses. And not at all in a good way.

The footie match goes about as expected—a swarm of red-blooded children kicking and screaming to their heart's content.

And ordinarily, John would get a kick out of it, it’s just that—

“Aye, ref! Tha’s a foul, ye ken fine! He done did tha’ on purpose, I swear!” Johnny has to hide his face in the top of his jacket to shield himself from the mortification of hearing his sister bellow like a fucking Premiership coach, near red in the face screaming at a bunch of toddlers. “Tha’ roaster needs a talkin’ to!”

“Shite,” Johnny mutters, earning a minor slap to his arm. “Is she always like this?”

“Now ye see why we rarely come ta the club,” Elaine tsks.

“Aye, ye cannae whack it,” Midge agrees, before angling forward in her seat. “Ah, cripes, she’s made the wee bairn cry again.” Johnny lets her arm go as the woman hobbles over to the pitch, consoling her sobbing grandson, Archie.

It’s less to do with the sudden chill up his side, the absence of some of that warmth, that Johnny starts feeling a dull ache he can’t ignore.

“Y’a’right, babes?” Somehow, his mam always seems to have a sixth sense for these things; he hadn’t even flinched.

It’s his mood, more than anything, he reckons. There’s a constant little tick in the back of his mind, like the absence of a message notification.

Couldnae the bastard be bothered to reach out? his subconscious hisses, clearly not able to disguise his true resentment. He had, to use a somewhat relevant analogy, put the ball in Ghost’s court. And thus he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t be the beggar this time, waiting to see if the goddamn prick might come to his senses.

Poor chance, that.

“I’d be better without all this fuss,” John grumbles at another holler from Ruth, lifting his arm to spare a wave at Jessie, the lass knocking into yet another player on her own team. “A bit achy, is all.” The cold bleachers don’t help, his slumped posture depending more on his mother’s support than he’d care to admit. He reckons da had the better objective, sequestered away in that warm clubhouse, absent from all the embarrassing racket.

Midge returns after a few minutes, rubbing her hands together and giving him an affectionate squeeze as she presses back to his side. He’ll take what he can get. “Ah, guess who’s showed up, Lane?” she says to his mother. “Alice Clyne.”

“No kiddin’,” mam says eagerly, craning her head around to find the woman in question. “I would’ve thought she’d still be…y’know.”

“Well, I saw the lass down yonder too, I cannae mind her name…the widow, aye?”

“Crumbs, tha’s gottae be hard fer her…but I s’ppose it’s best fer the child ta start gettin’ back to the routine of things.”

Johnny shudders in his seat slightly, not too comfortable with this topic of conversation, only vaguely aware of who they’re talking about.

“Aye, there she is. The bonnie one down on the right.” Midge nods to mam, and the both of them peer over like nosy neighbors. “Poor thing.”

“Righ’, Christy, she’s called. Such a young thing too.” Mam spends just a tad too long gawking at this poor girl before, “Aye, John, ye should go an’ have a chat with her.”

“The fuck are ye on about?” Johnny can’t help but balk, taking the smack to his ear like a man.

“Awa’, ye scunner!”

“Mam, ye cannae seriously want me to go over an’ talk to some recently widowed woman, aye, where’s the goddamn tact?”

“Wha’? I on’y meant as a chance ta talk to someone yer own age, ‘ere ye go jumpin’ ta conclusions…”

“Aye, right! D’ye think my heid buttons up the back?”

“Johnny, babes—” He bristles violently, shoving his arm out of his mam’s reach, once again fed up with his family and their goddamn antics.

As if to make matters worse, Ruth gives another earsplitting cry for justice on her daughter’s behalf, somehow standing at the edge of the pitch now. Johnny glances down to see a checked-out Alan just scrolling on his phone.

Christ…

At least Jessie looks to be enjoying herself, covered in mud and running around the pitch like a fresh-sprung rocket grenade.

“Should I call her over?” Midge ponders. “Alice, I mean. She’s lookin’ a wee bit lonely.”

“I dunno,” Elaine says, still sullen as she crosses her arms over her chest. “She’s gone a bit…different, aye? Since…well.”

Johnny can draw enough of a conclusion about the events they’re likely talking about; small towns for you. Besides, Alice Clyne had been another old friend of his mam’s, and her son Trevor had been in the year above him in school. He’d felt horrible hearing the news about the car crash.

And of course mam would use it as an opportunity to try to fix him up. Damn fucking woman…

Detaching from his insufferable mother’s conversation, John manages to stifle a string of curses in his jacket lapel, bundling in tighter on himself, biting back the lingering spasms. There’s a prodding weight in his chest he doesn’t like the pressure of, one more outrageous moment away from pitching him into a full-body cramp.

C’mon, sergeant…

That tick stutters in his head, like some looming countdown. Only—he doesn’t know what it’s keeping score of. Just a constant reminder, perhaps, that his phone is still a silent deadweight in his coat pocket alongside his packet of smokes.

God, he could go for one right now…

There’s yelling from the pitch, kids roaring and Ruth hollering out more ridiculous fouls, it’s all just…

Tick. Tick. Tick…

Johnny’s breath struggles, and he’s shivering now.

Tick, tick…

Too much noise, too much bullshit; maybe he should’ve stayed home after all…

Tick…

John can’t help but just…close his eyes.

And after a bit—it takes him a second to reintroduce himself to the present.

Somehow, he’d slipped away in his head more than he’d thought. Because the next moment he looks up, his mam is talking to Alice Clyne, Ruth’s back on the bench below him, and Midge McDuffie is attempting to hand him half of her ham and cheese sandwich, which he politely declines.

What…the fuck was that? he wonders, having experienced flashbacks and the like before, but nothing ever that…empty.

He shakes his head.

“And ye remember my Johnny,” mam is saying, tugging on his arm to get his attention. He attempts to defrost his face enough to smile respectfully to Alice, but he isn’t sure how successful he is.

“Lookit ye,” the woman says, kind brown eyes under her tidy mop of grey hair. “My, ye’ve grown so handsome, John. Ye must be very proud, Lanie.”

He recognizes it immediately, that ephemeral flash of emotion, the sudden click of an unexpected misfire. Alice does well to school her features while his mam prattles back, but Johnny catches the unmistakable glimpse of grief, carried in her entire being long enough for it to be second nature.

It’s the same look he catches in the reflection of his mobile phone every morning. It’s why he’s stopped checking.

Two months ago, that crash had been, so he’d heard. Just about as long as Ruth’s waning relationship. And from what he remembers of Trevor Clyne, he was a kindhearted lad, a good one.

Such a damn shame…

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Clyne,” he says, voice sounding a bit too deep. At his side, he feels mam stiffen, but he pushes through. “Your son was a good man. Taken far too soon.” Maybe it’s because he’s practiced this line before that it comes out convincing enough. To him, it still sounds like hollow consolation.

“Aye, thank ye, John,” Alice says sadly. “I appreciate tha’.” Because what more is there to say?

She had lost someone. And with him—a version of herself that would never draw breath again. John is familiar with the feeling.

“Alice was jus’ tellin’ me about some’a the work they’ve done down at the community center,” mam cuts in, but Johnny thinks he reaches something in the woman’s eyes before she does. Some form of acknowledgment that words can’t breach. His mother carries on regardless, “The flood really made a mess of it, y’know, whole thing was in shambles. But Alice here started up a fundraiser last month, an’ now they’re startin’ the process of rebuildin’ an’ all…”

“Aye, tha’s proper generous,” he says, meaning it.

Alice gives a shy chuckle. “I’d say it’s the community tha’s generous. I’ve got more donations than I can handle, if ye can imagine. Dinnae know when I’ll find the time to fill out all the thank-yous.”

“Well, John can help ye out with tha’, cannae ye, dearie?” Elaine says, and Johnny balks once more.

“Mam…”

“Wha’? Ye’ve got more free time than a goat, an’ ye’ve always had such nice penmanship, aye?”

Christ, he nearly blushes. “Really, mam—”

“Always writin’ in tha’ journal of yers, remember?”

“I appreciate it, Lanie,” Alice attempts to cut it. “But I’m sure I can manage—”

“Nonsense,” mam tuts. “He’d be more than happy to.” And the glare she sends his way is not to be trifled with.

Jaw stiff with embarrassment, Johnny pushes his mouth up in a rigid smile. “Aye, I’d be happy to, Mrs. Clyne.”

“Tha’ really isnae necessary, John—”

“I can drop him off any day,” Elaine assures. “We can arrange it during the week, aye, I’ve got yer mobile, right?”

“’Ere I thought ye were trapped with ‘er, but it seems she’s rarin’ te get rid’a ye,” Midge whispers at his side, cheekily nudging his arm.

And Johnny really ought to reevaluate his reputation, he realizes, flanked by a pair of elderly women, watching the last of his dignity go up in flames. Too bad he couldn’t have been a pilot, eh? Maybe then he might’ve kept his distance from all this nonsense…

Before he can shake his head, a sharp, sudden sound shatters his reverie, and—

Christ…

There’s a scream from the field, a high-pitched cry.

Johnny’s eyes snap, alert, checking the terrain, the previously tagged vantage points, the crowd. His heartbeat is shuddering like a mounted machine gun, locking in a jam when he finally identifies the source: Jessie crumpled on the ground, clutching her knee and letting out another terrible cry.

He can’t breathe.

Can’t move.

In his periphery, there’s a buzz, the reaction of everyone else, but he’s not a part of it; he can’t fucking move.

Ruth is already running to the field, and in a blink, she’s squatted next to her.

Jessie’s so small. She’s just…lying there.

Fuck…he can’t…

Johnny attempts to swallow and—

Ear-piercing, shrill and terrified, a cry ripping through the building as it crumbles, hands reaching out—ya ne hochy pomiraty!—an intake of breath and then—

“Aye, she’s fine, see?” His mother’s voice crackles in and out. “Took a bad fall, the poor wean. Look, she’s gettin’ up now, tha’s a good lass.”

Johnny squints through the wax in his vision, making out the rough form of Ruth carrying her daughter over to the clubhouse, a puff of fuchsia, looking gentler than he’d ever thought her capable of.

“Nothin’ ta worry about.” Mam’s voice again, and Johnny tries to anchor himself with it.

His heartbeat is still dangerously high, pummeling him with each pulse.

Jesus…he might be sick…

“Aye, she’s proper clumsy, little Jessie, isnae she?” When his mam doesn’t receive a reply, she nudges Johnny’s shoulder. And he—

“Fuck,” he hisses, clutching his head, and Elaine must read the rasp of urgency in it, because she doesn’t tell him off.

“Johnny, darlin’—”

He doesn’t wait for her to finish, he just shoves his palms on the bench, hoisting unsteadily to his feet. “Need some air,” he mutters, waiting for Midge to scoot aside, trying to avoid contact, but the woman steadies him by the elbow, helping him to his crutches. He knows he’s shaking up a storm, but she doesn’t remark upon it. “Just…need some air.”

He doesn’t look back, simply hobbling forward. Not even in the direction of the clubhouse, just…

Away.

Breathe, MacTavish…fucking breathe…

“Fuckin’ hell,” he gasps once he’s reached the edge of the tree line, halting in his aimless trek to try to get a bitter grip on his crutches; his hands won’t stop trembling. “Pull yourself together, mate,” he mutters to himself, not sure if he’s embarrassed or fucking terrified.

It’d been a long time since he’d felt so…

God—is there a name for this sharp, nauseating, panic-paralyzing feeling? He knows there is, he’d gone through the military counseling like a good boy; doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Johnny scrambles his hand up his forehead, shoving aside the cap to scrape at his shorn hair. Used to be he’d find a bit of comfort in raking his fingers through the mohawk at the top, a fixed anchor point to take his tension out on. Now it’s just barren terrain.

He finds his breath regardless. Eventually.

Propping himself up against a frosty tree, Johnny fumbles for his cigarettes, blocking the wind with his palm as he attempts to get a decent hit. It helps, however artificially.

He’s pulling on another palliative draw when his less-than-stealthy smoke break gets interrupted. Alan Turk seems to be making his way over to him, and John groans internally.

“See where they went?” the bloke asks, jogging up beside Johnny with that weasel stride.

Frowning around his cigarette, Johnny realizes he must be asking about Ruth and Jessie, who he should have checked on as well, now that he’s thinking about it. “Aye, back in the clubhouse, I gather. They've got a first aid kit there.” He knows from the many skinned knees he'd suffered himself.

“Right,” Alan says, rubbing his hands in front of his face before nodding at John. “Can I bum ye fer one?”

And he rolls his eyes a tad, but slips out his pack, snapping a quick light for Turk as he filches one of Johnny’s last forms of relief on this godforsaken planet. Christ, he’d need a refill soon.

The two of them stand there at the edge of the field, smoking in silence, painfully aware of how awkward this is; Johnny, at least.

“She seemed ok,” he says eventually, to a dumbstruck expression on Turk’s face. “Jessie,” he clarifies.

“Aye, right. Nasty fall though, innit?”

“Aye.”

More awkward silence.

“Always gettin’ inta rough spots, tha’ one,” Turk adds, and John wishes he’d have just stayed quiet. He doesn’t like the mocking nature of his tone. “Aye, she’s quite a handful.”

Talking around his cigarette, Johnny mutters defensively, “She’s a good kid.”

“Aye, right,” Turk agrees, a hint of sarcasm to it. “As much spirit as her mam, eh?”

Fucking twat…

Wincing at this inopportune nuisance, John cranes his skull on his tense shoulders, angling for a decent way out of this when Turk puts his foot further in his mouth.

“So…SAS, huh?” He grins stupidly with his cigarette dangling out. “That like…spies, is it?”

Johnny just blinks at him.

“Aye, right.” Turk mimes zipping his lips, almost knocking off his smoke. “Ye cannae tell me, can ye? Yer secret’s safe with me.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonnae—” Johnny takes that as his cue, lurching forward on his crutches. “Gonnae go fer a wee stroll.”

“Aye, cheers, mate,” Alan says, either clueless to his own blunder or not willing to acknowledge it. “Thanks fer the baccy.”

Johnny just mutters more slights under his breath as he hobbles down the pathway leading further out to the fields. It’s foolish, probably, but he urgently needs to be away from anyone and everyone at the moment. Which is perfect, considering these fields stretch for miles. Not so ideal for his waning strength, but the man decides to tempt fate and attempt a leisurely walk regardless.

He makes it to the second playing field when his back starts screaming at him.

Another eighteen paces before his phone rings; only with a brief test to his heart—it’s just mam, he sees, calling in to pester him about where he’s gone off to, no doubt.

Aye, he really can’t catch a break…

Elaine calls another two times, and by that point he’s made fair headway down the stretch of landscape, regretting it further when he realizes he’ll have to walk back.

“Stupid fucking bastard, MacTavish,” he derides himself, coming to the conclusion that he’s not going to make it much longer. The stands are well out of sight now, no one around these damp, bleak fields but his own idiotic self.

He knows his damn limits. Knows how much PT it takes just to get him to be able to walk in a straight line. Knows he’d passed his distance benchmark with those last few steps.

Another cramp in his back and—

He has no other choice but to drop his crutches into a kneel, his back spasming enough to elicit a cry, and before he can help it, the man is plopping down in an undignified heap on the cold, soggy grass.

Just fucking perfect…

That sixth sense chiming in again, mam rings his mobile once more, but he just angrily shoves it back into his pocket, not in the mood to explain his current predicament, however dire it is.

Because Johnny can’t get up. It’s one of his main handicaps, having enough mobility to get around ok, but without the proper means of lifting himself unaided. Like that goddamn meme with the elderly woman, Christ—he really is fucking pitiable.

He genuinely cannot get up.

It’s not enough that he’d just had a minor panic attack at a kid’s footie game, spacing out in the stands like a lunatic, but now he’s fucking stuck out here, stranded by his own hubris, his jeans getting damper by the second.

So John does the only thing he can, dropping onto his back and lying there like a pathetic piece of shite.

And his mind goes…somewhere else.

“Bravo 0-7 to base, requesting evac assist, over.”

“Negative, lieutenant, we’re limited on transport at the moment,” Price’s voice issues over the comms. “What seems the be the problem, Ghost? Are you broken?”

“Negative, sir. It’s not me, it’s MacTavish. He broke his arse, sir,” Ghost states in a dry deadpan.

The comms crackle, a hesitation before—“Come again, LT?”

“You heard me, Price. The dumb bugger got his boots tangled and fell on his bum—”

“Oi, you—” Johnny tries to protest but Ghost just shoves a gloved hand in his face.

There’s a pause on Price’s end, the long exhale of a beleaguered parent and what might be a dry snort. “What’s Soap’s status?”

“Breathing,” Ghost states, with a mutter of, “unfortunately.”

“Well, you’ll have to wait for any assist. See if you can get him back to base in one piece, Ghost.”

“Just my fuckin’ luck,” the masked man grumbles, turning to regard his fallen comrade on the jungle floor with every fiber of disgust he can muster with just his eyes. “Up we go, Johnny.”

And Soap doesn’t get a second to object before Simon hauls him up onto his shoulder, tossing him like a flour sack.

“Aye, Jesus, LT, put me down!”

“Can you walk?” Simon demands bluntly, and Johnny shuts his mouth. “Right. Next time we’ll ask the quartermaster for additional posterior protection, you twat.”

“'Posterior protection’, aye? S’that what you’ve got to make yer arse look so—ach!” A smack to his rear has Johnny recanting his words, however much he’d wanted to finish that sentence. Just off of the top of his head, he can think of big...round...soft...juicy even—

Another smack, this time to the back of his neck.

“Oi, wha’ was that for?”

“Stop looking at my arse, MacTavish.”

Johnny just grumbles, failing to get more comfortable as he hangs like a ragdoll from his superior’s back. “I forbid ye from tellin’ anyone about this, ye hear?” he hisses.

“Forbid me? You don’t have that kind of authority, sergeant.”

“Ach, shut it!”

“Johnny, you know it’s gonna take a lot more than empty threats to keep my lips sealed,” Ghost says, and Christ—he did not need to make it sound that sultry.

“What’ll it be then?” Soap quips back. “Yer manky laundry for a month, aye?” Some of those balaclavas had seen better days, he reckons.

“I dunno...” Simon takes a second to contemplate, a low hum. “How ‘bout more of those biscuits, hm? The ones I nicked from your desk drawer.”

“Och—I knew tha’ was you, ye scamp!” He’d been bloody saving those, goddamnit!

“Sure were tasty enough to buy my silence.”

“Bastard!” Johnny hisses, nudging him in his scapula. “I’m not gonnae make a whole other batch just so ye can gobble them up in seconds, ye damn fiend.”

Ghost snorts under his breath, compromising, “Just tell me the recipe then.”

“Ach, no! That’s a treasured family secret, sir,” Soap asserts. “A better counteroffer would be me willin’ ta not spill the fact that our resident Ghostie’s got quite the sweet-tooth.”

“I don’t give a shit about that,” Simons states, deadpan as ever. “Go on and tell the entire base. Might get some bribe treats out of it from all the cadets I made piss themselves last week.”

“Ye're really somethin’ else, aren’t ye…Jesus…” Johnny mutters, while a crackle from his earpiece dryly informs:

“Boys—you know you’re still on comms?”

Damn Price…

Johnny cracks his eyes open, returning to the present to scowl at the dark, overcast sky, his jeans now thoroughly soaked, somehow worse than the bruised tailbone he’d just been revisiting.

Still in throes of self-pity, the man slides another of his precious cigarettes between his lips, using it to distract from the bitterness he’s nursing alongside a sharp craving for his gran’s famous shortbread biscuits.

It really can’t be helped, can it…

He draws smoke in his mouth, exhaling more gloom into the dreary Scottish landscape. It’s a filthy habit, aye. But he needs something to alleviate his ailment; the one that doesn’t require leg braces and crutches, the one that stares back at him in an empty mobile screen.

And speaking of—

Just as Johnny’s taking another generous hit, his phone buzzes in his pocket, his goddamn mother interrupting him yet again, negating the effects of all that nicotine.

He grits his teeth, huffing out an ireful sigh, and pushes himself up on his elbows so he can answer the bat and let her know just how much of a fuck-up her son really is.

“Aye, the baw’s on the slates, eh, mam, yer bairn’s gone an’ minced his heid, aw his ain sel, so gaun an’ git aff!” Jesus, even he knows that was a bit much. But Johnny can’t help the urge to fume at his mother through the phone, taking his foul mood out on her while loosening a string of dialogue he rarely gets to flex.

The scattered seconds of silence do make him regret it a little.

And after a few more, he feels that shudder of trepidation just as—

“…Johnny?”

John removes the phone from his ear, squints at it, puts it back, then just lies there, uncomprehending.

What the fuck…

He breathes in his smoke, waiting until—“Johnny? Are you there?”

Slapping himself roughly in the face to confirm he’s not dreaming, the man schools his voice to prevent a squeak, but it still doesn’t quite reach his desired pitch when he utters, “Simon?”

There are another few odd seconds before a low breath eases between the static, and then—“Johnny, what the hell was all that nonsense? Christ, I knew Scotland would turn you mental…”

That deep, dry Manc accent…the little smile that curls around its edge on a good day…God…

How could he simply…call like this? Out of the fucking blue. After all this time. After…after everything.

“Johnny?” Having the nerve to sound so…sincere.

Yet despite it all—the shock, the uncertainty, the fear—Johnny chuckles. An honest-to-God laugh.

He doesn’t know when it turns manic, but it does. A slowly building bout of hilarity that wanders into derangement territory, a loss of breath around his cigarette.

Simon must pick up on it immediately, because he issues out, “MacTavish—sit-rep,” in all his blunt authoritativeness.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he manages, still cackling in a way that suggests pain rather than humor. Bloody Christ…of course Simon would call on a day like today.

“Where are you, Johnny?” comes the man’s terse voice, and shit—he really does sound concerned now.

“I’m fine, Ghost,” he asserts, tipping his head back on the lawn and tugging his phone closer. “Just lyin’ in the middle of a football field, as ye do. Or a rugby field. Aye, could be a rugby field…” He palms a handful of grass like it might help him differentiate.

“Johnny…”

“Why’re ye callin’ me, Simon?” he says, voice now back in its usual octave, sharper than he’d intended.

There’s a pause on the other end, more deliberate breathing. “I never really checked in after Egypt.”

“Aye, ye didn’t,” John says cynically. There’s a ‘dot-dot-dot’ to that sentence, a chance for Simon to fill in the blanks with all the other mistakes he’d made over the past however many months. But he knows he won’t take it.

Because Simon Riley is a fucking trainwreck when it comes to social cues; it’s why he reverts to that sterile, monosyllabic tactical lingo, even outside of combat. And only rarely, in very specific company, does he allow himself to open up.

So Johnny throws him a bone with a conversation starter, even though he…he still isn’t sure how he feels right now, to be honest. “I heard from Gaz that it was a bit of a shitshow, aye? Cap pullin’ off some daring stunt?”

A huff from Simon’s end. “Damn crazy bastard, I’d say. Remind me to never leave that man alone in a room full of potted plants and bunker fuel…”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. He’s getting a medal, last I hear.”

“Well deserved, that. Good ol’ Price and his usual badassery.”

“Only you would use the term ‘badassery’ in earnest, Johnny,” Simon mocks, and already—it feels easier. And more dangerous all the same.

“I’ll have ye know it’s a very valid term, aye, mate. Certainly applicable when it comes to several of my own endeavors.”

“Oh, you wish,” Simon scoffs. “As if I’d trust your judgment there. I’m still not over that ridiculous display of English you pulled before.”

“Aye, not English, ye sassenach. Scots is the tongue of kings, I’ll have ye know.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that…”

There’s a break, a shift in the conversation that makes Johnny painfully aware that neither of them had even asked how the other had been yet.

He fumbles with his cigarette, shoving it in the corner of his mouth, about to bite the bullet, when—

“I got a new sofa,” Simon says, a stiff pause before adding, “…for my apartment.”

And Johnny is more startled by the sentiment rather than his admission. Jesus, Simon never just…gives up information like that, however mundane.

What the fuck is happening today…

“Aye, tha’ nasty brown bugger’s gone then? The one tha’ smelled of—”

“Of olives and man-sweat, yeah, that’s the one.”

“Hasta la vista, ol’ pal,” Johnny chuckles, tucking the smoke behind his ear and pillowing his head in his arm.

“I know you hated it,” Simon says plainly. As if there are no other strings attached to that statement.

“Aye, well, it did its duty. Prob’ly better off findin’ a new home anyway. Awa’, ye can sell it ta tha’ Greek shop down at the corner, aye, it’ll fit right in.”

There’s a low snort on Simon’s end, and Johnny can just picture him rubbing his hand in a fist on the top of his head, like he does when he’s nervous. He nearly replicates the motion himself, stopping as he nudges his cigarette, bringing it back to his lips. Another echo of a familiar gesture.

“Wha’ color is it?” he asks, voice raspy and not just from the smoke.

Simon makes a “Hmn?” sound and it’s all he can take not to feel it recoil in his chest.

“The new sofa?”

“Ah, it’s, uh…it’s green.”

“What shade?”

“Fuck off, Johnny.” Another little laugh. It stabs him in the same spot.

“Gaun, then. What’ve ye got—a nice sage, aye? Or perhaps a masculine pine. Olive’s a bit on the nose with the last one, an’ I really don’t see ye as a chartreuse kind of man, I’ll be honest, LT…”

It’s the gentle, resigned mutter of, “Johnny,” that nearly steals John’s breath from his lungs, an aching so sharp, so deep that…

Fuck…

“I’m on’y messin’ with ye, Simon.”

“I know.”

God…it hurts in all the ways his injury doesn’t. Something more deliberate, lingering in between all the gaps in his spine, a hand waiting for permission to clench.

“Hope it’s comfortable then,” Johnny says, and he can’t really keep the ash from it. “Damn near broke my back on tha’ other one a few times, eh, remember? Ach, well—not any more broken than it is now, I s’ppose.”

This time, the “Johnny…” sinks its teeth in, not a warning or a plea, just a clamp testing the strength of his resolve.

“But it could be worse,” his voice says back. “'Least I don’t need ye ta lug me around everywhere on yer shoulders. Aye, that would be terrible…”

Simon waits a few seconds to reply, and Johnny likes to imagine he’s fiddling with the hair by his earlobe, a curly blond stray escaping that unkempt mop. He hopes he’s sitting on his new green sofa. He hopes it’s comfortable.

“Yeah, reckon that would suck,” Simon does say eventually. “Though it’d be quite the workout carryin’ your fat arse around every day—”

“Oi! Ye're the one with the fat arse, Riley, not me,” he challenges, fueling that manic energy again.

“I beg to differ.”

“Says the man who has to get custom pants—”

“I do fucking not—”

“Dinnae lie, I’ve seen yer closet! I swear, ye must use some kinda padding, aye?”

“Fuck off, Johnny.”

“Ye toss a couple’a English muffins back there, do ya? Aye, maybe a ham loaf even, cut in half down the center…”

“You’re a fucking menace, MacTavish.”

“Aye, so I am. I guess some things never change, eh?” There are enough ‘dot-dot-dots’ to that sentence to transcribe a goddamn epic, he reckons.

The low, “Hmn,” from Simon is a perfect postscript as any.

Christ…what a fucking mess they are…

“Right.” Johnny nudges up on his elbows, squirming around the dampness in his legs. “I’ve got ta go.”

“Urgent business on the football field—ah, rugby field?” Simon says teasingly, and hell if he doesn’t sound disappointed.

“Aye,” Johnny plays along, just so that he doesn’t have to dwell on the way it makes his chest quiver. “Want ta see if I can roll over to the curling pond by sundown.”

That gets a full-fledged laugh, and it feels more like a punishment than a comfort. “You daft fucking bastard…”

“It was nice talking to you too, Riley.” More sarcasm, barely.

“Always a pleasure.”

And just like that—

“Take care, Simon.”

“Right.”

Simon Riley never says goodbye. After all this time, one would think Johnny’s gotten used to it.

But he holds the mobile to his chest after closing the call, wondering why that is.

Perhaps it’s less about not willing to face the finality of a farewell, and more about leaving it up for grabs, for the next time. To be continued, so to speak.

He likes to think so, at least.

The sun is scaling the sky now, blighted by the gloom, and Johnny comes to terms with the reality that he really is fucked in his current predicament.

There’s no questioning the fact that he won’t be able to get up from the field, his brief experiment with trying to pitch himself up on his crutches leaving him even more damp and sullen than before.

Yet he wrestles with the shame in calling someone for help, the melodrama of it; though he’d prefer to call his da than have mam marching down here with a smug ‘I told ye so’. He even has half a mind to just send an image of that meme to Gaz with no context, see if he can vouchsafe a helo for all his troubles.

Johnny’s just about to face the music and ring one of his parents when the sound of footsteps approaches from behind, a tentative call of, “John?”

He turns his head from where he’s lying in the grass, getting an upside-down view of Alice Clyne as the woman walks over to him.

“Aye, Mrs. Clyne. Nice ta see ye again.”

“Crivens, John, are ye a’right?” she asks, and Johnny is then reminded how out of place this interaction is, what with him lying spread-eagle in the middle of a field.

“Fine, ma’am. Just findin’ meself a bit lodged at the moment,” he laughs, drawing more attention to how awkward this is. He manages to prop up on his elbows again, eyeing the woman as she frowns down at him.

“D’ye need help, lad? I’m no’ very strong, but I can give it a try—”

“Ach, naw, ma’am—”

“Really, John, ye look drookit down there.” She hesitantly gets into a crouch, holding out an arm. “I reckon if ye brace while I lift we can get ye's up ok.”

“Aye…a’right,” he reluctantly agrees, and surprisingly—

With a bit of leverage, some elbow grease, a fumble for his crutch, the woman helps John back to his feet.

“Jings, Mrs. Clyne! Reckon tha’s a job well done.” Johnny grins as he corrects his grip on his crutch, still leaning more than he’d like.

“Ye oughtta be more careful, John, aye?” The woman smiles back shyly, her eyes drifting into the distance.

“Lucky ye were out in these parts, ma’am.”

“Aye, I was jus’…” He doesn’t need her to explain; it’s clear the woman is still coping with her loss, and what better way to cater that grief than to wander through these somber, empty fields.

“I’ll arrange it with mam then,” he says kindly, “ta see about comin' round ta help ye with them letters, aye?”

“Oh, ye shouldnae feel obligated, John, really, there’s no need…”

“Nonsense,” he insists. “Consider it compensation, eh? Fer gettin’ me off my sorry arse.”

That makes her laugh, and he feels reassured in his decision.

Leaving Alice with a sincere farewell, Johnny slowly makes his way back over to the clubhouse, kicking himself for how bloody sore he feels. A warm bath with his name on it gives him the extra energy to make it that last stretch.

By the time he gets over to the car, Elaine and his sister are already there, a very bouncy Jessie being balanced on da’s shoulders while she prattles his ear off.

“Och, Johnny, ye rascal!” his mother berates, but there must be some evident misery left in his expression because she dials it back when he approaches.

“Don’ wanna hear it,” he mumbles, nearly collapsing against the side of the car, thoroughly spent.

“Uncle Soap!” Jessie cries, all but elbowing Jack in his eye with her spastic limb. “Did’ye see me? Did’ye see me?”

“Aye, hen,” he says, trying to put more cheer into his voice despite the pressing exhaustion. “Ye were a righ’ firecracker, Jess. Best one on the pitch, fer sure!”

“Did’ye see my knee, Uncle Soap?” Jessie kicks up her leg, another hazard for poor da as she shows off her latest scrape. “It’s all bloody an’ everythin’!”

“Damn, tha’s some right badassery, I’d say!” He smirks at his word choice, ignoring mam’s complaints for language at his side.

“Almost as cool as yers, Uncle Soap!”

Johnny continues singing her praises, while Ruth mutters behind him, “Whit’s she callin’ ‘im tha’ for?” to an equally bemused Elaine.

They arrange to have a meet up at the house for an early supper, Caro and Greg supposedly stopping by as well, and Jack sees to lowering the seat in the back of the Corsa, proposing they just shove Johnny in the boot so he can stretch out on his sore back.

“Ye’ve overdone it, boy,” his father says, and Johnny’s inclined to agree.

He finds himself lying there like it’s the back of a damn hearse, and then little Jessie squeals how she wants to join him as well, so the two of them end up as a pair of casualties in the boot, as good as that medecav he’d never gotten. Guess that warm bath’d have to wait…

“Uncle Soap, ‘ow’d ye get ta be so big?” Jessie whispers next to him, tapping her muddy shoes against his shin as they lie side by side.

“Heh, ‘am no’ even tha’ big, lass. Just bigger than you, ye wee little nugget.”

She giggles at that, rolling around on the floor and nearly knocking her head against the car door.

“Naw, I got a friend tha’s muuuch bigger, aye? Well over six feet, the tower.”

“Yer friend’s got six feet?” Jessie asks, astonished.

Now it’s Johnny’s turn to giggle. “Aye, two on his legs, two on his arms, an’—ye know wha’, I dinnae actually know where he hides the last two.”

Jessie snickers freely, the sound bringing a cherished grin to Johnny’s face, despite how much he would have preferred snoozing on the ride home.

“Ah, here ye go,” he teases, “What does a foot call his father’s brother?”

Jessie tilts her head at him, curious.

“His ankle.”

It’s met with an abrupt snort, his niece more surprised by his abysmal humor than the punchline. “Uncle Soap! Tha’s lame!”

“I think ye mean Ankle Soap, eh?”

It’s just stupid enough to set them both off, a burst of laughter as they roll around in the boot like a couple of loons.

“Och, reckon they’re havin’ too much fun back there, all tha’ haverin’,” his mam tuts from the front, but for once, there’s no nagging in it.

By the time they arrive home, Caroline and her husband are already there, while Johnny and his niece had explored several avenues of bad humor on the ride, the last of which ended with a knock-knock joke so bad his da nearly pulled the car over.

He’ll have to remember to tell Simon that one…

His raised spirits do help distract from the fact that he’s extremely worn-out, Jack coming round the car with Greg to help lift him from the back, Johnny well-nigh a limp mannequin between them.

“Aye, whad'ye call a group of paralyzed soldiers?” he snickers, despite the subject matter being a little too close to home. “Squadriplegics.”

“Shite, tha’s terrible,” Greg mutters, while his da just hisses, “Christ, son, where are ye gettin’ these from?”

He might be more than a little delirious from his exhaustion, he wagers…

They settle John down comfortably on the couch, offering a well-deserved reprieve as mam and his sisters start seeing about dinner. Somehow, he ends up with little Frankie in his arms, shifting the wee babe in his lap as he watches his two nieces frolic around the living room.

Jessie seems to be staging a recreation of her footie match while Agatha twirls around trying to get her cousin to participate in some sort of dance-routine.

“An’ then I kicked the ball like this,” Jessie demonstrates, “an’ it went right up into the sky, like, all the way to the sun, reckon…”

“Naw, ye’ve got ta spin,” Aggie coaches, pulling at the other girl along with her dance. “It doesnae work if ye don’ do it at the same time as me!”

It ends with both of them yapping and squabbling, Caro having to come in to dish out some strict words. Soon after, Greg returns with just a glance to his daughter’s antics, coming over to hand Johnny a beer with a raised brow.

“Bless you,” he says to his brother-in-law, not blaming the man for retreating back into the kitchen.

Somewhere in the background, he can hear Alan Turk trying to make small talk with da, and God is he glad not to have to be a part of that conversation.

Sighing, Johnny tucks Frankie against his stomach, wrapping one hand around him while the other yields sips of beer to his lips, becoming more and more frequent. He looks down to see the lad has fallen asleep in his lap, and he mutters with a chuckle, “You an’ me both, mate.”

Unfortunately, dinner is served before he can get a good kip in.

His father goes to the extra length of dragging over his favorite chair to the dining room table, rubbing John’s back as he guides him into sitting. Johnny swears he sees Ruth’s eyes roll, a huff as she settles in next to Alan, who’s unfortunately seated right next to John.

They eat in relative peace, Greg going on about some real estate thing, while Caro chimes in about a new hire at the firm she works for.

Johnny struggles to even keep his eyes open, mindlessly eating his meal without really tasting it. He reckons he would’ve nodded off if Turk hadn’t nudged his elbow, in the mood for more painful small talk.

“So, what happened, mate?” the dumb prick asks, gesturing to Johnny’s condition with half a carrot on his fork. “Or is it, y’know…” he lowers his voice now, still with food in his mouth, “top-secret, aye?”

Johnny chooses to glare directly at Ruth as he answers, “Problem with the parachute on my jet. Like in Top Gun.”

Turk seems to take it with the utmost earnestness, because he spits around his carrots, “Shite, mate, tha’s wha’ got Goose…”

Ruth just rolls her eyes at him again, brushing her hand up Alan’s arm defensively. She sure does know how to pick ‘em…

“Ruth, babes,” mam cuts in. “How’d it go with tha’ job interview? Ye never did say.”

“Aye, it’s not gonnae work out,” Ruth answers, turning to fuss with Jessie at her side, as the lass apparently prefers making creative sculptures of her food rather than eating it. “Too far away.”

That makes their mother tilt her head, a frown marring her features. “Too far? Ye on’y live abou’ fifteen minutes out’a Blairgowrie, darlin’.”

Ruth puts down her fork, chewing her food with a waddle of her head before swallowing. “Aye, naw, we’re movin’ in with Alan, didnae I mention?”

Both Johnny’s parents seem to startle at that, and he makes eye-contact with Caro who just gives him a look.

Ah, Christ…so much for eating in peace…

“Naw, babes,” mam says, her voice now more scrutinous. “An’ where aboots is tha’?”

“Stonehaven,” Turk answers, oblivious to the shift in the MacTavish family’s mood. He takes a hearty sip of his beer, grinning. “Up on the coast, it is. Braw little town.”

“But tha’s up near Aberdeen, aye?” Jack says. “Cripes, tha’ must be over an’ hour away, Ruthie.”

“So?” Ruth flares her nostrils, daring anyone to comment on her questionable life choices. Johnny can think of several scathing reviews off the top of his head.

“Wha’ about Jessie’s school?” mam asks, and he takes a bit of pride in the fact she’d gotten her name right. Small victories.

“We’re gonnae figure it out, right, JJ?” Ruth swipes at her daughter’s hair but Jessie just slumps further in her seat, toying at her tatties with a frown.

“I dinnae want ta move,” the girl says sullenly.

“We talked about this, aye?” It’s clear from her tone that the conversation had not gone well. Turk just glances at both of them, taking another hefty slug of his beer.

“Ruth, I’m no’ sure ye’ve thought this through,” Elaine addresses, while Caroline just shakes her head again, muttering something to Greg. “Have ye got anythin’ fer work lined up?”

“Aye, no’ yet,” Ruth says, scowling with her jaw. “Besides, what’s it matter?” Now she’s getting obnoxious, Johnny can tell, that same bratty routine she’d pull as a teenager.

“Ruth, dear,” Jack tries to reason. “Ye know how important it is ta remain responsible, aye?”

That’s met with an audible huff from his daughter, Ruth putting down her fork again with a slam. “Och, is tha’ it?”

Shite, here come the theatrics. Johnny locks eyes with Caro and they both brace for it.

Always had to be the most bloody complicated…

“Ye think I’m no good, aye? Think I’m lazy?” Ruth hisses at her parents, rolling her eyes at the ceiling and then landing in a scowl on John. “Wha’ about Johnny?”

“What the fuck is tha’ supposed to mean?” Caroline snaps, and it leads to a sharp rebuke from mam, another scoff from Ruth. Johnny just fumes at his sister, daring her to finish that thought.

But the bitch clearly has no courtesy left, because she says, “Aye, ye let Johnny slack around all day, dinnae ye? Tha’ cannae be bloody responsible, aye?”

Mam opens her mouth, a fit waiting to blow, but it’s da that looks her in the eye and states, very matter-of-factly, “Yer brother was seriously injured, Ruth. He’s going ta need a long time to recover.”

“Fuckin’ typical!” Ruth just slaps her hand on the table, hysterical. “Always lettin’ him get away with bloody murder while ye cannae let me make even one fuckin’ decision fer meself!”

“Ruth Fiona MacTavish!” mam barks, but it’s too late to reel her back in.

“Naw, I get tha’ Johnny’s hirplin’ aroun’ an’ needs all tha’ extra coddlin’.” Christ, she’s in rare form now. “But wha’ about after tha’ then? Why’re ye not pesterin’, an’ naggin’, an’ henpeckin’ him about what he’s gonnae do with his bloody life?!” And with that, she shoves off from the table and storms out of the room, having burst into tears halfway through that little tirade.

And…scene.

Caroline doesn’t waste a second before chasing after her, and the shouts of, “You selfish little cunt!” can be heard clear enough for da to round up his two wide-eyed granddaughters, urging them to, “Come along an’ watch a film in the living room, lassies. I think gran’s got Frozen.”

Then it’s just a matter of the aftershock, mam going about cleaning the table with a brutal kind of efficiency before advancing to the kitchen to address her daughters’ argument, all the more likely to kindle it.

Turk shoots Johnny a look that might be taken as, ‘women, am I right?’ if Johnny wasn’t so sure the man was as dense as a fucking breezeblock. He gets up from the table to track down his soon-to-be living partner only after scoffing off the entirety of his plate and the last of the tatties from Jessie’s.

It’s Greg that has to most sense, John reckons, sitting there in silence for the majority until escaping out the door to the back porch, returning briefly with another fresh beer for John, expertly slid down the table as he retreats back outside.

And Johnny just…sits there.

If he doesn’t focus on the words his sisters are shouting, he can imagine it sounds like a machine-gun barrage. If he takes enough sips of this lukewarm Tennent’s Lager, he can pretend it’s a shot of 100-proof whisky, burning like an acid kiss on the way down.

If he presses the pad of his thumb back and forth across his butter knife, he doesn’t have to think about all that shit Ruth had just spewed, how some of those remarks mixed in between shrieks of a pent-up cry for attention ring true enough to sting worse than the shallow cut he makes.

If he sits there long enough, he doesn’t have to answer that question, that ‘dot-dot-dot’ that chews through his psyche, slowly, calculatedly, that constant tick that nearly drowns out the question mark:

What is he going to do with his bloody life?

Slipping, John finds his phone in his palm, muscle memory forcing him to press that number, holding it to his ear while he locks his elbows on the dinner table.

Don’t answer, he urges. Please don’t fucking answer…

The dial-tone blends with the ticking in his head, a pulse that drums in a sick, perverted rhythm. But still not loud enough for him not to hear:

“Johnny?”

He hangs up his phone.

And like before—he just blanks out.

Johnny’s not sure how long his dissociative episode lasts this time, but he knows his sisters can be at each other’s throats for hours; God knows he’d endured enough cat-fights in his youth to publish an op-ed on the subject.

But the dust seems to have settled when he stirs out of his white-screen coma, because mam is opening the door to the kitchen, all but shoving Ruth out to force her into a shitty apology.

“Ahm sorry fer wha’ I said, Johnny,” Ruth sniffles, wiping around her eyes where her mascara had cascaded in a torrent of black. “Thank ye fer comin’ ta Jessie’s game.”

“Aye,” is all he says in response. But it’s enough.

Because he doesn’t really blame her. Ruth is young and stupid and complicated. And despite being the middle child himself, Johnny knows she’s always struggled with her self-worth and lack of attention.

He watches her shuffle into her ridiculous pink jacket, and he can’t help but feel sorry for her—and the dozen flamingoes that went into making that coat…Jesus…

Caro’s farewell is far more convincing, as his older sister comes over to grab him in a firm hug, rubbing the back of his nape like she’s aware of all the harmful thoughts brewing behind his skull.

“Love ye, baby brother,” she mutters against his scalp, and she doesn’t say anything about Ruth, or his still vacant state, or the mobile phone that he’d dropped on the floor. But when she gets up, she does take the butter knife away from his place setting, leaving with a low murmur to mam about drawing up a bath.

His parents tread around him in that overly cautious way, Jack bringing him to the couch while Elaine sees about that bath. He sits next to his father, not speaking, that dumb kid’s movie still playing on the telly that da seems to be eagerly seeing through. John tries not to think about what shade the couch is as he slowly sinks into it.

The bath is fine. Helps take the edge off the persistent throb in his lower back. The soaps smell nice; lavender maybe. He isn’t sure.

Mam and da don’t really know how to react when Johnny doesn’t speak for the next three days.

It’s not the first time; just the longest so far.

He skips out on his PT session on Monday, and mam has to reschedule that thing with Alice Clyne, but by the fourth day, John comes down to breakfast and asks his da how the golfing had gone with Ed and the boys, so they simply share a look over their coffees, deciding that it’s just one of those things that needs time to work itself out.

Johnny doesn’t rightfully know himself.

And he doesn’t try to force it, whatever it is this ever-present, looming clock inside of himself represents. Though he knows enough about explosives to grasp that every bomb’s got its limit...

There’s a chip in his mobile phone, and when he brings it up to da, his father recommends taking it down to one of those tech repair shops, and he thinks he agrees.

It hasn’t rung since Saturday, anyway.

His parents are just going over some trivial topic—steak pie for dinner? Nae, Jack needs to start cutting back on his cholesterol—when an abrupt knock at the door sees them all raising their heads.

“Aye, who could tha’ be?” Elaine mutters. “Midgie says she was takin’ the grand yins down ta the park today…”

Johnny sits rooted to his stool, a sudden hitch in his chest nearly taking his breath away.

No…it can’t be…

He’d had the fantasy enough times to award it most over-the-top and far-fetched of his daydreams; still, the thought of Ghost arriving at his family’s home, on horseback, shirtless in some versions, had been enough to get him through several of his most boring afternoons.

A second, more pronounced knock shakes his reverie, and he finds himself hobbling after mam to get the door, each step another pulse in his chest that fuels his ridiculous delusions.

But it’s not Simon Riley at his doorstep, unfortunately.

It’s his sister Ruth, and she lasts one second before bursting into tears, little Jessie at her side with a stockpile of luggage behind them.

Ah, bloody Christ…

“I dinnae have anywhere ta go!” Ruth wails.

And mam sets her mouth in a thin line, shaking her head twice before grabbing her youngest daughter in a hug. “C’mon in, babes, ye can stay with us.”

And just like that—

Johnny gingerly pats his sister’s shoulder, tugging little Jessie against his leg while her mother keeps sobbing, as da begins carrying in their bags.

That’s the thing about time bombs, eh?

Seems that ferret bastard Alan Turk finally grew a pair and cut the cord…

He honestly doesn't blame him, though. MacTavishes could be very difficult to love.  

Chapter Text

Perhaps the thing that Johnny struggles with most these days is the lack of structure. That 0600 sharp, mission overview before breakfast, commands in his earpiece telling him what, when, where he’s supposed to be.

He’s certifiably lost without that constant guidance, his own strictness with himself falling by the wayside thanks to his unpredictable mood and chronic pain.

Which is why he probably gets the most satisfaction during his physical therapy sessions, despite how much of a difficulty they are.

“C’mon, tha’s it, Tavvy, ye gottae work for it, mate.” Johnny grunts with the exertion, forcing past the nerve-splitting torture in the center of his leg to prove to Shelly Kirkland he’s not some workshy rookie fresh off of a cushy holiday. “Let’s see some symmetry with those steps, aye, ye wobbly shite.” Guess that’s still up for debate.  

He’s on the treadmill today, more gait training, this time without the body weight support device he’d been relying on the past few weeks, and shit—is he missing it now.

“I don’ know wha’ ye mean, Shell,” he hisses between labored breaths. “This is like a walk in the park.”

The woman just shakes her head at him, smirking at his cheek, but in the next second, she’s all sharp commands again, instructing him to, “Watch tha’ balance, Tav. It’s all in the hips, aye?”

And Johnny would roll his eyes if he wasn’t currently spending all his effort trying not to collapse.

While he’d always been a bit of a gym junkie, John had foolishly taken for granted the natural athleticism he’d fortunately been born with. A strong upper body, legs built for speed. Now with his disability, it feels all the more grievous to remember how much easier things had been back then.

He never thought just a simple treadmill session could be this merciless, but Jesus…

It’s his damn back, even more than the leg, a relentless twisting sensation burning around his core with each pathetic step. Like a vice around his middle cruelly reminding him how far he’s fallen.

Fuck…all he wants to do is to run, goddamnit…

“Oi,” Shelly warns, watching as he removes his grip from the handlebars for just a second, testing how weak he really is. “Don' push yer luck, mate. I’m no’ pickin’ ye up if ye fall again.” He knows she’s just joking, mostly.

The banter is easy, reminding him of simpler times. Something nostalgic that urges him to push himself a bit harder, even though he knows this little experiment without the support device is likely a long shot.

It had been John’s main goal when they'd sat down and outlined his recovery—he’d told them he wanted to be able to walk again. Unaided. And both his physios had admired his ambition, especially considering most of their other patients are over the age of seventy-five, but it had been sobering for Johnny to have to accept the possibility that that may never happen for him.

Today’s test to try the exercise without the harness had been his idea, his trainers more inclined to take things slower—which is their job, really, so he should be heeding their expertise.

But he’d felt unusually motivated this morning, for whatever reason.

“Easy, kid,” the other physio, Dylan Ross, says from the side, his arms crossed with a look of scrutiny. And when Johnny stumbles a step, his leg screaming with the full force of his weight, he walks over to turn the machine off, pressing a steady hand to his back. “Tha’s enough, MacTavish. Ye shouldnae force it, aye? Can do more damage tha’ way.”

Johnny can’t stifle his groan, letting Shelly come over to guide him back over to the mat. “I know how ta handle it,” he tries to argue, but the fatigue is evident in his voice. As is the way he simply flops onto his back, ready to pass out.

“Aye, ye might think tha’, Tav,” Shelly addresses, leading him through the routine cool-down stretches with practiced efficiency. “But yer body’s different now, right? Ye gottae be aware of yer limits, however much they might suck.”

“Tell me about it,” Johnny huffs, closing his eyes to cope with the strain. Christ, it’s like his insides are turning molten.

“How much pain?” Dylan asks, as if reading his thoughts. “One to ten.”

Johnny tries to shake his head, but then Shelly’s pulling on his hamstring in that agonizing way, and it forces him to spit out, “Fuck, it’s about an eight, wager.”

Dylan gets down on the mat next to him, a firm hand on the center of his chest as Shelly finishes mauling his legs. “Where’s the worst?” he asks in his clipped tone. “Leg?”

“Back,” John grunts, “always the damn back.”

“Right, let’s see then.” The physio guides him into a sitting position, propping him up enough to start feeling at his spine.

“Take this off, hot-stuff,” Shelly teases, and they manage to wrestle Johnny’s top off so her partner can continue analyzing his back.

Dylan is a former field medic, Johnny had discovered, retiring from the service after a few bad trips compelled him to reconsider his profession. His curt demeanor and skill with treatment make him a highly-esteemed presence during these sessions, Johnny finding a bit of comfort in his bluntness.

“Where? Here?” The older man gingerly presses into several locations, eliciting a sharp hiss when he locates the main source of Johnny’s distress. “Wha'd'ye reckon, T10, T11?” He confers with Shelly, both of them well-versed with his injury to know his spine had taken quite the hit.

“Are ye feelin’ lots of discomfort these days, John?” the woman asks, her tone more professional now that she’s not acting as his drill sergeant.

Johnny masks a grimace. “No more than usual.”

They both give him dubious looks at that, Dylan continuing to inspect his spine, putting more pressure, enough to leave him gasping. “Ye sure?”

“Fine,” Johnny pants. “Been feelin’ a bit tender still, some tingling in my legs. An’ there’s a constant…I dunno, belt? of pain round my middle. Like a band tha’s pressin’ in tha’ same damn spot.”

Dylan and Shelly converse behind his back, the older man now moving his hands in a softer massaging motion.

“Could be the back rib’s been displaced again,” Shelly muses, and John frowns as he recalls his own medical history; two ribs in the back had literally snapped from the fall, one of them piercing his lung and nearly causing him to suffocate on the medevac out. Fortunately, he’d been unconscious for that.

“Any numbness in your limbs, MacTavish?” Dylan asks. Johnny gives a vague nod. “Problems with bowel and bladder control?”

The physio’s curt manner of questioning makes it easier for Johnny to steer around the awkwardness. “Naw, I’ve been fine there.” Thankfully. He still has horror flashbacks of those first few weeks out of his coma, hooked up to God knows how many tubes. But at that point, his prognosis had been decidedly worse than it is now. Christ, they’d been worried about paralysis then…

“We cannae rule out a thoracic disc herniation,” Dylan says bitterly, easing John back down into a lying position. “If tha’s the case, I’d recommend having ye go in fer some more tests, son.”

Sighing, Johnny nestles his head against the mat, but he listens to his physio’s advice.

“I know we mentioned potential surgical options. It might be worth lookin’ into gettin’ yerself over ta Glasgow if ye can. I know a decent spinal surgeon there that I can arrange a consultation with.”

“Aye,” John mutters, his mood now slipping, seeing as it’s the end of the session anyway. “I’ll think about it.”

“Other than tha’, I’d say keep yerself from doing anything strenuous, aye? Ye can apply an icepack ta yer back, an’ try stretching at home, might help loosen ye up a bit.”

“Cheers.” He lets the both of them help lift him to his feet, the crutches expertly tucked back into place.

“We’ll get ye in the pool next sesh, Tavvy,” Shelly says with a wink. “Dinnae ferget yer swim shorts. An’ tell Caro I said hello as well.”

“Will do.” Johnny tries not to let his demeanor collapse entirely as he makes his way out of the health centre. He gets a bit of satisfaction from the fact that it had been the first time he’d been able to drive here himself; been allowed to, more like. But after asserting his capability like a madman, da had finally relented and slipped him the keys to the Corsa, only under the condition that he call either of his parents if he felt too strained to drive himself home.

He fumbles into the driver’s seat, shoving his crutches in the back, and takes a minute to rest his head against the wheel.

It’s rare that he gets these precious alone-time moments, now that a certain someone had reinhabited their home, so Johnny lingers in the car park far longer than necessary, talking himself out of sneaking in a quick smoke.

He checks his phone for any urgent texts from his mam—just three reminding him to drive safe—and spots one from Garrick as well, an image that when John opens leads to a genuine cackle.

It’s a picture of some brand of cat food, the feline in question bearing remarkable resemblance to a certain commanding officer, mutton chops and all.

he writes back, snorting at his stupidity.

John rolls his eyes at his own dumb joke, eyebrows raising when he sees that Gaz is already typing back.

Gaz: Ouch

Fair enough.

His fingers loosen on his phone, dropping it into his lap.

Oh.

He doesn’t know why, but that sentiment just…disembowels him on the spot. A wrench through his center that pulls and pulls and pulls, worse than his nerve pain.

Oh.

Somehow, Johnny’s able to text back a suitable reply, something about the lieutenant needing to up his game, but by that point, his fingers are already starting to tremble.

He lights that cigarette after all. Sits in the car for another thirty-nine minutes. Slowly puts his insides back together.

Then he drives home.

“How was therapy, loves?” his mam asks when he returns, and honestly—Johnny doesn’t even fucking remember anymore.

“Fine.”

He struggles his way up the stairs, aiming to seclude himself away in the shower for the rest of the afternoon, but a roadblock thwarts his plans.

Johnny doesn’t even pretend to play nice; he simply slams his fist against the bathroom door. “Oi, Roo! I need a shower.”

Having been dumped and kicked out of her former apartment in one fell swoop, the youngest MacTavish sibling had only needed less than twenty-four hours to reinstate her position as the most irritating member of the household. And Johnny considers himself more than a little fed up already.

He knocks on the door again, louder.

“Piss off, Johnny, I’m gettin’ ready, Christ’s sakes!”

“Ye know ye take an hour ta get ready, ye reprobate.” He waits no further, yanking at the door and barging in.

“Oi—wha’ the fuck?” Ruth squawks, black makeup smearing across her cheek at the interruption.

“I need a shower,” John says again, attempting to push past her on his crutches. “Tha’ eyeliner is shite, by the way.” He would know; he used to nick it off her in high school, back during a very experimental phase—but hell if he didn’t pull it off.

“Johnny, wha’ the fuck?” Ruth hisses once more, shoving against his shoulder with the strength of a tree mouse; he holds his ground.

“Why can't ye get ready in yer own room?” he sneers back, already reaching for the faucet behind the curtain to get the water warm.

“Because,” Ruth says, stretching the word out to an insufferable length, “the lightin’ in there’s terrible an’ it makes me look like a minky little pug.”

“Aye, tha’s because ye do look like a minky little pug, Roo.” His sister goes to slap at his arm, but Johnny dodges easily, even on crutches. He then wastes no time in tugging his shirt over his head while Ruth continues squawking.

“Och, Johnny, I dinnae need te see ye in the skud, ye fuckin’ minger!” And with that, she storms out of the bathroom, leaving with a huff of disgust and the lingering scent of too much hairspray.

Johnny does his best to enjoy his shower, but it’s rarely as relaxing as it should be. And not just because of Ruth’s presence.

They’d installed a support bar when he’d first moved back in, and it’s a bit of a circus act for him to try to wash up properly, which is why he usually prefers baths. Today he finds himself particularly rigid, only letting one hand go about scrubbing his skin while the other clings to the bar for dear life.

It’s not his favorite pastime, taking inventory of his body. Most of his showers end with him in an almost shell-shocked state, forced to confront the changes in his physique with a blank sort of detachment. While he’d never been a ‘big guy’, he’d always taken pride in maintaining a comfortable amount of bulk. Now, his body has diminished significantly. A thinner waist, for sure. Legs gone a bit wiry. Thankfully, he’d managed to put some weight back into his upper body, always his greatest strength, but he can’t help but feel like a shell of his former self.

There’s embarrassment to it, a fair bit of shame too.

He doesn’t even know why he cares; there’s no one here to see him like this anyway. Anymore.

Johnny spends the rest of his shower watching the water pool around the drain.

Later that afternoon, mam has Midge McDuffie over for some sort of crafting activity, with Caroline stopping by as well. And Johnny gets shanghaied into joining them in the dining room, their little basket-weaving hobby more an excuse for the ladies to gossip, he regretfully ascertains.

“She must be kiddin’ herself,” Caro is saying, and it would take a bampot, or Alan Turk, to not realize who she was talking about. “I mean, Christ—does she really think she can keep livin’ like a damn selfish brat all the time? She’s nearly twenty-six, fer shite’s sake.”

Mam doesn’t chide her, simply offering a low clucking sound as she grabs for another colored strip. “Johnny, babes, can ye pass me tha’ scissor?”

“What are these even for?” he mutters, surveying his own attempt with an appropriate amount of disdain.

No one seems to have an answer for that.

“An’ it’s not that she’s got nothin’ goin’ fer her, aye?” Caro continues. “Tha’s the main issue.”

“Aye,” Midge agrees, her tongue sticking out as she weaves a reed through the base of her much more impressive basket.

“I mean—wha’ was the point of spendin’ all tha’ money on them trainin’ courses? She’s got a good education and everythin’, I cannae understand why she sees fit to act the bairn—ach, Johnny, no’ like tha’, ye're gonnae break it.” His sister commandeers his pathetic basket, correcting his errors by just having him start over.

“Ye cannae be good at everythin’, gorgeous,” Midge chuckles, as Johnny lets out a frustrated huff, shoving the thing away from him and slumping on his elbows.

The women continue to babble with vigor, leaving him to rest his head in his arms against the hardwood table for a moment, his mind wandering into dangerous territory—drill routines, and structure, and morning briefings, and shitty jokes…

It takes him a while to realize that some of the gossip is now being directed at him, however much the biddies try to be discreet.

“Didnae talk fer a few days again,” mam is whispering, probably assuming he’s asleep. “I’m…I’m a wee bit worried.”

“Aye,” says Midge, “poor lamb needs ta get out some more, reckon. Didja ever arrange tha’ thing with Alice?”

“Naw, he was feelin’…well… ye get how he can be.”

“I can hear ye, y’know?” Johnny mumbles into his sweatshirt sleeve.

“Ach,” mam tuts, while Caroline gives him a gentle nudge to his shoulder, not much of an apology for talking behind his back.

“Ye should try ta get out more, John,” his sister encourages, fiddling with a piece of wicker that she keeps trying to insert in his ear.

He lifts up from his slump with a grumble. “I said I’d go help Mrs. Clyne, aye? So gaun give her a call then, mam.”

Elaine purses her mouth but offers a nod. “Aye, I think tha’s good of ye, John, lendin’ her a hand like tha’.”

“Havnae had enough fun with us wenches, eh, handsome? Ye gonnae go find more grannies ta keep company?” Midge teases, and Johnny just shakes his head with a snort.

“She’s right, y’know,” mam asserts. “Ye really oughtta be out with some young folk, John. I’m worried we’re rubbin’ off on ya.” Christ, now he’s worried she might be right…

“I’ve been tryin’ ta suggest tha’,” Caroline says, flickering that fucking reed around his head again, the scunner. “Why don’t ye come fer drinks with us, Johnny? A couple of us at the office are headin’ over ta the pub this weekend, you should come.”

“Aye, tha’s a fine idea,” mam says with way too much enthusiasm.

John scrapes a hand across his forehead, mentally checking off the reasons why that sounds fucking horrible. He’s vaguely aware that his sister works as a secretary at some kind of law firm, and boy does that not sound like a crowd he’d want to rub shoulders with. “I dunno…”

“C’mon, mate,” Caro urges. “I mentioned we got a new hire, right? Well, Roy says he’s comin’ along this time, an’ I think the two of ye would really hit it off.”

Johnny squints at her, trying to discern if there’s…something in her tone. Caroline just smiles suspiciously.

“Gaun, babes,” mam practically commands. “It’ll be good for ye.”

Well, he had been mourning the lack of structure in his life, so ignoring a direct order feels counter-intuitive. John shakes his head, grumbling, “A’right, fine.”

He returns to drooping on his elbows as the women finish their baskets, waiting until they switch to another juicy topic before drifting off into a dull, emotionless haze, a daydream without pictures, plot, or protagonist. Just the blank color of the inside of his head.

That next day, he heads over to Alice Clyne’s.

Mam had packed him with a warm coat and the basket she’d just crafted full of tattie scones and shortbread. Guess they did have a purpose then…

And even though he’d made this decision himself, driven here and everything, John still feels like a complete twat knocking on the poor woman’s doorstep, wondering why he even agreed to this in the first place.

“Ah, John, come in, ye must be freezin’,” Mrs. Clyne says as she answers the door, ushering him inside as he shuffles forward on his crutches. “Here, I’ll take tha’.”

He lets her scoop up the gift from his elbow, explaining, “Mam wanted ye te have that. We made the baskets yesterday.” Alice raises her brow, curious. “Aye, she made that one,” he clarifies. “Mine was shite.”

The woman offers a small laugh, making John feel a bit better for blundering like an idiot already.

He steps inside her home, allowing her to remove his jacket, then follows her into the sitting room.

“Aye, here it is, the catalogue, I call it.” Mrs. Clyne indicates the large pamphlet of papers. “Got all the names an’ addresses there. Oh! An’ I wrote down a wee sample, but ye can feel free ta change the wording if ye see fit. Please, sit.”

John finds himself awkwardly detaching from his crutches, the woman coming to his side to assist, looking hesitant about where to prop them. “Sorry, ‘fraid I come with accessories,” he tries to joke, rubbing his head as Alice secures them next to the bookcase.

“Ach, dinnae fash none, dear,” she asserts, sparing him a glance to make sure he’s comfortable. “I’m glad ta see ye lookin’ so healthy, John. When we’d heard abou’ yer accident, we all fretted for ye terribly. But me an’ the gals at church have got ye on our prayer chain, so it’s nice ta know ye're doin’ well.”

He’s unsure how to respond to that, choosing a careful, “Aye, thank you.”

Alice seems to fiddle with the basket in her hands for a moment, setting it on the desk next to him and clapping her hands. “Right. Well, I’ll let ye have a look at tha’ while I go fetch us some tea.”

Johnny nods, turning to regard the sample letter she’d devised and not reading a single word.

He tries not to address the painful disconcertment of this whole thing, but it’s a bit difficult when his wandering eyes land on several framed photographs of the woman’s recently deceased son in his vicinity, an awful awareness of how silent the house is.

John isn’t certain what happened to Mr. Clyne, something about a long-fought illness, and they’d just had the one son, apparently, as he’s the only one featured in all the photos, alongside a bright little boy the same age as Jessie. The widow, Christy, doesn’t seem to be as well documented, but he spots what must be their wedding photo, Trevor looking proper chuffed.

There’s an uncomfortable strain in his trachea he doubts Alice’s tea will remedy.

“How d’ye take it, dear?” the woman asks from the kitchen, and John mumbles out a hasty, “Jus’ milk is fine.”

She settles his cup on the desk at his elbow, and he finds himself smirking despite the anxiety he feels. “I’ve got a mate that takes his with six sugars, if ye can believe.”

“Crivens, that’s excessive,” Alice remarks, blowing on her own tea. “Poor boy must have quite the dentist’s bill.”

Johnny chuckles at that, securing one of the shortbread biscuits his mother had packed and trying not to think about crooked, slightly sharpened canines peeking through knife-cut lips. “Reckon ye're right.”  

“So, what d’ye think?” Alice asks, nodding at the letter template. “Think ye're up for spellin’ tha’ up fer about a hundred folks? Not much better than writin’ out yer times-tables, is it?”

“Aye, it’s fine,” John insists, now having scanned the letter and finding it acceptable. “If ye need me ta do up the envelopes, I can do tha’ too.”

“My, ye're a godsend, John,” Alice teases. “If I hadtae do these myself they’d be out with the Easter wishes.”

“I think I can manage,” he says, sipping at his tea and grabbing the first blank card.

“Do ye…” Mrs. Clyne hesitates, hovering near the couch to his left. “Do ye mind if I sit with ye, John?” she asks. “It’s on’y…I dinnae get much company these days.”

He feels a substantial tremor in his ribcage at that, the woman’s bare-faced sorrow spilling over him in waves, but he straightens his neck and says, “Aye, ma’am,” adjusting his posture so as not to suggest he’d been dealt such a singular blow. 

And he forces himself to make small talk around the hook in his throat, each bite of shortbread sending him further and further away from his sanity, but he starts making his way through the list of cards.

“Ye know my favorite subject in school was English?” he remarks, pen scratching out neat sentences.

Alice hums with a low chuckle. “I would’ve thought Phys. Ed.”

“Aye, always liked writin’ stories an’ what-not. Granted, I wasnae very good at it. In fact, one’a my teachers up an’ rang my parents about some ridiculous essay I wrote abou’ the teachin’ staff all bein’ aliens, they were righ’ worried fer my mental health…”

He smirks to himself as he completes another card, reading the address from the catalogue to seal it in an envelope. Mr. Richard Cassidy, thank you for your contribution.

“Ye ought ta take it up again, John,” Alice says, and when he turns to glance at her she seems to be knitting on the couch next to him. “Writing’s always good fer the soul, no matter how shite it is.”

That gets him to chuckle, scribing his letters with practiced care on the next card. “Tha’s a fair point, ma’am.”

“An’ ye do have lovely penmanship.” The woman eyes his stack of completed work from the couch. “No one ta send any love letters to, hm?”

He nearly skitters his pen across the paper, thankfully suppressing his reaction.

But Mrs. Clyne must see something in his bearing, a blush he can’t hide, because she teases further, “So there is someone special then.”

And within an instant—

Johnny finds himself spiraling, some kind of involuntary montage playing in his mind, as if to torture himself with all those unspoken sentiments…

The midnight conversations that could never outlast a sunrise, whispers against shoulder blades that could never breach the ribs beneath, lies and truths and his name on those perfect lips, never quite the same pitch as it had been, stolen between gasps on a well-worn, well-loved brown leather couch…

Simon Riley never says goodbye, no. And he never says I love you. 

Johnny’s learned to stop waiting.

Clearing his throat, he shocks himself by saying, “Not one for love letters, I’m afraid.” And with Alice’s curious expression he adds, “Aye, he gets enough sweetness from his six sugars, I reckon.”

If there’s a reaction, it’s subtle, as Mrs. Clyne just smiles sadly at him.

But for Johnny, the confession is a burial hymn, exposing the side of him that pretends he’s not heartbroken and giving it a headshot for its troubles.

It’s all he can do not to collapse on the poor woman’s living room floor, so he shoots her a sad smile back, returning to his letters, tearing through twelve of them before the shaking in his hand threatens their legibility.

He pauses, scraping a palm up and down his head, an echo of his previous hairstyle.

He puts the pen to paper. Thank you for your generous contribution…

His eyes start to burn, pressure behind his sinuses. The community thanks you for all you’ve done to continue supporting this town…

He doesn’t cry. We look forward to bringing this establishment back together…

His skull compresses, screaming behind its cage, but he doesn’t cry. We greatly appreciate it.

Johnny forces himself to voice some idle comment as he seals the latest envelope, “Aye, Mary Higgins. Reckon she was my music teacher, back when I fancied myself a trombonist.”

Mrs. Clyne sits on the couch still, her knitting all but forgotten. And he knows she’s watching him carefully, as piercing and condemning as the photographs of her dead son that line this room with constant grief.

But he pretends. For her.

“Here’s another familiar name, heh. I’ll be sure ta give Mr. and Mrs. MacTavish their letter in person, aye?”

His throat aches, but he’s always been a good liar.

“Ah, Jeremy McGowan, wasnae he the bloke tha’ tried ta train his dog to sing Christmas carols?”

“Ye dinnae have to put on a show fer me, John,” Alice says quietly, seeing through his bullshit as he’d expected she would. “I know you’re hurting, son.”

And that’s what makes John feel most ashamed, he thinks. That here he is, nigh on the verge of an emotional breakdown in the house of a woman thoroughly entrenched in tragedy. Husband and son gone, daughter-in-law on the way to becoming estranged, taking her only grandson with her.

Because what has John lost, really, compared to her? Just his body, his profession, his devotion to a man not willing to wait three more days to watch him wake up?

What does he have to cry about?

“If it’s all the same to you, ma’am,” he says, in a near hush, “I’d just like someone to talk to.”

And this confession hurts more than the last, he reckons, but it’s the first honest thing he’s said all day.   

So Alice gives a shy nod, going back to her knitting, and John goes back to his letters, and they share conversation back and forth, about easy, meaningless things; the weather, the news, the latest footie match. Johnny tells her about his pathetic basket-weaving attempt, and she tells him she’d burnt her roast beef yesterday and ate it anyway. He mentions his nieces and nephew and she talks about her grandson Nicholas. They both go on for several minutes about Ruth’s famous pink jacket. And it’s easy and meaningless, even if it’s just pretend.

And when Johnny finishes all one-hundred and five cards, he feels lighter for it. Accomplished, in more ways than one.

“Aye, ye’ve given me a lot of help, John,” Alice says, and he knows she means more than just the letters. “I cannae thank ye enough.”

Insisting it’s nothing feels too shallow a notion, so John just accepts her hesitant hug, letting the woman wrap her arms around his shoulders as he sits at her desk, silent as she clings for too long, a desperate sort of tenderness that she needs more than him.

And he says nothing as she whispers a misspent prayer into the crook of his neck. “Fad do re gun robh thu slan…” Johnny holds her back, ignoring the way her voice starts to shake. “Mo ran la ithean dhuit is sith…”

He lets her weep. He rubs her shoulder.

He says nothing of how God is absent from any and all of his experiences.

Because if God really gave a shit, then Trevor Clyne would’ve survived that car crash, and Johnny would’ve broken his skull on a slab of concrete in Ukraine.

When she peels away, he simply offers her a knowing glance, not a smile, just a nod of acknowledgment.

Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, Alice grabs his crutches for him, and as he’s slipping the thank-you letter for his parents in his jacket pocket, she hands him another card, a blank one.

“Keep it,” she says, tucking it in the pocket as well. “Your friend might appreciate hearing from you.” With his blank look, she adds with a wink, “Mr. Six Sugars.”

Johnny opens and closes his mouth a dozen times, but settles on a definitive, “Thanks,” and leaves it at that. 

And later that night, he lies on his bed, thinking about what might possibly be enough to spell his confession on that empty white card. What words to use to get through to a man more ghost than human?

Because what were they, really?

What did all those whispered words mean anyway?

He thinks about them now, those conversations that never were, too fragile to keep their shape in the light of day, shared only with the shadows, but…they’d meant something.

To him, at least.

It might’ve been on guard duty in some godforsaken, zero-degree tundra, tucking against each other after only ten minutes of pretending not to be cold, when Johnny initially confessed his greatest fear.

“A cage,” he’d said, leaning into that sturdy shoulder. “Reckon tha’s the worst thing I can imagine, bein’ stuck inside a hole with no way out, left in the darkness long enough ye ferget wha’ living’s supposed ta feel like.”

Ghost had said nothing, not even with Johnny’s whispered plea:

“If they take me, shoot me, sir.”  

He’d only nodded.

It could’ve been after Las Almas, bunked together in a dark, forgotten room, blood still staining Johnny’s sleeve, where Simon revealed his own.

“Don’t fuck up again, sergeant,” he’d grunted, patching up the bullet in his arm and not saying more than that.

And it had taken Johnny months to figure out its real meaning, only after Simon had grabbed him to his chest after a grenade had nearly taken him out, panting against his collarbone in short, desperate shudders, fingers refusing to leave his pulse-point, but still not speaking it aloud:

I can’t lose you.

It must’ve been Al Mazrah, the first time they talked about death as a collective concept. It was their fourth week in on a shitty detail, and Simon had desert sores, and they’d been lying together in that drafty tent for days, only the coolness of night offering what might be called relief.

Johnny had been the first to bring it up.

“D’ye ever wonder about that thing you’ll say?”

“You’re gonna need to be more specific, MacTavish.”

“Y’know, that ironic statement you’ll make that’ll seal yer fate. Like a death metaphor, aye? Y’know, like ‘oh, I’m retirin’ next week’, or ‘I’ve got a girl back home an’ I’m gonnae marry the shit out of her when I get back’ type of thing.”

Simon had surely rolled his eyes at that, unmasked, as the sores had spread to his cheeks by that point, painful and irritating, but it had given Johnny quite the view.

“I don’t think about shit like that,” he’d mumbled, draping his arm out to the side, an invitation.

And Johnny had just rolled into it, mindful of his blisters but grateful for the warm stretch of skin at his back. “Aye, because ye're superstitious, eh?”

The dry snort had tickled the hair at his nape, a possessive exhale. “You ever think that this conversation might be that thing you say, hm? Johnny MacTavish tempting fate by running his bloody mouth…” 

“Ye better hope you're not right, LT. Because then I’d be taking you down with me.”

A low rumble at the base of his neck, what might have been carved lips tracing the edge of his spine. “Works for me.”

And Johnny might have said something else, something to break the spell, or to ensure the curse, but it wouldn’t have mattered.

Because all those words would be gone by dawn’s first light, nothing more than a half-forgotten dream…

He’s not naïve enough to think, to hope, that that might be the reason Simon never says goodbye, or that other thing. That all it is is a defense mechanism, some secret part of him refusing to take a chance on those words being true.

Because, it should have been on guard duty, after Las Almas, lying in Al Mazrah, or on a beaten leather couch in a London apartment, but Johnny had never said those three words either.

And he still doesn’t know how, staring at the empty interior of a thank-you card, not having the guts to tell him how he really feels.

Because ‘I love you’ feels cheap, it really does.

And Simon Riley wouldn’t know what to do with that statement anyway.

So Johnny finds himself hunched over his desk in the middle of the night, their sacred time, and he begins writing out his words in a very practical, attractive script:

--250g softened butter (Brodie’s Scottish butter, not that shite from Asda)

--350g plain flour (if you use almond flour my gran will come haunt you)

--100g +1 tbsp caster sugar (the extra tbsp is not for licking, aye) 

And he slowly begins transcribing his gran’s coveted shortbread recipe, word by word, sealing it in an envelope with the address he’d memorized after their first mission together. He figures he’ll send it tomorrow, a nervous buzz in his gut that has nothing to do with betraying family secrets, more reasons for him not to sleep. 

It’s no love letter, aye, but he thinks it’ll do.

Saturday comes around, and Johnny scowls at his reflection in the mirror, giving his appearance up as a lost cause alongside his self-esteem.

Sallow, weary-eyed, a portrait of a man well past his prime.

He ends up dissuading himself from shaving his jaw, debating that the scruff helps mask his haggardness, but there’s no helping the sullen expression. 

“What have ye got yerself into, mate?” he grumbles, finishing up the button on his freshly-ironed shirt and resisting the urge to drown his head in the sink.

A sharp knock interrupts his self-deprecation, a reversal of the incident the other day. “Johnny, wha’ the fuck, I need ta take a piss!” Ruth whines from the hall, classy as ever.

“I’m gettin’ ready,” he calls back sarcastically, wincing as she punches the door again.

“Aye, ye dinnae even have any hair, ye minger. An’ there’s nothin’ ye can do ta make tha’ ugly mug of yers any better.” Fair comeback for his previous insults.

Though contrary to her claim, a decent amount of Johnny’s hair had started growing in already, over a centimeter, so he swipes at it now, grimacing in distaste as he exits the bathroom so his obnoxious sister can get off his case.

“Scabby bastard,” she hisses.

“Slag,” he counters, shoving past her to make his way down the stairs.

His mother’s appraisal is considerably less offensive. “John, babes, don’ ye look nice.” As if she hadn’t been the one to lay the shirt out for him, harping about the navy pairing well with his eyes. “But ye couldnae have bothered ta shave, darlin’?” That’s more like it.

John bats her away as she tries to swipe at his stubble, stressing, “Naw, I’m better off lookin’ like a scaffie ta ward off any’a Caro’s friends.” If he really wanted to ostracize himself, he should’ve nabbed some of Ruth’s eyeliner, aye, that'd give them all a scare.  

Mam seems to take it to heart, tutting at his arm. “John Laith MacTavish, I didnae raise a scoundrel!”

“Aye, mam, I’ll behave.”

Caro arrives before either of them can get their hits in, John grumbling in the passenger seat while his sister drives them to the local pub.

“Ach, dinnae sulk, ye big baby,” Caroline huffs, but she offers a gentle pat to his bouncing leg. “If ye want ta head home early, jus’ say so, a’right?”

Johnny nods, and when they arrive, he reluctantly gets out of the car, bracing against the single crutch he’d decided to risk, his head bowed as he follows Caro through the doorway.

He’d never been a shy lad, especially in his youth; God knows a wee Johnny Mac could blather up a storm. But in recent years—aye, months, admittedly—the man finds himself near terrified with the concept of having to socialize. His afternoon with Mrs. Clyne had been one thing, but a pub full of overblown thirty-plus-year-olds just doesn’t seem to hold the same appeal.

“Aye, Caro!” someone calls, and then the two of them are thrust into the fray, Johnny giving perfunctory nods as each new colleague of his sister’s is introduced.

“This is my brother, John, everyone,” Caroline says, fondly patting his arm and giving him a tentative nudge; his grip is already trembling on the single crutch. “You remember Ainsley, right?” She motions toward some nondescript woman Johnny’s never seen in his life. “Daisy and Babs, aye? An’ tha’s Bill and Callum by the tap, give us a wave. Oh—and this is Roy Lynch.” Caro smiles a bit wider as she introduces the young man seated on the stool by the bar, and he gives a courteous nod back. “Mind ye I was tellin’ ‘bout how we hired him from tha’ other firm? An’ wha’ a godsend he’s been.”

Without further warning, Caro all but shoves Johnny into the seat next to him.

“Nice te meet ya, John,” the man says, and it’s enough for John to discern three things: one, there’s a faint Irish lilt to his words; two, he’s got a bit of a ketchup smudge on his jumper; and three—he’s one-hundred percent gay.

Fucking Caro, that minx…

“Aye, cheers.” John bites his lip to prevent the scowl he wants to unleash on his sister. Because there’s no way she hadn’t plotted this, practically grinning like a jackal at her supposed cleverness.

To be fair—he’d never, officially, come out to his family; but Christ, if that eyeliner phase hadn’t sounded off plenty of warning bells…

John had always assumed his older sister had been aware enough, never bringing it up in polite conversation, per se, but now it seems she’s taken a leaf from mam’s matchmaking book, the conniving little devil.

“Caroline mentioned you were in special forces,” the man, Roy, is saying, and it takes a great deal of willpower for Johnny to remember to be polite; behaving for mam’s sake, more than his own.

“Aye, yeah. Got meself a nice excuse for a discharge though.” He awkwardly taps his crutch, which he’s still desperately clinging to even seated on the stool. “Just in time for the holidays, aye?”

He’s sure Roy says something back, a considerate comment about his injury, but Johnny’s too busy trying not to feel his face melt, flagging down Caro to order him a whisky.

He slugs it aggressively, and it does help loosen him up, if not encouraging him to start making a fucking fool of himself.

“Naw, naw, I reckon you Irish’ve got the better lay’a the language. Us here up in Alba tend ta sound like a flock’a geese, I’d say.”

That gets a chuckle from the other man, a grin around his beer. “Aye, fair play, mate.”

“Try hearin’ me gran give us a bedtime story in Gaelic, was like some sort’a demon summoning ceremony, I swear…”

Roy is nice, all things considered. Not bad-looking either, with his Kelly-green eyes and Celtic charm.

Johnny hates how easy it is to talk to him. But maybe that’s the whisky, already on his second. 

And when Lynch gets up to, “Head to the jacks,” he’s left sitting there, a paralyzing kind of mortification rooting him to the stool.

Caroline must misinterpret his slowly cindering panic, because she sidles up beside him, red cheeks flushed. “Roy’s fun, right?”

Johnny simply nods, taking another medicating gulp of his drink.

“Cute too, huh?”   

He scrapes a palm up his scruffy jawline, not even realizing when he’d dropped his crutch. “Braw enough,” he mutters, and Caro clicks her tongue at him.

Knocking back the rest of his drink in a single hit, he blinks around the burning in his eyes, a good excuse for why they seem to want to water all of a sudden.

C'mon…pull yourself together, MacTavish…

Roy returns and Johnny must say something stupid, because the man laughs in response. And it must have been quite funny then, to have him placing a warm hand on Johnny’s thigh to steady himself as he bows over.

He orders another drink. Roy laughs some more. The room starts to tighten in his periphery.

God-fucking-damnit…

Johnny isn’t sure how much he manages from his third whisky, sloshing half of it down his nice navy button-down as a sudden lurch in his chest sees him nearly falling off his stool. And Lynch steadies him, of course he does, with a firm grip on his upper arm that lasts just a tad too long.

“Careful, mate. Don’t want ye gettin’ anymore banjaxed now.”

He’s certain the other man can feel his racing heartbeat this close, but by that point, Johnny’s head is already starting to spin, and it's not to do with the liquor he'd consumed. 

“Think I mighta tanned too much too quickly,” he mutters, a slur in his voice. He goes to detach from Roy’s hold, forgetting his crutch and nearly faceplanting on the floor if someone else hadn’t grabbed his elbow.

“Oi, canny, lad,” one of the other men, Bill or whoever the fuck, says with a dry chuckle. “Reckon yer brother’s jaked a’ready, Caro. Lightweight, is he?”

Johnny manages to drown out their teasing banter, securing his crutch and muttering to Lynch, “Jus’ gonnae go get some fresh air, aye?”

He doesn’t wait for his response, or the concerned call from Caroline, as he staggers his way out the door.

It’s a chilly night, skating the edge of October into November, and Johnny had stupidly left his jacket at the bar, but he’s more focused on the numbness spreading up his limbs than the cold, stumbling over to the brick wall at the side of the pub and collapsing against it.

C’mon…not now…please not now…

He strikes a fist across his clavicle, but it still isn’t enough to convince his lungs to work properly. Christ…he can barely fucking breathe.

His heartbeat is a battering ram in his neck, that liquid trickle of dread rushing his senses with an incapacitating terror that has no real name or shape.

“C’mon, breathe, you fucking cunt,” he croaks to himself, but it just seems to exacerbate the tightening in his chest. Johnny wheezes, knocking his head back on the bricks and dropping his crutch. He crumples in a heap, grabbing his legs in a chokehold and shoving his head in between them.

Fucking Christ…

Now he’s having a bloody panic attack because he can’t let another man touch him. Just typical…

Johnny can’t stifle the low whine that breaches his throat, his hand desperately grappling at his shorn hair for some kind of purchase to no avail, slipping, slipping…

Breathe, MacTavish…

He fucking can’t; not now, not ever.

The man lets out another pathetic sound, his eyes already stinging, but he forces his head to raise, digging his fingers into the skin around his ribcage, wrinkling his freshly-ironed shirt. And he manages a short breath, in, then out, his head expanding from the rush of oxygen back to his brain.

In. Then out. Just like that.

A sob escapes his clenched mouth, and he hates himself for it, he hates everything right now.

He hates how much it hurts to wake up every morning, hates the lack of structure, the absence of duty and purpose and incentive to get through another day without blowing his brains out.

He hates how he has to pull out his phone, now and every other fucking sunrise, just to check.

Just to make sure his screen stays empty, all those whispers, those truths, those silly little jokes simply scattered in a shallow grave.

He hates how he presses that number, hates how long he waits, always fucking waiting.

And he hates what he hears himself say, after the beep to record his message. But he can’t stop it.

“Why d’you get to choose, huh? Why do you get to fucking choose to leave an’ I’m the one tha’ has to stay put, waiting around like some stupid fucking cunt for you to call me? Why?”

God…he can’t stop.

“Because it’s not enough, is it? That you get to walk away and I fucking can’t. That I literally cannot fucking stand anymore to even think about chasing you down, aye? Now ye’ve got me groveling like a bitch an’ all it takes is you not picking up your fucking phone.”

Please…please…please…

“Aye, but I don’t want ye to. I don’t need ye ta fucking call me back, Simon. I don’t need to fucking hear from ye again, aye? So don’t you dare call me. If ye get some fucking letter from me just throw it away, y’hear? Because I don’t fucking need you to read it.”

God…just…stop…

“An’ ye can take yer six sugars and shove them up yer arse, Simon Riley, because I’m fucking done. I’m done making excuses for why you're so fucking scared ta tell me the truth. So don’t say it. Don’t fucking call me again.”

The phone drops from his hand, the end-of-message tone piercing through his fractured sobs. Johnny cradles his legs into his chest, punching his kneecap with enough force to bruise.

He can’t fucking move.

He can barely feel the brush of a hand against his shoulder, unsure how long his sister had been there, but all it takes is a tug, and then he’s crashing into her arms, shaking around the pressure of holding in his cries.

“Y’a'right, baby boy,” Caro mutters against his neck. He lets her hold him, brushing a soft hand up and down his head. “It’s ok, John. I’ve got ye.”

Trembling enough to tip the Richter scale, Johnny digs his face into her coat, letting out the barest rasp and swallowing the rest of his sobs, but it lurches something inside him, and then he’s scrambling out of her hold.

“Gonnae be sick,” he warns, crawling forward to brace his palms on the pavement.

Caro rubs his back as he heaves up those three whiskys. She keeps rubbing even after he collapses back against the wall, wiping his mouth and his eyes and hastily scrabbling for a cigarette before he remembers he’d left his jacket. But his sister just holds it out for him, responsibly thinking he’d be cold, and he takes the smoke like it’s a bullet between his lips, all too aware of it being the easy way out.

“Didnae think ye still smoked,” Caro remarks, sitting next to him now with his half-numb hand in hers.

Johnny shrugs, willing his body to stop fucking shaking.

It doesn’t.

“I think ye need ta talk ta someone, John,” his sister says quietly, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I really fucking don’t.” Not now. Not after all those goddamn things he’d just said.

“Ye’re strugglin’, sweetheart.” Caro’s voice almost cracks there, and she presses harder on his hand, tugging his head into her shoulder. “We dinnae want ta see ye hurt yerself, Johnny.”

Caroline sniffles softly, her strained exhales stirring round the smoke of John’s cigarette.

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbles, because he will be. He’ll make himself fine again.

He’s not sure how much of that rage-induced voicemail she’d heard, but Caro doesn’t ask about its recipient, and she doesn’t force him back inside to say goodbye to Roy Lynch either, she just helps him to his feet, supporting him back into the car.

And they talk behind his back again, his sister and his mother, as he sprawls out on the couch with an icepack on his T10 and T11 vertebrae. They don’t even pretend to be quiet.

“He was gettin’ along fine, it seemed…”

“Then he goes an’ shuts himself down, I know, babes.”

“Dinnae know what to do…”

“We tried the counseling an’ he seemed better…”

“He’s got no one here, mam, besides us. Christ, he must be so fucking lonely…”

He’s able to drown them out only because little Jessie had snuck downstairs, supposed to be sleeping up in Caro’s old room, but she’d fostered a naughty streak, and he can't say he's surprised. 

“Uncle Soap, can I stay down ‘ere with you?”

“’Course, Jess,” he mumbles into the couch, ruffling her hair as she settles on the floor next to him.

She continues to sit with him even when he doesn’t talk after that, enough stagnant silence for the lass to fall asleep against his elbow.

Johnny watches her sleep, failing to recall a time when he’d been able to rest that simply. Seems all he has now are nights filled with dark, bottomless holes and a twelve-meter drop on a loop. A different kind of cage, but one that haunts him all the same.

He tries to force it from his mind, but the echoes filter in between the cracks in his façade, getting deeper and more unstable each time he has to swallow down the screams on the tip of his tongue.

How easy it had been to shout those things into a phone receiver. How much he wishes he could take them all back.

But he knows the truth.

He knows it had been as much of a verbal blood-match with himself as it had with Simon Riley.

Because he was the one to say it first—not goodbye, not I love you.

He had been the one to roll over on his side in some desert camp that never was, fixing his eyes on the man he’d die for, whispering out a double-edged contingency plan he knew he’d never agree to himself:

“If one of us breaks—we walk away. If one of us dies—we move on.”

As simple as that.   

And perhaps what shakes John the most, what keeps him up each night till dawn reveals just another grey, flavorless hellscape, is the irony of it.

Johnny MacTavish tempting fate…

But he knows enough about God’s sick sense of humor to realize he’d gotten what he deserves.

Chapter Text

Johnny remembers spending an afternoon with Price down in the R&D department, what he’d thought had been a disciplinary gig turning out far more enjoyable when he’d been told they’d just be discharging weapons at mannequins all day. Testing some new ballistic carbon fiber for modified tac gear. 

Price had gone on about stuff like isostatic crush strength, absorption, flotation density, but Johnny had just seen a target, point and shoot.

And only after unloading thirty rounds into the poor plastic dummy does he find himself listening to his captain’s wisdom.

“Lookit that, whaddya see?”

Johnny fingers the tiny abrasion on the sample vest. “Looks a’right, sir. Barely a scratch. Seems ta be workin’ fine, aye?”

Price just strips the vest off the dummy, revealing the cracked plastic torso beneath it.

“Try putting a man in there, MacTavish,” his captain says, already in the process of loading up his CR-56 AMAX for the next test. “If he’s still standing after thirty rounds, I’ll consider loaning him one of my best Padrons. Now let’s give this fucker somethin’ to really cry about, shall we?”

The vest doesn’t survive the assault rifle.

And Johnny’s left with the understanding that there’s no such thing as ‘bulletproof’.

It’s just a matter of how much pressure it takes to get the thing underneath to crack.  

He dreams of falling. Again.

But it’s so much worse this time.

He’s strapped to the training tower they used during paratrooper drills, twelve meters, always twelve meters.

Johnny looks down, and the ground seems to rush toward him, a solid field of concrete.

He wobbles forward.

“Go on, Tav, watch that balance.”

He struggles against the ropes, several of them biting into the skin of his neck, but he can do nothing as the concrete slams into him, a gasp and then—

He’s hanging off the door of a UH-60 Blackhawk, its rotor blades screeching out a warning call just before the thing starts plummeting. Twelve meters. The ocean is black and full of jagged ice and—

“I think ye need a thicker coat, babes.”

Johnny lurches to cut his chute, wrenching at the thick straps around his ankles, he’s stuck, he can’t budge them, he can’t—

Impact.

Another gasp, and he’s jumping off that cliff in Las Almas, holding his breath, wondering when the river below had turned into hospital tiles—

He crashes his back against them, an empty scream before—

Slam—

He’s back in that skyscraper in Chicago, 54^th floor, lying on the dusty concrete.

Hassan has his hand around his throat, dragging him over to the window.

Please…

There’s a shot, but it’s too late, it’s too—

Johnny feels the breath leave his lungs as he’s shoved out the window, five, four, three, two—

He gasps.

Back in the room. Hassan looming over him.

Again.

Boots scrabbling at the floor, nothing to hold, nothing to reach for—

“LT…” he desperately cries, but it has no sound.  

Hassan grabs him by his scalp, dragging, speaking with a voice that sounds like his father—

“I gotcha right here, lad.”

He drops him.

Another sniper shot. Too late. 

Gasp.

Fall.

Repeat.

Johnny slams his head against the floor. Again.

Hassan rips his hand into his vest, toying, yanking at his limp body. He can’t—

He can’t move.

But he looks to that window. Counting backward from twelve.

“If they take me,” he rasps into his comm, a prayer.

Ten. Nine. Eight…

“Shoot me, sir…”

Johnny kicks out at the last second, rolling away from Hassan, just as—

The crack of an MCPR-300, as delicate as a knife-sharp kiss.

One shot. Two.

Johnny feels his chest shatter, all that plastic.

Three shots, four, five, six…

He blinks, staring out into the dark shape of the window, gasping.

Thirty shots, and he cracks down the middle.

“Thank you, love,” he whispers, and finally, his body pitches forward…

falling, falling—

He snaps back upright, a sudden shock in his chest like he’d taken a defib while still conscious.

No.

This is…

This is wrong…

He’s supposed to wake up by now. He’s supposed to—

Johnny feels his entire body convulse when he hears that scream.

No…

He stumbles onto his hands and knees, cutting palms against the litter of shattered concrete.

No. Not here…not…

Jessie screams again.

And Johnny crawls forward on the floor of that collapsing Ukrainian apartment, pleading, begging himself to wake up.

Jessie’s clawing at the edge of the balcony, her face ashen and he knows it’s too late already.

“I’ve got ye, sweetheart.”

“Uncle Soap,” she screeches, and Johnny—

Johnny’s body moves on its own. He can’t—

He can’t stop himself.

“I won’t let ye fall, I promise.” He feels tears streak down his face, his hands coming up, he can’t stop them.

His grappling line gets looped around her tiny neck, once, twice.

He holds her by the face, nodding against his own volition, a scream behind his captive mind.

“Don’ look down, Jess.”

No.

Wake up, wake up, wake up…

He can’t—

Johnny just watches as she drops.

A sick snap.

It's—

Agatha’s next, holding out her arm for him, blood already spilling from the rims of her glasses.

She screams for him, “Please, Uncle John!”

But he just—

“Easy, lass. I got ye.”

He holds her by both hands, giving her a brief twirl, before—

She swings in the air, falling, screaming, dropping out of sight.

And of course—

Little Frankie sits on the broken ledge, his cries wailing out an air raid siren, louder, louder—

Johnny grabs him in a bundle to his chest. He’s so fucking small.  

“It’s ok, mate.”

His fingers find their way to the straps around his torso, the body weight support device from PT, but he doesn’t need it now. He doesn’t—

Wakeupwakeupwakeup…

The baby screams, thumping at his chest with tiny fists, and he—

“Shhh.”

Johnny lets the straps go, and he walks backward. One step. Two.

He can walk on his own now. Unaided.

Twelve steps and he’s found the edge.

Wakeupwakeup...

All he hears is—

“If one of us breaks—”

He lets himself drop.

Johnny hears the screams like an echo, a vibration in his eardrum as he snaps awake.

They don’t stop.

Because it’s him. He’s thrashing in his bed, and his throat is on fire, and he can’t stop fucking screaming. 

There’s a bang in his room, the door, voices.

“Wha’samatter, wha’sgoinon?”

He keeps screaming, dragging his face into his pillow, suffocating. 

“Johnny—wha’s wrong?” someone calls, his mam, his da, he can’t fucking see them.

“Lanie, get the light.”

Johnny rockets his head back when the room bursts with brightness, slamming his temple against the bedpost, screaming louder.

“John, love, wha’s the matter?” A hand coasts his shoulder and he—

He thrashes violently, another terrible cry ripping from his throat as he rasps, “Don’…don’ fucking…”

It feels like a shock of acid is gushing from his trachea and all he can do is scream and scream and scream…

“Johnny, Johnny, wha’s wrong? Wha’s wrong, baby?” That’s mam, he can tell now, because she’s knelt at his side, terror in her voice.

He doesn’t have an answer. Instead, he writhes, gnashing his teeth on his sheets, grinding out more death sounds.

“Are ye hurt, son? Johnny, look at me. It’s da. Ye're a’right, lad.”

He can’t look, he can’t feel, it’s all just venom in his bloodstream, forcing his body into a fetal twist, his back on fire, that lingering taste of ash and blood and death in his mouth causing him to howl into his pillowcase, he’s hysterical now, he can’t get a grip…

“Jesus Christ, Johnny!” Another voice, louder, angrier. “Wha’ the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Ruth, shut the fuck up!” Mam has never sounded so furious.

“Dinnae ye know wha’ time it is?!”

They’re yelling now, a siren in his head and he—

He wrings his hands over his skull, trying to beat those images from his mind, that feeling in his fingertips, the sound of bones, tiny necks snapping, he can’t…he can’t… 

“John, ye're safe now, aye? Ye're safe at home, John-boy.” That’s da again, sitting on the edge of his mattress, a hand hovering over his back. “Look at me, love, ye're a’right.”

“No, no, no…” he croaks, practically seizing on the bed as his father attempts to hold him still.

“Shh. Shh. Ye're gonnae hurt yerself, John.”

“Johnny…babes… Jack, wha’ should we do? He won' calm down...”

“Shhh. It’s a’right…”

There’s another noise at the door, the smallest footstep. Then—

“Uncle Soap?”

In a second—he’s back in that building, on that balcony, clinging to the edge, his niece’s neck between his fingers, he can’t—

Johnny cries out, but it feels hollower now, scraping the edge of his vocal cords, a plea.

And those footsteps get closer, another low squeak before—

“It’s ok, Uncle Soap.”

He’s able to nudge his head off the pillow, enough to see her standing there, eyes bright, freckles scrunched in concern, some old t-shirt of his falling past her elbows.

He doesn’t think, he just grabs her. And before Johnny knows it—

He’s cradling his niece to his chest, sobbing into the shoulder of her borrowed shirt, finally reaching that breaking point.

No one says a thing at first. They just watch in hypnotized stillness as he falls apart.

And, God…does he fall apart.

Crying and shaking and letting that carbon fiber guarding his heart shatter. He sobs in desperate heaves against his niece’s bony shoulder, tugging her tighter, refusing to let go.    

“Johnny, wha’ the fuck…” Ruth finally says, breaking the silence, but even he can hear the tears in her voice. And in the next second, she’s backing up against his closet, quietly sobbing in the corner.

Jessie does well to console him, clumsily patting John’s hair as he continues crying his goddamn eyes out. But after a minute, she lets out a few distressed squeaks, and then da is leaning forward on the bed, gently easing her out of his grip.

“Tha’s it, boy. Ye can let her go now. Ye're ok.”

Jack wastes no time in shifting behind him, grabbing his son into his own lap so he can stop suffocating the poor girl. And Johnny just falls into it, sobbing even harder now, as his da wraps him in an awkward cradle, stroking the top of his head with soft whispers. “Tha’s it, lad. Ye're a’right now. Tha’s a sweet thing. Jus’ let it out.”

Johnny cries, his tears soaking into his da’s pajama top, shudders wracking his shoulder blades, but Jack just keeps rubbing, keeps shushing, keeps holding him. And he’s vaguely aware that mam is crying too, seated on the floor next to them, her hand anchored to his ankle with gentle, deliberate brushes.

“Johnny…my baby…we’ve got ye, love.”

He cries for a long, long time.

Enough that his parents exchange looks with one another.

Enough that they start whispering again.

Enough that mam has to ring up someone at urgent care, asking about the risks of combining his medications.

And then he lets himself be propped up, tears still falling, as da hands him a glass of water, mam with his pills, a prescribed sedative mixed with a higher dose of his painkillers.

He falls back against his father’s chest, slackening as the effects of the drugs start kicking in. Jack keeps stroking his head, Elaine keeps rubbing at his ankle. Ruth stays in the corner, now with her daughter falling back to sleep in her lap.

The crying does stop, eventually, in a hollow kind of aftermath. And Johnny’s head decompresses enough that he can blink lethargically at his side dresser, numb to the cruelty of it all.

Thirty shots to the chest…

It’s Jack who voices it first, nodding at the clock that reads 5:19 now, November the sixth, muttered so quietly it might have easily been ignored.

But John hears it like a sniper shot, burrowing further into his father’s arms so he doesn’t have to face the blowback:  

“Happy birthday, Johnny.”

The rest of the day is…not great.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, unable to fall back to sleep, just trapped in a narcotic haze. It’s better though, he decides; the numbness. Beats having to cope with his aching spine and the lingering remnants of the worst nightmare he’d endured since getting back home. 

Da had dozed off propped up in bed beside him, but mam does nudge him eventually. And both his parents then proceed to tip-toe around him, his mother seeing about breakfast while Jack inexplicably starts tidying up Johnny’s room.

Ruth has to get Jessie ready for school, and the little girl throws quite a tantrum over wanting to stay with her uncle all day, but his sister puts her foot down.

And Johnny’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed to watch her go.

He doesn’t get out of bed.  

Mam brings up his breakfast, but he doesn’t eat it.

He lies there as the woman begins quietly talking beside him, unminding that her audience has nothing to say.

“Aye, I remember like it was yesterday, cripes, thirty years, I cannae believe. Ye were such a fussy thing, y’know? My, ye cried like a banshee when they got ye out. But I knew how sweet ye’d be, first time I saw those blue eyes…”

John forces his hand out of the covers, just to grip hers. Just to give her something as she begins to tear up again, hiding her sniffles in her napkin between bites of toast.

“Aye, ye're still my wee bairn, John Laith, so dinnae ye ferget it…”

He tugs her hand against his heart, leaving it there as she continues nibbling through the rest of his breakfast. 

They let him rest for the remainder of the morning. It’s gray outside his window now, a light rain tapping at the glass.

His phone beeps a few times.

He knows it’s not him.

Ruth, surprisingly, comes to sit with him for a while, slouching in his desk chair. She doesn’t say much other than, “Thanks fer lendin’ JJ all them clothes,” referring to the box of his junk he’d gathered from his closet, knowing the girl would appreciate some of his old sports tops. Which, apparently, she had.

John can hear his sister chewing on her nails, scuffing her socks on the worn carpet.

“Ye’ve got messages on yer mobile,” she says eventually. “Prob’ly birthday wishes from yer old army friends, huh?”

He just rolls over on his side, facing away from her. And his phone.

“Right.”

Ruth must leave after that, or he just slips a bit further in his sedation, losing track of which family member had been sitting vigil by his husk, because next he’s aware, Caro is scooting on the bed next to him, resting her chin on the back of his shoulder. Mam must have called her, as she should be at work, with Roy Lynch and all those other hot-shots, not her pathetic, shell-shocked baby brother.

He knows she’ll ask, “D’ye wannae talk abou' it, John?”

And he knows his answer, nestling further into his comforter and curling in on himself, is not enough to pacify her concern.

“I know how hard it is, sweetheart.”

“Ye don’t,” he rasps out, his voice now a wreck from all that screaming.

Caroline tenses, leaning back against the headboard, but keeping her hand braced around his shoulder.

“Ye don’t fucking know, Caro.”

He hadn’t meant to speak, but something stirs in him now, a tactile nudge to make him spell it all out.

“Ye don’t know what it’s like to wake up every day, knowin’ tha’ everything ye’ve ever had before is jus’…”

She squeezes his shoulder.

“An’ it’s not gonnae get any better, no, it’s not gonnae feel the same, he—”

He’s not going to call.

Johnny swallows, tears pricking his eyes again, but he says it anyway.

“I should have died.”

Caro exhales sharply, but he keeps talking, voice raw and flat.

“I should’ve taken the brunt of the impact on my neck, but I must’ve rolled on my side to brace for it.”

“Johnny…”

“I should’ve let myself drop first, before the debris, so that way I could’ve taken a crack to the skull before even landing.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Johnny…”

“I should’ve died, Caro. An’ now I’m…I…”

His sister silently sobs against his shoulder, clearly not equipped with enough emotional skill to work around…that.

He just lies there, listening to her cry for him, for the John Laith MacTavish who'd never returned from his last mission and never will. 

But Caro wipes her eyes on her sleeve after a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling with a tight expression, rallying some spare bit of resolve. 

“Ye’ll come down later?” she asks, voice struggling to find its correct pitch. “Greg’s gonnae bring Aggie by after school, says she wants ta show ye a nice dance routine, aye? That’ll cheer ye up.”

He doesn’t blame her for trying to change the subject. So he just nods, burying deeper into his quilt.

She leaves, to go find mam, undoubtedly, so the two of them can start ringing up the nearest psych counselors, at least the ones that don’t cost a fortune. God knows his pension can only go so far.

At first, he thinks he’s finally alone, the stagnant pressure in the room aggravating his drug-dulled senses, but then he hears the desk chair squeak, teeth against fingernails.

Ruth had never left. 

Oh.

He’s not sure how he feels about his younger sister hearing all that, especially when the first thing she says, muttered quietly, is:

“Ye really want ta kill yerself?”

There isn’t even any accusation to it, just a blank slate for him to come clean.

But he knows his answer, just as he’d known it then, waking up in a blanched hospital room, an empty chair at his side, some nurse quietly trying to explain to him that he could be paralyzed from the waist down.

Even then—even in those worst-case scenarios, screaming at Ghost to pull the trigger for him—he knows his answer is no.

Ruth is silent for a moment, tracing her sock around the weathered carpet. More nail-biting. A long exhale. But she speaks again, and it’s the first time she’s ever sounded like an adult.

“Ye dinnae know how loved ye are, Johnny.”

There’s a tremor that rattles in his chest, but he says nothing. And she keeps going.

“I get tha’ things are worse, an’ they’ll prob’ly never get to be much better. But ye’ve got people here, Johnny. Ye’ve got a family tha’ cares abou’ ye. An’ I know firsthand how much they’ll try ta pick ye up again. God knows they’ve put me back on my feet more times than I can count. But you…you…”

His eyes burn, but he doesn’t turn over.

“Dinnae ye know how fucking loved ye are?”

He doesn’t have a reply for her, stolen by his sedated mind and the shock at hearing his sister sound so…honest.

They leave it at that, though, neither one of them willing to risk addressing that strained bond between them.

But Ruth sits with him for a while longer, and for once, he doesn’t mind the smell of her hairspray.

His father comes back up soon after, John agreeing to let him help him downstairs, the two of them sitting on the couch while his mother busies herself with phone calls in the kitchen.

“Midgie jus’ rang,” mam informs, still heedless of the fact that John won’t respond. “Says she’s bringin’ round a cake for ya, isnae tha’ nice, babes? Not too sweet, she says.”

Johnny shrugs into his sweatshirt, leaning into his da’s shoulder. Jack had put on some dumb action movie, probably because he knows his son enjoys pointing out all the glaring inaccuracies, but they just sit there, watching it in silence. 

“Oh, an’ guess who stopped by while ye were…” Elaine struggles to find a verb suitable for Johnny’s post-breakdown coma, just shaking her head. “Alice Clyne. She came by ta wish ye well, such a thoughtful gal. An’ she even left this for ye.”

Mam brings over a wrapped gift, uncertain whether or not to just place it in his lap, but Johnny takes it from her, holding it limply in his hands.

“Aye, we’ve got gifts fer ye as well,” she says, pressing out a sad smile. “But ye can open them up later, eh? When ye're feelin’ a bit…” Better seems like a stretch, and they both know it.

Johnny studies the gift in his hands, a thin box with a pretty lace ribbon. There’s a card too, one of her leftovers, he reckons, recognizing the illustration.

It reads: Happy Birthday, John. Don’t let that lovely penmanship go to waste.

And when he mechanically unwraps the box, he finds a rather attractive fountain pen, extra nibs and an ink bottle. It brings the faintest tug to the edge of his lips.

“Ah, tha’s lovely, babes. Such a good heart she has, Alice.”

He clears his throat, rasping out, “If ye give me her number, I’d like to ring her thanks later.”

Mam practically beams at that, probable tears in her eyes at the relief of hearing him finally speak again, however huskily.   

Jack wraps his arm around him, giving his son an affectionate squeeze as Johnny tips his chin at the telly screen.

And he forces himself to talk, despite the raw feeling in his throat and the slight slur to his words from the drugs. “Ye cannae endlessly fire on full-auto like tha’, Christ..."

"Issat so?"

"Aye, the barrel’d overheat and need ta be swapped out.” He shakes his head, nitpicking further, “Plus that’s a modified M60, wouldnae be in Vietnam at the time…”

His father just chuckles lightly, letting Johnny continue ruining the movie-magic with his martial expertise, and giving a fond pat to his knee.  

It’s…a little easier after that.

Caro and mam whip him up a nice lunch, which he does eat, a thick, creamy soup. He’s not sure if he can properly taste anything though.

The meds keep him drowsy, struggling to hold his head up at the table, but the fact that he manages to finish his bowl seems to reassure his mother.

And later, he’s able to pull out his mobile with a sort of numb indifference, reading through the messages as if they were meant for someone else.

There’s a slew of images from Gaz, mostly memes of elderly people, with the general theme of you’re getting old, ya bastard. He’d have to remember to pay him back in kind, seeing as the prick himself turns thirty in April.

Price had sent a brief, heartfelt text. If he’d still been on base, he would’ve choked up hearing it in person.

The rest are from various comrades, buddies he’d left enough of an impression on, Shelly and Dylan from PT.

An unexpected message from Alejandro catches him off guard, a short but sweet—Feliz Cumpleaños, Juanito. Courage to you, amigo. He hadn’t heard from him or Rudy in a while now, someone must have told them about his injury.  

John puts his phone back in his pocket. He doesn’t expect anything else.  

No, he’s not going to think about Simon Riley on his birthday; he’d already had one emotional crisis today.  

Things pick up when the kids arrive, Jessie fresh off the bus, and Aggie and the baby coming along with Greg. 

John sits on the couch, trying not to smirk as his two nieces put on quite the performance for his birthday. It’s an interpretive ballet, Agatha had explained, combining elements of her robot fascination with what can only be called break-dance twirling. She’d gotten her cousin to play along, the both of them spinning around the living room like loons as Johnny claps his approval.

After nearly crashing into the telly unit, Jessie sways over to him, collapsing on the couch as he scoops her into his lap. "C'mere, rascal."

And with a pout of jealousy, Agatha exclaims, “I wannae sit with ye too, Uncle John!”

So he just pats the seat beside him, letting both girls snuggle up under his arms. And it’s an effort not to feel for their pulses, not to breathe in the sweet scent of them and suffocate on it, not to let them go.

There might be some pain evident in his posture, that echo from his nightmares still clinging to him violently, because Agatha pats the side of his face, scuffing up his beard and trying to get him to smile. “Dinnae be sad, Uncle Johnny.”

Caroline comes up behind the couch, reminding her daughter to, “Be easy with yer uncle, Ags. He’s…he’s had a rough day.”

“It’s fine, Caro,” he rasps. Because he needs this. He needs to be able to see them both, his perfect girls, happy and healthy and not plummeting from a balcony edge. And when he cranes his neck to find Greg, rocking gently in the hall with Frankie in his arms, he takes a minute just to stare at the baby. He’s sleeping. He’s fine.

His brother-in-law gives him an awkward wave, a whispered, “Y’a’right, John?”

And he just nods back. Because he is alright. Even if it doesn’t quite feel like it yet.

He’d be alright.

Midge brings that cake, with walnuts and dried cranberries, and he eats it, and it might be good. Not too sweet. Not tasting like anything, really.

He opens gifts from his parents—expensive scotch and a nice leather watch with his initials on the back. Now he can watch the minutes slip away from him, JLM, aged 30, a man without cause for a future.

He thanks them though. He might smile.

Caro and Greg give him something too, he doesn’t really remember. His head is…

Somewhere else.

John finds himself locked in the downstairs bathroom just before dinner, splashing water on his face to clear the tears from his eyes. Why is he crying again? He’d already broken down before. Why does his heart still writhe in his chest, aching for something he can’t reach?

He grips the edge of the sink, a silent sob jerking right through him.

Christ, he can’t take it…

His family is waiting for him, mam made stovies, da brought his favorite chair to the dinner table, and Ruth was right—they all love him, immensely.

It’s just…

It’s not…

He’s not going to call.

Johnny knows this.

But there’s a rapid-fire, involuntary snapshot in his mind. A fantasy as ridiculous and fucked-up as the rest.

Simon Riley doesn’t call. And he doesn’t show up at his doorstep, with flowers and some cheesy balloons, wine for the folks, kissing mam on both cheeks and winning them all over on the spot.

That man isn’t real. And Johnny gets that. 

Because he could never love a man like that.

No, his Simon is stubborn, and obtuse, and socially-impossible, and emotionally-stunted.

And he isn’t going to call Johnny on his birthday.

Because he told him not to.

He sleeps in his parents’ bed that night, the first time since he’d been five or six, his nightmares a lot less graphic back then. He couldn’t make it up the stairs.

Mam stays with him, tucking him in like a child, and reading beside him with the bed lamp on, her fingers stroking aimless patterns in his hairline until she thinks he’s asleep.  

Da’s on the couch, just down the hall, waiting for any sudden noises, but Johnny doesn’t wake up screaming again.

He wakes up and he tries to be better.

For them.

For little Jessie as she runs around the kitchen in his old goalie kit, nearly taking da out while he goes to scoop her up. For his mother, who had spent the whole day researching psychologists and therapists and counselors, trying to discern what the difference is. For Ruth, who doesn’t say a single thing about that shit he’d confessed before, but leaves some gaudy, bedazzled monstrosity in his bedroom, at his confusion explaining, “It’s fer bad dreams.”

John’s able to snap himself out of it enough to sit with mam the next day, the both of them going over her list of potential treatment ideas. 

“Now, there’s a private trauma clinic down in Dundee we can consider. I’ve also heard of an online service, or even the possibility of havin’ someone come round the house, if ye think that’d be easier…”

He sips at the tea she’d made, nodding along. When it’s clear she’s waiting for a verbal response, he murmurs, “Yeah, a’right.”

Mam purses her lips, but doesn’t try to push it.

Before they can discuss it any further, Jack walks in from the front door, shrugging rain off his coat and bristling.

“Didja see wha’ ol’ Benny Haig’s done with his bushes, cut ‘em right down ta the roots, he did.” His da places his hat on the rack, entering the kitchen. “Oh, righ'—stopped by the post, an’ they had this fer ye, John. Some kinda package in yer name.”

Johnny lifts his head from where he’s slumping on his elbow, squinting at the small box as his father places it in front of him.

“Maybe a birthday gift, babes?” mam says, already going about cleaning up breakfast.

“Dunno from who,” he mutters, inspecting the slightly damaged parcel, no return label.

“Whom,” his father corrects, to collective eye-rolls from his wife and son. “Wha? I cannae be fasht splittin’ peas o’er the oots an’ ins?” Aye, because that’s some grammar…

Johnny snorts at his da, turning the package over in his hands so he can break the tape across it. 

He only has the slightest…inkling. A hope that he doesn’t want to give credence.

But as he pops open the top, a smaller tin box revealed inside, he feels something.

Johnny cracks the lid on the tin, but he already knows what he’ll find.

Cluttered rows of shortbread biscuits, each with a unique dented shape, not quite rectangles.

And a note on top. One line:

--I’m sorry if they’re shit. 

He swears his heart flatlines on the spot.

But then—

He giggles. Just a small, abrupt thing, but it has both his parents peeking over at him with interest.

Johnny scrapes his hand across his head, his eyes. He laughs again, deeper in his belly.

“What’d ye get, lovie?” Mam comes over to see, her curiosity only increasing when she spots the messy biscuits, even more so when John—

John starts to cry. His laugh just rearranges itself into a sob seamlessly, and he can’t decide what this feeling’s called.

“Johnny, wha’s wrong, child?”

He wipes at his eyes, but there’s a smile still set around his emotional zigzag, and all he does is just shake his head.

“It’s nothin’,” he says, voice quavering. “Jus’ a practical joke.”

His parents exchange looks, saying nothing.

And Johnny drags his sweatshirt sleeve over his face, grabbing his crutch and the tin box under his arm and heading for the door.

“Gonnae go fer some fresh air,” he says, batting back his mam’s concern and da’s reminder that it’s raining. “See wha’ ol’ Benny’s done ta the shrubbery, aye?”

If his mam thought he’d needed therapy before…Christ…brought to tears by a bloody cookie tin…

Johnny doesn’t walk very far, just to the edge of the porch, sitting down on it and getting the bottom of his trousers damp. He holds the tin in his lap, cracking the top once more just to confirm. He huffs out a disbelieving sigh.

“You’re killing me, LT,” he mutters to the rain.

And he takes one of the biscuits, nibbling it carefully, crumbs dusting his thighs. It’s not perfect. Bit too dense. God only knows what he’d used to cut them, he can practically picture him with his CQC and some oven mitts; now that's one for his daydreams.

But he swallows it down and doesn’t choke. And he picks up the note, smirking at his crooked writing, angling his thumb over it so that he can decipher Simon’s true message. Just the first two words, he reckons.

He makes up his mind.

Shoving another biscuit in his mouth, Johnny taps that number, still speed-dial number 2, and he waits for a while, wondering at the timing and if he’d even be there, when—

“Lieutenant Riley.”

It doesn’t take his breath away so much as return it to his lungs, that fresh air he’d been hunting for.

John shakes his head, remembering which number he’d called; not the mobile, his office line, hence the occupational greeting.

A smile tugs his lips before he can help it. “It’s past nine, lieutenant, shouldn’t ye be runnin’ weapons handling with the greenies by now?”

There’s the faintest intake of surprise. He cherishes it. “…Johnny?”

“Aye,” he says, wrapping his arms around his middle because suddenly he feels very self-conscious. “Figured if I rang yer mobile, ye mightn’t’ve answered.”

He chews his bottom lip, waiting as Simon stalls on the other end. He can imagine him at his desk, a neutered beast behind its forced propriety. He probably still has his mask on, just for the aesthetic.

“I thought you didn’t want me to call.” Straight-forward, on the mark.

Johnny bows his head, tipping his chin to his chest. “Aye.” A long exhale. “But I…got yer package.”

“Oh.” If anything, Simon sounds the tiniest bit apprehensive. He doesn’t want to read too much into it. “Right.”

“Yeah.”

“Hmn.”

Christ, they’re impossible…

“So, not on drills then?” Johnny says, not coming out as casual as he’d like. He still sounds husky as hell from yesterday's untimely wake-up call.  

“No. Price’s got me on a bit of a bureaucratic assignment at the moment, if you can believe his audacity.”

Johnny snorts. “Ach, desk-duty. Now there’s a man who knows how to dish out a worthy punishment. What’d ye do?”

A low huff, followed by a pause. “Dunno. My…my head’s not where it should be.”

He'd be lying if he said that didn't sound like an admission.

“’Least Price seems to think so.”

“Aye, he’s a canny bastard, that one.” John wonders what their dear old captain might have to say about this poorly disguised mess of a conversation. Probably a few disparaging mustache ruffles, for sure.  

There’s more awkward stalling, more barely-held breaths.

“I…didn’t think you’d call again,” Simon confesses, and Johnny isn’t sure if he’s more surprised that he’s bringing it up on his own, or at how small his voice sounds.

He’s also entirely bereft of a response for that. All that pushes past his lips is a low, “Hmng,” sound.

Goddamn useless cunt…

Simon seems to wait, though, for an excuse, or another social cue, or just…anything.

And that incites at least a fraction of courage, however much it feels like panic.

“Listen, I…”

God…

He kneads his fist into his forehead, berating every stupid decision that’s led him to this point, feeling his eyes prick up again and unwilling to add to the rain.

It’s been cold enough this November already.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” he says, and he can’t help the raspy, humorless chuckle that escapes amidst the cloud of his breath. “I called ye tha’ night and I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have said those things an’ I—”

“No,” comes the interruption, and it roots Johnny in his place. “You don’t have to…it’s…it’s alright, Johnny.”

“But it isn’t,” he whispers, and that’s the crux of the matter. “It isn’t alright, Simon. I’m…I’m not alright. An’ you’re not alright. An’ we’re…”

Raindrops tap at his socked feet, nearly soaked through as he cradles himself on the porch, no one to see him shake but the wind and Benny Haig’s butchered bushes.

“I miss you,” he breathes, not caring if it doesn’t reach the other end.

Not even caring about the reply, but it touches him still:

“I know.”

He holds it, the simplicity of it, in a pre-cut pocket in his heart, made just for storing blunt replies, chiseled with his own CQC blade.

Simon Riley and his way with words…

A small, huffed laugh breaks his train of thought, the warmth and unexpectedness of it nearly taking him out on the spot. “You’ll never guess what else Price’s making me do.”

He tilts his head even if Simon can’t see it.

“Sendin’ me on a business venture, as it were. Tryin’ to shake some pockets for some extra funding.”

Johnny does laugh at that, still caught off guard. “Christ, he must be desperate.”

“Yeah,” Simon agrees. “Figured I’d intimidate some’a those pencil-pushers at the ministry of defense, see if I can get us some proper fucking equipment.”

“Aye?”

“Kentigern House,” he states.

“Glasgow,” John clarifies.

“Yup.”

“Hmn.”

A conversation for the ages…fucking hell…

Simon seems to realize how ridiculous it all is, because he jokes, “How’s that for a worthy punishment?”

“Price must really have it out for you.” Or that beautiful bastard has enough canniness and balls for the both of them, stepping in to pick up the slack for his two worst underlings. Talk about divine intervention…

It takes a second for it to really digest, what he’s spelling out for him, settling in his gut beside the shortbread, but Johnny knows Simon won’t ask him first.

“Do ye…” Slow, cautious. “Do ye wannae meet up then?”

“Well…” That deep voice, hushed against the receiver. “If I’m in the neighborhood…”

Johnny chuckles at how pathetic they both are. “I’d like ta meet ye there then, over in our Dear Green Place. Bit cold this time’a year though, should warn ye.”

“I think I can manage.”

“Aye.”

“You’re not too far from the city, right?” Simon asks, and he’s sure the man knows exactly where his family lives. He’s sure he’s got it written in some address book, in his jagged cursive next to the label ‘Johnny’s home’. He’d sent that package, after all.

“It’s a bit of a trip, but not so bad,” John says, refusing to acknowledge the way his heartbeats have sped up. “Plus, I’ve been plannin’ on headin' down fer a few tests an’ such anyway. I suppose…we could jus’…”

“I’ll be there the eighteenth and nineteenth,” Simon reports. “Of November.”

“Aye, that’s…” Christ, that’s less than two weeks away.

“If you’d want to…”

“Yeah, we could…”

Just spit it out, damn fools.

Simon finds his footing before he can.

“Johnny,” and his voice is still soft despite its gravity, “I’d like to see you.”

All he has to say to that is, “Ok.”

And they might mumble back and forth for a bit, talking about train schedules and meet-up points, as Johnny makes his way through that box of biscuits, stress-eating with how nervous he is.

But there’s a definitive plan at the end. A who, a where, a when. Something to scrawl on his calendar with his new fountain pen. Meeting up with Simon… heartache TBD.  

It doesn’t feel like a mistake, though, and that’s what has him lingering on the front porch, sopping like a fish now.

“I’ll see ye then,” he says, waiting for the:

“Right.”

“Thanks fer the biscuits, Simon.”

“Thanks for the call, Johnny.”

It’s too perfect a bookend to push for that goodbye, so he hangs up his mobile, wringing his hands over his drenched head and letting it all wash over him.

What a fucking pair they are…

But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

And when he returns to the kitchen, mam catching sight of him, he lets her wrangle him out of his wet clothes, fussing at his recklessness. “Cannae have ye comin’ down with somethin’, mo luran.”

“Aye,” he agrees. Because he’s got places to be now.

And he’s got a reasonable chance for that kick in the arse he’d needed, letting his mother go over her mental health suggestions and paying better attention this time.

Because he’d be alright.

He’d pick up his own slack, and then some, because he has to make it at least these next eleven days.

And he knows how foolish it is, to hinge his entire well-being on this do-or-die reunion, but Christ…it’s something to look forward to.

So he’d try to be alright.

He’d lie in his bed and count the minutes on his new watch, and that hideous charm Ruth left above his bed will keep the nightmares at bay, and he’d make it eleven more days.

They’d be alright.

Chapter Text

The plan is foolproof, because it is, in fact, mostly true.

Johnny had had to reluctantly rope Caroline in, his sister not asking too many questions about his request for her to accompany him to Glasgow instead of his parents, especially when he’d muttered in a very resigned tone, “I’m…meeting someone there.”

All she’d done was smile knowingly.

They’d be heading down for a consultation with that spinal surgeon Dylan had recommended—the perfect cover story, seeing as Johnny would actually be meeting with the doctor. And it only made sense to arrange an overnight stay for him and Caro, as the appointment wouldn’t be until Sunday morning. Nothing but a pair of siblings spending the weekend in good ol’ Glasgow. Only—Johnny has plausible doubt that they hadn’t needed to book a double room.

He’s not crossing any fingers yet, but he’s keeping it in the back of his mind.

Caro would drive them to Dundee, thirty-five minutes easy, Invergowrie to Glasgow Queen Street, one hour and thirty-eight minutes on the train. 

His sister would then leave him at the station, going off to catch a play with some of her uni friends, and Johnny would meet Simon after his flight comes in, approximately 3:15 on November the 18^th.

Fool-proof, to all appearances.

He’d just failed to calculate the insufferableness that is Ruth MacTavish.

“I dinnae see why ye cannae take me with ye's!”

Johnny rolls his eyes as Caro sticks to her guns. “I’m bringin’ Johnny to his doctor’s appointment, Roo, end of story.”

“But I jus’ need ta get down ta Dundee fer a potential job meetin’, I dinnae see why—”

“No,” Caro insists, but mam intercedes.

“Ach, Caroline, jus’ bring her along an’ drop her off.”

“We cannae miss the train, mam—”

“Ye willnae if ye leave now.”

“Christ,” Johnny mutters to himself, watching his plan go up in flames.

Because, somehow, he ends up relegated to the back seat as his two sisters squabble in the front, the easy thirty-five-minute car ride now becoming his least favorite part of the trip.

“Ye both are actin’ righ’ suspicious, I’ll have ye know,” Ruth says matter-of-factly, and as the queen of acting suspicious, Johnny has to hand it to her.

“Dunno wha’ the fuck ye mean,” he mumbles, still pouting from the backseat.

“Leave it, Roo,” Caroline adds, failing to get her to shut up.

“Well, fer one, ye're makin’ this doctor’s visit seem like it’s gonnae cure the man of all his ails,” Ruth snarks. “And secondly—Johnny’s wearin’ bloody cologne.”

He nearly chokes on his spit. “Ach—wha’…wha’s tha’ got ta do with anythin’?”

“So ye dinnae deny it then?” She turns her shoulder to leer at him, sniffing at the air with derision. “Wha’, ye get tha’ at Asda?”

Johnny scrapes his hands over his eyes, exasperated. Yet he can’t help but feel his face heat when he mutters, “It’s French...”

“Marks & Spencer,” his sisters both agree.

“Oi, fuck off!” They’re not wrong though…

“Ye cannae tell me this is all for some consultation, aye? So wha’s the craic then?” Ruth probes, looking back and forth between the two.

Caroline scowls at her, but doesn’t give it up. And then Ruth, menace that she is, starts poking her in the arm, at risk of causing a fucking traffic accident, so Johnny sighs. 

“I’m jus’ meetin’ up with a friend, alright?”

His younger sister’s eyebrows raise at that, scrutinizing him with an overly smug look. “A friend, sae it is?”

“Yes,” John huffs, sinking deeper into the back seat.

“An’ this friend appreciates French cologne, eh?”

“Fuck off,” he hisses again, and before he can help it—“I didnae wear it fer him anyway.”

Him.

…Shite.

Somehow, Ruth’s eyebrows get even higher. “Och! Awa’ ye go, my big brother’s gettin’ jobby-jabbed tonigh’, is he?”

“Jesus Christ, Ruth!” Caro exclaims, while Johnny’s face practically incinerates on the spot.

“Unless he’s the one doin’ the jabbin’, aye?” Ruth cackles maniacally.

“Fucking hell, ye weapon!”

“I knew it, y’know,” his sister alleges, grinning back at Johnny as he attempts to melt into the upholstery. “Knew ye had a crush on Jessie Cowan back then, ye sly bastard.”

“I abso-fucking-lutely did not!” John squawks, his outrage now reaching max level. “Ye're aff yer heid, ye gingin’ wench!”

“Roo, leave him the fuck alone!” Caroline warns, still trying to drive the car amidst the mayhem inside; at least someone cared about his pride.

“I dinnae see wha’ the big deal is,” Ruth says, still far too smug. “Not like I give a shite who ye wannae gobble anyway, John.”

Caro issues more sharp curses at her, while Johnny actually appreciates the sentiment, however vulgar his sister makes it.

“Thanks fer tha’ vote of confidence, then,” he huffs, knowing that she was the family member he’d worried least about finding out anyway. Now, if she could just drop the subject…

“So who is this friend then?” Yeah, not likely.

“No one,” he asserts, crossing his arms over his chest like it could hide the way his heart flutters at just the thought of him. God, what a fucking fairy he is…

“Must be someone special, though?” Ruth teases, turning around again to eye him up and down, flaring her nostril in some apparent distaste. “Issat wha’ ye're wearin’?” 

“It’s. Cold.” His steaming face begs to differ. Christ, there’s nothing wrong with his outfit—warm jumper and dark jeans...ok, maybe he could’ve gone without the wool hat, but damn, it really is cold, though should he have gone with the tighter pants?—

“Ye look fine, John,” Caroline defends, quelling his internal stress. Barely. “Jus’ ignore her.”

Ruth sulks. “Not gonnae tell us ‘bout yer mystery man then, ye twat?”

“Nope.” Johnny definitively shakes his head.

“Is he hot?”

“Ruth,” Caro chides, but then mutters back to him, “Is he?”

“Christ, you two are impossible,” John grumbles, packing in his dignity for a wasted labor.

“C’mon, Joooohnny!” Ruth croons, and it’s a test to not whack her in the back of the head. “We jus’ wannae know how hot yer date is!”

“He’s not a date,” Johnny hisses. “An’ he’s not…” God, he is not having this conversation right now. “He’s…distinctive, a’right?”

Ruth seems to take that as a bad sign, scruffing her nose up, while Caroline tries to pretend she’s not stalking John’s reactions through the mirror.

“The hell does tha’ mean, distinctive…” Ruth mumbles, as if it were just a simple matter of explaining to her all of Simon Riley’s…idiosyncrasies; despite John agreeing that, well, yes, some of them were, in fact, quite hot. “Is he the one tha’ done sent all them messages ta yer mobile, makin’ ye all mopey on yer birthday?”

“He didnae call fer my birthday,” John says, regretting it instantly.

“Mmn.” Ruth scrunches her nose again, another point lost. “Is he a Scorpio?” she asks, with utmost seriousness.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he mutters under his breath, while Caroline chimes in:

“Roo, Johnny’s a bloody Scorpio.”

“Aye, tha’ explains everythin’ then.”

“Explains what?!” Johnny cries, now at a severe disadvantage to whatever the fuck kind of analysis is being done on his behalf. He slumps into his seat, pulling at a bit of fluff on his lumpy, hideous, not-good-enough jumper.

Steamin’ bloody Jesus…  

His sisters continue trying to shake him for more details, but he refuses to budge, not even when Ruth threatens to tell mam about the real reason for this little weekend getaway.

“You will fucking not!” Caroline immediately comes to his rescue. “Or shall I tell her wha’ ye're really up to in Dundee, aye? ‘Cause it’s not fer some job thing, I know ye're meetin’ up with Alan again.”

“Alan Turk?” John spits. “Christ, Roo, tell me ye're no’ gettin’ it back on with tha’ weaselly fuckin’ twat.”

“Piss off, Johnny!” Ruth retorts, clearly not liking a taste of her own medicine. “He’s no’ tha’ bad!”

“Yer heid’s wastit,” he accuses, having suspected as much long, long ago.

“No’ everyone can be bloody distinctive, aye, can they?”

Caroline barely conceals her snort.

They manage not to rip each other’s throats out by the time they drop Ruth at some corner in the city center. And it’s only with the barest amount of respect for her that John yells out through the window as she’s walking away.

“Oi! Don’ let tha’ bastard take advantage of ye, Roo. Ye're better than that.”

He could be mistaken, but there’s a hint of a genuine smile back, but then—

“Dinnae let yer man be too rough, John, Christ knows ye already have trouble walkin’.”

Ruth…fucking…MacTavish…

Still, he can’t keep the red-hot blush from his face amidst what might be a smile of his own, muttering to Caro as she drives them to the station, “Not one goddamn word…”

The train ride goes relatively smoothly, at least.

Caro sits next to him with a book, diligently nudging at his leg every five minutes to stop him from all the nervous bouncing.

It’s a long trip, enough for him to stare out at the passing scenery and pretend he’s not directing cringey melodramas in his head, worthy of his mam’s favorite soap operas. Hah, ‘Soap’ opera, he snorts to himself, then it’s back to the leg twitching.

“Am I being a huge fucking cunt right now?” he has to ask his sister, cradling his head in his lap at T-minus fifteen minutes till arrival.

“Calm yerself, Johnny-boy,” she placates. “If ye're really feelin’ fashed, ye can come along with me an’ the gals, ferget this whole thing even happened, aye?”

No. He doesn’t want that. He also doesn’t want to be shaking like a leaf, but that’s what all the warm clothes were for right? His terrible, stodgy sweater and the thick jeans that make his legs look like sausage links, oh Christ…

“Breathe, sweetheart. It’s gonnae be fine.”

God, he wishes he’d drowned himself in that overpriced French cologne this morning…

Arriving at Queen Street is a bit of a circus, so Johnny does well to stick to his sister’s side as they make their way through the crowds off the platform.

“Right,” he says, finally detaching from her and wishing it didn’t feel like letting go of a safety-line; he would know.

“Give me a call, John, if ye need anythin’, aye? Just to check in later, let me know where ye are.” Caro gives him a small smile, looking just as nervous for some reason.

He leaves his bag with her though, using it as some sort of acknowledgment that they’ve booked a hotel together, a plan C in case his night isn’t quite as, ah, celebratory as he’d hoped.

God, and now his face is burning again…

“I’ll be over in West End with my girlfriends,” Caro reminds. “But I’ll come get ye if ye need me to, babes.”

He nods at her, pressing his mouth into a firm smile that he knows doesn’t look convincing.

But his sister simply pats his shoulders affectionately, kissing his cheek. “Say hi to yer friend from me, yeah?”

John nods once more, watching her leave to track down the line she’d need to meet her friends at the theater. And then it’s just—

Waiting.

Johnny finds a somewhat clean-looking bench to sit on, placing his crutches against the wall and trying to discipline his leg into remaining still. There are a few other trains coming in before Simon’s, so he just settles back, watching strangers come and go, trying not to search for his face in each one.

After six minutes, the ScotRail service line from Glasgow Airport arrives, and John has to battle himself to just sit there, feeling entirely too numb.

God…

It’s been so long. Will he even look the same? 

Johnny shakes his head at the blatant absurdity his head is concocting. Of course he'll fucking look the same, it’s only been about five months—and in the years he’s known the man, he’d only witnessed one drastic haircut change, and that had been because John had accidentally singed some of the tips while fiddling with a blowtorch; ah, simpler times…

Get it together, MacTavish…

People walk off the train, hurrying by and paying no mind to the nutcase on the bench.

He doesn’t see him. Yet.

It’s a bit like waiting at the belt for luggage, John thinks, one of his least favorite activities. Next one’ll be mine for sure. Next one…next one…

Simon doesn’t get off the train.

And Johnny feels a catch in his heart, threatening to strangle him in a public place.

Oh God…maybe this was a mistake. Maybe Simon realized before him, maybe he’d just sit here for hours, waiting, maybe they—

A beep from his pocket.

Ah.

Right.

He slaps his face at his own irrationality, glad he doesn’t have to call his sister not ten minutes after leaving her to tell her he was fucking stood up. That’d just be more fodder for Ruth to taunt him over.

Now it’s just more waiting.

Thirteen minutes till arrival, and his leg is back to its bouncy shenanigans.

Christ…calm down, he reminds himself. He goes back to watching strangers, then back to staring at his watch.  

John doesn’t know when the bout of drowsiness catches up, not having taken advantage of napping on the train due to his rapid-fire nerves. But as he studies the various passersby now, he can’t help but droop his chin to his chest.

The ambient sounds of the train station just seem to lull him further, oddly soothing. His leg stops twitching, and he leans further back on the crusty bench, crossing his arms.

Wouldn’t be too long now. He could just…

Rest back a bit further, get a touch more comfortable.

His eyes droop, and he lets them close.

Just for a second.

He’s not sure what wakes him up, the sharp train whistle, or the solid presence he feels just at the edge of his periphery.

Johnny cracks his eyes open, blinking.

“Reminds me of that time back in Verdansk,” a voice says at his side. “What was it—fell asleep against a nuclear reactor? Fuckin’ typical, MacTavish.”

He stares at the floor, then at his hands, then at the man sitting next to him.

He’s met with a dry snort and a roll of brown eyes.

“Simon?” he all but chokes out, earning himself another chuckle at his expense.

“Back with us, then?”

Johnny would need more than just a second to register what he's experiencing right now, so all he can do is gape at the sight.

Simon Riley’s sitting next to him, thighs nearly touching, tilting his head down in that distinctive, condescending way. He’s got a standard black mask on his lower face, just a tiny skull near the strap, and a black cap on his head concealing the majority of his messy hair. His eyes, unpainted, are also boring right into Johnny’s.

Fuck—is this real?

A snap of fingers in front of his nose. “Oi, fuckface.”

Yeah, ok, it’s real.

“H-auh…” Bloody Jesus, just let him speak. “H-how long were ye sittin’ there?”

“Not long,” Simon says, a faint tug at the lines beneath his eyes. “You looked…”

John’s heart stutters, picking up speed when he realizes how close they are. What are the words his melodramatic script would supply: beautiful, perfect, just like I remember…

“You look knackered, Johnny. Couldn't be bothered to stay awake for me?”

“Piss off,” he manages, shoving out his elbow to nudge the other man. Christ, he’s still solid as hell. “It’s nice ta see you too, ye bastard.”

And it is. Simon’s wearing dark civvies, black jeans and a jacket that’s a lot sharper than Johnny’s. His visible skin looks clean, a healthy breadth to his shoulders. He looks…

“Ye look good, Simon,” he says, and it’s worth it to see those eyes curl just a touch.

Simon nudges him back, harder, a punch to his arm. “Let’s get on then. Can’t say I’d prefer sittin’ on some fuckin’ piss-stained bench all day.”

“Right.” Johnny watches the other man climb to his feet, unfolding his considerable height, not even hesitating before holding out his hand.

He takes it. It’s warm.

What he does next is a combination of multiple factors. Simon starts walking down the platform in a purposeful stride, and Johnny just…follows him. Without his crutches. Stumbling forward like a geriatric to either prove to the man he can walk, or an asinine notion that he’d continue letting him hold his hand.

He nearly makes it to the exit, too.

But after twenty or so odd steps, he pitches forward, practically collapsing into Simon’s arm.

“That happy to see me, are we?” the taller man jokes, but as Johnny further stumbles into his hold, his eyebrows raise a fraction. “Shit, are you alright?”

And Johnny just grips him, hating how pathetic it sounds to say, “Simon—I can’t walk.”

Simon blinks down at him, a brief shake of his head, like they’d both been so caught up in…everything that they’d somehow forgotten. “What the fuck, Johnny? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I—I dunno, I just,” he sputters. “I left my crutches over there, I just thought…”

Wasting no time, Simon simply hooks under his arms, manhandling him against some grimy wall with his luggage. “Wait here, you git.”

He can only watch as the man marches directly back for his crutches, feeling his face heat at the embarrassment but also that brief moment of touch.

Simon is muttering under his breath when he returns, shoving the crutches at him almost angrily. He glances up and down as John secures his hold, turning his head briefly to stare at the ceiling before asking, “We good?”

Johnny nods.

And this time, Simon’s stride is a lot slower, letting Johnny fall in next to him as they make their way out of the station. His crutches have never felt so cold.

“Suppose ye’ll want ta check in, aye? Get yer bags squared away?”

“Hotel’s not far,” Simon says, before looking over at him. “We’ll get a cab though.”

“I can…walk fine with these,” he tries to explain, but Simon just shakes his head.

So the two of them wait for a cab, driving all of five minutes to the Hilton Glasgow.

There’s a moment of hesitation when Simon goes to slide in first, but he holds the door for Johnny, scooting in beside him in the back, knees jostling.

“So how was the flight?” Johnny asks, just to say something around all this…tension. 

“Functional.”

He snorts. “Put tha’ in yer airline review, eh?” He shakes his head, looking at him from the corners of his eyes. “Scare anyone off in economy, did ye?”

“You know I only fly business, Johnny. Need the—”

“The leg-room, aye,” he teases, giving that lengthy shin a quick tap for good measure. “Surprised ye didnae go with the whole mask get-up, could’ve spooked yer way up ta first class, no?”

Simon rolls his eyes at that. “I’m fine without it. Don’t want the public thinkin’ I’m a complete psychopath, now do I?”

“Aye, yer secret’s safe with me.” Johnny gets a nudge back for that.

“Tell you what though, I nearly lost my shit on that train, so much fuckin’ noise.”

“Ah, crammed next to a buncha Weegies, I dinnae blame ye.”

“And I thought you were bad…” Simon shudders, and when he settles back, his weight inches closer to Johnny.

They arrive at their destination before he can properly lean into it.

It’s a standard hotel, blunt, basic, three other ones just like it in close proximity. Very typical Ghost. The only thing that catches John off guard is when Simon goes to check in and the attendant says, “That’ll be the deluxe suite, Mr. Riley?”

He smirks at him when he finishes handing his bags off at the desk, unable to help the coy, “Deluxe, aye? Someone in the mood fer some pampering?”

“Company card,” Simon grunts, but that may be a blush hinting at the edge of his mask.

“Aye, the same company tha’ sent ye up here ta beg fer funds, eh?”

“Shut up.”

Johnny can’t smother his grin as the two of them make their way back outside.

They end up catching the nearest metro further into the city, getting off at the first stop because Simon, quote, ‘cannot stand this fucking Scottish pigeon racket’.

“Welcome ta Glasgow, love,” Johnny jokes, nearly tripping on his crutches over how easily that had slipped out.

Simon doesn’t seem to react, and the two of them meander back out of the station.

“We should eat, aye?” Johnny suggests. “What’re ye in the mood for?”

“I dunno,” Simon huffs, craning his head at the dreary sky as they walk up to street level. “Anything. That.” He points to a cubicle literally built right next to the station, selling what can only loosely be called food.

“Simon, we’re not eating at a place called fuckin’ ‘Bacon Butty’, Christ’s sake…”

“What? It looks alright.”

“Ye're aff yer fuckin’ heid, mate,” Johnny chuckles, and they continue further down the street until it’s clear Simon really doesn’t care about where they go.

They pick a random café, and Johnny hopes it’s edible enough, not that he really has too much preference either. He can’t get used to the warm buzz in his stomach, the surreality of looking over and seeing him standing there, a black-clad statue like a shadow at his side. He could eat dog food right now and wouldn’t mind.

“So, we should probably see some sights while ye're here, eh?” he asks, waiting by the entrance to be seated.

“I’ve seen enough,” Simon states, and Christ—he’s just staring right at him, isn’t he? “On the plane,” he adds, shifting his eyes to a smudge on the floor.

Johnny snorts. “Got yerself a nice aerial view, didja?”

“Mng,” Simon grunts, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Aye, but ye’ve got ta see some’a this fair city up close. We could head over ta the Botanic Gardens, should have some nice chrysanthemums this time of year.”

“Johnny, you know I don’t give a shit about plants.”

Another snort. “Aye, not yer cuppa? I hear they do yoga on the weekends.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell…” Simon mutters, just as the waitress comes to seat them. 

They settle in a bit awkwardly, Simon going to pull the chair for him, and then just hovering his hands out for the crutches. Johnny lets him take them to stow under the table, shrugging out of his coat before he can let the shame kick in.

“There’s always the museums, aye?” he continues, trying to play a piss-poor travel agent. “Lots of interestin’ stuff we could check out, though I don’t know if—” He cuts himself off, only because Simon is staring at him again, far more intently than he previously had been.

“Wha’—?” he barely gets out, before—

“You cut your hair.”

Johnny had taken his hat off, discarding it with his coat. He hadn’t expected much of a reaction, but Simon is practically gawking.

“Aye,” he says, self-consciously scraping a hand up and down the middle of his buzz cut. “Figured I’d needed a change.”

“It’s…different.” Simon blinks his eyes rapidly, evidently trying to snap out of his weird trance.

“Wha’, ye miss the mohawk tha’ much?” Johnny teases.

Simon offers a short huff. “Yeah, it was a convenient handle.” He mimes picking up a purse, shaking his head at the stupidity.

“Aye, fer keepin’ me handy at yer side, eh?”

“No, for taking out the trash,” Simon deadpans, and Johnny almost chokes on his water.

They order something basic, Johnny isn’t really sure. But it had been…interesting to see their waiter’s reaction to Simon, still perfectly intimidating even in the plain mask.

“Probably thinks I’m one’a them health freaks,” Simon scoffs, leaning back in his chair and watching John sip his water. He’d taken his cap off too, the sloppy blond fringe arranged above his brow looking like it could do with a trim.

It’s nice seeing him out of the full headpiece. Johnny knows he doesn’t prefer it, but for keeping up appearances, he pulls it off quite well. Certainly distinctive. 

“Ach, ye know wha’,” John says, going back to trying to come up with things to do besides just staring at each other all day; not that he would mind that. “Ye’d probably like seein’ the Necropolis.”

There’s the faintest tick in Simon’s posture.

“Great big cemetery, aye? Like—thousands of graves all built up on a hill, real spooky-like.”

“Fuck, we’re going there,” Simon decides.

And Johnny just laughs at his eagerness. “Ye really take the whole Ghost thing ta heart, don’cha?”

“I appreciate a respect for the macabre, Johnny.”

“That is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever heard ye say, LT.” Johnny can’t help but giggle into his water, even further when it gets a genuine chuckle from Simon.

“I dunno, MacTavish. You’ve heard me say a lot of shit.”

“Aye.”

They get their meals, and Johnny wonders for a moment if Simon might avoid eating in public, but he watches as the other man thoughtlessly removes his mask, digging into his sandwich without much fanfare.

He’s got his reasons to hide them, his scars, but Johnny doesn’t mind getting a peek every now and then. They’re grisly, to be sure. One might say difficult to look at. But as he watches Simon eat, the only thing that turns John’s stomach is the ridiculous speed at which he devours his sandwich, three bites in total, the fucking animal.  

And then, he just wipes his face with a napkin, slipping the mask back into place.

“Not bad.”

“Aye, no ‘Bacon Butty’, though.”

Simon shakes his head at him, but even the mask can’t hide his fondness.

After eating, they head back out to the street, Johnny wincing at the light rain and tugging his hat back over his head.

“Damn, dinner before five and finished in less than twenty, I must not be much of a hot date, huh?” he jokes as they start walking, unwillingly thinking back to his sisters' teasing, heat spreading up his neck at the reminder. 

Simon huffs, the cloud of his breath visible in the cold. “Not even worth splurging on the company’s dime, I’d say.”

“Ach, ye offend me,” he hisses, taking it one step further when he adds, “I may be cheap, Riley, but I’ll have ye know I’m one hell of a kisser.”

The other man only offers the faintest twitch. “Don't know if I believe that...” As if he didn’t have any testimonials to share, certainly more generous than his airline review…

"Aye, ye know I'm right!"

All that gets is a noncommittal grunt. 

They pause to cross the street, Simon peering down at Johnny with a stray hand gesturing to his back.

“So, when is the, ah…appointment?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Mnh.”

"Round the same time as yer little fiscal shake-down.”

Simon snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m meetin’ with a specialist, gonnae see about a potential surgical option fer…” Christ, he really doesn’t want to get into this. “It’s just a consultation, aye?”

The taller man nods, bringing his hands into his pockets as they start walking again. “You didn’t come here by yourself, right?”

“Naw, my sister Caroline’s here,” he says. “Wanted ta act as my bloody chaperone, the fusspot.”

“Well she’s not doing a very good job, is she?” Simon remarks, his voice way too suggestive.

Johnny scoffs around his blush. “Worried my virtue is in danger, eh, Riley?”

“You don’t learn how to kiss that good from having virtue, MacTavish. Or are you just all talk?”

Jesus fucking Christ…Johnny nearly stumbles right into a streetlamp.

He’s spared from sputtering all over himself like a fool when Simon just nods at something up ahead. “Wanna check that out?”

Johnny casts his eyes on the storefronts, not sure which he’s referring to when Simon plants his palm on his head, swiveling it in the right direction; something he used to do with the mohawk, now that he recalls…

“Ah, ye aimin’ ta settle the score, LT?” Johnny can’t help but grin as they walk over to what looks like an arcade, lights and noises and what’s sure to be a few good shooter games.

“Nothing to settle,” Simon states. “I’ve always been the better shot.”

“Och, on yer fuckin’ bike, mate!” he exclaims in disbelief. “Facts are chiels tha’ winna ding, an’ downa be disputed.”

Simon just gapes at him. “Christ, it gets worse…”

“Awa’ ye go, Ghostie, let the best man win.”

The arcade does, in fact, have a large variety of shooter games, the two of them picking the one that looks the least bastardized, and even then it’s got a CM901 that looks straight out of a cereal box.

Johnny has a moment of hesitation when they reach the console, but he just shrugs off one of his crutches, placing it on the side of the machine and pulling an exaggerated wince. “Consider this yer courtesy advantage, big boy, ye’re gonnae need it. Be sure ta put this on Price’s bill, yeah?”

Simon’s already got a grip on the plastic weapon, and Johnny smirks at the way he’s adjusted his posture for the kickback that won’t occur. But as he grabs his own gun, he can’t help but notice a loosening of Simon’s grasp, like he’s keeping one hand on standby, to catch Johnny if he falls.

It does no favors for his arcade skills.

“This fucker’s rigged,” Simon growls, kicking the machine while Johnny cackles in triumph.

He twirls the plastic gun around his arm, showboating further. “Wha’ was tha’ about bein’ a better shot?”

“Scope on this thing’s like a fuckin’ kaleidoscope, I swear…”

“Jus’ admit tha’ I was right.”

“Never.”

Johnny shakes his head at him, regretting it when he wobbles too far to the left. But Simon’s hand is there in an instant, as he’d suspected, a warm anchor planting him in his place.

“Next time I’ll try a blindfold,” John says in a low hush. “That’ll really even the playing field for ye.” And eliminate his own distraction, he wagers.

Simon does retract his hand, regrettably, and the two decide that one round was enough for their pissing contest, forfeiting the machine to the flock of thirteen-year-olds spectating with barely concealed awe at Simon’s incongruous presence.

“Pretty sure one’a them wanted ta ask fer an autograph.”

“I’m not a celebrity, Johnny.”

“Aye, but I bet ye’d look dreamy hangin’ up on somebody’s bedroom wall.”

“Fuck off.”

His grin is wider than ever.

Seeing as it’s settled into evening, Johnny suggests they head over to the Necropolis before…whatever other activities may arise. “Hmn, proper spooky now, innit?”

“I’m shaking in my boots,” Simon says emotionlessly, and Johnny just nudges him in the rib.

They take a cab even though it isn’t far, John admitting to himself that he’d needed a break, having walked far more than he’s used to already. Doesn’t help that his back had been writhing since that brush with the streetlamp.

He does well to hide his stress, though, even as they start making their way into the cemetery, more uphill than he remembered.

“So how long 'as this been ‘ere?” Simon asks, struggling to find a conversation topic, evidently.

“Dunno. 1800s, I think.”

“And how many graves?”

“Hmmn. At least ten.”

“Blimey, you’re a treasure trove of knowledge.”

“Naw, reckon it’s about fifty-thousand or somethin’,” John corrects. “Why, ye're lookin’ ta settle down here, LT? Get yerself a nice plot of real estate?”

“Place could do with some redecorating,” Simon states flatly.

“Aye, tha’ could be yer new sitting room.” Johnny gestures to a row of graves with his crutch, ruing the pull in his back. “Could set ye up with some curtains, aye, te keep the spirits from nosing around yer privacy.”

“Bit too drafty,” Simon remarks.

“It’s a very open-concept floor plan, Riley, jus’ trust the professionals.”

“If you say so.”

“An’ if we clear some’a these, we can see about fitting in a tennis court, I know how much ye love ta crack at a racquet, sir.”

“You’re a pain in my arse, MacTavish, you know that?”

“Jus’ doin' my job.”

They continue wandering up the path, Johnny’s latest irksome pastime spent pointing out all the names on the graves he thinks are ridiculous.

“Would ye still like me if I was called Niallghus, LT?”

“I barely like you called John.”

“Aye, tha’s because it’s Johnny, love. Fer you, at least.” Another slip of the tongue, hardly.

Simon just hums, low in his chest, and Christ—Johnny wants to hold it in his heart forever, feeling the way it might reverberate inside him, thunder in his bloodstream.

“Wha’ abou’ Torcadall?”

“Mmn, now that might get you the boot.”

Fuck, this is better than any of his fantasies…

As much as Johnny would prefer to ignore all the warning signs, it gets to the point where his back is spasming up a storm, his gait leaning more towards pitchpoling than the rugged swagger he’d been hoping for.

Simon is kneeling up ahead, inspecting some markings on a gravestone, and it’s all Johnny can do to not collapse on the spot, bowing his head as his arms tremor around their clutch.

There must be some sort of groan that slips past his clenched mouth, because Simon’s head snaps up, locking eyes in the dark.

“MacTavish,” he threatens, already getting back to his feet.

“I’m fine,” Johnny lies, knowing it’s pointless. “Jus’ overdid it with the walking, reckon.”

Simon stands next to him now, a frown in his forehead. He doesn’t probe any further though.  

“We should prob’ly start headin’ back then.” Johnny goes to pivot, failing to stifle the hiss as his whole body contorts violently. “Ah, fuck—”

Without warning, there’s an arm looped under his, strapping the span of his back and lifting him slightly.

“Can’t have you faceplanting on my new drawing room floor, Johnny. This is the original tilework.”

The laugh that escapes Johnny is far more condemning than the hiss of pain. He allows Simon to half-carry him over to a bench, biting his lower lip to keep from letting on how well and truly fucked he feels.

“You should’ve said,” Simon murmurs, still standing in front of him like an overblown security guard.

“Ach, I didnae wannae ruin the mood.”

“We’re in a fucking graveyard, Johnny. Think the bar’s pretty low.”

He nods at that, wincing as the cacophony of nerve pain starts rattling through his vertebrae like keys on some fucked up piano.

“You got pain meds?” Simon asks.

“They’re in my bag,” Johnny grunts. “With my sister.”

That gets a low growl from Simon, and if he were in higher spirits it definitely would have done something to him. Now all he can do is try not to whimper in front of the man.

What he does have on hand to soothe his troubles is a pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket, so he draws them out, slipping one past his lips and holding out the carton for Simon.

“I quit,” the other man says, sounding sullen.

Johnny tips his eyebrow in acknowledgment. “Best’a luck with tha’.”

He drops his head back with his first draw, feeling overly exposed with the way Simon is still standing opposite him.

It comes to his attention that they both haven’t said it, an admission of his disability. Not even a ‘how’ve you been’. But Johnny feels like they’re past the point of bullshitting each other.

“It’s been worse,” he rasps, letting the smoke enhance the edge of his dry tone. “Some days I cannae even get outta bed, the pain’s just relentless.”

The taller man exhales pointedly, his arms crossed as he studies him on the bench.

“I wanted ta walk with ye, though. I wanted ta do tha’ at least.” Johnny shakes some ash off his smoke, eyes angling to the spot next to him, an offering.

And after a few seconds, Simon crosses the distance, taking the seat beside him, this time forgoing those godforsaken centimeters between them and pressing up against his side.

God, he’s so fucking solid it hurts.

“Didn't really want ye ta see me like this, Simon,” Johnny whispers, shaking despite the additional warmth against his ribs. He brings the cigarette back to his lips, using it to fumigate all the shitty thoughts he doesn’t want to be having right now. Not with him here. Not with him this fucking close. “I thought…”

No. Don’t. It’s not even worth mentioning.

But exhaustion makes his lips loose, and he can’t help the words from spilling out with the smoke.

“I thought ye wouldn't wannae see me like this either. Thought that might be why ye…” Fuck, his throat seizes, but he manages to let it out. “Thought you left so ye didn't have ta see how broken I am.”

He doesn’t even know he’s crying until a rough hand scrapes at his cheekbone, removing any evidence as quick as it comes.

And Johnny grabs it without thinking, holding it there, unmaking his regrets, and he drags it over to his lips like his discarded cigarette.

A small kiss, pressed against the scar on his knuckle.

“Bein’ silly, aye?” he breathes, an excuse for his tears or for the fact that he still hasn’t let the hand go.

Simon hums again, that perfect sound. And it’s dark, but he can see those brown eyes, tracking Johnny’s every move, a question in them, a hope.

Gently removing his grip from Simon’s, Johnny just breathes as the man traces his fingers under his jaw, tapping lightly. Then he cups his palm around the side of his neck, fixing it under his hat so he can tickle the shorn hair underneath.

“You should grow it out,” Simon mutters, his thumb brushing the back of John’s nape just below his ear, an anchor.

“Mmn.”

“Be a lot easier to keep you from falling, Johnny, having something to hold onto.”

Johnny tips his head further back, leaning into his touch, wondering about the concept of graveyards and why humans have an innate desire to linger around the echoes they’ve buried. Something to do with stubbornness, he reckons…

Simon calls for a cab. And the small matter of getting Johnny back down the hill is less of a graceful descent and more Simon carrying him on his fucking back.

They stumble into the cab with a dubious look from the driver, John’s whole body gone rigid from the strain. But the man says nothing of their dishevelment, nor the firm hand that Simon keeps locked on Johnny’s knee. He just waits for a destination.

All it takes is a brush from that hand, possessive as it slides up the thigh.

“Does tha’ deluxe suite come with a nice bubble bath then?” Johnny mutters, finally accepting the invitation that had never been asked.

“Mmn. Reckon it’s even got jets and everything.” His palm tightens, sealing the deal.

“Fuckin’ A.”

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, but Johnny forgets to feel nervous as they make it back to the hotel, Simon now taking the brunt of his weight as they stand in the elevator, not quite an electric energy between them so much as a warm, familiar comfort.

“Shite, Mr. Riley, are ye always this posh when ye travel?” Johnny pokes at his side when they enter the suite, far more luxurious than any dive he’s stayed in.

Simon grumbles as he helps Johnny further into the room, depositing him on the bed while he gets the rest of the lights.

“I’ll see about fixing you up that bath.” He abruptly exits the bedroom to the bathroom they’d passed, leaving Johnny to just sit there, counting all the diamond shapes in the wallpaper.

He hears the tap, a rush of water and a low huff from Simon, followed by a sarcastic, “We’re in luck, they’ve got a lavender scrub.”

Johnny hums contentedly.

With the sound of the bathwater in the background, he barely notices when Simon returns to the room, having slipped his eyes shut and dropped to lie on his back.

“Cozy, are we?”

“Mng. This quilt is heavenly, LT. Well worth the upgrade.”

Simon snorts as he settles beside him on the mattress, that uncertainty evident in his hesitation.

“Gonna need help gettin’ in?”

Johnny props on his elbows, peering up to discern what expression he’s wearing.

Low-lidded, that dusky cast under his eyes. He’s toying at a loose thread in his jeans, waiting for a signal of some kind.

They’ve never been good at this part.

“Aye, reckon I do.”

So he lets the other man guide him back up, and then Simon simply scoops under his arms again, this time just carrying Johnny into the bathroom like he weighs nothing. He doesn’t even have the energy to protest.

Simon sets him down on the toilet seat, already bending to begin unlacing Johnny’s boots. It’s risky, but John weaves his fingers through the top of Simon’s hair briefly, just a gentle brush to remind himself how soft it is.

He’s still got his mask on, so it’s a little difficult to read Simon’s response, especially with the way he begins mechanically undressing him. Socks after the shoes, a nudge at his elbow to help slip the coat off.

Next comes the jumper, and Johnny’s tired enough from all the exertion he’d expended today, so he just lets the man peel it off him a bit roughly, leaving him shirtless on the toilet seat.

Simon lingers a touch too long, a hand still braced to Johnny’s shoulder as he pulls the top over his head. A low noise in his throat, followed by a measured inhale. Then—

“Mn, you smell nice.”

Johnny feels heat in his face, flushing past his exposed neck. He coughs. “Think ye're s’pposed ta say tha’ after the bath, LT.”

“Don’t need you smellin’ like lavender.” No, the shitty retail cologne works just fine apparently. “I hate plants, remember?”

“Aye.”

Shedding his jeans isn’t as awkward as it could be, Johnny unfastening the top while Simon drags at the heel. He only has the world’s shortest heart attack removing his underwear, but by that point, Simon is already gripping him under the arms again, ushering him into the bath.

The water is fucking incredible, just that perfect bone-softening temperate. Johnny can’t keep the throaty purr from his lips as his legs settle in. So much for that virtue, aye…

Behind him, Simon eases his torso down into the tub, both his hands still pressing against his back. It’s only when he feels a light finger brush up the length of his spine that John realizes he must be studying his scar.

“Damn near unzipped me, aye?” he murmurs, craning his head back so he can slide further in. Simon’s hands retract.   

“Thought it would look worse, to be honest.” The other man settles next to him now, sitting on the side of the tub and watching Johnny with a cautious expression.

“Mnh, it’s healed a bit, reckon. Prob’ly looked proper wicked after tha’ first surgery.”

There’s a weight to that statement, a reminder of an empty seat next to a hospital bed, recently vacated.

“Then they went back in for the spinal fusion, plus the surgery in the leg,” Johnny continues, feeling the need to explain it for some reason. “Another for something in my lungs, I think, which then led to me bein’ sick for a while. But other than tha’…nothin’ ta write home about.”

“Your head,” Simon interjects, and Johnny raises his brows in question. “We were…you hit your head. Was bleedin’ a bit, we were worried about brain damage. I was…” He lets the thought trail off.

“Aye,” Johnny confirms. “Bad concussion. Part’a the reason for the coma, but it worked itself out.”

Simon clenches and unclenches his fist on his thigh a few times, nodding at the bathwater.  

“I’m…” Johnny stalls, the warmth and the pressure jets attempting to steal the last of his rationality. “I’m a lot better now, yeah?”

Simon’s, “Hmn,” doesn’t sound persuaded.

“Especially with this bath,” Johnny says, his voice purposefully lighter. “Might have ta see about gettin’ me some’a these jets. I’m gettin’ rather lost in ‘em.”

“Don’t have too much fun,” Simon warns, with the faintest suggestion on the end.

“Dunno, Riley. There’s room fer two.”

That gets a stronger reaction, a sharp huff and a quick turn of his head. But then Simon is standing up from the edge of the tub, patting his knees. “Gotta make a few calls. But I’ll come back shortly to check you haven’t drowned yourself, twat.”

“Now tha’s a good chaperone.”

To be fair, Johnny does nearly pass out in the bath, his fatigue rendering his insides to mush with every pass of the pressure jets. Plus, he can vaguely hear Simon talking in the other room, and something about that hushed presence comforts him even more than the warm water.

He’s not sure how long he’d slipped into a half-sleep, but Simon’s steps are purposeful when he returns.

“Oi! Keepin’ ourselves above water level, are we?”

Johnny grumbles out a garbled sound, no real definition.

“Don’t want us forgettin’ our manners now.”

He snorts back at him, barely shifting his head. There’s something about the way Simon uses a collective address; ourselves, we, us, our. He knows it’s a dialect thing, but he can’t help clinging to the notion of the two of them as one being, as if Simon is saying ‘you and me’, a package deal. It’s stupid, but he smiles at the thought.

“Now there’s the look of a man gettin’ his jollies.”

“Shut up,” John mumbles, dropping his back a bit lower, savoring the warm lull.

“Still not as cushy as that nuclear reactor though, yeah?”

Another low grumble in his direction. He gets the feeling Simon is about to say something else, but a buzz interrupts, followed by a generic ringtone.

“Shite,” John hisses, realizing he’d never checked in with Caro. But the problem is—he cannot fucking move for the life of him.

“Your phone?” Simon asks, and Johnny grunts. “Need me to…?”

“Aye, can ye jus’ tell her tha’ I’m fine?”

“Wha—you want me to answer it?” Simon is hovering in front of him now, Johnny’s mobile in his hand like he’s ready to pass it off.

“I’ll fuckin’ drop it if I try,” John insists, wholeheartedly believing that; he can barely lift his arm at the moment.

“What am I supposed to tell her?” The other man has not sounded this panicked all day.

“Jus’ let her know where we are, an’ tha’ I’m too worn out ta answer, aye?”

Simon’s nod looks more like the twitch of some poor bastard about to get a noose slipped round his throat. But he holds Johnny’s mobile up to his ear, clicking to receive the call. “Hello?”

Johnny can only faintly hear the mumble from Caroline’s end, getting more from Simon’s body language.

“No, Johnny’s here. I’m just…I’m his friend? Simon?” He snorts at how unsure he sounds about his own name.  

There’s more murmuring from the phone, Johnny grinning in spite of Simon’s evident discomfort.

“Yeah, he’s… he’s here. He’s just worn out.” That’s followed by a short choking sound, Simon sputtering, “No, n-not like that, he’s…he’s just overextended himself, the maggot.”

Johnny can practically hear his sister’s concurring laugh. He lets his eyelids droop, listening as Simon rattles off the address of the hotel.

A change in his tone has Johnny peering up at him though. “Is he staying overnight?” He can see the raise in Simon’s eyebrows, that little wrinkle between them as he pulls the phone slightly to the side. “Are…are you staying overnight?”

“Dinnae think I can fuckin’ move, LT,” he mutters, but he slowly slides his hand on the tub’s edge, hooking a finger through Simon’s belt loop. A definitive answer.

“Y-yes,” Simon chokes into the phone, and then Johnny’s left listening to the muffled sounds of his sister on the other end.

And judging by the man’s reactions, it’s a very stern dressing-down.

“Will do,” Simon utters after what might be thirty seconds of rambling, closing the call and going to place it back over on the counter. “She told me to tell you she’ll meet you here tomorrow morning.”

“Anything else?” John teases.

Simon scrapes a hand up the back of his head, further mussing up his hair, a small shudder. “She’s scary, that one.”

Johnny chuckles, making a mental note to thank his sister for all her hard work when it comes to putting her baby brother on a pedestal he’s not sure he deserves. He slips further into the tub, letting his eyes drop closed, breathing easily.

He doesn’t open them when he hears the rustling of fabric, not even when he hears the belt buckle, or the zipper. Johnny just tucks his legs back, only peeking when he senses Simon right next to the edge.

Big enough for two, aye, though he’d forgotten to calculate for the absurd length of the other man’s legs.

But Simon settles in well enough, looping his ankles around Johnny’s, resting his back against the opposite side.

It should be surprising how comfortable the mood is, considering their track record of playing the goat around each other all day. Simon doesn’t even say anything, simply issuing out a pleased exhale, nudging Johnny’s thigh with his foot.

God…

It’s the kind of thing that’s too sacred to even dream about. A missing page of a script based upon gunfire more often than dialogue, one that would be cut from the final product, deemed too boring, too mundane for the budget. There’s nothing to say in a scene like this.

Johnny somehow manages to fill the silence. “Is tha’ new?”

He’s gesturing vaguely to a small, aggravated crease below Simon’s clavicle, right next to that birthmark that’s shaped like a Baltic state; he can’t remember which, Latvia, maybe…

“Mngh,” Simon grunts, squinting down at it with disinterest. “Plate carrier broke a strap, gouged myself on the fuckin’ buckle.”

“Only you, LT,” John snorts, appeased that it hadn’t been anything more serious.

Shifting in the water, Simon mumbles, “I’m not your lieutenant anymore, Johnny,” and what hurts most is how resigned he sounds.

They still hadn’t really talked about it…

Johnny breathes out a sigh, admitting, “Aye, I know.” Then he stretches his knee further down, just testing. “But I’ll still let ye order me around, sir.” 

Once he’s put that out in the open, it’s only natural to observe how Simon sprawls like a man in charge, both arms spread across the bath’s width, a statuesque cock of the neck.

His face is completely exposed now, Johnny transfixed on the way his top teeth are pressing into the bisected lip below, making the knife-slash look like a wound in progress. He knows it’s the acid burn he hates the most, the pink, puckered streak at the edge of his mouth spanning up to his cheekbone. There’s more from that particular tragedy, subsequent splashes coating his right shoulder and marring skin all the way down to his forearm, the jet-black artwork on his opposite arm looking just as striking.

But it might be the way he’s gazing at him, the calculated restraint of a feral predator, that really sells the act.

Simon manages to make his command sound gentle, though, those two fingers on his right hand beckoning with precision. “C’mere.”

And Christ if it doesn’t go straight to Johnny’s groin.

He might audibly gulp, but Johnny successfully maneuvers his body closer, inching forward to get within reach.

At first, Simon just keeps staring at him, head still tilted. But then he’s cupping his hand back into that slot, brushing behind Johnny’s ear and holding him at arm’s length.

All it takes is a tug, and then Johnny’s falling back against him, body nearly slipping on the acrylic, his whole back twisted to land perfectly against his chest.

Simon keeps his arm braced around his breastbone, holding him against his skin. And while he’s still catching his breath, Johnny feels the other man brush that scarred mouth against the back of his head, a soft nuzzle.

“We good?”

“Mnh.”

If there are words, they’ve dissolved with all the lavender soap, nothing left but wet skin and warm water and a heartbeat pressed against his surgical scar.

Johnny lets him hold him like that for a while, memorizing the shape of the breaths on the back of his neck, just to save for later when he wonders if this had been real or not.

It must be long enough for him to start to doze again, for the water to get cooler. And for reality to return.

There’s a knock at the door, Johnny startling from his trance. “The hell issat?”

“Oh yeah,” Simon mumbles, already shifting out from behind him. “I ordered room service.”

“You—wha'? When did ye do tha’?”

“Before.”

“Wha', those calls ye had ta make?”

“I wanted dessert, Johnny.”

‘Well you could’ve fucking had it!’ he wants to say, still pretending he’s not a complete slut right now. The bubbles around his crotch know otherwise…

Simon expertly climbs out of the tub, drying off and grabbing a plush robe, smirking down at Johnny as he slips his mask back on. “If you can get out of that bath, MacTavish, I’ll try to save you some.”

Johnny grumbles under his breath as Simon exits the bathroom, wondering about the impression he’s making on that poor bellhop at the door. Not many are privileged to the sight of Simon Riley in nothing but a bathrobe.

He hears the other man returning back into the main area with whatever the fuck desserts he’d ordered, coming to the conclusion that he’d been dead serious about not sharing.

So Johnny’s left scrambling himself out of the tub, drying off on the edge, and resorting to throwing his boxers back on, any sultry ideas he had now thoroughly quashed.

He’s not sure if he should put the rest of his clothes on, the chill up his spine urging him to shrug back into his jumper, then the jeans, reluctantly, because his leg is doing that thing where it can’t decide what temperature is.        

He finds his crutch just outside the bathroom door, and he finds Simon halfway through what must be the entire catalogue of room service desserts.

“This thing with the cream and raspberries?” the other man says through his latest mouthful. “Fuckin’ incredible.”

“Ah, cranachan,” John confirms. “Knew ye’d like tha’, ye goddamn sugar addict. Didja know they put scotch in it too?”

Simon makes an appreciative groan, and Jesus—yeah, he’s back to feeling aroused.

Johnny watches him scoff down the treats with a shake of his head, sitting on the edge of the mattress, deciding he doesn’t need any desserts for himself when he’s got that perfect view. “At least ye’ve got one thing ta commend abou’ our fair city.”

Wiping his mouth on the bathrobe sleeve, Simon looks unexpectedly bashful. “Dunno,” he mumbles. “Besides the pigeon racket, I’d say this place isn’t half bad.”

“Not as bonnie as some’a the countryside, though,” John admits, trying not to read too much into the way Simon is now staring at him between bites of his tea cookies. “Should take ye around sometime…”

It’s come to that point in the night Johnny had been dreading, where they finally acknowledge what this really is. A weekend trip for business purposes, not some romantic getaway that ends with them riding off into the sunset.

Simon is a soldier, a body waiting to be bled dry on some sacralized field. And Johnny reckons he wouldn’t make a good war widow.

“I’d like that,” Simon says, taking the last of John’s resolve with the way it sounds so effortless.

“We’ll try ta plan tha’ fer next time then,” Johnny vows. He knows promises never really mean much between them, but it’s a pretty note to pen in his calendar, that concept of someday.    

Simon doesn’t take his eyes off him.

And Johnny won’t ask him to, not with the way he’d abandoned the rest of his desserts, chewing his bottom lip like he’s got an alternative suggestion for his cravings.

There was never really another option, was there?

So they don’t have the conversations that need to be had, the bottom lines that need to be drawn, the tears that need to be shed in order for them to move on.

Because all Johnny has to do is nod his head at the spot next to him, a beckon of his own.

With them, the bossing around always goes both ways.

Simon gets up from the table, lingering in front of him just to brush his bare leg against the denim of his knee, and then he’s sitting next to him, solid, so fucking solid, he has no idea how he gets away with being called Ghost…

And he bites his lip again, reaching up to trace a line across John’s jaw, muttering softly, “We ok?”

Johnny nods.

Making the first move is a tricky thing when they’re both just as ardent. A night full of glances, restrained touches, those agonizing centimeters keeping them apart—all for what?

Because Simon grabs his waist the same second Johnny wraps his hand around his neck. And then it’s just—

Warm mouths, a gasp in between, frantic and needy and—

“Mnng…”

There’s a low moan against his lips, Johnny sucking on the bottom, pulling, grabbing tighter with his hands.

And when Simon slides back, his voice is a breath away from breaking when he hisses out, “…fuck.”

“Somethin’ ta say?”

Simon nips him back, all sharp teeth, but Johnny just pushes deeper, his tongue gliding in and out, tasting the cream and raspberry, that faint edge of scotch. The other man can’t contain his appreciative grunt.

“Wha’s tha’, then?” Johnny pants against his skin, still grazing the corners of his mouth while Simon struggles to breathe. “Simon Riley finally admitting I’m right?”

“I fucking never…” he growls, all the more reason for Johnny to prove his point.

Because call him what you will, but John MacTavish is a fucking good kisser.

He takes his time with it, raw and hungry, each pass of his lips or test with his teeth just further unraveling the man beneath him.

Feeling his entire body flush, Johnny hunches up in a kneel, both hands tangling in Simon’s hair as he slides his tongue across the jagged cleft through the man’s mouth, eliciting the most satisfying rumble in his throat.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he rasps, nipping at the edges of the acid scar, pushing his luck by slipping his hot mouth around Simon’s ear, a shuddering moan causing him to chuckle at the other man’s desperation. Always was a sensitive spot.

In retaliation, Simon hooks his arm around his back, tugging him closer, his palm skating beneath the jumper, a kind of urgency in it. “Why the fuck did you put this back on?”

“Was fuckin’…mng…cold,” John gasps as Simon’s rough fingers dig into the soft patch of skin at his waist. “Bad circulation, aye?”

Simon snorts, but already he’s feeling up Johnny’s backside. “Well let’s get us warmed up, shall we?”

He finds himself being lifted further onto the mattress, Simon still cradling his back as his other hand starts pawing up the front of his sweater.

“Mnh…ah…” Johnny struggles to continue making out, the other man’s wandering hands making him squirm in all the right ways. He feels his top lift, wrenched above his collar as Simon begins exploring his chest hair, those firm hands spanning the planes of his torso with a greedy hunger. “Nnnh…fuck…”

When Simon kneads hard on his pectoral, it’s all he can do to keep back the dry groan, not quite succeeding when that callused thumb brushes back and forth across his nipple. Fucking hell…

And then Johnny’s just tearing his sweater over his head, dropping back on the mattress to let Simon bear down on him.

God—his weight is so heavy, dominating, the relentless pressure sending John deeper and deeper, hands clawing at his back with no real chance of keeping him from slipping.

Simon immediately dives for his neck, sharp sucks causing Johnny to writhe in a rapid seizure. “Ung…careful…mnh…” His hands are still groping at his chest, and maintaining the momentum, Simon drags his chin lower, lapping at Johnny’s pectoral until his wet mouth finds the nipple again, a shot of electricity going right through him. “S-Simon…fuck…”

He’s in rare form, alright. Desperate. Worshiping. All Johnny can do is pant harshly, his fingers scraping up the underside of Simon’s scalp, barely holding on.

And then Simon moans around his mouthful, tipping Johnny into that point of no return. He feels his jeans tighten, toes curling, that ungodly heat between his legs that has him regretting ever putting his pants back on in the first place.

“S-Simon…” The bastard just bites into the skin around his pec, causing Johnny to thrust up into him, no hiding it now.

It also comes to John’s attention that his partner is essentially naked already, the robe slipping off his shoulders at Johnny’s scrabbling, hot, damp skin like velvet under his palms. He feels the hard response, digging down to meet his hips as they keep spastically thrusting.

“Fuck, Johnny…” Simon detaches from his chest, trapezius stretched taut as he braces on his hands above him. “Eager, are we?”

“Shut up.” Johnny catches his lips again, trying to keep him still for a second, his tongue laving against the roof of his mouth.

The growl he gets for his troubles is just another targeted assault on his strained cock. “Johnny…”

“Mng…agh…need you,” he mumbles, cupping both hands in a tight arch around his skull.

“That’s more like it.”

Shedding the rest of their clothes is easier than before, skin clean and begging to be touched, but Johnny feels that stutter of hesitation when Simon goes to throw him on his back like he wants him to.

Instead, the other man guides him down slowly, palms sliding up and down his spine, unable to mask the reluctance in his gaze.

Johnny grabs his hand though. Like before. And he makes sure to lock eyes with him, low, gorgeously dark. He drags Simon’s fingers over to his exposed throat, settling it there with a hint of pressure.

The flicker in Simon’s eyes reads: are we sure? So Johnny just hitches upward on his back, grinding into the heat between their legs, a rasp when he whispers, “You’re not gonnae break me, love.”

And Simon bites his lip, that deep rumble back in his throat. All he says is:

“Would you like me to try?”

There’s no need for a nod, not when those fingers tighten around his neck before skating down his whole center, Johnny arching his head back as Simon grips them both, gliding together, a package deal.

Then it’s all just—

“Ah…mng…nnh…fuck…ahg…fuck…”

After—Johnny lies with his head on that solid chest.

And he knows it’s another one of those moments that has no measurable value, no dialogue, no soft score in the background hinting at the curtain call that should’ve fallen long ago.

No reason to linger here, but they’ve always been stubborn, the both of them.

Despite it all, Johnny finds himself whispering in the dark, like so many of those late nights that never were, the conversations that don’t really exist but need to be documented somehow. In breaths against skin, in patterns traced across buzzed hair, as if coaxing it to grow.

So they mutter back and forth, about dreams, about epilogues that will never pan out, about promises.  

“The posh room is nice an’ all, but next time we’ll find us a cozy cabin somewhere, aye?”

“Gonna turn rural on me, MacTavish?”

“I’m already halfway there.”

“Mnn. Suppose you’d want me choppin’ firewood then?”

“Can’t have us goin’ cold.”

“You and your bad circulation…”

“Might be a few ways to keep warm, love.”

“I’m not lettin’ you huddle up with the sheep, Johnny.”

“Heh. We have sheep now, do we?”

“Mn-hm. At least ten.”

“That’ll be nice, takin’ ‘em for walks down through the glen…”

“We can hitch a cart for you, if you get tired.”

“Aye, a sheep-sled.”

“Only for you.”

“And we can pick raspberries on the banks of the Tay.” 

“Don’t forget the cream.”

“Aye. Then we’ll find our way back, following the sheep…”

“Mmn.”

“Wandering around till the light gets low…”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Aye.”

It does. Too good to be called a promise. Too good for morning to claim as its last act, that curtain call crashing with the break of day.

So Johnny stores it in that pocket in his heart, the one just for him, the one he keeps full of all those blunt replies, those secret gasps, the hums, the way he makes his name sound like a prayer for men without virtue enough to look God in the eye.

The one that’s labeled someday.

Chapter Text

Never let it be underestimated, the pure malice of a hotel wake-up call.

Johnny jolts out of a sound sleep when he hears the phone ring, the warm body he’s lying against abruptly turning to leave him flopping back to the mattress.

Then the muffled words into the phone, “Mnf…umh…yes…thank you,” as he senses Simon prop up into a sitting position with a long, dry exhale.

“W’time’s’it?” John mumbles, dragging a hand across his eyes. It’s still so dark.

“Early,” comes the grunted reply. “G’back t’bed.”

There’s another weary breath, the sound of Simon scuffing up his hair, then his weight leaves the mattress.

Johnny can scarcely make out the barest shape of him, squinting at the dim clock that now reads 5:31.

Crazy bastard…

It’s only because he knows him as well as he does that Johnny doesn’t question the ludicrousness of the other man’s habits. Because, contrary to expected belief, Simon Riley is not a morning person.

So John just snuggles back under the blankets, already missing that solid presence as he hears Simon stumble around the room. He knows it takes the man more than an hour to become a fully-fledged human being in the morning, hence the ungodly wake-up time, but he’d held half a hope that, just this once, his partner might be inclined to sleep in.

He hears Simon shuffle over to the bathroom, where Johnny knows he’ll spend at least fifteen minutes just methodically washing his face. He’d watched him once, back in his London apartment, curious about why he’d always wake up to an empty bed. It had been one of those things that really broke the spell, a reminder that Simon isn’t as otherworldly as his callsign suggests. Just a man who needs to pamper himself as incentive to rouse his sleepy little head.

He ought to watch him now, John supposes, not sure when he’d get the opportunity again.

But the fact remains that he’s still knackered as all hell, a deep-seated ache in the center of his back that doesn’t bode well, so Johnny lets himself drift again, reassured by the soft sounds of the faucet, even if all he wants right now is a warm stretch of skin to press his face against.

He stirs again sometime later, groaning as he senses subtle movement and sound, what might be Simon rummaging through his luggage. John attempts to lean up and inspect what he’s doing when the other man huffs lightly.

“Didn’t mean to wake ya.”

“Naw, s’a’righ’,” Johnny grumbles, glancing at the clock that now reads 6:28, still way too fucking early.

Simon looks to be tossing his trainers on, already dressed in track pants and a sweatshirt. “I’m ’eadin’ down for a brew. Y’want owt?”  

If John had more cognizance, he’d chuckle at how ridiculous they both sound. Simon’s Manc accent always mouths off in the morning, stronger and dryer when he’s not worried about suppressing it. And Johnny knows his own drawl has only been worsening since he’d been back home. A couple of King and Country boys, the pair of them.

“Naw, s’fine,” he murmurs, turning over onto his side and wincing.

“Right.” Simon finishes lacing his shoes, then appears to stare down at him for a second or two before exiting the room without anything further.

John tries not to let the sound of the door closing bother him as much as it does.

He wakes up properly at around 7:30, stretching his bare legs across the soft, luxurious sheets. Rolling onto his stomach with a groan, Johnny calculates his daily bodily pain assessment, which amounts to a whopping ‘not great’. He supposes some of the lingering aches have to do with last night’s…activities, but he’d never regret a thing.

Forcing himself to his feet, the man does manage to make it to the bathroom without falling, finally getting a chance to wash up after said activities. And Christ—he’s never been so glad for hotel amenities.

After brushing his teeth with the complimentary toothbrush, he wanders back over to the bed, shrugging his sweater back on but just continuing to lie there, unwilling to confront the day ahead of him, which includes:

Meeting up with Caro at 8, medical consultation at 8:30, presumably catching back up with Simon before he leaves, then…

He doesn’t want to think about those ‘dot-dot-dots’.

The door clicks open while Johnny’s still contemplating his latest psychological meltdown.

“Oi,” comes the call, Simon striding into the room and unceremoniously lobbing something in his direction, “‘eads up.”

A packaged muffin gets thumped onto his chest.

“Wha’s this? You shouldnae have,” Johnny snarks, squinting at the muffin with a dubious expression.

“Not my fault our Johnny likes his brekky in bed.” Simon tosses a bag onto the chair, stripping off his jacket and mask before coming to loom over him. “Got ya these too,” he says, pelting Johnny with yet another item, what turns out to be some much-appreciated painkillers.

“Aye, ye really know how ta treat a man, Riley,” Johnny says, opening the packet and popping two dry.

“You seemed to think so last night.” God, with his blunt delivery it barely sounds like flirting at all, but it still sends a rush of heat down John’s entire body, the fact that he’s currently in his underwear coming to both of their attentions.

Johnny coughs, tearing at the muffin wrapper in a way he hopes is sexy. It isn’t. He spits out a piece of plastic from his mouth as Simon chuckles.

He’s got a healthy glow this morning, Johnny notes, his eyes no longer puffy now that he’s adequately woken up. The flirting’s nice too, if you can call it that. They almost never get the chance to acknowledge each other the next day after nights like that; such is the way of fooling around in active war zones.

“We gonnae meet up later then?” he asks, slowly nibbling at his muffin while covertly watching Simon like the voyeur he is. The other man has started undressing, undoubtedly to change for his meeting at Kentigern, but Johnny can’t help but feel like it’s a strip-tease for his own personal benefit. The muffin may as well be made of sand for how dry his mouth is.

“S’ppose. Don’t ‘ave to be at the airport till 1400.”

Christ, that’s only about six hours…

“I guess we can jus’ meet back here, aye?” Johnny suggests, his jaw hanging open as Simon sheds his track pants. God, those legs are ridiculous…

“Oi!” He grunts as something gets thrown at his face. “Got a second one at the desk,” Simon explains, while Johnny examines the key-card that had just nearly taken out his eye.

“Right. I’ll probably be finished with my appointment before yours, so I’ll just hang aroun’ till ye get back.”

“Why do I feel like this is just an excuse for you to capitalize on my bathtub, Johnny?”

“Aye, it’s not yer bathtub, now is it?” John loses track midsentence, ogling as the man starts fastening up a sleek black shirt, covering the expanse of his alabaster chest, button by button. “Mother of mercy, wha’ are you dressin’ up all fancy for, mate?” he asks in disbelief, having rarely had the opportunity to see the man clothed in anything that wasn’t standard-issue. Not that he hadn’t had his fair share of suggestions…

“Don’t know what you mean,” Simon huffs.

“Here I am, down ta my shorts, an’ ye’re aff tidyin’ up fer a bunch’a windbags in the MOD?”

Simon cocks his brow at that, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt before slowly donning the sports jacket, cutting a dark, striking figure. His eyes rove over Johnny, still lying on the bed, and he smirks before muttering, “If you were a true Scotsman, you’d drop the knickers, Johnny.”

All he can do is sputter at that, practically choking on that goddamn muffin.

But Johnny recovers enough to still appreciate the view, gesturing to Simon with a twirl of his finger. “Go on, gi’es a turn.”

“Fuck off.”

He snorts at him, angling his head to get a better shot of the dark, sleek pants, licking his lips to no avail. “Mr. Riley, I daresay ye might come back with a fair endorsement.”

“Stop ya chattin’.” Simon sharply turns his head to hide the evident blush. It’s a shame he’ll likely cover it with the mask, but Johnny savors the sight of him now, maybe too much considering the heat in his groin. “’Sides,” Simon adds. “You’re the pretty one, not me.”

Johnny lets out an awkward wheeze, so caught off guard by Simon’s unexpectedly effective flirting. He never acts like this, Christ almighty…

There’s a snap in his face, breaking the illusion, Simon’s go-to attention-grabber when Johnny starts to lose focus, which is often.

Johnny just blinks up at him from where Simon is towering above him, his crisp dress attire and the way he’s got his leg pressed against John’s thigh doing wonders for the seductive fantasy running rampant in the man’s head.

“Fuckface,” the dialogue could use some work… “you’re meetin’ with your sister in ten minutes, remember?”

Shaking his head, Johnny ruefully mutters, “Right,” thrusting out his arm so Simon can pull him up.

And when he does, it’s only instinctual to try to balance himself against the other man’s weight, a hand braced around his sturdy waist, looking exceptionally tight in the sports jacket.

Would he be pushing his luck if he were to lean up and—

Shockingly, it’s Simon who grabs the kiss first, and what’s even more surprising is how tender it is. A light brush against his lips, his hand rising to trace a thumb across the bottom one. And a low reminder, “Put your pants on, pretty boy.”

It’s a wonder Johnny doesn’t collapse on the spot.

Jesus Christ…what’s gotten into him?

Simon assists in dragging the jeans over Johnny’s legs, tactfully not mentioning the half-hard bulge he’s sporting, but Johnny reckons the other man slides his hand a bit unnecessarily across his behind. 

Why couldn’t they just spend the entire six hours they have left here? Johnny can think of several lucrative opportunities to fill the man’s quota.

“I’m ‘eadin’ out,” Simon grunts, now securing his black mask into place and ruining some of the charm. He’s still fit as fuck though.

“A’right,” Johnny says, feeling at risk of heart failure over how uncharacteristic this whole morning had been. “See ye later then.”

Simon doesn’t say goodbye.

That’s more like it.

He ends up meeting Caro in the lobby five minutes past eight, having spent an excess amount of time lingering on the comfy bed and talking down his boner. It’s a struggle not to keep those long legs off his mind though, and there must be some evidence of lust in his bearing because Caroline greets him with an extra cheeky grin, and a sly, “You boys have fun?”

“Not a word,” he reminds her, and they make their way to fetch a cab.

The ride to the medical center is sobering enough, John slumping in the seat with a lingering spasm in his back, wishing he could simply fast-forward this bullshit instead of having to address his injury for the next hour or so.

Caro makes it worse by pulling something from her purse. “Mam said ta remind ye ta take these, aye?”

The pill gets knocked back with a grimace, his sister pointedly not asking about it, although he assumes she’d read the label—anti-depressants he’d promised mam he’d start taking again.

Because, despite an incredible night, Johnny knows he’s not exactly thriving in the mental health department these days.

Arriving at Queen Elizabeth University’s spinal unit, he reckons even if the trip had been six hours it still wouldn’t have been enough time for him to come to terms with how much of a fuck-up he feels; it had only been a ten-minute drive, so that puts him at about .05% ready.

The medical staff greet them soon enough, Johnny and his sister being escorted into a private room to begin the consultation.

John sits anxiously on the exam chair, leg back to bouncing as Caro futilely attempts to calm his nerves.

“Right, Mr... MacTavish.” The surgeon, Dr. Julian Lamb, has a quick glance at the medical forms he’d just filled out, crossing his arms to get down to business. “One of Dylan’s boys, eh? How’s the PT going then?”

“It’s a’right, sir,” Johnny mumbles, feeling self-conscious as the man goes over another chart, looking overly scrutinous.

“Well, I have to say—this is quite a file ye’ve got, son.” He kind of hates the way it can all be summed up to that, as if words and diagnostics in a chart were enough to account for the agony he has to bear on a daily basis. “Ex-military, right?”

He just nods. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Caro sitting by his side, giving him a brief smile for emotional support. It barely registers.

“We’ll set ye up with an MRI in a moment,” Lamb says. “But first, I’d like to ask ye a bit about yer condition, aye?”

Another dull nod.

The doctor starts rattling off a list, John dutifully nodding along with each addition: muscle spasms, check, limited mobility, check, numbness, sleeplessness, general pain, check x3. And after his favorite question about bladder and bowel control, he gets an even better, “Any issues with sexual function?”

He coughs to mask his blush, his sister dishing out a sly glance. “No problems there.” 

The next inquiry is even less fun. “Feeling any emotional stress, lad? Anxiety or depression over yer disability?”

Johnny shrugs guardedly before committing to a nod. And the look Caro gives him now is worse than her teasing. She reaches over to hold his hand, giving it a soft squeeze.

Dr. Lamb finishes jotting a few things down before turning to face Johnny with a grim expression. “Now, Dylan’s mentioned ye’re experiencing a fair bit of pain, MacTavish. Care ta tell me what tha’s like?”

Oh, sure, he thinks sullenly, my preferred topic of conversation.

“Havin’ some trouble with my back mostly,” he mutters. “The right leg acts up as well.”

“How intense would ye say it is?”

“I dunno…it can get pretty bad sometimes. Mostly round the center of my back. Sharp pains when I’m standin’, aye? It’s really a come-and-go type of thing though.”

“And how often does it…come rather than go?”

“It’s…” Christ, he might as well be honest. “It’s pretty much all the time, sir. To varying degrees.”

He senses Caro stir at that, a frown on her face.

“And this has been since the surgery?” Lamb probes further, coming to stand next to him now and performing a brief inspection of his spine over the shirt. “Ye’ve had…what, two? In the last five months?”

“Yeah. Though the first one was a bit…botched.”

“Aye, I can see that,” the doctor says, indicating his chart. “Open spine surgery that had ta be corrected with the fusion afterward.” He grimaces at what he sees in his medical history, evidently unimpressed. “Where was this performed?”

“Field hospital outside of Lugansk.”

“Right,” he says, raising his brows in sympathy.

Johnny doesn’t know why, but he finds himself explaining further, “It’s more about keepin’ a body breathin’ in places like tha’. Medics did wha’ they could; from wha’ I hear, my back was a right mess at the time.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Lamb says. “I’m more concerned about the after-effects of this second surgery though. Wha’ happened there?”

Johnny squints at him, unsure if the man wants more of his trauma backstory, so he discloses the basics. “Aye, they took me back ta London, after I was stable enough to be airlifted. Had a bit of a coma for a while though.” Lamb gives another sharp look of sympathy as Johnny continues, “An’ when I did wake up, there were some…issues with my reactions. Doctors suspected paraplegia then, ‘cause I…I couldnae move my legs those first few days.”

His sister’s hand squeezes even harder now.

John doesn’t remember much from that time, but his parents had been with him then, Caroline still back home taking care of her newborn. Christ—Frankie’s nearly as old as his busted spine, he realizes, the lad being born just a month before his accident. Strange to think of it in terms of a lifespan…

“It was only after the spinal fusion tha’ I got my mobility back,” John finishes, adding, “Though there was a thought tha’ some of the paralysis could’ve been…psychological.”

From what he can distantly recall, a nurse had sat with him and explained the concept of how significant stress and trauma can sometimes trick the mind into disrupting motor functions. He’s still not really sure if that had been the case or not.

“Hmn. Well, I have no doubt that the staff in London have done well enough in repairing the previous damage,” Lamb says, “but ye’re now over four months post-op, MacTavish, and from what ye’ve told me about yer lingering symptoms, it seems we might be looking at failed back surgery syndrome.”

Caro stirs again, and Johnny frowns at him. “An’…what does tha’ mean exactly?”

“SCIs are typically complex enough to begin with, and the healing process can vary from case to case. But following surgery, any intense pain such as what ye’ve exhibited can be an indication that the corrections attempted were unsuccessful.”

“So…there’s somethin’ wrong then?” he asks.

“We’ll need ta see the results of yer MRI to get a better understanding, but I think it’s important for ye to know that the pain ye’ve described is not a normal reaction.”

“I know my…case isn't exactly an easy one,” John says, shaking his head a bit. “The doctors in London said it might not ever get much better for me.”

“Aye, but I reckon a fair deal of what ye’re struggling with now has to do with improper post-op care and a potential recurrent herniation.” At Johnny’s strained look, Lamb adds, “Most surgeons aren’t aimin’ ta sugar-coat things, but ye should know that FBSS is common enough in about 40% of open back surgery patients.”

He’s not sure if that’s supposed to be reassuring or not.

The doctor begins explaining it a bit further, with Johnny understanding…most of it. There’s lots of talk of scar tissue, a suspicion that Johnny’s lack of proper physical rehabilitation immediately after surgery caused an excess build-up of internal scarring, not that he can really blame that—he’d developed pneumonia directly after they’d fixed the issue in his lung, putting him out of commission for over two weeks.

Lamb just shakes his head sympathetically, conceding, “Cripes, ye’ve had it rough, son.”

He then begins performing a few physical tests, checking his reflexes and the state of his leg under the brace. Johnny sheds his sweater so the man can inspect the surgical scar on his back, checking his posture and then his breathing with a stethoscope.

“You use axillary crutches or forearm ones?” Lamb asks, frowning.

“Bit of both,” Johnny admits, although he really only uses the latter. “My balance is pretty fucked—err, wobbly most days.”

The doctor chuckles, removing his stethoscope and gesturing to Johnny’s chest. “I’d stick to the forearm ones. Better for overall comfort. Looks like a fair bit of bruising here that can be caused by mishandling underarm crutches.”

And when Johnny has a glance down at his chest, there’s a moment of panic when he spots the mottled array of purple marks on his left pectoral.

Jesus Christ…he’d known Simon had gone to town on him last night, but…yikes.

At least Lamb doesn’t seem to register that a crutch can’t leave bite marks... 

John flushes a bit before saying, “Aye, I’ll try to be more careful next time.” But from the smirk on his sister’s face, he knows she’s not as convinced as the oblivious surgeon.    

Doctor Lamb brings him into the room for the MRI shortly thereafter, Johnny lying flat on his back as the machine starts whirring.

“The scan should probably take around twenty to thirty minutes, Mr. MacTavish,” one of the nurses says, going the extra mile to treat him like he hasn’t done this a dozen times already. “Just gonnae get a nice picture of yer spine, a’right?”

They’d given him ear protection for the noise, but John finds the muffled effect is even worse somehow, a fuzziness in his head that wants to conjure up images of battlefields on instinct.

It really isn’t surprising that he slips into a sort of flashback, although he’s not entirely certain how much of what he sees is factual.

Captain Price is shouting something, hovering just above Johnny’s torso. He’d lost his hat, looking very odd without it.

More yelling. Rotor blades.

“Easy, John, easy. We’re nearly there.” Price calling him ‘John’ is even odder.

He immediately knows that something is very wrong.

“Hold him—we’ve got to keep him stable till we can get him treated.”

There’s a hand planted firmly on his chest, not really preventing him from moving, seeing as he currently can’t, but just…keeping him steady. Dark brown fingers; Gaz, maybe.

“I need a chest tube,” Price’s voice again, harder. “His lung is fucked.”

Someone’s shouting behind him, he can’t…

He can’t hear. There’s a crackling rasp in his ears, clogging his senses. And when he goes to voice his concern, he—

“Don’t! Soap, just—just stay still.”

There’s more pressure on his chest, like Price had suddenly decided to heave his entire weight onto him. Johnny can’t see enough to confirm or deny, but there’s a ripple running up and down his throat, like a scream that can’t escape, and then more yelling, louder.

“Fuck—what’s the ETA? He needs treatment now!”

“We’re working on it!”

More yelling.

That rasp from before picks up even sharper, shuddering in John’s chest. 

“Fucking—fuck…”

“Don’t—just…check his airways. He’s still fucking bleeding…think we need another tube…”

The ground seems to rumble, a lurching sensation that makes everything spin.

“Watch his fucking head!”

John feels something touching his face, then a soft pressure against the top of his skull.

“C’mon, Johnny Mac, just breathe.” That’s definitely Gaz. No one else calls him that. He’s pressing his forehead against Johnny’s, voice surprisingly steady. “Ya gotta stay with us, mate.”

Something about it makes him want to cry.

“Watch that line—his BP’s dropping.”

“Of course it fucking is! He’s in fucking shock!”

Distantly, Johnny becomes aware of the fact that it’s not just his captain that’s yelling. The second, louder voice doesn’t seem to register in his mind though. Like a constant, thunderous presence, striking every time his chest pulses, every rasp from his throat, every turn of the rotor blades.

He can’t reach it. 

The last thing he can grasp is another steady reply from Gaz, spoken over his shoulder, “He’s gonna be fine, Ghost. He’s gonna be fine…”

After the scan, Doctor Lamb goes over the results, explaining the potential surgical procedures that can be done for him now—something about a large mass of malformed bone causing a herniation as well as the expected scar tissue compressing his nerves.

The doctor suggests a laminectomy as a way of possibly correcting the outcome of his previous surgery, Johnny nodding along even as he explains the risk factors—neural tissue damage and the possibility of permanent paralysis if things go awry.

“Ye’re in great physical shape otherwise, MacTavish, and young to boot. And while I’d hesitate to put someone under the knife as much as ye have, there’s no reason for ye to continue suffering if there are ways to address the pain.”

Johnny pretty much agrees outright to get the surgery. He even lies about not being a smoker because he knows it’ll affect his candidacy; not like they wouldn’t find out in the bloodwork anyway. But he just…he needs this.

He sits with Caroline in the cab ride back, barely listening as she reminds him of the complications.

“Ye heard wha’ he said—tha’ sometimes the surgery may not even work, or worse, ye might end up with even more damage.”

“I know,” Johnny admits, shaking his head. “But it’s something, aye?”

“Jus’ want ye ta think this through, babes.”

“I will.” Though he’s fairly sure he’s already made up his mind.

Caroline drops him back at the hotel while she goes to meet up with a friend for the remainder of their stay, and Johnny makes his way back up to Simon’s room, tossing his body on the bed as soon as he gets in.

He should probably take advantage of that bath, but John doesn’t really feel like moving right now. He doesn’t feel like sleeping either, just lying there on the plush mattress with his coat and boots still on, trying not to linger on that maybe-memory he’d experienced before.

It’d been a while since he’d spoken to Gaz; Price even longer. There’s just something preventing him from wanting to reach out though, that ‘left-behind’ mentality, where all he can do is picture everyone he knew before being better off without him.

He knows he’s being stupid. He knows this is why he needs that medication in the first place. Even more for the darker thoughts his mind conjures, like what it might’ve been like if he’d bled out in that helicopter. He likes to think Simon would've worn his sharp black sports jacket to his funeral…

Stop, MacTavish, he warns himself, too late already.

Because then his mind starts to spiral, and it’s only a matter of time before he starts deconstructing what the fuck he thinks he’s doing here. Not just here as in alive, but here as in Simon fucking Riley’s hotel room, five months post-discharge and still leeching off his pity.

They’d done this song and dance before, only now Johnny’s left clinging to those long legs, stepping on the other man’s shoes as his only way of staying in sync.

God…

What good could come out of this anyway? They’re only kidding themselves in the long run.

John’s detrimental thoughts lead him to the conclusion that he should just leave. Right now. Before Simon can get back and realize what a mess he’d gotten himself stuck with.

And then he’s left daydreaming about which exit plan would potentially hurt Simon the most. If he just up and left, no note or anything? If he called him up to say don’t bother, I’m heading home? If he waited here all day and the other man had the same idea, both of them too cowardly to face the truth of what’s going to happen at the end of the day?

The door buzzes open before he can justify any of them.

“Thought you’d be a shriveled prune by now,” Simon remarks, glancing at Johnny on the bed while he strides into the room.

There’s no evident reply, Johnny merely exhaling as he watches the man drop a briefcase on the table, shucking his shoes.

“What, no lavender scrub? Not up for having your skin bleached with whatever the fuck else they put in there?” Leave it to the man with a fifteen-minute morning skincare routine to know about that.

Johnny snorts at him. But it aches in such a specific way, the realization that Simon is, inexplicably, in a very good mood today.

“Jus’ tired,” John mumbles, shifting his legs on the mattress, his boots still on.

Simon yanks his face mask off, taking a swig from a water bottle and rummaging through his briefcase. “How’d it go?” he asks, and with Johnny’s dull look, he adds, “The doctor thing?”

“Oh, right.” Somehow, the whole ordeal had slipped his mind already. “Yeah, I’m probably gonnae have surgery. Again.”

Taking another sip of water, Simon frowns down at him. “Fuck. How many times are they gonna cut you open?”

He knows it’s rhetorical, but Johnny replies morbidly, “Dunno, till it stops bein’ kinky?”

Simon scoffs at him. “That’s not funny.” No, it isn’t. But Johnny MacTavish had lived enough of his life on the edge of a knife to stop knowing the difference. “Seems a little risky so soon after the others. Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

Covering his eyes with his palm, Johnny mutters, “I really don’t wannae talk about this now.”

“Fine.” Sensing the severity in his tone, Simon steps off.

Johnny forces himself to ask, “How was your thing?” still coming up empty on a solid mental state. Maybe he’d need a higher dose of those pills…

“That’s what you wanna talk about?” Simon says dryly, reading right through him. But he surprises him by furthering the conversation anyway. “Was alright, actually. Managed to impress some hacks in DE&S, might be lookin’ at a few extra toys comin’ our way.”

“Didnae have to threaten anyone with bodily harm, didja?”

“Only you,” he drawls back, nudging Johnny’s leg with his. “Boots off the fucking bed, MacTavish.”

“It’s not even yer room,” John grumbles, heaving into an upright position and regretting it with the twinge up his spine.  “Ah, fuck…”

“Y’alright?” Simon asks, but again—Johnny doesn’t want to fucking talk about it.

“So wha’ kind of toys are we lookin’ at?” he says, switching back to the previous thread, though he winces further upon his slip; no longer a part of that ‘we’ is he…

The other man tosses something into his lap, raised eyebrows with a sly grin. “New LMG-M, just got the specs and I have to say, she looks fuckin’ lean.”

Johnny scans the pamphlet he’d been given, mouth practically watering. “Shite, I thought they were still in development. This is even tighter than SOCOM’s from last spring. Wha’s she carryin’?”

“Fifteen,” Simon hums, and Johnny salivates further.

“Jesus, they’ve shaved it down from the prototype. Wager she knows how ta take a .338NM?”

“Like packin’ a 50 cal without all the fanfare.”

“Good girl,” Johnny purrs, coming to the realization that this is the most sexual they’ve sounded by far, and they’d already fucked once.

He also takes note that Simon’s still got on his smart attire, leaning over to look at the weapons diagram and straining some of those glossy black buttons.

Christ…

Johnny clears his throat. “Should have some fun with that, reckon,” he says, a touch of wistfulness sneaking into his tone.

“Mn,” Simon grunts, before turning back to rifle through a few more papers.

There’s a momentary shift, as if Simon is contemplating something, a faint clink of metal in his bag, but Johnny just watches him linger over the documents before coming back over.

“They’ve got a decent demolitions program down in defence science, y’know. Thought you might be interested.”

And with that, he discloses another pamphlet, handing it to John rather than tossing it in his face, a bad sign.

“Ye tryin’ ta recruit me, Riley?” Johnny jokes, but there’s a tremor of dread when he reads over the brochure, realizing that not only is Simon in a good mood, he’s also in an encouraging one. From his brief glance, the paperwork seems to be going over weapons analysis careers, and his stomach clenches with the implication.

“Just…somethin’ to think about,” Simon mumbles, leaning on the table to gauge his reaction.

“S’ppose it makes sense,” Johnny concedes, not able to hide the hint of sarcasm. “Not like I’m gettin’ back in the field, am I? Might as well sit pretty on a research gig, my pension’s not gonnae last much longer, aye?”

Simon frowns with his whole face, arms crossed. “What are you gettin’ now?”

“Ach, it’s a Tier-2 medical discharge. Pays a’right for my eleven years plus enhancement, but it won’t see me through to retirement age.”

“Fuckin’ criminal,” Simon mutters harshly.

“Aye, should’ve brought that up in the MOD when ye had the chance.” Johnny shakes his head, continuing to talk despite how shaken he feels about this particular subject. “Guess I oughtta start thinkin’ ‘bout findin’ work.” He taps the pamphlet. “Though I’m not sure I’ve got brains enough for all this science-y shite.”

Simon scoffs. “You’re the best combat engineer I’ve ever worked with, Johnny. I think you can manage well enough.”

And if his stomach wasn’t in the process of trying to strangle itself, John might’ve smiled at his high praise. But right now, all he feels is deprecation. “Never was good with numbers and whatnot, always more hands-on, aye? I swear—ye should’ve seen Price practically homeschoolin’ me between deployments, tryin’a help me study fer a commission.”

There’s a palpable pause, Simon’s frown even more pronounced. “You were undergoing officer training?”

Johnny huffs. “Aye. Had ta pop over ta Sandhurst a couple’a times while on base, jus’ ta meet the requirements.”

“You never said.” Simon sounds oddly…blank.

“Thought I might surprise ye or somethin’,” John says bitterly. “Nearly made it too. Too bad about tha’ fall though.”

It settles like a radioactive blanket over them, tense and charged with unspoken regret.

No, he’d never get his commission as an officer, he’d never have enough to afford his own living, and no—he’d never get to feel Simon Riley’s hands against his pulse after a firefight again, adrenaline and passion and need forcing them to reach out and touch the thing that’s been keeping them alive for this long, call it what you will.

“But I’ll be a’right,” Johnny somehow says, his voice unfeeling. “Yeah, I…I can look into this.” He nudges the pamphlet off his lap, knowing he won’t, knowing it’ll only hurt more, to be that close to his former life, but without that tactile sense he desperately craves. He feels that way about a lot of things.  

Simon just stands there, watching.

“Or I can jus’ keep livin’ with my parents, aye?” he continues, spiraling again. “That’ll be a blast fer us all.”

The low, “Johnny…” treads that fine line, the one they’re both too afraid to cross; admitting defeat.

“Ach, y’know wha’—my brother-in-law’s in real estate. Might be able ta hook me up with a nice hovel up north, aye? A shed, even. So I can bide out my days.”

He senses the other man moving closer to him, but he wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes he’d left when he’d had the chance, so he doesn’t have to bat his eyes up at Simon as he inflicts that pity, coming over to brace a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, just shy of telling him, ‘chin up, son, things could be worse’.

Aye, but can they though? Johnny wonders. Because he can’t think of anything worse right now than turning away from the love of his life, dressed like that, looking at him like that.

Simon barely gets his hand up to Johnny’s jaw, his mouth drifting above his, ready to lean, just as—

“What the hell are ye doing, Simon?” Johnny breathes, pulling back, regretting not having shut his eyes as he watches his face fall. “What are we doing?” he amends, that collective address, you and me.  

What the fuck are we doing right now?

Simon retracts, breath held, and he goes back to standing in front of him, that statue in black.

“I dunno,” he answers, and Christ—he really sounds hurt.

“This is all just…” Johnny exhales, bringing his hands up to scrape his close-cropped hair, willing solutions to start spilling from his head, anything to fix the way this is making him feel. Still—he can’t force himself to say ‘a mistake’.

So he just asks another impossible question. “Why’d ye come here, Simon?”

The man stares back at him, shrugging those sharp shoulders. “Price sent me for—”

“No, not tha’,” Johnny cuts, rocking on the edge of the mattress now. “Why’d ye come ta see me, Ghost?”

Maybe it’s the use of his callsign, but Simon tenses up, his jaw held firm as he struggles to find his answer.

Johnny only waits a few more seconds before whispering, “Did ye miss me too?”

Simon’s gaze shifts to the floor now, always looking for an out when it comes to addressing his emotions, like his brain just malfunctions at the thought of saying it aloud. 

But Johnny doesn’t really need him to answer.

And despite the crushing depth of the moment, despite all the sentiments of pain that linger in the space between them, he finds himself asking an even worse question, one that hovers like a death threat, but it needs to be spoken.

Because maybe it’ll hurt just right to hear him say: because you told me to.

“Why did ye leave?”

Small, broken, like he’d felt waking up in that hospital. Alone. His parents, his captain, his friend, but not—not him. Not that voice in the back of his head, like thunder, to bring him back to the surface.

Why did I let you? is a better question, even more difficult to touch.

John waits for the blow that will give him his exit plan, the reason for him to say: it’s alright, Simon, I understand. And then the two of them will part ways, knowing that they’d never been brave enough to commit to that long shot, just pretty words in the dark that mean nothing anymore.

But Simon simply stands there quietly for a few seconds, eyes still on the carpet. And when he answers, it’s shallow and dark, but self-inflicted.

“I moved you.”

It takes Johnny a second to realize he can’t make much sense of that, shaking his head at him. “What?”

“I…I fucking moved you, Johnny. After—after you fell. I…” Simon’s voice seems to strangulate, rasping out even harsher.

Johnny just holds his breath.

“I moved you from where you were lying. The…the building was coming down and…I panicked. I just…grabbed you.”

All he can do is stare, uncomprehending.

“It was only when Price got to us that I realized I…I shouldn’t have fucking touched you. Not till we got you stabilized. Christ, I…I took your helmet off. I practically dragged you on your fucking spine, I…”

He waits, mouth open, but there’s nothing to say. Nothing to wrap his head around, just—

“I could’ve killed you, Johnny.”

There’s no response to be had, just that look, in those eyes.

Yet Simon keeps talking. Keeps trying to explain.

“And then they…they couldn’t send in the fucking med team in time, so we just—we took you in ourselves. Price has more medical training than I have, so we…we tried to stabilize you, get you to the field hospital in time—it was…”

That memory from before. Hands on his chest, Gaz’s steady voice, all that yelling.

“You were…”

Simon falters, jaw tightening, eyes dark.

“After that—we got you back home and we thought…there was…” He breathes sharply, a barely controlled expression of grief. “I thought you were paralyzed, John.”

They only call him ‘John’ when things are serious, all of them. When something’s fucking wrong.

“I thought…” Simon rasps, shaking his head at the carpet. “I thought you’d ask me…”

He doesn’t need to say the rest. Because they’re both remembering that conversation about worst fears, wondering if pulling the plug is the same as that trigger he’d asked for.

Johnny still doesn’t know if he’d have gone through with it—if his legs refused to move and he’d be trapped in that cage forever. So Simon chose his own fear instead—walking away.

And maybe that’s the reason for the pain behind his eyes now, the guilt that he sees fit to harbor over something that isn’t his fucking fault.

Maybe that’s why Johnny keeps putting himself under the knife, all that scar tissue just his body’s defense, a shield so he doesn’t have to feel how sharp it really is.

Maybe they’re both just fucking stupid. So fucking stupid.

Regardless of it all, Johnny finds himself standing up from the bed, balance still fucked, but he shuffles forward to reach him. He doesn’t know when Simon had sat down, but he stands in front of him now, a reversal of all those times before.

All he can think to do is grab his hand, holding it in his own before dragging it up his chest.

He settles it against his neck, the carotid still pumping tirelessly, despite everything.

And Simon doesn’t look up, but his fingers press in deeper, breaths keeping time with the heartbeats beneath. A reminder, that he’s still fucking here. Here as in alive, here as in right in front of him in this hotel room.

“Hey,” leaves Johnny in a whisper, a callused thumb brushing his bottom lip as if to keep it there. “Ye can’t get rid of me tha’ easily, Riley.”

It’s painfully romantic, he’d wager, watching Simon’s feather-light blond lashes close, his forehead leaning to rest against Johnny’s sternum, even the low huff of:

“Believe me, I’ve tried…”

And when Johnny stumbles, it’s mostly gravity that drags him down against that solid chest, although it might just be another one of those things; fate giving them a nudge.

Like why Price had sent his lieutenant to Kentigern, when the headquarters in Whitehall are just around the corner. Why Simon opted to wear his dress attire when he could have easily gotten away with those standard-issue fatigues. Why they both don’t have an answer to that question—what are we doing?—because some things are better left for the universe to decide.

Simon holds him in place, falling back and still breathing against his heartbeat. And it could be a few seconds, or six hours, or a lifetime, but he grumbles out, “Boots off the bed, MacTavish,” and Johnny can’t fight the dry chuckle, feeling it tickle with the way Simon’s got his hair brushing against his neck.

“Naw, LT. Think I like ‘em jus’ where they are.”

“Stubborn, aren’t you.”

“Aye.”

“And cheeky too,” Simon mutters, catching Johnny’s hand as he attempts to undo a few of those buttons—it’s not even sexual, he just wants to have that tactile sense.

“Mmn. Plus I’m a bloody Scorpio…”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Dunno,” Johnny hums against him. “But it isn’t good.”

The other man just shifts his weight slightly, tugging Johnny lower so he can fit his head into the crook of his neck, fingers still drawing lightly on his pulse.

“Sorry fer ruinin’ yer good mood, Simon,” Johnny mumbles, cherishing the subtle snort beneath him.

“Who says I was in a good mood?”

“Breakfast in bed—”

“That was hardly breakfast.”

“Wearin’ them fancy clothes for me—”

“Not for you, I needed to make a good impression.”

“Callin’ me pretty…”

“That’s because you fuckin’ are.”

“Oi—” Johnny barely gets his yelp out before Simon bodily turns him on his back, arching on his elbows to lean over him.

And the man stares down at him—god, he’s so fucking gorgeous—just tracing his eyes over Johnny’s whole face, not blinking.

Rather than explaining himself, or kissing him senseless like Johnny hopes, Simon chooses to drop his weight into a gentle curl, tucking against the smaller man’s torso, his scruffy head resting right below his chin.

They just lie there on the bed, fully clothed, Simon’s arms wrapping underneath John’s jacket as he nestles against him. Warm. Solid. Boots still on.

“Wha’ are we doing?” Johnny sighs, that same question from before, but he doesn’t dread the answer this time. Because Simon mutters:

“Right now? I’m cashin’ in on all those mornings I let you sleep past your alarm.”

“Aye, it’s not my alarm, ye rocket,” he reminds, scraping his chin against the head beneath in protest.

“I ain’t done nowt wrong,” Simon mutters in his strongest Manchester drawl yet.

“I’m no’ the one dousin’ meself with cold water at the crack of dawn jus’ ta prove a point.”

“And what point is that, hm?”

“Tha’ ye’re not some grumpy little bludger who’d rather snooze till noon.”

“Hmph...”

“Or tha’ our Ghostie boy doesn’t like a good cuddle.”

“Dunno what you’re on about…”

“It’s a’right, Riley, I won’t tell a soul.”

“Piss off.”

They end up lying there for a good portion of the afternoon, finally getting that chance to sleep in.

And Johnny does eventually shrug his boots off, but he takes more time with Simon’s buttons, laying him out on the sheets below, drinking in the sight of all that pale skin flushing pink beneath his touch.

He doesn’t think ‘mishandling crutches’ is a good enough excuse for the bruises on his neck this time…

Nevertheless, Simon gets his money’s worth for the deluxe room.

And they make their way to the train station without ever having filled in those blanks: what do we do now?

Johnny makes an effort, at least, shoving his hand in one of Simon’s pockets as they linger by the edge of the ticket booth, colder now than it was yesterday.

“Right, so—I’m gonnae go on home, an’ ye’re gonnae head back ta base.”

Simon nods, turning a bit so Johnny can burrow in his open coat instead, balancing on one crutch.

“I’m gonnae have surgery, an’ ye’re gonnae take good care of all yer new toys.”

That gets a low snort, a hand coming up to fix Johnny’s hat back into place.

“An’ then…”

If fate could give them a nudge, now would be the time. But there are no divine revelations sprinkling down on the weathered Queen Street platform, just rain, a trace of hail in their forecast, along with more scar tissue to cover it all up with.

So they keep pretending.  

“Then we’ll see about next time, aye?”

“As long as the pigeon racket keeps to a minimum…”

“Och, whit’s fer ye’ll no’ go past ye!”

“You know I hold it against you when you do that, Johnny.”

“Yer loss.”

“Well, it’s certainly not your win.”

“I dinnae say nothin’ ‘bout yer ‘nowts an’ owts’, do I?”

“I don’t talk like that.”

“Ach, ye know ye do, ye Manc swine.”

The softest chuckle; he feels it rumble from where he’s got his ribs pressed into Simon’s jacket, so very warm. 

“Ye oughtta be nicer ta me, Riley, y’know. Else I won’t invite ye up ta my hovel when it’s ready.”

“Thought it was a shed.”

“Aye, I had ta downgrade the guest room. Ye’ll be sleepin’ with me in the hayloft.”

“Lucky us.”

Lucky, hm, now there’s a thought.

Is it really the right word for what they're feeling right now, as Simon’s train pulls into the station, barely a courtesy of two minutes before speeding off into the mid-day hailstorm?

Johnny might feel a touch of it, maybe, when the man pulls him closer in those last few seconds, tugging him into his thick coat, holding him like a sweetheart he’s trading for war. Which he may as well be.

I’m lucky enough, Johnny thinks, always the one to pull away first, rocking back on one crutch to give him a parting wave, to be standing here in the first place. To be held by him at least one more time.

“I’ll see ye, Simon,” he says, a promise with no guarantee.

At first, he thinks Simon’ll go with his usual, ‘right’, or just a nod with nothing more. But the man takes a step back, then one forward, hesitant, eyes narrowed beneath his black cap and facemask.  

Without a word, he swiftly draws something from his pocket, a glint of metal, before he slips it over Johnny’s head.

“Wha’—?”

Everyone in 141 knows Ghost doesn’t wear tags, but none of them know why. Johnny’d tried to ask him once, and all he’d gotten was a vague, “Don’t like leaving a trace.”

Now all he says is, “Keep them safe,” patting the metal against John’s heartbone, more important than a goodbye.

And then Johnny just—

Watches him go.

He stands there, long past the train’s departure, enough for the hail to arrive and his legs to start shaking, already wobbly on just the one crutch.

Then he makes his way over to a bench, maybe the same one as yesterday, fondling the cold metal between his fingertips. He feels numb, but not enough that he can’t trace the letters with his thumb, memorizing each one. Simon T Riley, Simon T Riley, Simon T Riley…

Johnny sits long enough for his sister to arrive, his time spent trying to stop his leg from twitching, failing to keep his eyes from watering, wondering what that ‘T’ stands for, wishing he could have the courage to ask…

Maybe one day.

Maybe soon.

Caroline sits down next to him, and he knows he must look like the picture of pity right now, unshed tears and yesterday’s clothes, his lover’s dog-tags laced over the hickeys on his neck he’ll need Ruth’s makeup to cover up.

And he knows his sister won’t breach that line, but he reminds her anyway.

“Not a word…”

So Caro nods at him, slipping her arm under his and watching him dab his eyes with his jacket sleeve.

She lets him sit there a bit longer, till the hail finally stops, helping him to his feet and guiding him to their train.

And she keeps quiet as he slips the tags beneath his sweater, nodding with forced acceptance when she finally says:

“Let’s go home, Johnny.”     

Chapter Text

“I’m havin’ surgery next week,” Johnny tells Alice over his shoulder, currently making a right mess of the holiday decorations she’d asked him to sort through, an entire thread of tinsel now trying to merge with his sleeve.

The two of them had met up at the community center, Alice having mentioned needing help to prepare for some Christmas brunch thing for the local church, and Johnny, being bored out of his mind, had agreed to lend her a hand.

Christ—he can’t believe it’s already the first week of December. One month since his birthday. Almost three weeks since Glasgow.

Not that he’s counting…

“Aye, I think Elaine mentioned tha’ at the last council meetin’. Seemed a bit fashed abou’ it, the poor quine.”

Johnny snorts lightly. Trust his mam to make a bigger deal out of it than he is, but she’d always been a fussy one. “Ach, she’s got nothin’ ta worry about. Doctors say it’s a fairly standard procedure.”

He’d already had his pre-op physical and lab tests, a new back brace fitted during his last appointment that’s keeping a firm pressure around his middle. But he can’t complain.

“An’ wha’ about you, John?” Alice asks, coming over to assist him in properly identifying which pieces go with the nativity scene and which were misplaced footballer figurines. He doesn’t think the community would respond well to Wayne Rooney being present at the birth of Christ. “Feelin’ nervous?”

Johnny simply shrugs, having not really given it much thought. They’d had to rush the date a little bit, Dr. Lamb intending to come over from Glasgow to the hospital in Dundee for closer convenience, pushing him in just before the holidays. Johnny supposes the only thing he’s really concerned about is how zonked he’ll be from the anesthesia; never really takes well to it, like a drooling drunkard, but he knows he’ll have his family around to get him back on his feet this time. 

“Should be fine,” he assures Alice, not feeling as confident in his ability to untangle this spool of plastic cranberries, a wise man or two caught in the barbwire.

Alice seems to take that as the cop-out it is, returning to dressing up the tables with nice cherry-red tablecloths.

They’d done a fine job restoring the place, from what Johnny can tell, the community center having been thoroughly devastated from the flood a few years back. He hadn’t been here at the time, but he’d gathered enough from all the yak about it to know that it had been a very difficult ordeal for the town. Consequently, Mrs. Clyne had taken it as a personal mission to restore the center these past few months, Johnny pointedly not asking if it has anything to do with the fact that her late son had been fond of hanging out here. 

“How’s the writin' goin’ then?” Alice teases after a few minutes of comfortable silence, smiling as Johnny shakes his head.

“Och, still barren on tha’ front, I’m afraid.”

“Wha’, ye got nothin’ fer inspiration?” Well, he can think of several long, lengthy soliloquies he could wax poetic about long, lengthy legs…but he’d rather not put those in writing.

Last he’d heard from Simon, he’d been sent on a low-stakes recon stint, somewhere in Europe; he couldn’t specify. That had been about a week ago, but Johnny’s not too worried. They’d…

They’d gone back to their usual stunted contact methods, a text here, a one-word reply there. Not that he’s surprised. In fact—he ought to mention the surgery to him, seeing as he actually hadn’t brought it up yet. 

“Dunno,” John mumbles, already losing his train of thought. “I’ll need ta think on it.”

“Well, I had an idea fer a gatherin’ of sorts here in the center, maybe get a few people who’re inta tha’ sorta thing, have us a little writin’ club.”

“Tha’s a fine thought, Mrs. C,” Johnny says. “Though I’m not sure I’d pass muster.”

“Ach, John. Ye’re too hard on yersel. An’ I toldya ta call me Alice, dear, aye?”

He nods, smirking as he watches her fumble around trying to find the optimal placement for a wreath. “S’ppose we could give it a go.”

Having successfully designated the item to one of the doors, Alice smiles back, brushing her hands as a sign of a job complete. “I’ll see about settin’ it up then.”

John honestly doesn't have much faith in his writing abilities, as he hadn’t even attempted anything of the sort for at least a year now. He used to scribble away in a journal back on base sometimes, but that hobby fizzled out the more he thought about how much of a struggle it is to wrangle one’s thoughts; especially when those thoughts revolve around a certain imponderable individual…

One-word replies can only get you so far…

Sighing, Johnny shuffles out of his seat, winding his back to alleviate some of the stiffness. He then gathers up the collection of misfit footballers with a snort, asking Alice, “Ye want these back? Might be somethin’ fer Nicholas ta trifle with.”

At the mention of her grandson’s name, the woman falters slightly. “Ah, I—naw. The lad’s gonnae be spendin’ the holidays with Christy up at her parents' in Elgin.”

“Jings, tha’s a hike,” John says, feeling even more remorseful when the woman’s expression slips further.

“Aye, they’re…they’re thinkin’ ‘bout movin’ up there as well.”

Johnny’s heart practically breaks in that second, watching Alice struggle to put on a false smile. He gets another pang of sympathy when he realizes that the woman will likely be left entirely alone for Christmas and New Year's.

Rather than address the first problem, he tackles the second. “Likesay, we’ve got plenty’a room o’er at the MacTavishes. We’d be happy ta have ya over fer a Christmas roast, Mrs. C.”

She waves a hand politely, looking rather frail in her knitted jumper. “Ach, John. I wouldnae want ta be a bother.”

“Cannae imagine we’ll be bothered by ye, ma’am, seein’ as we’re the ones gone gyte.” He bats away her attempt to express protest. “Really—we’re no’ even havin’ a big thing ourselves, what with me needin’ ta recover. It’ll be nice. Subdued,” he stresses, hoping that’s the case.

“I’ll think about it, John.”

“Aye, Mrs. C.”

“Alice, dear,” she reminds, and it’s fond enough to stir Johnny into a genuine smile.

He leaves her after she insists on him taking the action figures for his nieces, knowing Jessie will get a kick out of them—which turns out to be not far from literal, as when he returns home, the wee lass spends the entire afternoon punting the poor bastards off the staircase with shrieks of glee.

“Jessie!” mam chides, nearly tripping over a wayward Ronaldo, who seems to have lost his head in the carnage. “In the name o’ the wee man!” she exclaims, referring to an entirely different wee man, but Johnny just chuckles at the hilarity.

He also takes no small amount of pride in the fact that his mam now calls his niece by the correct name, all the more appropriate for dishing out scoldings.

Agatha rolls her eyes next to him, recently dropped off after school, continuing to doodle as they sit at the counter together. “She’s right soor the day,” she mutters, and Johnny smirks at her sass, unsure if she’s referring to mam or Jessie. “Let me see yer hand, Uncle John.”

He obliges, not protesting when the girl begins doodling on his palm, and then all the fingers, although he is curious. “Wha’s this for, hen?”

“Fer good luck,” Agatha proclaims, pushing up her glasses and scratching away at a little smiley face on his knuckle. “Mam says ye’re gettin’ cut up by a buncha doctors soon.”

“Did she now?” He’d have to ask Caro about that. Seems more of Ruth’s M.O., what with her mediocre parenting. Another footballer clatters to the ground to emphasize that point, followed by an exasperated, “Jessie!”

Agatha hums a vague tune. “Mn-hm. An’ I dinnae want ye ta be scared.”

“Ach, there’s nowt ta be scared of, Ags,” he says, inadvertently slipping in one of Simon’s Manc words. He nearly chuckles if not for the telling frown from his niece.

“Bu’…the last time…” she mumbles, pausing her doodles to pout at his hand. “Mam said ye was really hurt. An’ we was all worried ‘bout ye, Uncle John.”

Johnny frowns too. “Och, awa’, lass. I’m much better now, aye?” He’d been uncertain how much his niece had been aware of his injury. Caro rarely even mentions it, and she’s young enough to be spared the grimmer details. Evidently, she’d caught on enough to be frightened.

“Mn-hm,” Aggie hums again, pursing her mouth and insisting, “Bu’ I still think ye need good luck.” 

So Johnny lets her continue graffitiing his hand with an excess of robots and hearts and other various nonsense.

When she’s done, Aggie moves on to her sketchbook, and John idly begins scribbling with his own fountain pen, the gift from Alice. Just various letterings on a blank page to practice his penmanship, but he notices a trend soon enough.

Simon Terrence Riley…Simon Thomas Riley…Simon Timothy Riley…

His mother returns to the kitchen after yelling something else at Jessie, the lass scuttering off like a goblin somewhere upstairs.

“Ye get on with Alice, babes?” she asks, and Johnny doesn’t look up from his page.

“Yeah, she’s got the place all nicely decorated,” he says, scratching out more hypotheticals:

Simon Tristan Riley…Simon Theodore Riley…Simon Tennessee Riley…he snorts into his palm.

“Ach—I forgot,” John adds. “Told Mrs. Clyne she could stop by fer the holidays.”

“That was thoughtful, Johnny,” mam says, although he can sense her shift into a momentary panic within seconds. “Aye—we’ll need ta get the bigger ham then, I oughtta tell Jack. Ach, an’ Caroline said she was makin’ pudding, I’ll need her ta double it—”

Johnny just chuckles as his mother carries on with her nonsense, the page beneath him echoing that sentiment.

Simon Trombone Riley…Simon Tank Riley…Simon Thicc-AF Riley…

“Wha’s tha’, Uncle John? Yer Christmas list?”

Johnny nearly squawks when he catches Agatha peering at him. He quickly crumples the page, going over to toss it in the bin with an under-the-breath, “I wish…”

Next week, on the morning of December the twelfth, Johnny’s parents drive him to Dundee for his surgery.

He’d come prepared with his bag of essentials, the paperwork, taken his meds, not eaten since last night, not smoked in the past weeks like a good boy. Now he just sits in the backseat, drowning out the sounds of his mother’s nervous ramblings and wishing they didn’t still strike a chord.

Because—despite this being a fairly simple, straightforward procedure—Johnny finds himself a little anxious as well.

Shame a cigarette could help with that right about now…

Mam’s fussing certainly doesn’t offer much benefit. “Ye sure they said it was a’right fer ye ta take yer anti-depressants? ‘Cause I wouldnae want tha’ affectin’ anythin’, aye?” Just broadcast that to the entire hospital, why doesn’t she…

“It’s fine. I told ye already.”

“Yes, but—”

Johnny swats at her hands as they sit in the waiting room, insisting she doesn’t need to, “Treat me like a baby, Christ’s sake, I’ve already had about a bloody dozen surgeries, ya weapon.”

Elaine gives an exaggerated pout, still restlessly wringing her fingers. “Well, excuse me fer tryin’ ta be helpful.” Aye, helpful, that’s the word.

Grumbling out a sigh, Johnny fosters immense relief when da suggests, “Lanie, why dinnae ye go check in with tha’ nurse we met, see about arrangin’ the room fer when he’s done with the procedure.”

They both sag a bit when the woman leaves, Johnny leaning more towards a stressed hunch in his seat. He swipes a hand across his head, scuffing the dusting of hair that had been cropping up recently. He’d neglected to buzz it at the first of the month like he had been, something about someone wanting him to grow it out…

He exhales, not managing to quell the uneasiness in his gut.

“Y’a’right, lad?” da asks, and although his son nods, there’s very little to be assured by.

Another nurse comes to go over the procedure Johnny already knows, but when she mentions bringing him into the preoperative room, reminding him to, “Make sure ye’ve got all valuable items safely stowed, tha’ includes any money, jewelry, et cetera,” he has a moment of panic.

“A-aye.” He’d forgotten. Three and a half weeks since Glasgow and he hadn’t taken Simon’s tags off once.

Not even to bathe. Not even to sleep.

He feels them now, the solid weight against his sternum, a good-luck charm if there ever was one.

When the nurse goes to consult with the surgeon, Johnny’s left scrambling, turning to his da with barely contained apprehension. Ruefully, he slips his fingers around the chain, tugging the tags off and staring at the floor as he holds them out to his father.

“Can ye…jus’ put these in the bag with my other stuff.”

Jack raises a brow, but takes them, a predicted question: “These yers?”

Johnny shakes his head, his hand already ghosting across the vacant spot on his neck. “Ah, no, they…they’re from someone I…”

It’s safe to assume his father is filling that blank in with ‘lost’. Which may as well be accurate.

He doesn’t ask.

Johnny slumps further in the seat, brushing his thumb over the nearly-faded doodles Aggie had sketched across his hand last week. So much for luck…

They take him into the pre-op room so Johnny can change, but he’s left idling for a fair bit, his parents having left to wait until the surgery’s done; should be around two hours from what he’d been told.

He’d been allowed to keep a few of his things with him, finding little relief in anxiously scrolling through his phone, but it’s the tremor of nerves that inspires him to do something rash, and surprisingly it isn’t to call Simon Riley.

He waits for the dial to ring, only taking a few seconds before—

“Ayy, Johnny Mac, what’s up, mate?”

A smirk splits his face despite his tension; something about Gaz’s voice always cheers him up.

“Nothin’ much,” Johnny mumbles. “Jus’ waitin’ fer this damn surgery.”

“Shit, that’s today, innit?” Gaz hisses. “Sorry, man, I shoulda called to wish ya luck.”

“Ach, didnae wanna make a big deal of it anyway.”

“Nah, mate, reckon it’s a big enough deal to put someone on edge. Was wonderin’ why our lieutenant was bein’ extra grumpy today.”

“Wha’, Ghost?” Johnny asks, a hitch in his chest. 

There’s a snicker from the phone. “Shoulda seen him nearly lay out one of the canteen workers, thought someone had pissed in his tea.”

“Well he’d hardly recognize it, what with all that goddamn sugar.”

“Too true, bruv,” Garrick laughs. “But don’t tell me the bastard didn’t ring you or nothin’?”

“Ach, well…ye know…” Johnny struggles to find an excuse for why Simon didn’t, in fact, give him a call. Not even a pity text. He frowns at the floor.

“That wanker,” Gaz accuses, rightfully so. “Been actin’ like a right dodgy prick since he met ya up in Glasgow, but I swear—thought he’d at least have the decency to call.”

“It’s…” Johnny struggles to say ‘alright’. There’s always been a similar level of unspokenness in the SAS that he’d garnered with his family; a kind of ‘don’t ask’ mentality that allowed Johnny to continue under the guise that he and Simon were being subtle. But Gaz and a few select others know enough about their ‘relationship’ to stick up for him on his behalf, which he’d always been secretly grateful for.

After Ghost had left for that op after his coma, Gaz had, not in so many words, asked Johnny if he'd like him to 'take care of him', and while the gesture had been noted, Johnny's glad his friend decided against fragging his superior officer.

That would've been a mess, alright. 

Still advocating his case, Garrick makes a sharp tsk on the other end. “Reckon our LT needs a swift kick in his arse to set him straight. I’ll be sure to give him your regards.”

“Ye really dinnae have ta—” Johnny tries to cut him off, but his friend won’t have it.

“Nah, man. Someone’s gotta teach that white boy to get his priorities sorted.”

Johnny shakes his head, snorting. As flattered as he is, he doesn’t know if an active service member in counter-terrorism ought to consider his sometimes-fling a priority.

It’s a nice thought though…

Gaz starts going off about some other shenanigans happening on base, a more frequent occurrence when they’re not on mission alert, and Johnny quips and chuckles along, albeit a tad jealously, but it is a comfort to hear the other man’s voice for a while.

He certainly doesn’t have much in the way of friends these days, if you don’t count sixty-year-old grieving women...

Johnny knows he shouldn’t, but he inexplicably finds himself picking at that memory he’d revisited, later corroborated by Simon, of all of them in that helicopter, and his morbid curiosity wins out.

“Si—Ghost mentioned somethin’ when he was over,” he says after a break in the conversation, already regretting it. “’Bout how they couldn’t send in the med unit, after I…y’know, and you guys had ta step in?”

Gaz lets out a low exhale. “Christ, mate, yeah.” He’d evidently not been expecting Johnny to bring up the accident, but he rolls with it. “There was supposed to be a reserve helo for medevac, but they didn’t want to risk an airstrike. We’re lucky Cap had Nik on standby, because by that point you were pretty fucked up, man.”

The lack of bullshitting in Garrick’s accounts is always appreciated by Johnny. It’s why he’d asked in the first place, rarely able to get a straight answer from anyone else.

“Turns out Price has mad skills with field treatment,” his friend continues, “Otherwise you woulda been stuck with me and LT taking turns try’na resuscitate ya, and fuck—you have no idea how batshit Ghost was actin’.”

No. He doesn’t. But Johnny finds that all he wants right now is an encyclopedic, intimate description of his exact behavior at the time. For…educational purposes.

“Wha’, over me?” he attempts to brush off.

“Mate,” Gaz says, and Johnny doesn’t think there’s ever been such depth to the term before. “Christ, he was fucking losing it, Soap.”

There’s a brief intake of breath where John feels his entire being threaten to shatter. Is it wrong to feel a tiny thrill from it?

“Never seen him like that, and lemme tell ya—it was a scary sight. Bloody screamin’ his head off. Price had to threaten to sedate him, if you can believe.”

Is this why he asked? Is this what he’d wanted to hear? Johnny just sits there, cradling the mobile against his ear, a scant buffer for the electrical fire ripping through his head.

His voice is hushed when he mutters, “Damn. He’s usually so much better at…” pretending not to care, “bein’ in control, y’know?”

“Shit, yeah—and that’s not even all,” Gaz adds. “When we met up at the temporary FOB, I swear to God, Ghost nearly killed one of the reserves for not pushing to greenlight that evac.”

Johnny’s mouth opens, a dry rasp. “Ye serious?”

“Deadass, man. If Cap didn’t jump in, I really think he would’ve bashed that guy’s skull in.” There’s the sound of a barely stifled shiver on Gaz’s end.

Now that he has this information that he so desperately coveted, Johnny doesn’t know what to do with it. All he can think to say is, “Well, thank God for Price then.”

“Amen,” Garrick agrees, a fair amount of admiration in his voice; always did idolize the man. “Which reminds me—brass is still stonewalling that commendation he’s supposed to get, but when they do manage to take their thumbs out of their arses, there should be a small ceremony or somethin’.” Johnny only waits with one reluctant breath before, “You should come, mate.”

“Ach, I dunno,” he tries to reason, even though it is a good opportunity to show his former captain the respect he deserves. He’s just not sure he wants to be…seen by everybody yet. “I’m not really up fer travelin’ these days.”

“Your call, man.” Gaz understands him enough not to push him, another reason he enjoys their interactions. “But ya’ve got time to think on it. Haven’t the foggiest why they’ve been draggin’ their feet for so long.”

“Yeah, well, I know a thing or two abou’ bein’ put on the backburner,” John jokes, rubbing up and down his scalp to get the feeling back in his fingertips; he’d gone near numb over those revelations so casually revealed. “S’pposed to have started this surgery fifteen minutes ago.”

“Shame on the bastard that’s makin’ Johnny Mac wait,” Gaz tsks, clicking his tongue.

“It’s a’right, actually,” Johnny says. “Been feelin’…I dunno, mate.” He sighs, coming clean. “Jus’ feelin’ a wee bit nervous.”

“Aw, hang in there, bruv,” his friend consoles, only a faint tease in his tone. “Ain’t got nothin’ to worry about, y’hear?”

Johnny sighs again, conceding, “Aye, I know. Jus’ no’ lookin’ forward to gettin’ looped off the anesthetics.”

“Holy shit, yeah,” Gaz says with a laugh. “That time with your wisdom teeth, man—”

“We do not speak of it,” John deadpans, but the bastard keeps chuckling at his expense.

They chat for a bit longer before a nurse comes to inform him that the surgeon is all ready to go, and then he’s left with just a hint of panic, going to stow his mobile with the rest of his stuff when a sudden buzz stops him in his tracks.

Just a single text:

He ought to be offended. He ought to be annoyed. He ought to call him out on being such a hopeless twat, such a horrible fucking communicator.

Yet Johnny just stares at the screen, lapsing into a momentary image of rage and regret and fear, coming from a man who doesn’t know how to channel those feelings, blood on his hands so he doesn’t have to cope with the way they shake for him.

So much unspoken, not nearly eloquent enough to express his truths.

Is it bad that he finds it comforting, the notion of someone choking out some poor bystander on his behalf, just because he needed something to take it out on?

Probably.

But Johnny just taps a quick reply out:

And when he enters the OR, he doesn’t feel as nervous.

The worst part about anesthesia, John has determined, is the waking-up part. Because prior to that, he’s just lying in the operating room, as cozy as can be expected, getting the IV, and in the next second—

He stirs groggily awake. As if nothing had occurred in the past however many hours, just a chunk of time ripped away with no indication of how large or vital it had been.

He hates how inherently lost he feels.

“Are ye with us, Mr. MacTavish?” a nurse is asking, somewhere to his right. “Ye might be feelin’ a wee bit sleepy or dizzy, John. Can I call ye John?”

He just groans out an ambiguous sound. No, he doesn’t feel like a ‘John’ in this moment. He doesn’t even feel like a person.

Blinking sluggishly, Johnny attempts to move his head, the strap of an oxygen mask preventing him from turning too much on his side.

“Easy there, sweetheart,” that same nurse says, or maybe a different one. “Dr. Lamb, will ye have a look at—”

He blinks out for a bit, mind slipping.

“BP’s good, respiratory’s looking better. Get a read on that temp.”

“38.2, sir.”

A low hiss.

“Let’s have a look at the incision again.”

Distantly, Johnny recognizes that he’s being turned on his side, a woozy sensation like he’s afloat on some godforsaken raft.

There’s prodding around his back, muffled murmurs and whispers, then he’s placed back on the mattress.

Johnny shifts his neck, a terrible nausea crawling up and down his throat. He must groan again, because suddenly Dr. Lamb is in his face, peering at him with scrutiny.

“How’re we feelin’, son?” 

Failing to clear his throat, John’s reply of, “Hrmngh,” leaves a lot to be desired.

“Bit groggy, aye?” He goes to nod, unsure of the results. “Feeling any strong amount of pain, MacTavish?”

Croaking around the dryness, Johnny manages to say, “S’naw’tha’ba’,” which is hardly any better than his first effort. Besides, he can’t even tell if he’s in pain or not; that might not be a good thing…  

“A’right, ye want the good news or the bad news?” Lamb dishes out a measured frown and Johnny struggles to keep focus on his face. From his lack of solid response, the surgeon just decides for him. “Good news is, we’ve managed ta remove the herniated portion of yer disk, as well as a fair amount of scar tissue within the affected area. This should leave enough space in the spinal canal to begin decreasing that pressure around yer spine, hopefully leavin’ ye with less pain than before, aye?”

Johnny agrees to attempt to move his arms and legs at Lamb's request, the surgeon guiding him through it. He does manage, albeit sloppily, and Lamb confirms that his motor functions appear unaffected. So that’s not the bad news.

“Wh’s’wrong then?” Johnny slurs, his mind coming back enough to hone in on that particular thread.  

“Well, aside from yer rather unlucky reaction to the anesthesia,” Lamb says sympathetically, “ye’re runnin’ a bit of a fever, lad. We’ll keep ye here in the PACU a tad longer to monitor, but chances are, we could be lookin' at a wee touch of an infection at the incision site.”

Blinking lethargically, Johnny nods, unsure if he’s supposed to respond.

"Not got a great immune system, have ye?" Lamb frowns. "It's pretty soon fer somethin' like this ta pop up, but we can try to counter it quickly, aye?"

Infection had been one of the risks, Johnny’d known. A minor one, too, but that doesn’t make it any more appealing.

Part of him wonders if it's from his smoking habit picking up, despite his trying to quit these past weeks. Karma, he supposes.

Lamb goes over the patient-controlled analgesia administered through his IV, telling him to push the button any time the pain gets to be too much. At the mention of that, John does start to notice the creeping ache up his back, a prickly sting that seems manageable enough. For now.

“If ye like, I can go see about bringing yer parents in, lad.”

Johnny nods again, even though he isn’t particularly keen to see anyone right now. Or to be seen, for that matter.

And when his parents do arrive, things only seem to get worse.

Mam immediately rushes to his side, tutting as she tries to pet his head while he wriggles. “Ach, Johnny, babes, lookit ye, poor thing. Feelin’ a bit warm, isnae he?” She turns accusatorily to the medical staff, and Johnny wants to melt into the bed from his embarrassment. 

“Aye, ma’am,” Lamb begins explaining. “That's normal after surgery, though we are keepin’ him monitored for infection. We can set him up in the inpatient unit soon enough.”

Unconvinced, Elaine starts shooting off a bunch of questions to the flustered surgeon, and Johnny sinks deeper into his mortification, somehow worsening after his da comes over to help him take a sip of water.

What should be soothing relief to his dry throat only kindles that lurch in his esophagus, a clammy tremor of dread, before—

“Da,” he warns, “Th-think I’m gonnae—” John barely manages to jerk his head over the edge before vomiting on the side of the sheets.

Oh right, he remembers, this is the worst part of anesthesia.

His father manages to dodge most of it, one of the nurses instantly coming over to offer assistance, bless her.

Mam surprises him by halting her fussiness, actually stepping in to help wipe his face, a gentle brush across the top of his head as he continues dry-heaving into the offered receptacle. It’s oddly comforting for once. “Ah, my poor lamb. Crivens, child, ye certainly know how ta make a mess’a yersel.”

“M’a’righ’, m’fine,” he insists, despite another bout of nausea threatening to prove otherwise.

They only barely manage to clean the sheets, Johnny flopping back on the pillow and panting around his discomfort. 

Not as bad as that time with the wisdom teeth, he wagers, never going to live down the mortification of heaving his guts out on some bigwig major’s car in the base’s lot. Gaz certainly seemed to think it was hilarious.

Dr. Lamb continues to explain the results of the surgery to his parents, as if Johnny’s poor reaction isn’t some ill-boding indication that his recovery isn’t going to be as simple and straightforward as they’d hoped.

They do end up moving him to the private post-op room, one or two medical staff kept on standby to oversee his condition, the persistence of his fever and some inflammation around the incision site within a few hours prompting them to begin administering an antibiotic. Which just makes Johnny feel even more nauseous, go figure. Not to mention, thoroughly inebriated.

When his sister drops by to visit, Johnny’s pretty sure he’d thought she was one of the doctors for a solid six minutes, only slurring out a dubious, “Caro?” after he realizes she’d also been talking to him for those six minutes.

“Christ, John, ye look mad wae it, ye poor sod.” A very fair evaluation.

“I’ve been better,” he admits; although, if he’s remembering correctly, he’d been even worse off back in London after those previous surgeries. This feels more like the universe personally having a laugh at him though.

“Apparently all the nurses have been squabblin’ ta see who gets ta watch ye,” Caroline teases. “Turns out ye’re quite the stud when it comes to patients ‘round here.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Well, I already boked in front’a three of them,” he recalls with embarrassment. “Plus, I’ve got mam ta scare off all the rest.”

Case in point, he hears the distant yammer of his mother nagging another sorry individual somewhere in the hall. He shudders.

But all that talk of flirty nurses puts him slightly on edge, and without meaning to, he instinctively gropes at his chest, for tags that aren’t there. 

Can he consider himself spoken for if he can barely get a word out of the supposed second party?

His brain’s still too fucked to start unpacking that right now…

Caro sits with him for a bit, trying to determine if he’s well enough for visitors of the energetic child variety. But Johnny knows Agatha is probably eager to see him, so he lets her bring his niece in.

“Uncle John! Uncle John!”

As expected, the child immediately begins prattling away about her usual gibberish, and Johnny does try to keep up, but God—that antibiotic is doing a number on his already compromised cognizance.

“Really, Ags, tha’s somethin’,” he slurs, having no idea what that ‘something’ might have been. Probably about robots…

“An’ then, an’ then—I told the whole class you was gettin’ cut up today—” He understands enough of that one to cringe. “—So we all made ye this card ta feel better!”

“Oh, isnae tha’ lovely!” Caroline responds for him, holding the card in front of his face so he can get a look. All he can tell is it’s purple with a bunch of scribbles.

“Fuckin’ brill,” John mumbles, not even registering the swearing till Aggie giggles with delight.

It gets a quiet chuckle from Greg too, who’d tactfully remained with Frankie in the corner of the room, nothing to substantiate his presence besides the perfunctory, “Keepin’ on, mate?” before tending to his drooling child.

Now there’s a man who knows how not to make a fuss…

Once it’s clear how out of it he is, Caro escorts her pouting daughter back to the cafeteria, reminding her, “We have ta let Uncle John have his rest, darlin’. That way he can feel better soon.”

Their leaving does little to mend his disposition, though. If anything, he just feels even more abandoned.

At some point, a physio arrives to assist Johnny in a few rudimentary exercises, helping him log-roll out of bed. Dr. Lamb had insisted on having him move and walk as soon as he’s able, getting a head-start on stretching the root nerve to limit epidural fibrosis or something; he couldn’t pronounce ‘epidural fibrosis’ now if he tried.

And Johnny wouldn’t have minded the exercise otherwise, but the short effort of physical activity leaves him in far more pain than he’d anticipated, and soon thereafter he’s back to dry-heaving over the bathroom sink, his da returning to offer some pity-induced moral support.

“Tha’s it, lad. Easy does it.” Jack guides him back to the bed with the assistance of the physio, mam off somewhere undoubtedly tearing someone a new one over why her son is such a fucking mess still.

There’s no one to blame there but himself, Johnny knows.

By now, the pain around the surgical wound has amplified to a sharp, pinching fire, tendrils spreading up and down with every movement. Johnny grits his teeth on the bed, failing to stifle a low whine.

“Gaun, the doc said ta take some’a tha’ medication if ye’re feelin’ poorly, son,” Jack reminds, his palm gently rubbing John’s shoulder as he tries to stop shaking.

But Johnny won’t push the button. He doesn’t want more medication, even if he feels pretty fucking terrible right now.

No, he doesn’t need more goddamn drugs. He needs…he needs…

Goddamnit...

Just to add salt to the not-so-metaphorical wound, Johnny abruptly starts to cry.

A small sob at first, muffled into the pillowcase, but with his father’s increased petting, it gathers steam, and then he’s in the midst of a complete meltdown.

“I’m jus’ tired,” he tries to explain between sobs, assuming his hysterical reaction is simply a result of all the drugs in his system, because this is downright pitiful. “I’m jus’ fuckin’ tired, da.”

“Shhh, I know, lad. I know.”

But he’s not sure his father understands the magnitude of that statement—of just how fucking tired he is of constantly being the object of ridicule the universe so cruelly seems to cast him as. All the fucking time.

“Jus’ cannae catch a fuckin’ break,” Johnny croaks, dragging his wrist across his eyes, the other hand still searching the empty space above his chest, needing something to keep him anchored.

Please…

Just a call. Just a text…anything…

Maybe his father is more intuitive than he looks, though, because after failing to soothe his son with clumsy strokes through his hair, the man retracts for a moment, and then—

Cold, solid metal. A chain placed in his palm with care.

Jack MacTavish, that canny geezer...

He says nothing as his son grips the dog-tags, silently weeping as he presses them above his heart.

Someone he’d lost…

His da still doesn’t ask.

But when the crying doesn’t cease, he goes to alert the nurses, two of them coming in to read his vitals and offer Johnny a mild sedative.

So that’s three who’d seen him vomit, two now watching him cry like a wean—yeah, he can consider his ‘stud’ status revoked. Although he suspects one of them might currently be feeling up his bicep while she secures the blood pressure cuff; he’s still too delirious to tell for sure.    

Johnny wants to shake her off, to tell her, ‘I’ve got a man waitin’ fer me. Aye. Big bloke that’ll bash yer skull in if ye treat me wrong.’

But he doesn’t think that would help sell his case.

So all he can do to appease himself is to trace the letters on the metal in his hand, over and over and over.

B-Neg

28503612

Riley

Simon, T

01-05-87

Yeah, he thinks, Mr. Simon Too-good-to-be-true Riley, with those one-word replies, those blond lashes, spilling blood in his name as an act of defiance to the universe that hates them both, born on the first of May…

He’d never known that.

But it’s something that soothes him more effectively than the drugs, a secret just for him.

He holds onto it.

Johnny’s fever persists well into the afternoon.

His parents leave, at some point.

There are a few more tests, inspecting his wound.

His phone doesn’t ring.

The next day, his temperature spikes to 39.4, and Dr. Lamb tells him they may need to open the incision again and clean the wound.

They do.

It’s not fun.

A nurse says they’re probably going to have to keep him here for a few days.

More antibiotics. More nausea. More waiting.

They have him walk a bit. The brace is fitted around his middle again, feeling even tighter.

His parents come back, to sit with him for a while.

He doesn’t know if he talks to them or not.

There’s a lot of sleeping, he thinks. Just fading in and out while the fever addles his mind.

Simple. Straightforward.

It might be nighttime again when he thinks his temperature finally breaks, because he’s left lying on the stiff bed, his sheets soaked, feeling like a lorry had just tried to show him a good time.

Johnny spends about ten minutes wondering why his legs feel so scratchy, nudging at the compression stockings, a snakeskin tightening around his thighs.

Plus there’s this ceaseless ringing in his head, a droning buzz that won’t fucking stop.

It’s frankly absurd how long it takes him to realize it’s his mobile.

But the connection barely registers, even as he stares at the screen, a notification indicating nine missed calls simply failing to land in his rationale.

“Hello?” he answers, still baffled, even moreso when he’s met with an immediate:

“What the fuck, Johnny?”

Before he can get a breath in, it’s followed by:

“Can’t you answer your fucking phone?”

He blinks. “I jus’ have,” he reasons, not entirely certain why Simon’s voice is in his head, sounding as angry as it does.

“I’ve been calling you for an hour now, you dumb prick.” Right. The phone. Simon’s voice is in the phone.

“I’m…sorry?” Johnny rasps, not really sure why he’s apologizing. His head’s too fuzzy to make sense of anything right now.

“You never checked in with Garrick,” Simon utters harshly. “He thought you’d be home by now.”

Right. Gaz had texted. He must not have gotten back though.

“I’m still in hospital.”

There’s a stagnant pause. “Is…is everything alright?”

Johnny coughs into his elbow, voice still hoarse. “S’fine, Simon. I’m jus’…” making excuses; always making excuses. “Got a bit of a fever. An’ the drugs aren’t as fun as they should be.”

“Oh.”

Yes. An accurate assessment.

“Thought ye’d call,” he confesses, remembering that Simon had, in fact, called, but that’s not what he’s referring to. “Before. I thought ye’d call me before the surgery. And after.”

Another lengthy pause on the other man’s end.

“Right,” Johnny concludes. “Well, ye can tell Garrick tha’ I’m fine then.”

“Johnny…”

They shouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Not with him so looped from the medication. Not with Simon so socially absent.

His fingers stroke the cold metal around his neck, even still.

“How high’s the fever?” Simon’s voice cuts back in, unexpected.

“Dunno.” Johnny’s attempt to gauge by pressing the back of his hand on his forehead breeds no result besides, “Pretty hot.”

There’s the faintest snort. “What’ve they got you on?”

“It’s an SSI, so I’ve got some nice antibiotics,” he says. “Somethin’ called cafazolin…” He’s quite proud of himself for being able to pronounce that, actually.

“What about wound treatment? Have they drained it at all?”

“Naw, but they had ta go back in and clean the site a bit.”

“Is it superficial? Or is there muscle or tissue damage?”

“Jeez, Dr. Ghost,” Johnny jokes. “Where’s all this comin’ from, mate?”

Simon issues a low scoff. “Just…been goin’ over some med training lately.” That takes Johnny aback. “Had Price give me an updated field course.”

“Really? Thinkin’ about applying fer a CMT certification?”

Another few seconds of pause. “It’s crossed my mind.”

“Huh.” Johnny doesn’t know how else to voice his surprise. “Would be…interestin’ ta have some firsthand experience with yer treatment methods, LT.”

“Not sure that would be wise…”

“Naw, bet tha’ bedside manner is atrocious.”

“Mnh.”

“But still, I…” Johnny’s throat chokes of its own accord, damn thing. “It’s nice ta know ye were worried about me.”

Simon sighs, long, strained. “I wasn’t worried, just…”

Yeah.

He knows.

Tapping the tags on his chest, Johnny tries to work around the lethargy from his fever, as well as all the other feelings determined to humiliate him. He swears he might start crying again, apropos of nothing.

“Not feelin’ too great,” he admits shyly, tucking the phone against his ear as he nestles back on the pillow. “My heid’s all, like…full’a them packing peanuts, aye? S’makin’ me hungry, ta be honest.”

“You always act like a fuckin’ nutter on drugs, I forgot.”

“Aye, I already spewed all o’er mesel twice.”

“That’s fuckin’ ‘angin’, MacTavish,” Simon snorts. “Like that time with, what was it—?”

“The wisdom teeth.”

“Ah, yeah, the wisdom teeth. Christ—I had to drag you over to my place ‘cause we thought we’d find you flaked out in a ginnel somewhere—” Johnny chuckles at his stupid Manc slang—“And then you ended up reciting the entirety of the fuckin’ Braveheart speech—”

“Naw, I didn’t!” Johnny tries to debate, chuckling as Simon overrules.

“Oh, yes you fucking did. All with cotton in your mouth, mind you, so you lost a few points for the delivery.”

“Mel Gibson eat yer heart out,” John concludes, shaking his head. “Bet I killed it.” He has no real recollection of if that’s true or not.   

But the smile that’s evident in Simon’s voice is praise enough. “My neighbors probably thought I was off my fuckin' rocker…”

“Not the only incriminating sounds comin’ from tha’ flat, Riley.” Although, from the perspective of the posh Londoners sharing Simon’s apartment building, declarations of Scottish nationalism were probably even less well-received than the sex moans…

That was another life though. One they can’t touch anymore.

And before Simon can come up with an appropriate reply, Johnny finds himself voicing the sentiment aloud, against his better judgment.

Damn drugs…

“Wish I could be there now,” he mumbles.

“Where, the Battle of Stirling?” Simon says, teasing dryly.

“Naw, y’know wha’ I mean.” And now Johnny’s voice takes on that shaky edge he’d been dreading, eyes already damp. “Wish I could be with ye now,” he whispers.

Simon doesn’t cater to his self-pity. “For my unparalleled bedside manner, I’m assuming?”

“Hey, ye helped me tha’ day, didnae ye? Ye took care’a me when ye didnae have to…”

“Johnny…”

“An’ I’m grateful, Simon. Jus’ wish I didn’t get all…” His head tightens, throat feeling stretched. “Ach, it’s the drugs, innit? Makin’ a damn fool’a me.”

“They may take your life,” Simon utters in the most distinctive deadpan, “but they’ll never take your freedom, MacTavish.”

And as far as esteemed 1995 Academy Award winning films go, Gibson can go suck a dick, because that was the most beautiful thing Johnny has ever heard.

He can barely get his words out through the phone when he stammers, “I’m gonnae cry now, don’t be alarmed.”

And just like that—

All Simon can counter with is another, “What the fuck, Johnny?” as the man just starts sobbing around his mobile.

It’s the drugs. The fucking drugs and the stress and the exhaustion.

It’s Simon Riley’s voice, flustered and unequipped for this particular brand of field treatment.

It’s the frantic calls of, “Johnny? Hey, Johnny…listen…”

He drops the phone on the mattress, both hands now pressing into his eyes that won’t stop leaking.

There’s a tinny sound, indicating that Simon is still talking, but Johnny—

Johnny shakes around all the pent-up emotion he feels; rage, regret, fear, they’re all the same, aren’t they?

God...what a mess...

A nurse pops in, probably because his heart rate had skyrocketed in the past minute, but he assures her he’s fine. Just tired. So fucking tired.

It’s only distantly that he remembers Simon’s still on the fucking call, getting a front-row seat to the greatest hits of John MacTavish’s Life in Flames, acoustic version.

He scrambles to press the mobile against his ear again, startled to find the other man mid-sentence.

“—forcing me to take leave anyway, so I might as well try to come see you again. Fuck, Johnny, just…please don’t cry…”

“Wha’?” Johnny croaks, no indication on his heart monitor of the momentary cardiac arrest he’d just felt at hearing the tail-end of those words.

“I said don’t cry, you stupid fucking bastard,” Simon reiterates, more adamantly this time.

“N-no, tha’ first bit,” Johnny rasps, tears still clogging his vocal cords. “Ye…ye wannae see me again?”

Now there’s a conscious stall on Simon’s end, as if he’d just been spitballing the only things he could think of to get the other man to stop his meltdown.

But after a low breath, he says, “Yeah. I…I do.”

Where is the alarm from his vital monitor, the nurses rushing in, the panic—because surely Johnny’s about one second away from flat-lining.

He just cradles his phone, mouth open. “Wh-when?”

“Well, if you’d been listening, y’daft ‘apeth, you would know I’ve just said Laswell is forcing me to take my leave by the end of the year.”

“This year?” John asks stupidly. “The end of this current year?”

“Christ, Johnny, you’re really not playin’ with a full deck, are ya? Yes, you fuckin’ twat. This fuckin’ year.”

“H-how much leave have ye got?”

“I dunno. All of it,” Simon mutters. “’Cept for that week after…” He doesn’t finish that thread, changing course. “It’s about two weeks, alright?”

“Cuttin’ it close, Riley,” Johnny mumbles, still wiping at his eyelids with an already damp sleeve.

“Yeah, well…” Another calculated sigh, but there’s no taking it back now. “Ordinarily, I’d just stay on base, but…”

“Ye’re waitin’ fer an invitation now, sir?” John teases, his heart still fluctuating dangerously. “’Cause I’m no’ sure ye’ve got enough fortitude fer a MacTavish family holiday.”

“Fuck off,” Simon hisses, before altering his tone entirely. “Johnny, I…”

He waits. The vital monitor spells out the longing he feels, beat by beat by beat…

“I’ve got nowhere else to go anyway,” Simon says quietly.

And Johnny would take that as a confession, a tragedy in its own right, but one that still speaks of hope, no matter how inarticulate.

Brushing a stray tear from his eye, he nods, even though he knows he can’t be seen. “A’right then. Ye’re more than welcome ta stay with us.”

“A-are you sure?” He’s convinced Simon’s never sounded so timid before, but it makes him smile, fresh tears in its wake.

Christ…get it together…

“’Course. Though I should warn ye, it can get pretty rowdy this time’a year.” He thinks back to what he’d told Alice Clyne; ‘subdued’ had always been a pipe dream…

“Doesn’t matter,” Simon claims, although, if Johnny knows him as well as he does, then he can already sense the imminent panic the other man is feeling at the prospect.

But he hides it well enough.

“Just in time fer Christmas, Riley,” John teases. “Tell me ye’ve been a good boy this year.”

Simon scoffs exaggeratedly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Yes. He very much would.

“Plus ye’ll be up fer New Year’s as well.”

“Yeah, what is it you Scottish bastards call it?”

Johnny only takes a little offense. “Hogmanay, ye English cunt.”

“That better not be as swine-like as it sounds…”

“Pish aff, ye weapon,” he exclaims, now in decidedly better spirits. Though his heart still aches something fierce. “I’ll have ye know we usually stick ta the traditional bouts of drinkin’, singin’, swearin’, the like.”

“Sounds acceptable.”

“Plus there’s the occasional burnin’ of shit.”

“Ah. Suppose that’s your favorite holiday then?” Simon snorts.

“I dunno,” Johnny says wistfully. “Always preferred May Day…”

There’s the softest, “Hmph…” from the other end.

And with it, they make their plans, they mark their calendars, they pour unhealthy amounts of salt on an already saturated wound. 

But it’s fine, Johnny thinks. Even though he’s learned more about scar tissue this past week than he’d care to know in a lifetime.

He lies there in the hospital bed, hope plugging back in his vitals, a brief glance at the purple card on his bedside table, the childish scrawl of: Get Well Soon Aggie’s Uncle John!

The infection’s a hassle, his immune system is shit, and he’s got more surgical scars than battle-bred ones by now—but that’s what healing’s for.

And he’d always been stubborn; it’s the Scottish rebel in him, he’d wager.

Would he be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for something something…he’d need more drugs to remember the rest of the damn speech. But he reckons he knows his answer.

They part in customary inelegance, Johnny instructing Simon to, “Tell Gaz I’m a’right, ye twat.”

And Simon dutifully responding, “Will do.”

Then Johnny’s left fondly dreaming about the abundance of awkwardness that will transpire as a result of having Simon fucking Riley in his family’s home at Christmastime.

Who knows, maybe they’d both been good this year…

There’s only the slightest worry, though, for his mother’s fretful reaction to yet another guest being invited for the holidays.

They’d need that bigger ham, to be sure. And a hell of a lot more pudding…

Chapter Text

“I don’ like when things change, Uncle Soap,” Jessie whispers to Johnny, lying next to him in his parents’ bed, a spare sheet or two draped over the bedposts and some cushions around the edge to give them the illusion of a pillow fort.

The man hums in agreement over how spot-on the sentiment is. “I hear tha', hen,” he mumbles back.

And he knows he’s not just referring to the fact that Ruth had finally found a new residence, this being the last night she and Jessie would be living under the same roof, under the same fort. The concept of change in general had never been a hot ticket for him. Even the good kind.

After five days in hospital, Johnny had been discharged home, his fever from the infection neutralized by now, thank God. He’d been recovering in the downstairs bedroom as opposed to his own—which would have ordinarily been cause for him to contest, but little Jessie had decided to sneak down and join him these past few nights, the two of them burrowing under the big quilt, giggling over silly jokes long past the girl’s bedtime.

Makes it a little easier to pretend that things aren’t going to be very different soon.

The fact that Simon Riley, the Ghost himself, will be arriving on the twenty-first, a whopping two days from now, is perhaps the biggest change of them all.

Johnny still can’t wrap his head around it, the whole thing seeming more and more like some fever-dream he’d cooked up while high on analgesics; not at all far from reality.

But, no. The man had arranged his leave, booked a flight, set to arrive on Thursday morning down in Dundee. And after the thirty-five-minute drive back, he would be entering the MacTavish home, all six-foot-four, black-clad, and awkward as hell.

Johnny imagines the Simon from his daydreams would surely run rings around the inevitable shitshow that will arise at pitting the real-deal Ghost against any member of his family, mam especially. He can practically hear the nagging questions already: what’s with the mask, why are ye so silent, what the hell have ye got te do with my son anyway?

God…why did they arrange this in the first place?

Oh, yeah—because Johnny’s a glutton for wreaking havoc on his personal life; silly him, he’d almost forgotten.

But there is something about the whole mess he’s looking forward to, he supposes. Sure to be entertaining, if not a dead ringer for the dumpster fire his life has become.

Simon T. Riley in his house. Under the same roof, under his clothes, preferably.

Christ…he’s virtually blushing already.

Jessie, oblivious to his turmoil, simply pouts next to him, fiddling with one of her butchered football figurines—that poor bastard who’d had his head amputated after his dive off the stairs. Though a quick fix with some super glue and duct tape had the sod coming out better than Johnny, all things considered.

Mindful of his still-healing back, John loops his arm around the girl’s shoulder, muttering conspiratorially, “Don’ worry, Jess. Ye can always come round the house, aye? Any time ye like.”

Ruth’s new flat is only fifteen or so minutes away, a relief for them all that she hadn’t gone through with the move to Stonehaven, despite picking it back up with that cunt Alan again. Can’t win them all...   

“Bu’ I wannae stay here with you, Uncle Soap,” Jessie sighs, tossing the figurine on a cushion and slumping against his shoulder. “It’s no’ fair tha’ ye’ve got yer friend comin’ ta stay, an’ I haveta leave.”

“Aye,” he agrees. “Though I’m sure he’ll be keen ta meet ye, lass, so let’s try an’ cheer up, yeah?”

Jessie knows it’s cheap consolation as much as he does, so he just nestles her against his chest, urging her to fall asleep by at least some semblance of an appropriate hour.

And by morning, she and Ruth are out the door before noon, just like that, barely a hint of too-strong hairspray to even suggest they’d been here in the first place, and for nearly two months at that.

Mam, busybody that she is, wastes no time in stripping Caroline’s room, and at first Johnny thinks she’s just being fussy, but then she remarks, “How many pillows do ye think yer friend’ll need?” and Johnny blanks at the realization. 

Holy shit.

Simon Riley is coming here.

In two fucking days.

When he’d first broached the subject, still in hospital and sounding like an inebriate, his parents had likely thought he was mad.

“Pal of mine’s comin’ round fer Christmas,” he’d slurred, and both of them had exchanged that look that’s becoming more and more frequent. The one laced with concern, but also curiosity. And only after he’d shaken off the drugs had Johnny remembered to be offended. Shit, it had practically been written all over their faces: Johnny has friends?

But they’d stuck to their ‘don’t-ask’ routine, even though he knows the lack of details has been killing them, his mother in particular. She’s probably hoping that in revealing how many pillows the man needs, she’d be granted insight into what kind of gemstone matches his personality, or other such bullshit.

“I doubt he cares,” he replies, giving her all the insight she’d need; a military man who’d sleep on a rock if he had to.

Johnny does end up spilling a few more tidbits, the inevitable, “He’s…English,” met with universal thumbs-down across the board. But he figures he’d get that bombshell out in the open first, let his parents come to terms. 

Regardless of their reservations, he tries to impress upon his family the indubitable fact that, “He’s very private, aye? So no questions about the mask. Or work. Or his family. Or…y’know wha’, just no questions at all.”

Mam, as expected, had taken that as well as he’d anticipated. He swears the entire household had been on edge, just waiting for her preordained conniption…

Which is why, on the day of Simon’s arrival, he’d told her his flight was getting in around five so as not to overwhelm her, when in reality, the man would be landing in Dundee by noon.

All the more convenient for John and his father to slip out without her knowledge, a brief reprieve before shit could officially become acquainted with the fan.

Let the fun begin…

Jack is quiet on the ride over, seemingly not as eager as Elaine to beg him for details about the man who’d be staying in their house for a fortnight, though he does make a few vague attempts.

“Buddy from the service, aye?”

Johnny nods, trying not to smirk.

“Play any golf?”

“I wouldnae count on it.”

“Shame.”

They make it down to Dundee in record time, arriving at the small airport about twenty minutes before Simon’s flight had been scheduled to land, though now Johnny’s regretting being so early. His nerves are already buzzing up a storm.

“Right, so…uh…” he stalls, hand on his seatbelt and suffering a pint-sized panic attack over the unprecedentedness of this situation.

“I can go on an’ fetch him if ye want, laddie,” da says, and Johnny vehemently shakes his head.

“God, no. Just…” He swallows deliberately, reaching over his shoulder for the crutch and pretending it has magical properties, at least to give him some imaginary courage. “We’ll go wait fer him together, aye?”

Better to introduce them all in small doses, Johnny had decided. And Jack is about as tame as you can get with MacTavishes, bless the man his sensibility.

So the two of them make their way to the main entrance, da keeping a steady hand by John’s shoulder, which isn’t really necessary. Since the recent surgery, he’d found he doesn’t always need both crutches, perhaps a lessening of the pain as the surgeon had suggested. It’s still too soon to tell, but he’s hopeful.  

Walking down the hall to arrivals, Johnny’s just about to remark to his father about how empty the airport is when he spots a figure up ahead. Tall, dark, leaning against a soda machine like someone had forgotten him there with their loose change.

What the hell…

John stops short, his da nearly bumping into the crutch. But then Simon just raises his head, a crinkle evident in his eyes even from this distance, and he starts making his way toward him.

“Wha’?” Johnny squawks like an idiot, not even waiting until the other man is within range to start sputtering. “I-I thought ye said noon, ye dafty. When did ye get here?”

Simon snorts, batting a hand. “’Bout an hour ago,” he mutters, now close enough for Johnny to see the freshly trimmed fringe under his standard black cap, a hint of a smile beneath the mask. “Didn’t wanna overwhelm ya. Know ‘ow antsy ya can get.”

He nearly chokes on the irony of it; what are the goddamn chances…

And if that had been the only shock of the morning, Johnny would have taken it fine. But then—

Simon walks right up to him, wasting no time in grabbing Johnny into a firm hug, his hand slotting around to cradle the back of his head, holding him tightly.

Didn’t wanna overwhelm…Christ’s sake—yeah, too late for that.

Johnny swears he can hear his own heartbeat shuddering like a snare drum, the soft material of Simon’s jacket against his cheek free ground for the engine failure in his mind to crash into.  

Holy shit…this is real…this is happening…

“Y’alright?” Simon drawls against his ear, regretfully pulling back and giving him a proper once-over. “’ow’s the back?” 

His…back. Right. His back. The one that’s currently made of gelatin, leading him toward a swoon, that back. “It’s better,” John somehow replies, fully believing that for once. “Reckon the surgery mighta helped a tad.”

“Good,” Simon grunts in approval, hands now limp at his side.

And Johnny just coughs brusquely, remembering his father had been standing next to him the entire time.

Oh, to be an innocent bystander in this most auspicious shitshow…

“Right,” he says, gesturing to both men in introduction. “Simon, this is my father, Jack. Da, this is Simon.”

The handshake is about as awkward as expected, even moreso when da asks, “Simon Riley, eh?”

And Johnny’s left wondering how he knew that, but then he remembers the tags he’s wearing underneath his jumper, the same ones his father had used to coddle him down from his emotional crisis in the hospital. Evidently, the man had glimpsed enough to get a name. Oh, steamin’ fuckin’ Christ…

But if Jack has any inklings over the implications of that, he keeps them to himself. Good lad.

“Jings, wha’ are they feedin’ ye army boys, eh?” his father jokes, staring up and down at Simon’s lengthy frame.

Simon huffs, but it’s not unkind. “Dunno. But whatever it is, our Johnny’s clearly not finished his supper.” He taps a palm on the top of the shorter man’s head, just to accentuate the height difference.

It gets a genuine chuckle from Jack, albeit at his son’s expense, and Johnny can’t help but balk. “Oi, I’m tall enough!” Never would he have thought their first interaction would be straightforward teasing, but alas…

“Sure, kid,” Simon patronizes further, letting Jack help him with his bag while he drapes an easy arm over Johnny’s shoulder.

“No hard feelin’s, John-boy. Yer ol’ man’s got even less ta spare,” da laughs easily at his own less-fortunate stature as they exit the airport. 

Jesus…this is…not at all what Johnny had been expecting.

If anything, he has more of a limp now, still at risk of taking a header over the notion that this is really playing out in real time. That Simon Riley is joking with his father, touching his shoulder, fucking hugging him in public, for shit’s sake…

If anyone is having a conniption today, it may as well be him.

Once they make it back to the Corsa, Johnny’s dignity gets tested further by being booted to the backseat, his father’s observation that, “The man’s got legs like a Douglas-fir, let’s give him some room,” being conceded as a reasonable point. Still makes him want to sulk a little bit.

It only takes about halfway through the journey back for the awkward small talk to intrude upon the illusion of indifference they’d been treading thus far. 

“So, Simon…” Jack taps the wheel a few times, his nervous habit. “Where aboots are ye from, lad?”

Johnny watches the back of Simon’s head for a reaction. He’d said no questions, goddamnit—though that had mainly been for mam. 

The other man takes a few seconds, but eventually grunts, “Manchester,” somehow managing to eliminate all the vowels in a display of said accent.

Da hums contentedly. “Ah, a good Northern boy, eh?”

A snort escapes John, shaking his head at his father’s absurdity. As if ‘north-ness’ was somehow an accurate indicator of character, all the closer to Scotland, aye. And Manchester’s not even that close…

“Red or blue?” Jack asks, another grade-A question.

He can all but see Simon’s eyes roll from the back of his cap, an additional grumbly reply. “Don’t give a shit about football.”

His father just nods politely, seemingly unfazed by the bluntness, but then—

Simon tilts his head a touch, considering. “Though my…brother used to fancy United…”

A stutter threatens Johnny’s breathing, and he knows Simon must be feeling the same.

He never talks about his family.

All Johnny had gleaned over the years was that the Rileys were presumably deceased, something about him losing his older brother when he’d been a teenager, a subsequent tragedy unfolding as a result. Not a topic either of them prefer to broach. And for good reason.  

“Ah, that’ll do,” da says, oblivious as ever, another tap to the wheel. “This yer first time in bonnie Scotland, lad?”

“No,” Simon mutters, and Johnny realizes they should’ve had a game plan for this question, uncertain if they might reveal the fact that he’d visited just over a month ago, but Simon simply states, “Been up ‘ere for a business trip,” and Johnny feels a bit of relief, although he’s not too thrilled to be lumped together with ‘business’. Surely some pleasure had been involved…

“Right-o,” Jack says cheerily. “Well, there’s certainly lots ta see, likesay. We oughtta have Johnny take ye round fer a little sight-seein’, aye, as it can get a bit dull by the gaff.” ‘Dull’ is a kinder word for batshit fucking mental, but his father had always been the more optimistic one.

Simon just gives a vague grunt. And Johnny’s left interpreting every nuance of his posture for evidence of discomfort, the way his neck is taut, shoulders broad, hairline evenly clipped at his nape—who is he kidding; he’s just checking him out.  

Da thoroughly sticks his foot in his mouth with his next futile query, pointing at some landmark as they pass. “Got us a nice local course here, ye a fan of golf, laddie?”

And only because Johnny’s watching intently does he see the faint shudder of a suppressed laugh. “Hell no.”

“Worth a shot,” Jack laments.

Passing the golf course does little to tame Johnny’s nerves, as he knows they’re getting close to home now. And Jack apparently has the same misgiving, taking the winding routes a little slower on the last stretch, practically stalling at the turn for their street.

“This is us,” Johnny announces, giving a glance to the very bland, nondescript exterior of the MacTavish household. Mam had only just finished her attempt at holiday decorations, some plastic ivy around the porch and a very sad, crooked wreath. Hardly a warm welcome.  

Simon offers the barest hum, exiting the car first to get John’s door for him, helping him with the crutch.

“It’s not much,” Johnny concedes, swiping a hand up his head bashfully. “’Specially this time’a year.”

Cold, damp, gray. To be fair—he reckons Manchester’d be about the same.

Jack locks the car, coming round to collect Simon’s bags from the boot, twirling the keys on his finger and scanning the windows for any sign of his wife. He seems to come to the conclusion that delaying the inevitable is in their best interest, because he turns to his son, nodding his head at the yard. “Why dinnae we give him a tour then?”

Johnny scoffs, exaggeratedly sweeping his free arm at the two-story house, then the small patch of grass at the back. “Done.”

A small chuckle issues from under Simon’s mask, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, presumably waiting for further instruction.

“Right,” Johnny grumbles, hobbling forward to skirt past the porch. He waves his crutch at the righthand pillar, pulling a face. “This is where I done near cracked me head open, foolin’ around as a lad, as ye do.”

Jack corroborates, “The rascal used’ta clamber up and down the roof, aye, John-boy? Wha’ was it—pre-army trainin’?”

“Somethin’ like tha’,” he mumbles, knowing full well that he’d really just been pretending to be Rambo—which he'll be keeping to himself, thank you very much.

Simon snorts at his side, nudging his shoulder. “Not surprising.”

They walk around the brief perimeter of the house, Johnny gesturing to the yard. “Used ta kick around back here as well, footie an’ the like. An’ here’s the garden.” A generous term, seeing as all evidence of plant-life looks adequately shriveled, and not just because it’s winter; mam’s green-thumb never really blossomed, as it were. “Neighbors are quiet,” he adds, nodding at the opposite houses. “Though Ol’ Benny’s been known ta offer a rant or two during referendum season.”

Hands still in his pockets, Simon doesn’t provide much reaction, as one would expect. But when Jack leads them over to the shed, his interest picks up considerably.

“Awa’, ye might like a gander at this, lad,” da says, unlocking the door and revealing his old motorcycle half-hidden under a bunch of other crap. “I know John always said he’d take her, but looks like she’ll be left ta rust by this rate.”

The shift in Simon’s bearing is tangible, immediately leaning over the bike, eyes narrowing as he drops into a crouch. “Shit, this is a Norton Commando,” he says, not even a question, hand coasting over the frame. “Fuckin’ mint,” he mutters appreciatively, and Johnny’s taken with how easy it sounds. And hot…   

“Aye, Interstate, tha’s the one,” Jack confirms. “Used ta be a pretty thing too, though she’s not much now.”

“'77?” Simon asks to the other man’s nod, still reverently studying the motorcycle. “With the 850 engine?”

His father chuckles. “Not too sure, lad. Reckon ye’ve got a better idea than me.”

Simon just makes a low sound, rocking on his heels. And Johnny is pointedly not admiring the way he looks, perched in fascination, stretching the back of his dark jeans, thighs bulging under the pressure, ahem, no, certainly not.

“’Fraid she took some damage from the flood a few years back,” Jack explains, leaning in closer now as the two of them inspect the bike.

“Yeah, she’s rusty alright,” Simon sympathizes. “Ya take ‘er in to get fettled?”

Stumped by the regional term, Johnny comes to his father’s rescue. “Naw, she’s just been sittin’ here, aye? Not like I’m gonnae get ta take her out meself,” he says, only the faintest touch of deprecation. A broken back and a broken bike, not the best combo, he reckons. 

“Lord knows I haven’t gone fer a spin in ages,” Jack adds, just as wistful. “Shame ta let it go ta waste though.”

“If there’s been water damage, I’d be worried about starting it at all,” Simon mutters. “Though if it’s just reached the tires, reckon we might be able to clean out the axles if she’s not too corroded.”

“Well, ye’re more than welcome ta have a go,” Jack suggests. “Give ye’s both somethin’ ta do, aye?”

“I’m not lettin’ Johnny touch this,” Simon deadpans. “Our kid’s got a tendency to make shit explode for no reason. Swear he’s got flint in his knuckles…”

“Oi!” John protests, with very little to defend, as his father just chuckles once more.

Before he can enact his revenge on Simon by continuing to tactfully stare at his backside, there’s an interruption from the house.

“Jack, dear?” mam calls, shrill as ever, an indication that the jig is finally up.

Johnny cranes his head out of the shed door, catching her scanning around the porch, spotting Simon’s luggage and seemingly drawing the conclusion. Too bad they couldn’t’ve gone the whole fortnight in this goddamn shed, aye. 

“Buck up, lads,” his father warns, well-versed with his wife’s overbearing nature, but he still dishes out a fond smile as they make their way back to the house.  

“Eh, mam, guess who came in early,” Johnny tries, already wincing.

Elaine is hugging her knitted sweater around her form, fumbling to adjust her messy hair, caught off guard. “A-aye, wasnae it s’pposed ta be five, babes, I didnae finish preparin’.” A bald-faced lie, that. She’d had the house spotless since Sunday.

Johnny bites the bullet and waves a hand at the man next to him, likening it to the goddamn Christmas Truce, in more ways than one. “Mam, this is Simon. My mother, Elaine.”

He wonders if she’ll make the connection, if either of his parents can put two and two together and recall that Simon had been by his side in that hospital room, skull-masked and intimidating as hell. An oversized goth just hamming it up in plain sight.

The man’s appearance is toned down now, albeit no less black, so he doubts it.   

Elaine does take moment to gape at him from top to bottom though, looking very small as Simon reaches for her handshake, just as awkward as the one with da. “Crumbs, he’s like The Shard, look at the legs on ‘im.” And of course that would be the first thing out of her mouth…

Simon just offers a dry, “Cheers,” hands retreating back to his pockets.

“Welcome ta our home, Simon,” mam says, overly gracious. “We’re thrilled ta have ye by.”

And this would be the part where the Simon from his daydreams would kiss her cheeks, a courteous, ‘thank you for having me, ma’am,’ maybe a stray sparkle or two in his eye.  

In reality, the man just gives a suppressed cough behind his mask, swiveling his head around for some clue of what to do next. And his attempt at flattery is downright comical. “You…have a lovely garden.”

Johnny almost chokes on his wheeze.  

Even mam questions the validity of that, raising her brow at the wilted vegetation in question. “Th-thank ye, dear.”

They stall like that for a few seconds, Johnny feeling each one like a notch taken from his lifespan.

Oh, Christ…what has he got himself into…

“Right, let’s get us outta this chill, aye,” he suggests, to mutual approval. “Maybe see about fixin’ up a warm drink, eh, mam?”

Because if there’s one way to win over Simon Riley, it’s with tea, goddamnit.

There’s further awkwardness entering the house, Elaine uncertain if she should take Simon’s coat before the man just shrugs it off in one go. And then he nearly bangs his head on the doorframe, a bit sagged and meant for average-sized individuals.  

“Crivens, watch yersel, dear. Sure hope we’ve got enough room fer ye,” mam tuts, ushering them into the kitchen and already fussing with the kettle. “We’ve set ye’s up in Johnny’s sister’s bedroom up yonder,” she says, as Simon stalls with his luggage, looking ridiculously out of place already.

He just grunts in acknowledgment, Jack taking the bags for him and leaving them by the stairs for now.

“How was yer journey?” Elaine asks, turning over her shoulder every three seconds to snoop at the stranger in their house.

“Fine.”

“Mmn, Dundee’s got a small airport, aye? Think they on’y take a few domestic flights.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Ah.”

Johnny nods at the counter, both of them taking a seat while Simon wordlessly slips his crutch against the wall, one hand hovering over the small of his back. He’s still got his cap and mask on, but there’s an energy that Johnny can read in his eyes, a barely checked live-wire.

God…he wishes he could hold his hand…

“How old are ye, Simon?” Mam wastes no time in moving to more invasive questions, damn nosy wench. Johnny stifles his grumble.

Knowing the other man is contractually close to the chest about these types of things, he surprises Johnny by hitting her with the straight answer. “Thirty-six.”

Few are privileged enough with that information in the first place. If you’d have asked anyone in the 141, they might have answered guesses ranging in the multiple hundreds, half of them serious. Their resident lieutenant just can’t seem to shake that ‘immortal’ rumor…

“Ah, so ye’ve got a few years on our Johnny,” Elaine muses. “How long have ye been friends then?”

“I was his superior officer,” Simon states, all but shutting down that line of questioning.

Mam just twitches her head a bit, a nerve struck. “I see…”

And Johnny does his best to remain collected, but Jesus…he reckons he could cut the tension in the room with the way he’s clamping his teeth in his mouth. All he has to distract himself with is the distant reminder, intel that he’s pretty sure he’s the only one privy to—Simon would be thirty-seven in May…

Spring seems so far away though. Five months, forever, the centimeters between their hands on the counter…

Rummaging for some mugs, Elaine remarks, “John’s not told us much about ye, I’m afraid,” earning an eye-roll from her son; just couldn’t keep the snideness from it, could she?

She makes it worse by taking the pause to reach for his forehead, still unconvinced that his fever’s finally gone, tsking at his attempt to shoo her away.

“In fact, he never talks much about the service,” the old nag continues, unshakeable. “We’ve only met a few of his…acquaintances, aye?”

Jack nods along, regretfully furthering the conversation. “Yer captain seemed a sound bloke. Price, eh?”

Simon huffs out imperceptibly. “That’s the one.”

“Yes, he was very…” Elaine fishes for an adjective in her typical way, tapping her mouth, “…rugged.”

“Christ, mam. D’ye want his number?” John’s snort is less subtle this time.

His mother scoffs, swatting him with the dish towel. “Wha’, he’s a fine man, is he not? Though I reckon he could do without the whiskers.”  

Bloody fuckin’ hell…they’re off to a great start.

“An’ wha’ was the name of tha’ other fellow? Kind eyes he had, an’ such a warm smile…”

Both Johnny and Simon exchange raised looks, before responding simultaneously, “Garrick.”

“Righ’, Kyle Garrick,” mam says fondly. “Wha’ a lovely boy. Are ye still in touch, Johnny?” 

He nods with another eye-roll. Rugged and lovely, he’ll be sure to pass on those compliments at a later date.

So that’s one point apiece for Cap and Gaz.

As for The Ghost…

“Are ye sure ye need tha’ mask, Simon? We’re not sick, any of us, promise.”

Johnny just closes his eyes, exhaling sharply out of his nose.

What was that—less than five minutes?

“Mam,” he warns, but Simon simply shrugs next to him, used to the stigma.

“It’s just a precaution,” he states, odd enough an answer to have his mother squinting her brows even further. A precaution for what exactly, she’s probably wondering. Johnny knows it’s not a shield against bullshit, unfortunately.  

“A’right then…”

Another dreadful stretch of silence.

Jack pipes up though, extending his best attempt at breaking the ice, bless him. “Simon’s from Manchester, Lanie.” Good one. Ten out of ten.

“Is he now?” Elaine tilts her head in interest. “Y’know, I always fancied a visit there. Supposed ta be a fair city, aye?”

“Not really,” Simon grunts. “Bit of a shithole if ya ask me.”

Ooof...

There goes any chance of the man curtailing his uncouthness. Johnny swears his mother’s face drops ten inches.

“Ah, but it looks so lovely on Corrie...” Just another example of the woman living in a perpetual soap opera…fucking hell…

Clearing his throat, he changes the subject entirely. “I was thinkin’ I’d take Simon round fer a trip one’a these days, mind if I nab the car?”

“John, are ye sure ye should be drivin’, babes?” mam worries, and Christ—she actually goes to feel his forehead again. He swipes her away with a hiss, nudging into Simon’s shoulder. “Ye on’y jus’ got out of hospital.”

“I’m bloody fine, ye bat,” Johnny grumbles, now 0 for 3 with the hits against his pride.

His mother continues to fuss, “Ye know wha’ the doctors said, darlin’. Ye oughtta be takin’ it easy, aye?”

“She’s right, Johnny,” Simon shocks him by mumbling, the traitor. He just blinks stupidly at him while the other man adds, “You shouldn’t drive for at least two to four weeks after surgery. And you shouldn’t be sitting in the same position for very long either.”

That gets an appreciative sound from Elaine, finally a nod in his favor. “See, yer fr…superior officer…” she stumbles stupendously, a question mark in her tone before just shaking her head, “has got the righ’ idea, child. Are ye experienced in the medical field, Simon?”

“Not quite,” the man huffs. “Just know enough to keep this twat from carkin’ it.” The crassness takes him right back a peg, and he'd been so close, goddamnit…

“Ah,” Elaine says with a twitch under her eyelid.

The kettle buzzes behind them, accentuating the anxiety in the air, as well as reminding Johnny of this next obstacle.

“How d’ye take yer tea, Simon, dear?” mam asks, already pouring the hot water and looking eagerly at the man for any indication he’s about to remove his mask.

Before she can meddle further, Johnny shifts up from the counter. “I’ve got it, mam.” And he swivels to the fridge for some milk, grabbing the sugar cubes and trying to pass his mother a pointed look that says run along now.  

She returns it with a firm pout, a glare of her own. Stubborn versus stubborn, a match for the ages…

But to his surprise, when he turns back to the counter, Simon’s already taken the mask off, his gnarled scars in full display under the tacky chandelier. 

Jack does well enough to curb his reaction, barely a lifted brow, but Elaine practically gapes.

Goddamn menace…

“Ooh, dear,” she coos. “Lookit ye, poor thing. How on Earth did ye wind up with…tha’?”

Johnny knows she means the acid scar, in plain view from the right side, and as Simon huffs, she catches the knife slash as well, further pity in her body language.

But the man simply brushes a thumb over a small, innocuous nick on his jaw, stating in a monotone, “Cut myself shaving.”

Both his parents blink rapidly, uncertain if he’s joking, the faintest chuckle escaping Jack.

And without much ado, Simon grabs the sugar cubes from Johnny, dunking in his standard six to equally stunned expressions, a splash of milk and four turns of the spoon, only briefly waiting before downing the cup in about five seconds flat.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, slipping the mask right back into place.

Johnny swears he can hear the hinges of his mother’s jaw dropping.

“Come on, Lanie,” Jack says, breaking the silence, although he’s still peering at Simon in honest fascination. “Let’s leave these boys to it fer a bit, bet they’ve got some catchin’ up ta do.”

Johnny vows to buy the man a beer next time he has the chance, that beautiful, sensible bastard.

“R-right,” mam squeaks, turning to leave but pausing for one last pester, “Johnny, love, dinnae ferget ta take yer antibiotic, aye?”

He nods with a grimace, all but shooing her away as his parents aimlessly wander further into the house with hushed whispers, his father performing some sort of clumsy pirouette before finally leaving the room.

Jesus…why…

Why did he agree to do this again?

The exhale that leaves Johnny is as fraught as expected, but the end catches on what might be a snort. “You mad fuckin’ roaster,” he mutters under his breath, committing to the full chuckle when he feels Simon snicker at his side. “How badly didja jus’ burn yerself, ye rocket?”

“Dunno what ya mean,” Simon offers dryly, leaning back on the stool with that cocky glance. “My tongue’s been leather since that stint in Moscow.”

Unfamiliar with that particular mission, Johnny quips, “Babushka’s coffee a bit too toasty?” knowing full well the man had likely been subjected to the Russians’ notoriously creative torture methods. Which they shouldn’t really be making jokes about, in all honesty, but…

“Molten,” Simon confirms, both of them dissolving into immature giggles.

Hmn.

Yeah, this is why…

“Well ye managed ta clear them out,” Johnny huffs after a few seconds, nodding at the direction his parents had exited. “Good on ye.”

“They’re fine, Johnny.”

A disbelieving scoff. “Da’s a good sort,” he grants. “Mam is...”

“She’s fine,” Simon attests again. “Better than mine, at any rate.”

Johnny hides his startle, verifiably stunned the man has now mentioned his own family, twice in one day. He doesn’t push it.

“Yeah, well,” he grunts, “reckon ye gave ‘em quite a shock. Pretty priceless to see tha’ reaction though. Reminds me’a that time at the bar in Mexico—”

“Oh, ‘ere we go,” Simon grumbles, while Johnny continues snickering.

“Wha’, mate?” Johnny pokes at his side. “You were the one tha’ decided ta swig tha’ entire pint with the skull mask still on, the whole bloody time—”

“Told ya, I was acclimatizin’ myself to train against water-boarding—”

“Aye, right, acclimatizin’,” John teases with glee. “Swear ye traumatized Rudy, the poor bastard.”

“Fucker needs a jump-scare or two in his life, gone too soft, I’d wager…”

Says the man currently leaning into Johnny’s side on his stool, warmth spreading with every half-suppressed chuckle…

Mmn. A good call, in the end…

It’s remarkable how easily they fall into effortless comfort, shoulder to shoulder, Johnny uncertain when the other man had commandeered his own chipped teacup, but he lets Simon sip at it slower this time, enjoying the way his mouth peeks at the edges.

“Must ye be so British all the time?” he teases, just...watching him. 

“Hate to break it to ya, but you’re British too, ya git.”

“Shhh. We don’ talk about tha’.” Especially not around Ol’ Benny if you’re hoping to avoid that rant...

Simon keeps smirking around his tea.

Such a pretty smile when he knows he’s not being scrutinized… If Johnny’s keeping personal score, that’s 100 for Ghost, goddamnit, screw Rugged and Lovely.

And his legs in those jeans…mnh, might be worth a bonus point or two…

The spell is nearly broken when he remembers where they are, his family’s bloody kitchen, not some cheap studio meant as a porno backdrop, and he shakes his head.

Shoving off the counter again, Johnny reluctantly goes to the cupboard to fish for his meds, the second to last dose of his antibiotic, thank Jesus.

“Not gonna burst into tears again, are we?” Simon ribs, and it only draws attention to the circumstances of him being here in the first place—Johnny’s humiliating aversion to drugs sparking off this whole damn charade they’re playing.

An all-time low for his pride, to be sure, but he can’t find it in himself to regret finally yielding just a fraction of his emotions to the man. If only it had been tit for tat…  

What he wouldn’t give to recover those misspent seconds Simon had been talking him down over the phone while he’d cried like a baby…

Or the look on his face when he’d threatened to kill that reserve officer on his behalf…

Sighing, Johnny downs the pill with an exaggerated swallow, slumping forward against the counter. “Think I’m all cried out, bless. Though I could give a go at the film quotes if ye prefer.”

“Definitely not.” Simon shakes his head, the mask, lamentably, back on, but his uncovered eyes still give an unobstructed window into his mood. He looks at Johnny with a furrowed glance. “Don’t sit like that, fuckface, it’s bad for your back.”

The shorter man leverages up on his elbows with a scowl. “Christ, between you an’ the ol’ bat…”

Playing along, Simon reaches forward to slap his stiff palm against Johnny’s forehead, a wry arch of his brow. “Feelin’ poorly, are we, babes?”

And God almighty…Johnny knows he’s joking but he almost suffocates on the spot.

Somehow reacquiring his bodily functions, the man huffs lightly, shaking his head at him. “Gonnae give me a check-up, Dr. Ghost?” Aaand, now he’s back to the porno set…

Simon rolls with it, a scoff of his own as he retracts the hand. But his expression is still cautious when he says, “How are ya feelin’, Johnny? Honestly?”

“Wha’, the back?” Johnny switches gear, not willing to confront the idea that the man had meant ‘about all this’. “It’s doin’ a’right, on the whole. Stitches have already started dissolvin’.”

“Can I check it out?” Oh, Christ, who wrote this script, a goddamn middle-schooler’s wet dream?

Johnny knows he doesn’t successfully hide his blush.

“Just wanna see ‘ow it’s healin’,” Simon justifies, which—fair enough.

So Johnny finds himself shifting forward on the stool, drawing his shirt up as the other man stands behind him, not thinking about what this looks like, no sir.

There’s a bit of a hitch as he remembers his back brace, fumbling with the hook to release it, only nudging it down low enough to expose the light dressing in the center of his back.

Simon is surprisingly gentle in removing the bandage, nothing but a soft exhale as he completes his inspection. “Looks alright,” is the verdict. “’avin’ any trouble cleanin’ it?”

“Not really,” Johnny mumbles, all too conscious of how deep his voice has dropped. And how warm Simon’s fingers feel as they coast a stripe up his spine. He shivers, thankfully holding back the throaty moan at the tip of his tongue, as if this could get more erotic.

“And the walking’s better?” Simon remarks, already shifting John’s brace into place, his jumper folding back over the top. The world’s quickest and most unfulfilling foreplay, he’d wager.

“Aye,” Johnny says. “If ye’d care ta join me fer my PT session tomorrow, ye can see fer yerself.”

That gets a low, affirmative hum, Simon leaning behind him now against the cupboard, all long legs, that cock of his head.

And as much as he’d prefer to sit there, enjoying the view, Johnny knows his parents are still within a five-meter radius, and yeah—he’s not playing with those odds. They could be in fucking Guam and he’d still be looking over his shoulder every two seconds.

So he gets up from the stool, shrugging at the door again as he goes to fetch his coat. “C’mon, I need a smoke.”

Yes, because clearly a cigarette is the only cure for this rollercoaster of a mental state he’s probably not tall enough to ride.

The man’s still not sure if he’s nervous or horny, goddamnit; in all likelihood, a bit of both…

Simon dutifully follows, issuing a dry huff when Johnny reminds him, “Watch yer head, Mr. Shard.”

The two of them only wander a bit around the house, back to Mrs. MacTavish’s praiseworthy garden, hah, Johnny dropping into a huddled lean against the porch. 

He tucks a cigarette atop his bottom lip, but struggles with the lighter for a few seconds, grumbling in irritation as the fucker won’t catch a spark. Flint in his knuckles, yeah, he wishes…

Without hesitation, Simon holds out a lighter of his own, snorting as Johnny mumbles unintelligibly around his smoke, “Though' ye quit?”

“Did,” the man confirms, snapping the lighter with a flick. “Just…thought it was cute.”

And Johnny takes a look at the thing, a white zippo with two black dots on the top, grinning when he realizes it’s a facsimile of a ghost.

“Oh, you fuckin’ would.” There’s a joke there about the man’s ability to overachieve in committing to the bit, but Johnny chooses to savor the way his eyes crinkle instead, drawing back on his smoke with more relief than the nicotine usually allots.

Hell’s bells…he hadn’t realized how tense he’d been, but it all just settles around his shoulders, causing him to hug his coat a bit tighter.

“Need I remind you that this is just counterproductive to your healing?” Simon drawls, gesturing at the cigarette with a tsk. 

“This yer new gig, LT?” John teases wryly. “Playin’ nursemaid ta all the sorry sods under yer command?”

“I’ll ‘ave you know med training’s been pretty informative,” Simon defends, a furtive kick to the man’s boot. “You’d be surprised ‘ow much shit goes into keepin’ us fucks still standin'.”

“Speak fer yerself,” Johnny hisses, but there’s not as much venom as there could have been. He takes another hit from the smoke, tapping at the ash. “Enjoyin’ yer little hobby then?” He’d been surprised enough when Simon had mentioned his latest interest in updating his field medic experience, something about it feeling very…specific.  

He tries not to think about that.

“’M not the only one,” Simon grunts. “Garrick’s taking helo flight tests with Nikolai, the mad devil.”

“Ach, tha’s a sitcom in the making, innit?” Johnny laughs easily. “Thought the bastard’d gone off birds since tha’ dangling incident?”

“You would think. He’d actually had a run at being in the Paras before the SAS scooped him up, if I recall...”

“Ah, yeah, I forgot. Best’a luck ta them both.” Johnny shakes his head, his mind spiraling once he can fully consider the concept of his teammates…moving on without him. Perhaps taking up new specialties to account for a missing hole in their task force, not that John had ever fancied himself a medic, or a pilot for that matter, unbeknownst to that wanker Alan Turk…

His next draw is a heavy one, and Simon must read into his distress because he sidles up next to him, brushing shoulders again, not even saying anything as he holds out a requesting hand.

Quit. Yeah, right.

The cigarette gets passed, a quick drag taken from his lowered mask. Johnny nudges his ribs fondly.

“Not gonna tell me what’s on your mind?” Simon drawls, already passing the smoke back, but leaving his mask half-mast, a courtesy he appreciates.  

He could take the cop-out, but Johnny decides to shoot for honesty for once. “It’s jus’…it’s very weird. All of this. You…bein’ here an’ all.”

A low grunt. He doesn’t need clarification.

“Never thought ye’d be meetin’ my folks, tha’s fer sure.” Johnny watches the cigarette burn between his fingers, small chance of warmth against the biting December chill.

Simon borrows it back for a second hit, taking his time with a reply, but when he does, it takes Johnny aback. “You look like your mum,” he mutters, almost shyly. 

Whether he means it as a compliment or not is lost to Johnny’s mounting paranoia. He reappropriates the cigarette, mumbling around it irately, “Christ, think I might be actin’ like her too.”

Because if one thing’s for certain, his nerves have more than tripled since getting back home, a veritable anxious wreck in place of the hardened exterior he’d fought so hard to maintain.

“Now that’s a sitcom I’d like to see,” Simon smirks.

“Piss off,” Johnny snarks back, but with the way the taller man leans against his side, he curtails the bite in it. 

“Your dad’s got a nice bike,” Simon adds nonchalantly, and Christ—he’s really doing that thing where he’s pointing out the positives. Which of course leaves Johnny as the sucker italicizing all the glaring warning signs that this can only end in bloodshed. Whose, he hasn’t decided yet...

God…

When did he become the skittish one, the one planning exit strategies, cover-ups, lies in his head to keep him from basking in how good this actually feels?

Maybe Ghost had been the saner of the two all along, and that’s a wake-up call if there ever was one. Out-normaled by the man who wears a handmade skull mask, on purpose, picking out novelty Halloween memorabilia because he thinks it’s…cute, the man making compromises because Johnny’s the pathetic mess that he is, arriving early so he wouldn’t get ‘antsy’ and ‘overwhelmed’, Jesus Christ…

“Breathe, you twat.”

He doesn’t know when Simon had stepped in front of him, the low-drawn mask underscoring a taut frown. All at once, Johnny feels his chest writhe, a choked-out breath escaping that he hadn’t realized had been held captive, and he registers the full scope of his plight.

Fuck's sake, he really is as fussy and stubborn as his mam…

“Sorry,” he mumbles, Simon waiting for another successful inhale before lowering his guard, only slightly. “Jus’ need ta…acclimatize, is all.”

Never mind that he’d been just on the brink of a panic attack, but the low chuckle from the other man is all the aid he’d need, turns out.   

Simon simply stands in front of him, that silent guard, nothing in his posture indicating discomfort at all. In fact, he looks entirely at ease.

And when he takes the smoke back, returning it quickly after his short puff into Johnny’s slack hand, it’s his dry, deep tone that really strikes that perfect chord.

“Look alive, pretty boy. This is only day one.”

Johnny had been half a breath into his next drag, smoke caught in his throat, but he uses his exhale to do something incredibly stupid, to say nothing of the fact that his mother could be peering through the windows as they speak.

Craning to reach the man above him, he breathes out nicotine vapor into Simon’s parted mouth, a shotgun kiss, holding it there long enough that it feels like a threat to both of their lung capacities.

The low, bass, drawn-out growl swallows down the rest of his strangulation. “Mmng…”

Near-drowning, Johnny quickly moves to capture those lips, a swirl of smoke and tongues, getting a chance to test just how leather-like the other man’s is. Feels pretty soft to him.

Snaking a hand under the side of Johnny’s jaw, Simon pushes it deeper, a thump as the shorter man’s back knocks against the porch railing, right where he’d nearly fractured his skull as that hopeless, reckless twelve-year-old.

If only he’d known then what playing with risks would get him…

He arches into it, another dip into his mouth, spine softening, hands cradling his too-short hair…

“Mnh, this is nice,” John whispers, letting Simon scrape dulled fingernails along the back of his scalp.

“Good. ‘Cause I didn’t get ya any Christmas presents.”

Johnny huffs a short laugh, pressing against those lips for one last nip. “Tha’s fine. I didn’t get ye any either.”

“There’s still time…”

But there isn’t, in reality, because Johnny knows this is dangerous territory. He knows this isn’t an erotic film, a romantic holiday, or even fucking Coronation Street…

And as much as he’d enjoy raising the stakes, hands groping all over those tight jeans, he pulls back first, stubbing out his smoke and leaning back against the porch.

“Right, it’s fuckin’ baltic out here,” he rasps with a shiver, despite newfound warmth working its way under his skin. “Let’s go finish tha’ tour, shall we?”

“After you.”

So the two of them make their way back inside, Johnny hobbling around on his crutch as he goes about showing Simon the rest of the house’s interior.

“Dining room.” He points to the table right opposite the entryway. “Kitchen, which ye’ve seen. Living room.”

“Any more childhood brain trauma in these parts?” Simon mutters as they enter the space, scanning it for evidence of tomfoolery.

“Aye, is there ever,” Johnny quips. “Swear ye might be able ta see where I smashed my forehead inna the ceilin' after I tried settin’ up a zip-line during tha’ one bank holiday…”

“Was this before or after the mohawk?”

He just nudges the other man in his side, skirting around the living room to see where his daft parents have gone off to.

They find Jack in the small computer room, tapping away at one of those godforsaken candy games like his pension depends on it. “Oi, a’right, lads?” he says over his shoulder, Johnny snorting at how much of an old man he is, but he gives him a fond pat to his shoulders, upgrading that beer he’ll buy him to a nice, smooth scotch. He really does love the geezer…  

As expected, it only takes a second or two for mam to poke her nosy head out of their bedroom door, returning to her efforts of bombarding their guest, but Johnny cuts her some slack this time, recognizing how some of that fussiness does mean well.

“Aye, who’s been smokin’?” she snaps accusatorially, and shit—so much for that.

Sputtering, Johnny stiffens when he feels Simon shrug next to him. “That was me,” he says, effectively taking the hit, damn chivalrous prick.

Mam tsks, a fuse she’s barely keeping at bay for appearances only. “Ach, laddie, it’s a filthy habit, aye?”

Simon just grunts out an affirmative, subtly giving Johnny a wink.  

A close call. But somehow, no bridges were burned, no blood spilled, and Johnny continues giving the man a tour of the first floor before both his parents come to help with carrying the luggage upstairs.

“This way, dear,” mam says, leading them into Caroline’s former room at the far left of the hall. “Hope ye’ll be comfortable enough in here.”

Johnny clocks the faint hesitation in Simon’s bearing, as if to suggest that he’d been counting on…other sleeping arrangements. That, or he’s just extremely taken with the teenage-girl-themed bedroom, complete with magazine posters and a giant stuffed panda in the corner. He’ll be sure to mock Caro over that at some point…

“This is mine,” Johnny says, scooting back down the hall to his own room, pausing briefly at the unexpected intimacy of having the other man enter, but Simon just tips a head through the door, a brief recon sweep.

“Just as messy as his room in HQ,” he informs his parents, to an affronted snarl from Johnny.

“Aye, ye should’ve seen it back in his school days,” mam clucks. “It’s like the child preferred sleepin’ under his clothes rather than wearin’ them.”

“Such a muppet…”

Guess the only common ground will be taking pot-shots at Johnny’s expense, but he’ll take the olive branch as Elaine gives her first genuine smile to Simon.

And then, of course, it can only get more embarrassing for him, as they pass the string of photos hanging on the wall, mam pointing out, “Ah, lookit the boy!”

Johnny scrapes a palm against his eyes so he doesn’t have to glance at the framed service portrait, while Simon seemingly studies it with interest.

“Doesnae my John look so handsome in his uniform?” Elaine coos, hands to her chest as she continues down the stairs.

He knows how awkward he’d been, all of seventeen and grinning like a dipshit. Christ, that had been nearly half a lifetime ago…

“Huh,” Simon huffs dryly. “Can still see the hope in his eyes, poor bastard.”

Rolling with the hit, Johnny pokes his ribs playfully. But he does take a second to scan the picture himself, confirming how fucking goofy he looked; fresh-faced, sporting his new ridiculous haircut. And he knows it’s a controversial topic that the UK recruits minors, but hell—he really looks like an honest-to-God child.

“Shit, were ya try'na grow your first mustache or somethin’, MacTavish?” Simon teases saltily. That gets him a full punch to the arm, the wanker.

“Shut up.”

“It’s like a shit stain, innit? Kiss too much corporate arsehole for that?” 

“Not a damn word!”

"Wind your neck in, kid."

Whatever, Johnny pouts. At least his mother could go on thinking he’d been handsome.

Though Simon does spend a fair amount of time looking at it…

The latest bombshell only takes about another few minutes to be revealed, his mam scurrying around the kitchen when they go back down, remarking over her shoulder, “Yer sisters should be arrivin’ shortly, John.”

“Wha’, both?” he utters with barely concealed distaste.

“Yes, dear. Didnae I mention I’d invited everyone ta dinner?”

“Everyone?” he squawks, earning an amused chuckle from Simon.

Well, he’s glad he’s laughing now, because an entire household of MacTavishes is nothing to scoff at.

So much for small doses…

And soon enough—

Caroline arrives first, her family in tow, as well as a dish of neeps and tatties that she brandishes like a peace offering.

Simon can barely mumble out a hasty, “I’m not good with kids,” under his breath, before the madness is upon them. 

Within an instant, Agatha rushes forward, yelling out, “Uncle John, Uncle John, is this yer friend?!”, and Johnny swears the taller man takes a step behind him, followed by what might be a shudder.

“Well spotted, Ags,” he says, letting Simon use him as a paltry shield. “This is my pal Ghost I was tellin’ ye ‘bout.”

Squinting up at him with wide eyes, glasses askew, Aggie tilts her head in confusion. “He’s no’ a ghost, Uncle John. I can see him jus’ fine!”

Clearly Johnny’s shorter stature had not been enough camouflage then. He laughs at his niece, ruffling her head, before gently nudging Simon’s elbow.

And it becomes apparent how true to his word the man is, because all he does is peer down at the girl, an expression of utmost bewilderment in the visible portion of his face. He manages to mumble, “Hello there,” from between clenched teeth.

Johnny tries to hide his amusement, really, but it’s too hilarious to pass up on—the fact that this six-foot-four killer is being subjugated by a seven-year-old.

“Ye’re very big!” Agatha remarks, still gaping at him. “Can I ride on yer shoulders?”

Ruffling her head again, Johnny laughs. “Maybe later, hen.”

“Don’t hold me to that,” Simon whispers harshly, but then Greg and Caro make their way toward them, and it’s back to the forced politeness.

“Righ’, this is my brother-in-law, Greg Naismith,” Johnny introduces, possibly the most awkward handshake yet as Greg is currently juggling his infant son. Simon tactfully wipes the drool he acquires on his sleeve. “The wee lad Frankie. And my sister, Caroline, who ye’ve—”

“We talked on the phone,” Caroline cuts in, a professional sort of courtesy in the way she checks him up and down. “Remember?”

“Ah, yeah,” Simon says, actually taking a further step behind Johnny, the coward. “Cheers.”

“This is Simon, everyone,” Johnny finishes the introduction, leaving it at that.

Not so bad, he reckons. For now…

Surprisingly, Greg takes a rare bit of initiative, leading the man into an easy, low-pressure conversation about some real-estate stuff, all with his son slobbering against his shoulder, but Simon offers enough well-timed grunts to make it less painful.

Still giving him a maintenance check, Caro discreetly pulls Johnny to the side, whispering coyly, “Damn, he’s tall.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Tha’ all ye got?”

“I’m withholding judgment for now,” his sister teases, and Johnny raises a brow in question. “Waiting ta see if the bastard makes ye cry again, because let me tell ye—I’ll have his fuckin’ heid if he does.”

He supposes it’s just her way of being supportive, which he doesn’t even need, probably. Guess she's still holding Johnny’s tearful voicemail against the man, and here he’d been hoping she hadn’t heard…

“Don’ worry,” he reassures. “He’s as soft an’ cuddly as a panda, aye?”

His sister just squints at him pointedly.

The questions that do get directed Simon’s way are curtly answered. Yes, no, that’s classified…so on and so forth. But he holds his ground well enough that Johnny doesn’t feel the need to shadow him like a babysitter. Although he doesn’t enjoy being away from his side for longer than a minute or two.

And when Ruth arrives, Jessie running through the door first with a holler, that asshat Alan Turk, tragically, striding in as well, Johnny knows that had only been the trial run.

Oh boy…

All it takes is a cursory introduction, Ruth flaring her features in some barely-concealed inside joke as she shakes Simon’s hand. “My, wha’ a distinctive grip ye’ve got.”

Johnny would murder her on the spot if he could get away with it.

Turk’s attempt is even more pitiful. “Shite, mate, wha’s the weather like up there?” Wow, how very creative. Johnny wishes Simon would just spit in his face and say ‘it’s raining’, but the man’s dark, emotionless glance down at the twat works more in the way of intimidation.

Still, Turk persists. “Army chap, eh?” An equally deadpan response. “So, like…how many men have ye killed, jus’ ballparkin’?”

Simon’s eyes don’t even move, still glazed in disinterest, as he mutters, “That’s to be determined…”

And Alan gives a high-pitched laugh, what might be a gulp, then just wanders off to go make agonizing small talk with da instead.

“What’s with the muskrat?” Simon mumbles after he leaves, and Johnny hadn’t considered that particular species, but finds he’s coming around to it.

Ruth just grins with all her teeth, remarking, “Tha’s a very distinctive jacket, Simon,” leaving Johnny swiping his hand across his neck in a threatening gesture. But his sister keeps smiling.

And then Jessie runs over as well, stopping short just before crashing into Simon’s shins.  

“Watch it, ya sprog,” Simon hisses instinctively, but the girl seems to take no offense.

She points up at him with a bandaged little finger, mock command in her voice when she demands, “Where are they?”

Of course, Simon’s left even more puzzled, casting desperate eyes at Johnny for some sort of explanation.

But the girl simply squeaks out, “Yer missin’ feet!” and the man makes an audible sound of bafflement.

Johnny can’t help but chuckle, his arms bending to scoop his niece up to his chest, before remembering his damn back. Jessie does well to cling to him though, scooting up under his arms to begin petting at Simon’s jacket.

“I know yer hidin’ them somewhere!”

“Johnny, what the fuck?” the man whispers, sounding genuinely at a loss.

“Aye, hen, reckon he’s packed ‘em in his carry-on,” Johnny teases, letting his niece drop and wincing at the pull up his center. He leans down though, to whisper a reminder in her ear.

Jessie’s face lights up, and she stutters in excitement, pointing back up at Simon. “H-how do ghosts stay in shape?”

The look on Simon’s face could not be more priceless, but he manages to mutter, “How?”

“By…exorcising!” Jessie hoots with glee. And Johnny’ll be damned—

The man actually chuckles. Just a low grumble in his belly, but it…does something to him. Jessie seems to take it as the highest praise too, grinning like a loon.

“Not bad, kid,” he drawls. “Got any more?”

And the girl looks to her uncle for confirmation, another low whisper before, “Why are ghosts such terrible liars?”

“Why?”

“Because ye can see righ’ through ‘em!”

Johnny takes a special kind of pleasure watching Simon snort, hands in his pockets, but his eyes show a hidden smile as he gazes at his niece below. “Is that so?”

More transparent than he’d think, at least Johnny reckons…

“C’mon, c’mon!” Without warning, Jessie tugs at Simon’s sleeve, ushering him into the living room. “Let’s play, Uncle Ghost!”

And the poor bastard shoots Johnny a look equivalent to ‘I’m gonna kill you’, but all John can offer in return is a shrug, far too pleased with the way both his nieces drag him down to the carpet, an array of toys being presented to him like he’s royalty. God bless ‘em…

Dinner is a less rambunctious affair, but it still has its moments.

In an act of pure farce, mam has everyone hold hands around the table, all of her children scoffing.

“Wha’? Cannae we say grace in peace?”

“Mam, we haven’t said grace since Ruth’s first period,” Caro hisses, and if Johnny had any doubts that his family had manners, well there they fucking go…

Regardless, his mother’s insistence on them pretending to be good Catholics gives him an opportunity to actually hold Simon’s hand. A blessing indeed, if not for the fact that Turk is sitting on the opposite side of them both, Simon pointedly not taking his outstretched, clammy palm. Fair play. 

There’s nothing in Simon’s posture indicating it, but he knows the other man is likely feeling nervous from all this stimulation. Plus there’s the inescapable fact that he’d need to lower his mask to eat, something he usually avoids if he can.

In silent support, Johnny gives his hand a firm squeeze, relishing the pressure he gets back, Simon’s thumb brushing loose circles against his knuckle as mam begins her half-assed prayer.

“Thank ye Lord, fer this family, an’ this wonderful meal.” And this hand, this warmth, and all of these calluses… “An’ of course fer our special guest, aye. We’re so blessed ta have ye with us, Simon.”

The man in question gives a vague grunt, his standard response for whenever he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Johnny just squeezes his hand one last time.

The meal is fine, not many items that are too intense enough to trouble an English palette, but Simon takes his time arranging his plate, caution evident in all his movements.

While he does, Johnny can’t help but scout his family for reactions, the only one really posing a threat that rodent Turk, who’s still eyeing up Ghost like he can’t decide if he’s legitimate or not.

And eventually, he voices his stupidity. 

“Tha’ because’a the whole…secrecy thing?” The wanker mimes the mask on his face. “Or are ye jus’ shy?”

Mam goes to open her mouth to provide an excuse, but Simon simply utters, “Don’t wanna scare the children.”

It’s met with an awkward chuckle, Johnny still trying to wordlessly make death threats to his sister to put a leash on her fucking boyfriend. Who invited that weasel anyway?

Greg and Caro seem to get the right idea, drawing attention to the meal in front of them instead, all, “Mnn, these tatties look good, aye?” as Simon hooks a finger around his mask, making up his mind.

The man locks onto Turk specifically as he drawls, “You can feel free to shut your eyes, kid.”

All things considered, it could be worse, Johnny reasons, just a sharp exhale from the bastard, a few curious glances from the rest of his family.

Ruth makes the biggest show, because how could she not, raising her brows as she gestures to his scars with her fork. “Tha’s actually wicked sexy, aye?”

Caro shoots her a beleaguered groan, Johnny closing his eyes in mortification.

“Wha’? I ain’t lyin’. Have ye ever thought abou' bein’ an Instagram model?”

Jesus bloody Christ…

“Very distinctive, aye?”

To make matters worse, Alan nudges her sharply, offense in his baring while he hisses, “Babe.” He actually goes to grab her wrist, a quick, “Oi,” from Johnny shutting him down. Goddamn fucking prick…

All Simon does is blink, clearly having no such grasp of the full scope of his sister’s ridiculousness, thank God. He just begins shoveling food into his mouth with practiced efficiency.

Johnny won’t stop glaring at Turk though, the fucker still muttering underhandedly to his girlfriend, evidently unimpressed with her suggestion. Well, he called for bloodshed, so guess who might be getting a taste…

Mam turning the conversation to some school project of Agatha’s does quell the atmosphere a tad, but somehow, an innocent query from Jack makes the whole thing even more disastrous.

Because the unsuspecting geezer asks, “So, Simon, is yer family celebratin’ the holidays in Manchester then?”

And Johnny feels his lungs turn to wax, a breath lodged permanently in his trachea.

Pausing between bites of his carrots, Simon barely raises his head as he states, “They’re all dead.”

The collective ‘oh shit’ is palpable.

Mam’s fork skids on her plate, da’s tatties fall with a plop, Aggie nudges her mother’s arm for clarification, even Turk looks rattled, but Simon—

Simon just keeps eating his food, clearing the plate and wiping his face with a napkin before readily slipping his mask back on, a low, “Thanks,” all he has to say.

One thing! He’d asked them one fucking thing!

No questions, fuck's sake!

Johnny sits there, his insides churning, unable to even look at the man next to him.

It’s not a surprise when Simon excuses himself from the table, long, tense minutes of just sitting there while everyone else struggles to finish their meals under the guise of artificial conversation obviously testing his limits. Hats off to Greg, but Johnny reckons no one gives a shite about the .9% housing price drop, though it does help drown out some of his razor-sharp anxiety.

Not waiting a second before Simon exits the room, his mam hisses at him from across the table. 

“Why didnae ye say anythin’?!” A barely contained whisper.

Johnny balks, hissing back, “Because I told you not ta say anythin’!”

“How were we supposed ta know?!”

“I fucking told ye not ta ask!”

They spit back and forth before it becomes clear that arguing is pointless, da’s sheepish interjection of, “Sorry, son, I shouldn’t’a said nothin’,” shutting them both up, for now.

Johnny just takes a long swig of his beer, shoving off from the table to go chase down his emotionally-compromised not-friend former superior officer.

What a fucking mess…

He finds him in the living room, propped up against the sofa, the gentle stirring of Frankie’s swing churning out consistent hums, a litter of robots and football figurines scattered on the floor.

Taking a deliberate breath, Johnny starts, “Listen, Simon, I’m so—”

“Don’t,” the man interrupts, quiet enough to be mindful of the sleeping infant. He’s sitting a distance from it, but his eyes are locked on the cradle, Frankie snuggled beneath a tartan quilt, oblivious to all the nonsense that had just ensued.

Johnny moves into the room, cautiously, hovering above Simon on his crutch when he gets within range, but with the other man’s dry reminder of, “Don’t sit on the floor, you knob, it’s not good for your back,” he simply takes a seat in his father’s favorite chair, shins drawn to rest against Simon’s shoulder.

“I told them not to, y’know,” he mumbles. “Ask ye questions, aye? Especially about...”

“It’s fine, Johnny,” Simon says softly, his socked foot tapping the edge of Frankie’s swing.

“Goddamn meddlers, all of them.”

“They’re good people.”

That gets a huff out of him, but Johnny only whispers in response, a low drawl, “Don’ tell lies, love, I can see righ’ through ye, remember?”

Though perhaps the more startling admission is that he knows what Simon is saying is the truth, at least to him. 

As is his next confession.  

“I never loved them anyway,” leaves Simon in a hush, but it’s got enough weight to fill the spaces in between John’s vertebrae, that familiar gut-punch of laying it all on the line. “Not even Tommy,” he mumbles as an afterthought.

All he can conjure in his head is a scruffy-haired teenager, that poor Riley boy, just as unconvincing as some muppet in a service portrait, perfecting that stiff upper lip so no one had the gall to question his ability to stand on ceremony. In parade-rest at drill inspection, at three separate funerals in the same year.

Johnny knows that boy had only joined the service after. They buried his brother when he’d been in year-eleven, just fifteen, Price had let it slip once. He hadn’t known his name till now though…

But he’s aware of the fact that, while the man never mentions them, he spends an excessive amount of time scrubbing specialty soaps all over that acid burn every morning, surely some of those fifteen minutes spent reliving how he’d gotten it in the first place…

And if Simon were to finish that thought with ‘I never loved anyone’, Johnny doesn’t know if he’d be able to call his bluff, however much that scares him, either truth.

He likes to think he’s got a shot though, what with the way Simon’s hand snakes towards his, the softest squeeze, an isolated grace.

The two of them just sit there, watching the baby sleep.    

Later, after everyone’s gone, they go up for bed, Johnny having reinhabited his bedroom upstairs, just to give his parents some…space.

He’s quick in brushing his teeth over the sink, retreating back into his quiet room as he hears the other man do the same. Simon’s nighttime routine is not as extensive as the morning one, he knows.

But there’s still a bit of stalling, he reckons.

And he doesn’t have to wait long wondering if the man is comfortable in Caroline’s room. Doesn’t even turn the lights off before the door creaks open.

“Not enough pillows?” John drawls, sleepiness in his voice, more to do with stress than actual tiredness. 

Simon shuts the door behind him quietly, lingering a few seconds, some weird manifestation of Johnny’s teenage fantasy come to life; a perfect cardboard cut-out of his dream man. He’d just never expected it might look like this.

Scruffy-haired, on the cusp of middle-age, all those extra feet, wearing a loose pair of shorts and a t-shirt, still somehow the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

With a look on his face that reads: what the hell am I doing here?

Johnny’s familiar with the feeling.

“Jus’ gonnae stand there, big boy?” he asks, already sprawled out on his bed, not nearly enough room for two, but hell—they’ve done with worse.

Before he can even think about scootching, Simon steps into the room, wasting no time in just plopping down on the floor beside him.

“Oi, I can try to make room, y’know,” Johnny reasons, but all he gets is a dry huff.

“Not good for—”

“My back, aye, right.” His excuse for everything these days, as well as the root of all his fucking grief…

He turns slightly, propping on his elbow to stare at the man on his floor, tossing him a spare pillow for his troubles. His mother ought to be pulling her hair out over the notion…

Simon takes it without comment, shoving it behind his head with a tattooed arm, lying supine on the faded carpet.  

“There’s another blanket in the closet,” Johnny informs.

“It’s fine.” Roughing it is hardly a point of contention for them both, but Johnny still feels slightly bad.

So he takes a sweatshirt that had been strewn amongst his bedcovers, goddamn slob that he is, and flings it down to the man.

“This yours?”

“Who else’s?”

“Mnh. Smells like you.”

“It would, wouldn’t it.”

“Hmn.”

Why don’t silences ever feel like this, he wonders, when other people are involved?

They lapse into a perfect pause between words, nothing to indicate that the absence of speaking had been any less intentional.

And when they do talk again, it just feels…right.

“Caroline’s room not cozy enough for ye?”

“Bit too tidy, I’d wager.”

“Eh, tha’ panda givin’ ye the heebies?”

“Hardly.”

“Didn’t wanna try a cuddle?”

“Might’ve strangled it if I did...”

“Fair enough.”

“Who’s that ginger wanker hangin’ above her dresser?”

“Dunno. Some musician she used’ta fancy. Why, not a fan?”

“His eyes haunt me.”

“Hah. Says ‘The Ghost’…”

“How do ghosts prefer their eggs?”

“Oof, do I wannae know?”

“Terri-fried.”

“Jeeesus.”

“Heh.”

“Reminds me of those cursed eggs ye made me eat, remember?”

“Didn’t make ya eat anything, prick, ya nicked ‘em from my plate last I recall…”

“Aye, right. Still the last time I let ye make me breakfast.”

“Bacon and Eggs walk into a bar…”

“Och, here we go…”

“Bartender says, ‘sorry, we don’t serve breakfast.’”

“Pfft. Think ye’re cute, eh?”

“Sometimes.”

“Tell tha’ one ta Jess, she’ll get a kick outta ye.”

“Toldja I wasn’t good with kids…”

“Coulda fooled me…”

“Ok, last one, two sausages are sittin’ in a pan…”

“This better not be sexual…”

Why is this so easy, he wonders, even more stumped, when it never is with anyone else?

Because it shouldn’t be this obvious, this natural.

This…perfect.

But as Johnny finds himself drifting off to sleep, his hand slipping over the edge of the mattress, he doesn’t even doubt it for a second. As sure as those rough fingers brush against his, not grasping, just…

Tracing the edge of his knuckles. Inspecting them for evidence of sparks.

The last thing Simon mumbles before he turns the light off is, “What is that bloody fucking thing above your bed?”

A glance to Ruth’s charm, still keeping vigil by his bedpost.

“Mnn…fer keepin’ away bad dreams, LT.”

“Let’s hope it works then…”

And Johnny has certain faith that it will.

Chapter Text

Johnny’s not at all surprised when he wakes up to an empty bedroom.

In fact, he thinks he recalls hearing the soft squeak of the door, that hushed exhale of a body treading quietly out of the room, probably a few hours ago by this point.

He still takes a good long while staring at the pillow lying on the floor by his bedside, the discarded sweatshirt folded neatly atop it, smiling quietly to himself. 

And when he does finally force himself downstairs, he’s not expecting to find Simon in a frilly apron elbows-deep in preparing the whole family breakfast, though the thought does tempt him. But nope—it’s just Jack propped up in his armchair, Elaine tutting on the phone to Midge McDuffie over the latest small-town gossip. He’s grateful he’d missed the first half of that convo, as his mother had indubitably tattled to her friend about the tall, dark, and hostile stranger currently taking residence in their home. Who knows—maybe she’d been generous.

Johnny takes a nibble from the toast left for him on the serving platter, raising his eyes at da in silent question.

Ruffling the newspaper in his lap, Jack nods at the back door. “Think he’s still in the shed.”

Ah. That makes sense.

Despite the flash-second panic Johnny had had conjuring up the possibility that Simon might’ve pulled an Irish exit and hightailed it the fuck out of here already, he’s reassured knowing the man is still on the premises, however much he’s pushing the boundaries. 

He downs a glass of orange juice, tugging on his worn parka and a pair of Wellies over his sleep clothes, and slips outside without a second thought.

Figures it’s raining…

Before he can wonder if Simon had gone out here without any jacket of his own, he gets his answer.

The shed door is cracked, revealing the man himself, bent down beside his father’s Norton Commando, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his shoulder, a look of heavy concentration on his face.

Well, it’s no apron, but damn—Johnny reckons he prefers this scenario.

The squelch of his boots alerts the other man, though Johnny knows he’d been aware of his presence since he’d left the house, army senses and all that.

“How’s she lookin’?” he asks wryly, all too aware that he’d meant someone else with his query, not a ‘she’ at all. And the verdict is very favorable, if he says so himself.

Simon rubs a fist against his brow, squinting up at him as John walks under the shelter of the shed. He’s got one of his custom masks on, covering up his entire lower face with a bib-like attachment trailing underneath his shirt. Johnny had tried to tease him over it once or twice before, but honestly—it’s kinda hot.

“Rust is a bitch. Dismantled the exhaust assembly, might need to take a look at the engine if water got through. But there’s nowt in the catalytic, which is good.”

Johnny just hums noncommittally, not having enough expertise in this field to offer any insight. Plus, he’s still distracted with the way Simon’s bracing his thick forearms against the frame of the bike.

He nudges him in the side with his crutch. “Lemme know if ye’ll need any tools or parts, aye? We can hit up the nearest hardware store.”

Nodding with a grunt, Simon goes back to his ministrations, a calculated sort of finesse in the way he takes his time with each step.

And Johnny watches him for a while, handing him things when he asks, staving off a lewd reverie of what he might look like sprawled over all that chrome. Doesn’t help that he’s very aware of the fact that he himself is looking like a slug in his jammies, but it’s decidedly sexier in his mind’s eye.

After a bit though, he reminds Simon, “Got my physical therapy today, were ye thinkin’ of comin’ along?”

The other man rubs at his forehead again, a glorious flex of triceps under the ink of his tattoo. “Reckon I might.”

“Good, ‘cause ye’re drivin’.”

A low huff. “And what if I toldya my license expired three years ago?”

Johnny shakes his head, smirking. “Well, I’d say tha’s very irresponsible of an officer of yer stature, sir. Though I’ll have ye know, bobbies round here are more preoccupied with badger persecution than tailin’ down a man who fergets his turn signals.”

“Good to know.”

“Jus’ keep the road rage to a minimum, aye?”

Climbing to his feet, Simon scoffs. “That was one time, MacTavish…”

“Sure, chief,” Johnny snorts back, familiar with man’s notoriously bad driving skills to question if that license had really expired or been revoked…

Simon peers down at him in his typical condescending manner and all that teasing is lost with the way he slides a palm along the side of Johnny’s neck, a surefire way to win an argument.

Tongue feeling swollen in his mouth, Johnny just blinks at him, wishing he wasn’t hyper-aware of the fact that his parents are still too fucking close for comfort, otherwise he might’ve suggested a different type of therapy, one that involves testing the limits of that bike’s suspension…

Instead, Simon simply swipes at his cheek, a light smack. “Is our kid gonna get dressed then?”

Right, his pajamas. Johnny pivots with another squelch of his boots, savoring the fact that Simon sticks close to his side as they walk back to the house, perhaps a fond glance or two as he rolls his sleeves down.    

The drive to the health centre is relatively uneventful, just a fleeting run-in with a squirrel that hadn’t been enough to tempt Simon’s penchant for oversteering; barely.

And the PT session goes…surprisingly well.

“Look at tha’,” Shelly remarks, hands on her hips and appearing impressed for once. “We should let ye have guests more often, Tav, seems ye like ta show off.”

Johnny can’t fight the smirk on his face, going through his basic warm-ups with far more vigor than he’d displayed since starting. “Already feel like the surgery’s taken the edge off,” he says, diverting from the fact that, yes, Simon is watching him from the corner of the room, and no, it has nothing to do with his performance today.

“Hell, keep him around an’ ye might be runnin’ rings around me soon enough,” Shelly teases further, and as much as he savors the prospect, Johnny knows Simon won’t be here for long.

Still, he sends a cocky glance to the man now. “Dunno if ye can handle me like tha’. Go on, tell ‘em how fast I used’ta be, LT.”

Simon’s posture doesn’t change, arms crossed, eyes not leaving his as he drawls, “Not faster than me.”

“Ach, he’s playin’ it down.”

Even Dylan spots him with as pleased a look as his stark face can allow, which is to say—a tiny pinch at the corner of his mouth. But he helps Johnny go through his gait-training cycles with steady encouragement, offering up some sound input. “See—look how ye’re already lessening the tension, aye? It’s more ta do with that psychological expectation, MacTavish. Before, you were testin’ that weight before ye even stepped down. Ye don’ realize, but sometimes the anticipation of pain is the main thing holdin’ us back.”

Johnny can tell what he means right away. The surgery had done enough to reduce the pressure in his lower back, but had also affected the nerves in his leg. And when he takes his steps now, it’s not with that guaranteed sense of ‘this is gonna hurt’. There’s pain, yes, but it’s nothing he can’t push past for the greater goal.

Now if only he could get his balance back…

“Keep it up, Tavvy, an’ we’ll see about switchin’ over to a cane, eh?” Shelly says, leading him in a short circuit around the room on his crutches, not the full workout because his incision is still healing.

“Aye, that’ll help sell my geriatric act,” Johnny grumbles back, though he doesn’t hate the idea. He’d likely always need the aid of a support device, but knowing that his walking had improved this much already is a much-needed boost.

Meanwhile, Simon had flagged Dylan over to begin a quiet conversation in the corner, and Johnny catches enough to hear the other man muttering about field treatments and such, Johnny having mentioned that his physio had previously been a medic and Simon perking up with interest.

He watches them now for a moment, slowing down his steps, just…

Admiring the man. Both physically—still in his tight, black shirt and mask, cutting a solid figure—and mentally, knowing how passionate Simon can get over certain things, how focused and professional and driven he is. Certainly helps that he’s got a nice arse as well…

“Oi, if you fall again, Tav, I’m havin’ yer boyfriend pick ye up,” Shelly quips from his side, and Jesus—he did not think he’d been that transparent.

“Who says he’s my boyfriend?” John huffs, hoping his face isn’t blooming at the notion.

Shelly just gives him a wily eye-roll, as if to say ‘takes one to know one’. Aye, bless—he’d forgotten she’s as queer as he is.

It makes Johnny feel just a little bit…warm, at least until he finishes his circuit. A tiny thrill at being acknowledged and not shunned for it.

There’s a reason he’d never come out to his family, although he’s not sure he remembers what it is anymore.

Too messy, he supposes. Too much of a hassle. And it’s not really because he thinks they’d throw a fit over it, surely some misunderstanding and conflict of expectations, and there ought to be a sense of embarrassment or shame involved, some tears shed, maybe…

But honestly—Johnny just…doesn’t want to explain himself to them. To anyone for that matter.

He doesn’t want to have to put the spotlight on why he feels this way in the first place, why all his mother’s suggestions of this friend’s niece or that friend’s widowed daughter-in-law make him want to pull all his skin off and then put it back on inside out.

He doesn’t want to have to find excuses for the buzz he gets, what it had been like to lock eyes over a battlefield, to fumble behind flimsy shower curtains, to catalogue his ego in every snatched breath he’d taken from a squared jaw. 

Or what it feels like now—just knowing Simon’s here, watching him.

Especially when Dylan comes over to check his form, removing his shirt to see if his brace is fitted properly, feeling at the muscles of his back with practiced efficiency. That hunger in those dark eyes, an almost jealous edge that feeds into all the black he’s wearing, a frame he’d like to crack open and scrap for parts…

Clocking onto him now, Johnny can’t override the heat in his glance, the bite on his lower lip.

Simon just keeps staring as Dylan finishes inspecting his body for signs of damage.

Not yet, but if he plays his cards right…   

How Johnny keeps his hands to himself on the ride back is beyond him, but he doesn’t have as much restraint when the two of them get home and wander back upstairs, a quick shove in the direction of his bedroom and it’s almost like he can ignore the fact that his parents are still in the same hemisphere, let alone the same house. Just adds to the thrill a bit, he wagers.    

“You looked good out there,” Simon remarks, stepping into his room with his back to him.

“Mnn, yeah?”

“There’s definitely been improvement with your leg. Ya just gotta keep an eye on your balance.”

“Or you can keep an eye on it for me.”

“Hmn.”

“Ye like watchin’ me, Riley?”

If Simon had any doubts, Johnny’s tone seals it, a low, deep rumble. He raises a brow as he turns his head.  

And it’s like Johnny’s horniness is a physical thing, a red sheet draping over his skin that’s rippling under the heat. Simon still takes his next beat with caution.    

“Should I not be?”

It’s a risk, a reminder of his unsuspecting folks downstairs.

They’re already pushing their limits, not really ones for putting a show on about it, as most of their dirty talk usually just consists of ‘am I crushing your arm?’ and so forth. 

But Johnny revels in the prelude now, knowing he has both hands on the reins here, a snap and he could make him kneel.

“Depends,” he says, drawing it out. “Am I worth lookin’ at?” 

He’d been cocky once, that pretty young thing, vaunting a clean white smile that still boasted all its teeth. He doesn’t know if his vanity took a hit the same time he’d taken one in Urzikstan and swallowed a molar—but Johnny Mac reckons he’s still got it. 

Sure enough, Simon takes a step toward him, then another. And hell—all Johnny does is cock his head, and the other man follows, dragging his eyes up a razor-line that would tear that red sheet to threads.

“Might need a closer look,” he mumbles, lifting a hand to Johnny’s chin, tipping his jaw in an obtuse angle.

“Take yer time,” Johnny purrs. And he leaves his eyes open, tracking as the taller man roves him over. Once. Twice.

He steps in closer, scraping his palm against Johnny's shorn hair with a light tsk. "Too short," he mumbles, a point lost, but Johnny wagers he can still come back. 

The hand then drags down his neck, joining its pair at his collarbones, a sweep as they level over his shoulders.

Without blinking, Simon slides them down, his palms coasting Johnny’s pectorals before slotting in a perfect fit onto his waist, fingers tracing the hem of his sweaty t-shirt. Focused, professional, driven. Like he’s trying to figure out which parts are worth keeping, which could spare to get a little banged up…

And Johnny had left his crutch against the door, so he lets his full weight depend on the man’s mercy, leaning in at risk of falling on his face.

But Simon is steady in the way his thumb brushes under his waistband, his eyes narrowed. “Think you’ll pass, soldier,” he says, with a slight shove against Johnny’s hips. “Though the state of your quarters is absolute dogshit.”

“Gonnae write me up, sir?”

“Hmn.” Johnny’s glad Simon doesn’t bother coming up with another cheesy line, because his deep growl works just fine.

And then he just commits fully and smashes his lips against his mask, because fuck it, he's waited long enough.

Simon’s growl is even more pronounced, hitched behind its cage, as Johnny works on sucking the material in calculated mouthfuls.

It had been a hindrance once, back when Simon had been more modest with removing it in the first place. Now he takes his time drawing it out of him, the black fabric breathable enough that he gets a taste of the other man’s exhale.

“Ye’re not too bad yerself,” Johnny pants huskily, his hands far less professional than Simon’s, already grasping at the back of his jeans. As firm as it looks…

In retaliation, the taller man tightens his grip on his waist, tugging him closer as those thick palms skate under his shirt. A brief wrestle, and the thing gets flung over Johnny’s head, just the slightest snag as they both remember the brace still strapped around his middle. 

“I can take it off fer now—” Johnny’s fingers are already grappling for the hook, but Simon catches his wrist, a sharp look in his eyes.

“Don’t,” he rumbles, setting both his hands back on top of it, eyes still curiously exploring the way the brace makes John’s waist look…tighter, a perfect handhold.

And when they do make it to the bed, Simon keeps them there, covetous, like he’s obsessed with how narrow Johnny feels under his grip. He flexes his palms around him, pinning him down.

“It’s a bit small,” Johnny says, about the bed.

Simon growls above him, pushing him harder. “Not so sure about that, J.”

That’s new, Johnny muses, curving his tongue on the letter, watching the man above him with an upgraded interest.

Drawing his mask off, Simon drives into his mouth with renewed fervor, sloppy and sharp and hot as fucking hell. He only stutters for a brief second, eyes catching the glint of metal nestled on top of Johnny’s chest hair, ghosting his hands over them, a curl to his lips…

Meanwhile, Johnny can’t keep the urge back any longer, unzipping the other man’s jeans and finding a handhold of his own.

It’s not as graceful as it could be, what with the squeaky bed, the “Watch yer head, love,” just before Simon beans his temple against the post, smothering Johnny’s laugh with a wet snog, then more reminders, “Shhh, you fuckin’ maggot,” which just leads to Johnny having to shove his face in his pillow, from the laughing and the…other sounds…

Never could keep that pretty mouth of his shut…

And after all the muffled whimpers, the sweat, the heat curling through his entire center, leaving aftershocks in his toes—Johnny realizes this is why.

Why he’d never go downstairs right now, flaunting his afterglow, letting his parents know just how much he’d been holding himself back for their sakes. ‘Cause, boy…he could get loud...  

No, he’d never find words enough to describe this feeling. Not a label or a brand or a compromise from a relative who just…wouldn’t get it.

Too messy, indeed.

So he vows he’ll keep it to himself, as he does with most of these nameless, shapeless, vital parts of his being, as integral and well-worn as any organ he houses.

Whatever it is…it’s just between them anyway. 

A shower is mandatory by the time they roll off each other, Simon slinking out first with a kick to his shin and a grumble from Johnny. “Wait in line, kid.”

He lies there on his bed, listening to the sounds of the water running through the wall next to him, wishing his folks had splurged for a bigger bathroom. Definitely not enough room for two, however much he fantasizes about otherwise. 

As soon as Simon’s done, he hops in and washes himself as well, hoping it’s not suspicious that their showers had taken place less than two minutes apart.

Shaking his head, John checks himself in the mirror for signs of foul play, an odd love bite or two having him feel fortunate that it’s turtleneck season anyway.

In a fresh set of clothes, he wanders back down the hall, wondering if Simon had gone into Caro’s room, but he’s not there. And when he makes the short trek downstairs, he’s startled to find the man sat on the couch next to his mother, the two of them pouring over a book in his lap.

Johnny only catches the faintest murmur, a short chuckle from them both as mam points at something in the book.

What fresh hell is this…

Elaine stirs at his arrival, looking overly smug, which is never a good sign. “Aye, come have a look, John. Was jus’ showin’ Simon some snaps of ye as a wee bairn.”

Of fucking course. He’s surprised it’s taken her this long to whip out the baby books, but what’s more of a shock is how genuinely enthused Simon looks.

He smirks at Johnny with just his eyes visible, tipping the page at a particular picture. “Look at that mug. Were you always such a punk, MacTavish?”

“Aye, like ye wouldnae believe,” mam concurs. “The mischief this child used’ta pull…”

Distantly mortified, Johnny scoots to the arm of the couch, peering down at the photographs in dispute, admitting that there had been something…inherently feral in his eyes, even as a three-year-old.

“Swear, one time I caught the rascal try’na cram at least six bags’a porridge oats inna my sock drawer, ha!”    

“If you told me that happened yesterday, I’d’ve believed ya,” Simon drawls, leaving mam to laugh louder, tapping at his arm.

Johnny just blinks at the imaginary audience having a go at his sanity, because clearly this must be some sort of alternate universe. “Oi!” he remembers to protest, not even getting a cheap laugh-track for his troubles.

All the while, Simon keeps flipping through the album, snorting at the messy-haired brat he used to be once upon a time. Is he wrong in thinking there’s something distinctly…affectionate in his expression?

“Heh, what a little shit.” Maybe not. Though Johnny doesn’t even hit his arm for that, neither does mam.   

“Naw, but look how sweet he could be, my Johnny,” Elaine coos, pointing at another photo. “Aye, tha’s when Ruthie was born, lookit ‘im. Promised he’d always take care’a her, such a lovely big brother.”

Johnny takes a moment to regard the photograph, his four-year-old self grinning as he'd held his newborn sister in his lap. The striking dark hair is at odds with the wispy blonde strands atop Ruth’s pinkish lump of a head. But maybe they’d not been so different once.

He does recall being overly protective of her growing up, the two of them closer than he’d been with Caro, coming up with little games and plots and whatnot. He doesn’t know when that all changed.

He doesn’t know when he’d given up on his promise.  

Mam gets up from the couch to resume sorting through the laundry, while Simon continues perusing the album, Johnny sitting on his side to offer scattered commentary throughout.

Once they get to the teenage years, it’s clear all that mockery is up for grabs.

“What was this—an experiment to see how flammable you could make your head?”

“It’s called style, Riley.”

“I fuckin’ bet…”

Somehow, the pictures only devolve from there as they enter the bowl-cut era.  

“Jesus, kid, looks like you were try’na audition for a bloody Beatles parody.”

“I’m surprised ye even know who the Beatles are.” He honestly is.

“Well, I’m lookin’ at at least one’a those twats.”

“Tha’s harsh, mate.”

“Safe to assume you didn’t get the call-back?”

“Fuck off.”

“Boys!” mam warns, somehow only chiming in over Johnny’s cursing. It’s not like they’re grown men in their thirties, Christ’s sake…

“2008 was a bad year fer anyone,” Johnny defends, still wincing at a particularly inventive use of hair gel, the side-swept mop not really accentuating his best features.

“You’d never catch me lookin’ this fuckin’ degenerate.”

“Aye, tha’s ‘cause ye were hidin’ under a bloody mask, no doubt.”

“Was better than a paper bag, believe me…”

Johnny snorts into the man’s shoulder, nearly forgetting himself for a moment. But Simon just nudges him back, reflexively fixing his posture for him, and it’s easy to pretend this is what it might feel like, bringing someone home for the first time, to meet the folks, to laugh at his ridiculous middle-school life choices, to lean against him for support…

Right.

Because that’s exactly what this is.

Just…more complicated.

Slumping a bit, John distracts himself by glancing at the photos in the album, another one of him and Ruth, this time entrenched in puberty and their burgeoning distaste for one another. It’s kind of a shame, really. That they’d grown so distant over the years. But Johnny reckons he’d pulled off her eyeliner better than she had…

“Johnny, child, wha’ have I toldja abou’ leavin’ yer socks inside oot all the time!” mam hisses from the laundry pile, snapping him out of his thoughts.  

He swats a hand flippantly, while Simon tsks at his side. “Sloppy conduct, sergeant.”

Before he can register the outdated rank and how much it makes his heart hurt, mam chimes in, “Aye, babes, ye oughtta be more like Simon. Should see the state he left Caroline’s room in, near spotless it was.”

Goddamn bastard… Johnny can see the shit-eating grin even through his mask, it fucking would, wouldn’t it…

“Shall I fix ye’s some tea, Simon, dear?” his mother adds, just expanding the farce.

“Yes, please.”

Aye, so he does have manners. Just not around Johnny then…

“You two are best friends now?” he mutters under his breath, that invisible audience surely rolling in their seats over this comical turn of events.  

Simon just shrugs, conniving prick that he is, his expression still evidently pleased.

But as he flips to the last page of the album, something shifts in his gaze, a look in his eyes that Johnny can’t quite determine. 

“Wha’, have we got to the mohawk phase then?” he asks, knowing that that’d been the end of his appearance in most family photos, what with abandoning them all for the service.

But the photo on the page is prior to when he’d shaved half his head off, taken that summer just before he’d signed up for basic, leaving home for good; smiling, sunkissed, seventeen.   

And the way Simon’s staring at it is…

“Huh.” The man doesn’t brush his thumb across it, but it’s clear his eyes are doing just that. Scanning over it like it’s a particularly important piece of intel. Tracing, memorizing.

Johnny finds himself enraptured with his reactions alone, so rare to see a shred of emotion that couldn’t be boiled down to a grunt. Though he’s hard-pressed for an adjective to describe the fascination in Simon’s gaze now.

“Never seen your hair this long,” the man mumbles quietly, an excuse for the staring.

And that’s accurate enough, even though it really hadn’t even been that long. Johnny remembers letting it grow out that year, on a whim, after having gone through two SAS trials and being deemed too young to pass selection at sixteen, despite his stellar performances. Maybe the messier hair had been a ‘fuck you’ to the higher-ups, his subsequent mohawk even more of an act of rebellion.

“Yeah, was jus’…tryin’ somethin’ different, I guess…”

He looks at himself in the polaroid now—snapped at some beach near Aberdeen that they’d gone to as a family—at his dark hair, softly curling at the base of his ears, complimenting his black t-shirt and coy smile, just a touch of Ruth’s eyeliner, subtly drawing attention to his fine eyes.

“Huh,” Simon exhales again, evidently not too sure of the emotion he’s feeling either.

And Johnny’s not as cocky as he’d been back then, but he has to admit he’d looked good.

“Somethin’ worth lookin’ at?” he rolls under his breath, those army senses tracking his mother in the kitchen behind them, while keeping his tone suggestive enough.

But in an instant—

Simon snaps the book shut, physically shaking out of his trance, a hint of a shudder up his neck.

And his next words are calculatedly neutral again, not even inflecting on the joke. “Shame they don’t make paper bags wide enough for that big head, MacTavish.”

Johnny smiles regardless, taking special interest in the soft flush of pink that peeks at the edge of that mask, his favorite shade… 

The rest of the day is a stark contrast to yesterday’s shitshow, Johnny is relieved to report.

Both his nieces stop by after school, the wee lasses immediately seeking out Simon to play with them in the living room, which is cause for more comedy, as it should be.

Johnny takes immense pleasure observing them from his perch on the sofa, practically squealing inside as he watches Simon struggle to come up with appropriate playtime activities.

“See ‘ere—we’ve got this tosser stationed up top without visual contact with the rest of ‘is squad, wha’does that tell ya?”

Jessie and Aggie just blink at him with blank eyes, the man squatting next to the telly-set with an array of footballers in various tactical formations.

“He needs ta scram!” Jessie tries, and Simon nods tersely.

“Right. But look—Alpha Team’s already hammered on the ground, they’ll need the team leader—” he holds up the butchered Ronaldo figure, “to make a formation change call. That, or risk losing the advance.”

“Bu’…wha’ if this guy shows up?” Agatha slams one of her robots onto the ‘battlefield’ crashing into several unsuspecting athletes.

“Well then these boys are fucked,” Simon states solemnly, both girls giggling with enthusiasm.  

Nearly melted into mush on the couch, Johnny barely registers as Caro rests her chin on his shoulder, handing him a beer. “A’right, you win. Reckon he’s a keeper.”

“Never question my choice of ‘friends’ again, eh,” he quips back, watching her smirk at the two of them.

But it triggers something exceptionally…sad. This acknowledgment that Simon isn’t his friend or his boyfriend, or even a keeper.

Because he’d be leaving that first week in January.

T-minus thirteen days…

And after that, all this—playing with the nieces, laughing at their dumb jokes, charming his family, sex in his bedroom, kisses by the porch—would just become dusty polaroids in some album he’d never have it in himself to crack open again.

What had Dylan said in PT—sometimes it’s the anticipation of pain that holds one back?

Well, Johnny’s bracing for the blitz of a lifetime, an act of brutality no formation change could ever prepare him for. But he still would never deny how good this feels, watching his lover crawl on all fours to demonstrate a proper bounding overwatch technique, rumbling in his professional tone, “Now, whadda we use this for? Movement to contact, withdrawal under fire, and…”

“Sweeps and searches!” both girls chime in with glee, scattering all the players across the rug and ruining his point anyway.

“Well done, scrotes.”

Johnny would get down on one knee right then and there if his crippled body could withstand it…

Later, they sit with his father and pass commentary over the action film he’d been watching, just another scenario that feels so…easy.

“Oh, bless, look at the hold he’s got on tha’ pistol.”

Simon offers a dry chuckle at his side. “Christ, is that a saucer grip, s’like he’s serving his gran a cuppa tea.”

“FBI-trained, aye, right, swear tha’ one’s got his thumb in the trigger guard.”

Da seems to eat it up with a grin, more entertaining than the film, listening to the two experts tear the characters’ credibility to pieces.

After the credits roll, he tells his son, “Oi, John, since you two’re takin’ the car most’a the time, d’ya think ye can pick up yer granda from the station the morrow?”

“Wha’, Granda Frank’s comin’?” Johnny says with an open mouth.

Da chuckles. “Gaun, gi’es a care, lad, it’s like it goes in one ear, aye…”

“Been sayin’ it for years,” Simon murmurs in agreement, earning an arm slap.

Johnny can’t seem to recall his father mentioning that the old coot would be joining them for the holidays; that isn’t to say he hadn’t, but his son had been well preoccupied in the days before Simon’s arrival, so he thinks he deserves a little slack.

“Ach, I’m worried aboot him makin’ the trip doon from Drum all on his oon,” mam tuts. “He’s gettin’ ta be a righ’ bodach, ‘e is.”

“’Mon, Lanie, he telt us he’d be fine. Came doon las’ year, mind.”

Simon’s reaction to their thickening accents doesn’t go unnoticed, and John finds himself tickled over the thought that it’d only get worse with Granda Frank around. He adds some spice of his own, “Aye, ye ha’e tae keep mind ot, granda’s go’ smeddum enough tae carry hi’sel.”

The other man twitches his eyelid in response, Johnny cackling internally.

But he agrees they’ll go collect his grandfather from the bus station, looking forward to the look on Simon’s face when he hears what real Scots sounds like…

In the morning, the two of them head over to town, Johnny having realized he hadn’t picked up gifts for any of his family yet, cutting it close with it being the twenty-third.

After popping in to get the tools Simon needs at the hardware store, they stop at a local toy shop, both of them having way too much fun trying to scrounge up gifts for the girls.

“Wh’a’ya reckon?” Simon drawls, holding up a boxed toy, what looks like some sort of G.I. Joe action figure; or his British counterpart, G.I. Joffrey, or some shit…

“Think Jess’ll have a proper squad leader fer her troops soon enough,” Johnny chuckles, picking up some accessories as well.

For Aggie, they find a transformer model that converts into an armed cannon assault tank.

“Aye, this is actually pretty fuckin’ sweet,” he has to admit, his preteen-self practically salivating.

Searching through the stuffed animal section rewards a plush little panda for Frankie, Simon looking absurdly adorable stuffing it into the top of his jacket.

A trip to the shopping centre finds them some books; romance for Caro, obviously, and something vaguely historical for his grandfather. And then they take turns trying on neckties, searching for ones that scream ‘I work in real-estate’ for Greg.

“Thoughts?” Johnny asks about a particularly atrocious one, somehow both tartan and spotted.

“Ooof,” is Simon’s fair assessment. The pineapple-patterned one he’s got on is on the shortlist for most ridiculous as well. 

“No good? I thought it brings out my eyes.”

“Your brother-in-law has brown eyes, twat.”

“Aye, no kiddin’.” Figures in all the years, he hadn’t even noticed.

They end up choosing a very neutral green, no glitter or anything.

Then it’s a stopover to the athletics store; new headcovers for da’s golf clubs, one that’s shaped like a beer pint. Mam’s choice gives them both a good laugh—garden gloves and some packets of seeds, a how-to guide and everything.

There’s even more humor in securing Ruth’s gift, the women in the cosmetics aisle never having witnessed such out-of-place customers. But surprisingly—Simon contradicts even that stereotype.

“See—ya wanna look for the ones that say no preservatives, no fragrances, yeah? None of this cheap, waxy shit that’ll fuck up your pores.”

Startlingly impressed, Johnny has to remember that this is the man that wears a layer of black tar on his face every day, so if anyone knows about a pore’s breathability, it’s him.

They still manage to attract a small crowd by the time they’ve chosen their product, Johnny letting out an amused giggle as Simon shoulders past two gaping women without a care in the world.

It becomes apparent through their little shopping trip that neither of them are getting gifts for the other, which is fine with Johnny. He wouldn’t know what to get the cagey bastard anyway.

But still…

He wonders what kind of item might get a smile out of the other man, as surely that would be a gift enough for Johnny…

Having finished the task, Johnny suggests heading over to the community center, a reminder that Mrs. Clyne had mentioned she’d be there setting up for some Christmas performance.

“Aye, ye oughtta meet my friend, Alice, real sweetheart she is.”

He might’ve missed the way Simon had tensed over the wheel if he hadn’t been religiously tracking the other man’s driving techniques since they’d pulled out of the house. “A friend, huh?”

Could there be a touch of…jealousy in that tone?

Smirking discreetly, Johnny pushes it further. “Aye, yeah, she’s lovely. Very easy ta talk to, charming, y’know? Makes a mean cuppa tea…”

He can tell Simon’s biting his lip, even with the mask on. His hands couldn’t be tighter on the wheel if he’d snapped it in half.

“Well in her sixties, mind, but I reckon she could fill out a few dance cards back in ‘er day.”

There’s a dry scoff from the driver’s seat, Simon not successfully masking the relief in it. Had he really thought Johnny had been entertaining lady friends? Jesus, that’s a long shot…

But it’s kind of…sweet, regardless.

When they pull up to the center, John tries to curtail his unexpected nervousness. He doesn’t know why, but he’d been most eager to introduce Simon to Alice out of everyone, the woman being the only one he’d really divulged about how much he means to him, and even that had been abbreviated.  

He just…he wants him to make a good impression or something…

But as soon as they step through the entryway, it’s clear he had nothing to worry about.

“Oi, look who’s here, Alice,” he calls, watching the woman raise her head from where she’d been hunched by a stack of chairs, her expression brightening like so many Christmas lights when she spots him and Simon. 

“Aye, ye must be John’s boy then,” she says, rushing over to take the taller man’s hand right away. John's boy, hah, that gets a laugh out of him.“So very nice ta meet ye, dear.”

“You as well,” Simon offers, sounding appropriately bashful.

“Aye, right, this is Simon,” Johnny introduces, not having mentioned his name in all the gushing about his hopeless romantic attachment to the man, just one of those irrelevant details…

“My, Simon, good strong name fer a good strong lad.” She gives him a warm smile as she takes in his large stature.  

A dry chuckle. “I’d be willing to put that to the test. Need some help with those chairs?”

“An’ such a gentleman too!” Alice praises, giving Johnny a knowing grin.

He feels remarkably content, watching the two of them remove chairs from the stack and begin arranging them in rows, a quiet mumble from Simon here, a return comment from Alice there. Johnny wonders what they’re saying; about him, probably, as he gets a few shy glances his way, that pink color returning from under Simon’s mask.

But he’s not worried about it.

And soon enough, he can’t help but chime in, barred from helping them do any lifting as both had protested about his ever-present sore back, but unwilling to let them have all the fun. So now he’s propped up in a spare chair at the side of the room, acting as an unwanted drill instructor. “Bit too close ta the edge with tha’ one, Riley. Need ta get these boys in line.”

He’s met with an exasperated huff from Simon, more chuckling from Mrs. Clyne.

“Aye, LT, wha’ about settin’ these up in echelon formation instead? Reckon the view migh’ be better fer them folks in the back.”

“You’ll have to excuse our Johnny,” Simon grumbles to Alice. “Likes playin’ at bein’ a pain in my arse, this one.”

That’s not the only thing he likes playing at, especially when it comes to his—

“Oi!” Simon barks, as if reading his mind. But he’d just been snapping at him for nudging a chair out of place with his crutch, just as much of a punk as he’d been in those photos.

Alice thanks them both for the help, Simon rolling his eyes at Johnny being included in that, but he gets his reward when the woman returns with a large sample of tablet, his eyes narrowing in on the sugary treat with interest.

“Been savin’ this, I have. Wanted ta share some with ye, Simon, ‘cause John here says ye’ve got quite a sweet-tooth.”

“A woman after my own heart,” he utters with complete earnestness. And here he’d been the jealous one…

Johnny chuckles as he just dives in, sequestering himself on a chair and nibbling at the tablet with an air of concentration that’s almost disturbing.

Smiling in turn, Alice pats Johnny’s arm warmly, a silent acknowledgment that feels as good as the one in PT. Just a little nod, an ‘I see you two, and I approve’ type of thing.

He swears his eyes aren’t welling up…

“What’s in this shit? This is immaculate,” Simon mumbles over his latest bite. “Come try some, Johnny.”

“Aye, jus’ sugar, butter, an’ condensed milk, yer bloody favorite, eh?” he says, letting the other man break him off a small bite, saving the rest for himself.

And Alice simply watches the both of them, helplessly fond in the way she mouths ‘Johnny’, like she’d never considered putting the nickname to use, instantly taken with how fitting it is, especially coming from sugar-dusted lips…

When they part, Alice invites them to stop by later for the performance, Johnny reminding her that they’re expecting her for Christmas as well.

Then they’re off to fetch his grandfather from the station.

It had been a very long time since John had even seen the geezer, fairly certain that his granda won’t even remember him at all. Must be getting up there in age too, and he’d never exactly been the…sanest of men.

Johnny’s father had had no siblings, and mam’s family are all scattered across the west of Scotland, a few cousins he’d met over the years but had never been close with. Granda Frank is the one he’d remembered most growing up, the almost legendary old man arriving at their house every odd holiday, enrapturing a young Johnny with tall tales and his impressive knowledge of firearms. Served in the Royal Highland Fusiliers back in his day, perhaps what had inspired his interest in the military in the first place.

It'll be strange seeing him now, he reckons.

And sure enough, as the two of them wait by the station, the first one off the bus is Frank MacTavish, grizzled and gray as can be, arm in arm with a polite service worker who’s seemingly enraptured with the man’s charm, despite most of it being…abstruse.   

“Tioraidh an dràsda, hen, gi’es a call, ma wee doo. Tell yer maw I’wis speirin’ fer ‘er s’well.”

The woman giggles, helping Frank clamber off the bus with a steady hand. Johnny then catches their attention, waving over in a way that suggests ‘that one’s mine’, however much he anticipates that his grandfather won’t recognize him.

Which he doesn’t. Frank takes one look at him and mutters, “Noo, whaur dae ye belang tae, laddie?”

“It’s John, granda. Cannae mind yer own grandson, aye?” Johnny snorts into his fist, patting the old man on his back.

There’s a tense moment of concentration, the elderly man’s eyes squinting beneath impressively bushy brows, before, “Awa’ wi’ ye! Ma Jackie’s bairn, so ‘e is, a’ve no’ seen ye’s syne the simmer, likesay.”

Even Johnny struggles to keep up with the accent, Simon a near statue at his side.

“He disnae ha’e ‘is tribbles tae fin,” Frank says, if it could be called ‘speaking’, gesturing to Johnny’s crutch with a pull of his wrinkled forehead. “Whit’s adae wi’ tha’?”

“Got mesel banged up, wha’ am ah like,” John chuckles, rubbing at his scalp with some embarrassment.

Granda clicks his tongue at him. “Ach, haud up yer heid like a thrissle, laddie doo.”

Smirking in silent amusement, Johnny tugs him along. “'Mon then, granda. Let’s get ye’s back ta the gaff, we’re all waitin’ fer ye.” He goes to grab the man’s bag for him, but Frank simply snaps his fingers at Simon instead.

“Whit ar’ye staunin’ like a stookie fur?”

Johnny’s sure he’s never seen Simon so utterly flabbergasted. The man whispers to him with frantic desperation, “Johnny, what the fuck is he saying?”

All he gets is a grin in response, more grumbling from granda, but he takes the man’s bag, following with an extensive amount of caution behind the two MacTavishes.

The car ride back is a study in comedic miscommunication, Granda Frank’s cluttered mix of garbled Scots and Gaelic leaving even Johnny feeling near dizzy, Simon’s grip on the steering wheel corroborating the sense of hysteria he’s nursing.

“It’s aye a thocht, havin’ tae lat the towe gae wi’ the bucket,” Frank says, and Johnny’s not sure if he’s still talking about his injury, or the driving.

“Ah, dinnae fash, it’s a’ richt, granda,” he says, watching Simon shake his head at him like he’s some sort of traitor for dipping into his mother tongue.

“Is leigheas air gach tinneas creamh is ìm a’ Mhàigh, òl am fochair siud bainne ghobhar bàn,” the old man mumbles, some sort of weird proverb, he thinks; Johnny’s Gaelic is more than a little rusty, so all he can discern is something about healing diseases with garlic and butter…

Not bad advice actually…

Simon misses the turn for their street with his distraction, which leaves Frank to mutter, “A doot we’re up the wrang dreel ‘ere.” Figures he’d remember where their address is but hadn’t recognized his grandson’s face.

“Seriously, Johnny, what the fuck is he saying?” Simon hisses through his teeth, another comment from Frank—“The lad’s no’ awfie gleg on the uptak, aye?”—having him look even more panicked.

“Dinnae worry, love,” Johnny whispers back to him. “Pretty sure he thinks ye’re our chauffeur anyway.”

Frank’s arrival sees the household in high spirits, Jack and his father blathering together over a bottle of scotch, their accents only becoming more and more unintelligible, much to Simon’s horror.

“Please tell me you won’t ever let yourself get that bad,” he murmurs to Johnny, which just gets him a sly wink.

“Ane leid is ne’er eneuch, mo ghràidh.” He’s glad that the other men are too inebriated to offer translation, but Simon still flushes dangerously pink.

Maybe that’s where all of Johnny’s missing words had been: mo ghràidh, mo chridhe, mo leannan…

Something to breathe against the other man’s skin the next time they get a chance to slink upstairs, perhaps… 

They end up meeting up with Caro and the others at the community center, a full MacTavish affair.

And the Christmas performance is entertaining enough, but Johnny’s more interested in Simon’s thigh pressed against his, some of those chairs having been arranged closer than standard drill distance, if he were to pull out his ruler...

“Feel like I’ve walked inno a freak-show up ‘ere,” Simon mumbles under his breath, Johnny nudging him with his knee, but he chuckles quietly at the man’s commentary of the show. “So this is what you fucks get up to north of the border…blimey.”

It’s certainly an honest review, Johnny not having enough expertise to speak on behalf of Jeremy McGowan and his musical mutt, Bobbins, who’s now well into the chorus of barking through ‘Away in a Manger’…

“Have’ta admit though, tha’ pooch’s got pipes,” he mutters back, Simon’s resulting stifled laugh forcing him to lean even closer. Across the room, Alice catches his eye with a knowing glance, and Johnny just shoots her a grateful thumbs-up.

It’s harder to tread their sneaky sleeping arrangements when they return home, though, with Frank now occupying Ruth’s old bedroom upstairs.

Simon’s face when he enters Johnny’s room is paler than normal, his back pressed against the door like he’d narrowly escaped an attempt on his life, actually sweating.

“Granda spot ye comin’ in here?” Johnny guesses.

“Yup,” Simon says with a sharp nod.

“Ach, dinnae worry none. The ol’ bastard’s practically blind at night anyway.”

“He spoke to me, though.”

“Jings, wha’d he say?”

“Do you really think I have any fucking clue, Johnny?!”

Simon’s little outburst has Johnny rolling on his bed, the other man resorting to pressing his weight down on top of him to shut him up. And that just leads to…

Well…

“Swear by, ah haird banshees rattlin’ up the slates thou the nicht,” Granda Frank mutters over his morning tea the next day, Johnny nearly choking on his own if not for a terse slap to the back from Simon.

“Aye, s’ppose tha’d be the wind,” Jack remarks, oblivious to his son’s mortification, thank God…

Christmas Eve is a rowdy affair, as it’s inclined to be.

Lots of meat, booze, laughter and singing, what more could one ask for?

Alice pops by with a lovely baked tart that Simon immediately sets his sights on, Mam phones Midge over as well, who arrives with cakes and treats aplenty, and da had rounded up some of his golfing boys, more booze in their wake, a proper prelude to tomorrow’s hopefully calmer festivities.

The highlight of the night might be Greg though, Johnny’s ordinarily upstanding brother-in-law imbibing perhaps a tad too much scotch and positively belting his way through a round of traditional Christmas carols.

“Reckon the dog was better,” Simon mutters into his shoulder. And maybe Johnny’d had too much to drink himself, because he doesn’t stop himself from leaning into the other man’s neck, chancing a dry nuzzle against the warmth of his exposed skin. 

Mam and Midge had been twittering back and forth over the counter, and he swears he catches a glance or two from his mother’s friend, but she says nothing.

It’s Christmas, aye, who gives a shit…

Alice remains quiet for most of the evening, but after splashing water on his face in the bathroom, Johnny returns to find her tucked away in the living room with Simon, both of them sharing a private conversation amidst the noise and chaos of Greg’s off-pitched singing.

He watches them for a while, sipping through another scotch against his better judgment.

There’s something heartbreakingly forced in the woman’s expression, like she’s trying very hard to put on a brave face through all of this, but Simon does manage to draw a few smiles from her, which is…nice to see.

“Oi, Johnny-boyo!” Greg calls, suddenly at his side with a sweaty arm looped around his neck. “Gi’es a song or two, tha’s a lad.”

And Johnny has no choice but to join in, the unexpected trio of his and Greg’s drunken caroling combined with Granda Frank’s almost utilitarian chanting perpetrating the worst performance of the night.

He locks eyes with Simon specifically throughout, just to watch the other man mouth ‘awful’ at him from across the room. ‘Bloody fuckin’ awful’.

But it seems to make Alice genuinely perk up, her laughter egging them all on to continue, much to the chagrin of everyone else’s groans, Caro’s especially.

If anything, though, it just makes Johnny croon even louder, Greg now going off solo on a completely different song, bless him.

“You can’t sing for shit,” Simon mutters to him that night, lying on the floor beside him.

“Better than the dog though?”

“Not fuckin’ likely.”

“Guess tha’s why I never got tha’ Beatles call-back…”

“Heh.”

Johnny wakes up early Christmas morning, the giddy child in him still, he supposes.

But it turns out Simon had woken even earlier, and John suspects it hadn’t been over eagerness to peek at all the presents under the tree.  

He tiptoes out of the room, mindful of his grandfather, and makes his way downstairs, far less wonder and glee in his steps than he’d carried as a child, especially while limping on his crutch. Although there is some essence of excitement in the prospect of getting to spend some time with Simon before everyone else wakes up.

He finds him in the shed, as expected, squelching over in his boots again, ducking out of the frosty rain.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmurs to the other man, voice still scratchy from waking.

A dry grunt. “Thought I heard someone rustlin’ around out ‘ere.”

“That’d be Ol’ Saint Nick, innit?” Johnny teases.

Simon rolls his eyes at him, currently perched beneath the motorcycle, his favorite hiding spot. He looks tired himself, a…quietness to his posture that Johnny almost feels bad intruding upon. “Think your grandad sleepwalks.”

“That checks,” Johnny huffs, attributing it as one of the man’s many odd quirks. It takes him a moment to realize how serious Simon had been with his previous concerns, just now noticing the half-concealed pistol in his waistband. “Gonnae protect us from some rogue elves now, are ye?”

Another eye-roll. “As if you ‘aven’t got a Glock 17 stashed under your bed.”

“Well spotted,” Johnny concedes, brushing up the back of his head. “Though ye missed the—”

“Lee-Enfield MK 3?” Simon says, pulling the rifle in question out of the tarp it’s concealed under, his head cocked. “Try better next time, J.”

“Yeah, that’ll do. Though, tha’ one’s granda’s, I’ll have ye know.” There are also several tactical knives scattered amidst the house, though it might be a bit of an egg hunt to find them; God knows he’d already forgotten most of their whereabouts…

“Nice to see you’re still taking precautions,” Simon says, and Johnny can’t even tell if he’s being facetious. Not like he’s going to be facing much danger up here, but still…

“It’s hard to shake,” he mutters, a fraction of that thing he never talks about: the acknowledgment that he’d never be a soldier again. “You know well enough.”

All things considered, Johnny’d been handling the discharge better than most, he reckons. Helps that he’d pretty much formed two separate personalities, this scruffy home-body version definitely not the one he’d care to advertise, but it’s what he’s stuck with now.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got your six if any’a those reindeer fuckers try something, yeah?”

The conversation is just ridiculous enough to have Johnny chuckling, as well as reminding him what day it is.

“Nollaig Chridheil, Simon,” he mumbles, taking those last few steps toward the man and waiting for him to stand, just so he can shove his face into his chest.

“What’s that?” Simon growls, deep enough that Johnny feels it in his own chest, his palm snaking around to cup the back of Johnny’s head to make it a proper hug. “Some kinda pagan summoning spell?”

Johnny releases a muffled snort that gets buried in his clavicle. “Means ‘Merry Christmas’, ye fuckin’ weapon.”

“Ah, ya never know with you Sawney bastards…”

“I’ll getcha a dictionary, aye, tha’ way ye can gab with granda all ye like.”

“Thought we said no presents?”

“Aye.”

Well, there’s no mistletoe, but Johnny takes his chances.

Nimble fingers hook under the mask, drawing it off slowly, another deep sigh that fills his lungs like the warmest of whiskeys…

A soft kiss, peppering the edge of the worst of his scar, then traveling down to settle on chapped lips, tasting faintly of—

“Did you nab some’a those biscuits on the counter?”

Simon nips him back, his mouth quirking upwards. “Maybe.”

“Oi, those were fer Santa, you bloody bandit—augch!”

He gets cut off as Simon all but shoves him back onto the bike, his hands hoisting under Johnny’s rear to set him down on the leather seat.

Well, that’s…interesting.

“Naughty boy,” Johnny growls, successfully drawing out that perfect blush from the other man.

And then Simon bears down on him, greedy-like, trapping him there with those broad thighs, his grasping hands tightening around his neck to pull him closer, mouths joined with a warm, wet urgency, until—

Creak…

Both men snap their heads up with the sound of the door, two deer in fucking strobe lights, but it’s just…

Granda Frank waddling around, his eyes half-glazed, tripping over mam’s pathetic foliage.

“Holy shit,” Simon ghosts against his neck, his pistol already out, Johnny’s held breath dissolving into an incredulous giggle.

It gets even funnier as Simon slowly reaches out to slide the shed door shut with a comedically long squeeeaak.  

Frank just hisses at the air, waving his hands about against invisible adversaries.

By then, Johnny can’t stop laughing, their moment spoiled, and he reckons someone ought to make sure granda doesn’t wander all the way back to Drumnadrochit, so he goes to fetch him back inside.

And soon enough—the whole household is awake, Caro and Greg arriving with their brood before breakfast, Ruth, Jessie, and the fuck-wad showing up just in time for presents.

“Aye, look wha’ Alan got me? Isnae it fetch?” Ruth says, showing off her new ghastly tracksuit, cheetah-spotted with a rhinestone monogram on the lapel like a glaring target.

“Jings, let’s hope you didnae get him a hunting rifle,” Johnny snorts, his sister swatting at his arm in protest, although he’s not sure she even got the joke. Turk definitely didn’t.

All in all, the morning is spent watching the little ones open their gifts, lots of wrapping paper and cheers and eggnog.

The presents for the girls are a huge hit, Jessie unsheathing her new action figure and immediately proceeding to smash him against the telly-screen, both, thankfully, undamaged. Simon sits with her for a bit, explaining all the tactical functions of the doll’s gear, while Aggie has a go at rolling her new tank all up and down the large man’s back. Then she switches terrain to her father, Greg all but passed out on the floor, still nursing his impressive hangover, poor sod.

Everyone else seems to appreciate their gifts as well, John taking certain delight in informing them all they were, “From me an’ Simon.”

“Ah, thank ye’s, dearies,” mam says, actually giving a small giggle when she unwraps hers, a cheeky tilt of the head as she tries on the gardening gloves.

“Aye, no kiddin’, this is actually pure quality,” Ruth says, inspecting her new makeup products with a wayward Turk leering over her shoulder. “Like—this is proper shit, it is.”

Johnny grins exceptionally wide when he says, “Thank Simon, he’s the one tha’ done picked it out.”

“A man with taste,” Ruth sounds impressed, her boyfriend not so much. “Och, why’ye hangin’ round Johnny then?”

He’s not even offended, even with the addition of her gifts for them as well.

“Ahh, cologne,” he drawls knowingly, sparing her a mocking wink.

“Look, Johnny, it’s French, says so on the label an’ everyfin’,” his sister says smugly. “Got one fer Simon too, figured ye’s can mix an’ match.”

So much for being subtle…that wily minx…

“You shouldn’t have,” Simon states in a monotone, clearly not expecting to receive any gifts. But then Caro offers one to him as well, a lovely tea mug with a Scottie dog on the front that has him snorting silently. "Looks like you," he mutters to Johnny, nudging him playfully. 

But aside from that, the man’s expression remains neutrally guarded throughout, that same quietness from before, Johnny left wondering what might be on his mind…

His mother makes a show of handing him her gift, a naughty little grin on her face as he unwraps the collection of masks, each with a unique printed animal face. “Saw them in the shop, I couldnae resist, ha!”

“You really shouldn’t have,” Simon insists, far more severity in his tone now that he’s holding up the pig-nosed one for inspection, Johnny cackling at his side. If those found their way to the bin later, he would not be surprised. 

There’s more cause for awkwardness when mam begins dishing out various hats and a few reindeer antlers, Johnny squinting up at her when she hands him one that’s got candy canes sticking out the sides. “Have ye finally lost the plot?” he accuses, but Elaine holds her ground.

“C’mon, Johnny, it’s fer the Christmas card, aye?” She pushes her luck further by attempting to hand Simon one as well, the antlers pairing well with at least one of the masks she’d gifted.

“Fuck no,” Simon states bluntly, shaking his head with fervor. “I don’t do pictures.”

“Aww, c’mon, dearie, ye’re more than welcome,” mam attempts, but Johnny nudges her to stop. “A’right then.”

Simon agrees to take the photo for them, though, Johnny offering his best cheesy smile just so he can see the man roll his eyes from behind the camera.

“Put tha’ one on yer fridge at home, aye?” Johnny teases after, but Simon seems even more reserved all of a sudden, which is saying a lot considering it’s pretty much the man’s M.O., and he suspects it’s not just because of his distaste for reindeer antlers.

Without a word, Simon retreats into the kitchen while the rest of the gifts are opened, Johnny receiving a nice new sweater from his parents, a cap and scarf from the Naismiths completing his updated winter wardrobe.

Somehow not as fun to open without a partner at his side…

But he lets the man have space for a while, only wandering over to check on him after the gifts are all finished, cringing internally at finding him in the throes of conversation with Alan Turk, of all worst-case-scenarios. 

Bloody fucking hell…

“So, I was thinkin’ like…more of an upper-body type'a workout, aye?” The weasel actually tries to flex his scrawny noodle-arm, and Johnny nearly pisses himself on the spot. “Like, I dinnae wannae get too big, y’know?”

“Heaven forbid,” Simon drawls in the driest tone possible, leaning against the cupboard with a look that says ‘shoot me; there’s reward money’.  

“Aye, I know, righ’? Like…ye’ve got this whole…muscly thing goin’ on, righ’, but like…doesnae tha’ scare the ladies off sometimes?”

Simon just deadpans, “I should fuckin’ hope so,” and Johnny cackles silently behind the counter along with the rest of the live-studio audience in his head bursting into applause.

Turk, halfwit extraordinaire, clearly doesn’t know how to respond to that, releasing a high-pitched giggle that would win him a Bafta for ‘most oblivious piece of shit ever’. He, thankfully, retreats from the room, aimlessly scrolling through his phone, probably searching for comebacks.

Johnny wants to go over to Simon and ask how he’s doing, but Greg’s in the kitchen as well, sneaking bites of leftover haggis from the fridge, as if it might aid his hangover.

Instead, Johnny simply snorts as Simon asks, “Does anyone even like that git anyway?” referring to Turk, who can now be heard quarreling with Ruth in the hall, fucking typical…

“I’m gonnae go with a solid no,” Johnny says with mock consideration.

“Seconded,” Greg concurs, now with his head resting on the rim of the freezer. “Me an’ Caro like ta call him Alan Turd.”

Johnny chuckles. “Cheers, mate, might have ta borrow tha’.”

Simon remains silent, that cagey edge in his posture that has John wanting to snuggle up against his side for support, but all he does now is give him a steady smile.

God…he could stare at him all day and not be bored… 

But soon enough, the sounds from the hall are enough to draw his attention, and John finds himself limping out of the room to confront the turd in question, scowling as he catches him mid-argument with his sister.

“Is there a problem here?” he asks, venom in his tone.

Turk just rolls his head childishly, trying to hide the fact that he’d been about to grab Ruth’s wrist. “Naw, mate, jus’ sortin’ a few things out.”

Johnny clenches his jaw, wishing he wasn’t on crutches so he might appear a bit more intimidating. “Why don’ ye go an’ cool off then.” He nods at the back door; a threat, one enhanced by the fact that it’s currently hailing outside. 

Go let him freeze for all he cares…

The bastard seems to catch the drift at least, because he detaches from Ruth, shrugging his noodly shoulders before wandering out the door.

Good fucking riddance…

“Ye dinnae need ta—” Ruth tries, but Johnny cuts her off.

“If he hurts you,” he says, voice hollow and dark enough to cause a chill up his own spine, “if he fucking touches you—I’ll kill him. You know tha’, right?”

There’s an astonished look on his sister’s face, and that just makes the severity of John’s threat even more pronounced.

Because he’d promised to protect her once. And he’s still planning on holding himself to that.

“Johnny, dinnae be so dramatic,” Ruth scoffs, returning to her air-head routine, but there’s still some level of acknowledgment there, a flicker in her eyes that might’ve read ‘thank you’ under all that mascara.

“I’ll fucking kill him, Roo,” Johnny states again, exaggerating the point by reaching behind him to snatch one of his hidden tactical knives from the hallway shelf; that's one out of nine if he’s not mistaken…

“Ach, Johnny, now ye’re jus’ bein’ creepy as shite! Jesus!” Ruth whines, but she lets her brother flip the thing in his palm, and she only hesitates a second before taking it, a silent agreement between the two.

“As a precaution,” Johnny says, smirking as she tucks it into the pocket of her ridiculous tracksuit. Let the cheetah become the hunter for once. “Merry Christmas.”

Poorly concealed death threats aside, the rest of the afternoon is enjoyable enough.

At some point, John returns to the couch with Simon, the loveseat of all spots, and someone has the audacity to place Frankie in the man’s lap, Caroline smiling with glee at her son being cradled by The Ghost himself.

“This is…I…uh…” Simon sputters impressively, but after Johnny helps him adjust the head, he manages to hold the babe effectively enough, albeit in the same position he wields most assault rifles. "I've never 'eld a baby before."

“Aww, reckon he likes ye, Simon,” mam coos, pressing her hands together and taking in the sight like it’s a cherished photograph.

No pictures is pretty much rule of thumb with the man, but even Johnny wishes he could snap the shot for safekeeping.  

“Gaun, ye can touch him, Si, he won’t bite,” he insists, the nickname sliding out effortlessly. Caro sends him an affectionate wink from where she’s sat with her husband, both of them watching their wee lad with enough faith that Simon would keep him comfortable, however awkwardly.

“Think I’ll hedge my bets,” Simon grunts, unconvinced that the infant isn’t as dangerous as said assault rifle. But he does shift him after a moment, drawing him a touch closer as Frankie wriggles sleepily against his chest. “This is weird,” he mumbles, half to himself.

“Ye’re doin’ great, lad,” da encourages, looking just as sleepy as the baby in his favorite armchair.

“Nemmed fer mesel, ‘e is,” Granda Frank chimes in, nearly forgotten from his perch beside the Christmas tree. “Tha’ bairn’s a sodjer, disnae greet fer naught.” He smiles at the babe with half-missing teeth, not even noticing his other grandchildren by his feet, the two girls enthusiastically playing with their toys over his slippers.

Simon had tensed upon the man speaking, as he’s wont to do, shaking his head at Johnny for a translation.

“Wee Frankie’s named fer granda,” he explains, his smallest finger currently being held by the boy, a surprisingly strong grip. “Aye, Frankie John, he’s called,” he adds, with evident smugness.

“Oi, who says tha’s fer you?” Caro says, raising her brows at him from the other couch.

“Wha’, ye’re tellin’ me it isn’t?”

“Ye do know da’s called John as well?” she reminds, Johnny hissing at the realization while his father shrugs in apology over preferring his nickname.

“So wha’?”

“Aye, my ol’ man’s name is John too,” Greg pipes up, looking just as sheepish. “Sorry, mate.”

Damn his absurdly common given name!

Thrown for a loop, Johnny tosses a hand up in mock offense. “Christ, wha’ other Johns ‘ave we got then?”

“There’s Price,” Simon drawls from his side, not missing a beat, receiving a subsequent scowl, and a perk of interest from mam.

“Aye, righ’, though he’s a ‘Jonathan’, I think,” Johnny grumbles. 

“What’s the difference?”

“The ‘athan’ bit,” he snaps, while Simon just shakes his head with a snort.

“Ach, dinnae worry, babes,” Elaine consoles. “Ye’re still special ta me, John Laith.”

Johnny had been halfway into an eye-roll, but Simon’s short exhale catches him off guard.

“Laith,” the other man says, just the name under his breath, as if his tongue is rolling out the shape of it.

“Aye, yeah, didn’t ye know my middle name before?” Johnny asks, certain his lieutenant had at least bothered to read his file.

“Sure, just…never heard it out loud,” Simon says softly.

God, he didn’t have to sound so…

It’s almost too romantic a notion for Johnny to swallow, and the fact that the rest of his family are in close proximity is perhaps the only reason he doesn’t move in for the kiss they both deserve.

Instead, he forces himself to shrug, a ping of a reminder in his head. “Oh righ’—was meanin’ ta ask abou’ yer middle name actually.”

“That’s classified,” Simon states bluntly, earning a fair amount of scoffs from Johnny’s family.

“Aww, tha’s no fair, dearie,” mam asserts, John agreeing with her for once while Simon vehemently shakes his head.

“Aye, I bet it’s somethin’ edgy,” Ruth adds, Turk practically glaring at her. “’Cause ye’re like…so mysterious, y’know?”

“Yeah, mate,” Greg tries. “Cannae be tha’ bad, aye?”

“It’s need to know,” Simon insists further, although there might be a touch of self-mockery in his tone.

“An’ who needs ta know then?” Johnny teases.

“That’s classified.” He should have seen that coming…

“Ach! Ye’re no fun!”  

Simon just holds Frankie in his lap defensively, a baby-sized shield, as granda offers another cryptic proverb like a forgotten literary character from the corner:

“Innsidh na geòidh as t’fhoghar e…”

Something about geese, John thinks.

Johnny’s pleased when Alice arrives before dinnertime, the woman expressing her gratitude far more generously than is necessary by providing gifts for everyone.

“Och, Alice, dear, ye’re really top-notch,” Elaine praises, always one to bask in the prospect of receiving presents. She takes her new bracelet with a pleased grin.

“An’ fer you, Johnny,” Alice says, handing the man a small, wrapped parcel. “’Cause yer mam said how much ye used ta like writin’ in a journal.”

Sure enough, it’s a neat, leather-bound notebook, that rustic smell to it and everything.

“Aye, cheers, Alice. This is great,” he says, giving her an appreciative kiss on her cheek.

“I’ve go’ one fer ye as well, Simon,” she adds, watching the taller man unwrap it with a bit of uncertainty. “Although I was thinkin’ ye might like ta jot down some recipes in there. I’ve already added the one fer the tablet.”

“Thank you,” Simon says, genuinely taken aback. He opens the book in his large hands, fingers flicking through the empty pages.

“Gonnae sign yer name in it?” Johnny asks, nudging his side.

“Might.”

“Aye, yer full name?” he needles further, getting a dry grumble in return. “Mr. Simon T…?”

Simon snaps the cover shut with a tsk, shaking his head. But his expression turns gentler after a few seconds, a nod to Johnny’s own book. “Didn’t think you were still writing.”

“M’not really,” Johnny admits, blushing at the thought of Simon taking note of his scribbling in that old journal. “Though Alice’s thinkin’ of startin’ up a club.”

“Huh.” Simon traces his fingers across the leather methodically, a distraction for both. “She’s very…kind to you.”

“Aye, yeah,” Johnny agrees, leaning in a touch closer. There’s clearly a wellspring of unspoken sentiments there, but he chooses to linger on the notion that Simon’s…pleased he has a friend in his life. “Wha’ were the two of ye’s talkin’ about yesterday anyway?” he decides to ask.

Simon continues studying his journal, but he mumbles, “She was tellin’ me about her son.”

Ah, right…

Johnny really should’ve clued him in sooner, seeing as this is Mrs. Clyne’s first holiday without Trevor, her grief still terribly relevant. Poor thing…

He wonders if the other man had been considerate enough, but then Simon mutters:

“Told her how my brother died on Christmas.”

Oh…

There’s a physical chill in his center, like frost had found its way under his skin, locking him in place. 

“Wh-wh—” John starts, uncertainty tugging at his vocal cords. “Why did ye…never say anythin’?” he manages to whisper. ‘To me’ is the silent addendum.

God…it makes everything so much worse all of a sudden. The merriment, the laughter, being surrounded by family…

Simon’s closed-off mood. His quiet acceptance…

Fuck…how must he be feeling through all of this?

But the man just shrugs it off, as he always does. “It was twenty fucking years ago and I’m over it.”

An excuse. A reason to take the spotlight off him, not that Johnny blames him.

“Still—Simon…”

“Don’t worry about it, J,” he says, and before Johnny can try to patch it up, Jessie bounds forward, snatching Simon by the hand.

“C’mon, Uncle Ghost! I wannae show ye my new squad formation!”

And Johnny’s left sitting there, reinterpreting every interaction they’d had since his arrival, since he’d known him maybe, searching for clues that he’d fucked up on a catastrophic level, but Simon…

Simon seems fine.

He always seems fine. 

And he doesn’t even need a mask to pretend, that’s the worst part…

Alice joins him on the couch after a bit, the two of them watching Simon play with his nieces, a warmth in the scene that extends beyond just seeing the man bark orders to the two girls as good as he gives to any cadet.

“Wha’d’I say, sprog? Ya’ve got to get missiles on that tank or your whole unit’s fuckin’ wasted!”

“Yes, sir!” Jessie squeaks, tossing a Christmas cracker at Aggie’s transformer, ducking behind the tree for cover.

“Let’s hit ‘er while she’s down, move it, move it!”

Mam comes over as well, making light conversation with Alice. Johnny’s glad to see their friendship is back on track, although he still cringes at his mother’s absence of tact.

“So, wha’ would ye’s usually do fer the holidays, Alice?” she asks, because of course the woman wants to answer that…

“Oh, was typically a very small affair, especially these last few years,” Alice says, too polite to spurn mam’s invasive question. “Though we used’ta take trips ta the cottage we’ve got up in the Cairngorms.”

“Ah, tha’ sounds lovely.”

“Mn, it was. Been a while since we’ve had anyone up there, bu’, y’know wha’—” Alice turns to Johnny then, an almost conspiratorial look in her eyes. “I was actually thinkin’ you boys might like ta pop up, see the sights a bit while Simon’s here.”

Johnny perks up at the thought, uncertain if the woman is really offering what he thinks she is: a romantic getaway for the two of them to sneak off together to be alone. “Tha’s a fine idea,” he says.

“Aye, it’s up near Laggan, it is, small place, but ye’s might find it refreshin’.” Bless this woman, indeed. “Ye’re welcome ta stay, long as ye like.”

But of course—

“Ach, here’s a suggestion,” mam intercedes, a nerve in John’s temple pulsing on cue, “if ye’s do head up tha’ way, Johnny, would be a real nice favor if ye can bring yer granda back home as well. Been worried aboot…ach, well, y’know he shouldnae be travelin’ much at his age, aye?”

Aaand there’s the catch.

Because he could never have anything nice for himself for once…

Grumbling, Johnny agrees, “Sure, we’ll think about it.” Three hours in the car with his unintelligible grandfather, what could be more romantic…

And with Simon driving, whoo…they might be in for a treat.

He still makes a point to thank Alice wholeheartedly, smirking when the woman mutters under her breath, “Thought you two might like some privacy is all…”

Aye, who wouldn’t…

After dinner, they all gather round for some drinks and conversation, Greg, regrettably, not up for a repeat performance of last night’s spectacle, observably more careful with his beverages.

Simon remains quiet on the other side of the kitchen, Johnny making sure to keep him in his sights at all times, certainly distraction enough; although he’d also been tailing Turk since earlier, his new HVT (high-value-turd) currently scrolling on his mobile on the couch behind him, Jessie doing her best to irritate him as she makes sound effects with her new action figure.

His father and grandfather are in a heated argument over methods of preparing haggis, Caroline and Ruth are having a rare moment of sisterly bonding mixing up cocktails. Johnny himself is more than content, leaning on the counter and listening to Alice talk about the Christmas show from the other day and how many ‘presents’ were left behind by its headlining pooch.

It’s easy to laugh. And it’s easy to let his guard slip under the warmth and high spirits of the occasion.

And while Johnny may have shaken most of his military persona, the instincts still remain.

What happens next is proof of that.

All he gets for warning is a snapped, “Aye, watchit!” from Turk, then a small yelp, and—

He turns just in time to see Jessie slipping off the back of the couch behind him, and he does the only thing he can think of.

In a second, Johnny rapidly shoves off from the counter, his crutches abandoned, wrenching his arm out to grab the girl before her head can smash against the bookshelf.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Simon moving too, only…he’d been closer.

And Jesus…

He only just makes it, the girl squawking in his arms, safe and sound. Yet…

It takes a few seconds for the blowback to register. Three, two, one, and—

“Fuuuck,” he hisses, dropping Jessie as gently as he can as his body just about collapses.

Ah, Christ…that does not feel good at all, a scorch of fire burning up the middle of his back, like the worst pinched nerve he’d ever experienced, aftershocks nearly making him blind.

He slips to the floor.

But within an instant, there’s a weight at his side, catching him as he slides down into a twisted curl.  

Fingers on his pulse.

A voice in his ear that sounds like—

“On your feet, sergeant, what the fuck are you waiting for, move it—Johnny!”

Johnny shakes his head, but it only makes the pain worsen. “God…mnrgh…should no’ have done tha’…fuck…”

“Easy, easy…” That’s Simon. Of course it is. Solid, steady, his hands on Johnny’s carotid. Did they always use to shake like this though?  

He doesn't get a chance to think about it, because his back screams at him again, demanding all his attention. 

Meanwhile, Ruth rushes forward to snatch her daughter off the ground. “JJ, wha’ve ye done now?”

“M’fine, mammie, jus’ slipped s’all,” the girl mumbles, while Ruth guides her away from her uncle, who’s now groaning against the carpet.

And the commotion continues, because then Caro is lashing out at Ruth, yelling at her for, “Not even watching her! She could’ve broken her neck!”

“How was I s’pposed ta know?!”

“It’s not like yer boyfriend helped at all! Ye better no’ have pushed her, ye fuckin’ twat!” Caro rounds on Turk, the bastard sputtering like an idiot.

“Wha’—of course I didn’t! Tha’s outta line!”

“Well ye didnae even try ta catch her and now Johnny’s fuckin’ hurt—”

“Enough!”

Johnny’s not sure who snaps, da probably, but it’s enough that they all remember he’s still currently writhing on the floor, only Simon and Alice bothering to keep him company.

“Shite,” mam hisses, a rare use of language. “D’ye reckon I need ta ring the doctor? Johnny, babes, are ye a’right?”

He’d started panting without realizing, shuddering enough to work a sweat, his teeth clenching too tightly to force out a proper answer. “Unrgh…it’s…s’fine…”

“We should try to get him on his stomach,” Alice suggests, a calm in her voice that he appreciates. “To check if he’s damaged the surgery wound, aye?”

“Naw, s’fine, it’ll pass,” he tries to reason, unconvinced himself. "Some butter and garlic oughtta do the trick, aye."

Where's granda to corroborate that when he needs him?

Distantly, John registers his father kneeling by his head, similar to that incident where Aggie kicked the shit out of his leg, leaning down next to Simon to gauge his condition.

“Aye, son, but we still have ta check yer stitches,” da says, petting his head to help soothe him, but Johnny can’t shake the feeling that his entire core is aflame, gasping harder.

Fuck…

And everything had been going so well…too well…

“I’m gonna turn you, Johnny,” Simon grumbles, a steady presence right next to him. Christ, when had he held his hand? He clings to it, even as Simon begins to nudge him up. “Just gonna need you to—”

“Aaugh!” Without warning, Johnny lets out a horrible cry as he feels a sharp pull.

And just as suddenly—

Simon snaps back, as if physically shocked.

“Jesus, fuck…jus’…wait a second,” Johnny rasps, curling back into the fetal position and reaching for his hand again.

But Simon doesn’t return to his side. 

He senses the man jolt to his feet, not saying a single word, and in the next second, his footsteps pound away from the living room.

And then all Johnny can hear is the side door slamming, a hiss of winter wind in its wake.

Shit…

There’s an almost stunned silence, Johnny still struggling to catch his breath, everyone else just…not saying anything. But after a moment, Caroline takes the vacant spot at his side, gently coaxing him onto his stomach with their father’s assistance.

“Gotcha, John, it’s fine, jus’ ease up,” Caro says, only causing a few whimpers as she begins inspecting her brother’s back for signs of damage. “The wound looks a’right, babes, dinnae think ye tore anythin’.”

"Might have'ta bring ye in ta the clinic tomorrow, though, love," mam adds, sympathy in her voice as she strokes his head. "Ach, my poor lamb…"

Now lying face-down on the floor, Johnny can’t quite hide his discomfort, stray tears soaking into the carpet, like he’d felt after waking up in that hospital—no, he won’t think about that now.

His legs curl up to his chest, a reassurance in the movement alone; he’s not broken, he’s not paralyzed, he’s not...

He’s fine.

He’ll be fine…

“Is Jess a’right?” he grunts, attempting to turn with his sister’s support.

“She’s fine, Johnny,” Caroline mumbles, stroking the back of his neck as she gingerly props him up off the floor, bit by bit. His back is still pulsing, but he’s able to sit up, now utterly embarrassed about this whole goddamn thing.

“Is…Simon…?” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking. But he needs to know.

“He jus’…ran off,” mam says, a tad accusatorily. “Dinnae know why. He looked spooked as anythin’.”

Johnny has no real explanation to give on his behalf, but Caro simply whispers, “He’s a soldier, mam,” and huh, she’s spot on with that, he reckons.

Shell-shock in its most basic form…

Johnny just wishes he hadn’t been the cause.

“I’ll go check on the lad,” da says, rising to his feet with a groan of his own and tracking Simon out the side door. To the shed, undoubtedly, if Johnny had to guess.

Between Caro and Greg, they manage to heave Johnny up onto the couch, laying him on his stomach so his mother can fetch an icepack and his painkillers, Alice whipping up some specialty tea she swears helps with nerve pain.

And he might’ve been comfortable had he not currently remained within earshot of them all, talking behind his back, mam fussing up a storm, Ruth and Alan arguing with renewed fervor, da still not returned from outside.

He can’t see the side window from where he’s got his face smooshed in the cushions, but Johnny likes to imagine he can peek into the shed, watching Jack talk with Simon, the two of them leaning over his rusty old bike, man-to-man, while hail falls down around them, a scene out of a snow globe…

He wonders what they’re talking about…

Jessie snuggles up against him soon enough, the girl taking this whole thing rather well.

“Sorry, Uncle Soap,” she says, looking guilty, but not overly upset. Aggie would’ve cried by now; which she had, presently being consoled by Caroline in the kitchen, even though none of this had been her doing. She’s got all the dramatics of a MacTavish, poor lass.

“Don’ mind it, Jess,” he mumbles, letting her nudge up under his arm. “Yer uncle’s a bit more fragile than yer toys, eh?”

“I can get some sellotape if ye need it.”

He snorts against the cushion, tugging her closer.

The side door does crack open eventually, hushed voices, more bitter cold air. Johnny hears Alice go over and offer soft, muffled words, what might be a return mumble from Simon.

But they stay in the hall for a while. Until the door opens again, those heavy boots treading back to the shed.

In and out…

Just like—

“Ghost requested reassignment. He left for a covert op three days ago…”

Hmn…

When had running away been the man’s preferred method of action? He’d never known Lieutenant Riley to call for retreat in all his years of service.

Look what they’ve done to each other…

The combination of painkillers and that surprisingly effective tea do a number on Johnny’s ability to remain alert, but he still manages to catch Jessie’s quiet whisper, nestled against his shoulder.

“Is Uncle Ghost my da?”

He would laugh if he were more at ease. Instead, he just shakes his head imperceptibly into the pillow. “Naw, hen.”

“Oh.” Jessie frowns, disappointed. She snuggles closer. “Tha’ woulda been cool.”

“Aye, it would have.”

Seeing as he’d spoiled the rest of Christmas, Johnny’s not surprised when everyone starts heading off, Ruth not even saying goodbye, Turk leaving behind her in a huff, his father and brother-in-law assisting in carrying Johnny upstairs so he can rest more comfortably.

Simon doesn’t come back inside.

He can see the shed light from his bedroom window.

And John does wonder if the man won’t bother to check on him at all, still refusing to conjure up images of an empty hospital chair, not now, not after everything…

But he lies under his bedcovers for a while, not quite waiting, listening to the muffled sounds of his parents cleaning up downstairs, twinkle-lights turned off one by one, not as wide-eyed as he’d been as a boy hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa on his way home…

Johnny must have slipped into sleep eventually, but his army senses are still up to par, even in spite of the narcotics, because he instantly wakes when he hears his door open, a small creak, tracking five solid, steady footsteps. At least he knows it’s not granda…

There’s a low breath before he cracks an eye open, watching that figure settle next to him in the dark. Then, just the faintest grumble.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” he whispers back, too much of a coward to ask the same.

Because he knows Simon had been scared.

That’s the kicker, isn’t it?

He’s as scared as I am, Johnny comes to understand, we’re both so fucking scared.

Of everything, of each other, of saying it out loud.

It’d be funny if it weren’t so cruel.  

They can hide behind masks, behind concealed weapons, behind shell-shock all they like, but that’s all it really boils down to.

“Thanks fer celebratin’ with us, Simon,” Johnny breathes after a few minutes of silence, letting his eyes shut once more. “Ye’re doin' really well, sweetheart.”

He needed to acknowledge it. For all the obvious efforts the man has taken, so out of his comfort zone he might as well be off planet, for the forced niceties, the attempts at politeness, for not judging his family, for laughing, for being at his side, for coming here in the first place…

For being 'John's boy', when he needed him the most.

Simon doesn’t answer, as Johnny’d known he wouldn’t.

But he tosses him that spare blanket, only settling back down under his own quilt till he hears the sound of him nestling around it.  

Not all nights are easy, he knows.

And it’s about time that Ruth’s charm had lost its potency, proving it had just been glitter and ribbon and tacky-glue all along.

Johnny snaps awake to the sound of a grunt from the floor, a strangled exhale. 

He should have figured…

Sharing nightmares with a partner becomes inevitable, especially with soldiers. But Johnny knows Simon had always feigned otherwise, anytime he’d been caught shaking in his bed going vehemently unmentioned in the morning.

Not that Johnny’d ever bring it up himself, but there were reminders occasionally, as the man could get…violent in his sleep. Which is why Johnny treads carefully now.

He log-rolls out of bed, sitting up to catch a glimpse of Simon on the floor below him, currently rigid in a tight curl, harsh breaths the only thing escaping the clutch he has on his head.

It’s the small whimper that gets to him the most.

“Hey,” Johnny tries, giving a soft nudge with his foot. “Wake up, mate.”

He reckons the man’s trapped in there good when he doesn’t immediately snap up at him. He just continues to spasm, sharp, rapid breaths underscoring his turmoil.

“Simon,” Johnny breathes, now kneeling beside him to the best of his ability, back still aching. He knows it’s probably a mistake, but he still reaches for the man’s shoulder anyway. “Hey, ye’re a’righ’, love…”

As soon as Johnny braces a palm on his body, Simon gasps, lashing out with a snarl. And while he’d been expecting it, Johnny does manage to get clipped on the side of his face, Simon’s fist striking him enough to knock him back.

Ah, fuck…that’d be hard to hide in the morning.

But the small grunt he releases is all he'd needed to snap the man out of it, Simon now jolting upright, eyes wide in the visible light, a look of horror.

“Shit, fuck, did I hit you?” he hisses, hands still wrapped around his head, as if confirming it’s his own.

Not risking turning on the bed lamp, Johnny clicks his phone on instead, just so there’s enough light to reassure him, and to reveal the shudders still wracking his form, the paleness in his expression, the way he forces his jaw to clench, already building that front he loves to hide behind.

“Just a tap,” Johnny downplays, unsure if he should try to touch him again. He wants to, but doesn’t.

Simon drapes an arm over his face, dropping back onto the floor with a heavy exhale, a conscious effort to steady his breathing; which, under his expertise, only takes about five seconds.

“Bad dream?” Johnny asks, backed up against the edge of his bed on the floor beside him, idly rubbing at the swollen lump under his eye. Could’ve been worse…

Simon just huffs, “Sure,” as if there’s such a thing as ‘good dreams’.

“Wannae talk about it?” He knows he won’t, but he still has to ask.

“You should go back to bed,” is all Simon offers.

“Aye.”

He doesn’t though. He just sits there next to him on the floor.

For a while.

They lapse into a static silence, neither speaking, just forced, heavy breaths in the half-dark, a conscious hesitance by both of them to be the one to reach out first.

Johnny’s shocked when it’s Simon who does.

And he’s shocked by his words.

“You remind me of him, sometimes,” he mutters, a shallow sigh before, “Tommy,” he clarifies.

Johnny just holds his breath.

“He was good,” Simon states, matter-of-fact. “Not like me. Smart. Funny too.” A dry snort escapes him, fondness bleeding into it. “He was the only one who could get a laugh outta me, swear down, and that was a challenge.” Another vague breath. “He was just…better.”

Tucking his arms around his legs, Johnny nods, like he’d been bracing himself for what Simon’s about to say next.

“Dad used to get violent, smack us around a bit, y’know?”

No. He doesn’t know.

He’d never in his life be able to know what that’s like…but he still nods back.

“Sometimes it could get pretty bad. Mum never liked to draw attention to it, unless we got to skrikin’ too loud, then she’d try to join in.” He lets out a faint huff.  “But Tommy—Tommy’d always try to take the brunt, yeah? He’d always try to get the old bastard off my back, such a fuckin’ hawk. Stubborn—like you, y’know? Never knew when to cut his losses.”

Johnny waits with a breath caught in his ribcage, for that knife to twist, sure as silver…

“Kind of a surprise that it was me that killed ‘im in the end, not the old man. Ironic, even.”

There’s just the sound of rain tapping at the window, Simon’s steady breathing, banshees on the roof slates.

But Johnny listens.

“I got myself inna some trouble, as they like to call it. Heroin, mostly. Though it was probably some cheap knock-off shit now that I’m thinkin’ about it. Heh.

“Was just a kid anyway, ‘ow could I even tell?  

“I won’t even pretend it felt good, ‘cause it sure as fuck did not. Don’t let anyone tell you that shit gets you through it, swear I was barely fuckin’ hangin’ on even in the beginnin’.

“Tommy tried to help, at first. Tried to be a good big brother and set me straight. But he was lookin’ for a way out too, same as I was. Maybe even more…

“Could never really understand that. ‘Cause he had a girl that fancied him, he had plans to go to uni—not that I think he woulda got in. But he had…shit to live for, y’know. And I…

“I was countin' on a knife in my throat at a deal gone bad, for dad to finally put his full back into it the next time he had me on the floor, for that next dose to be just above my tolerance…”

Fuck…

Johnny hadn’t realized when the tears had sprung, but he doesn’t even wipe them away.

He just keeps listening.  

“Turns out Tommy got my lucky ticket though,” Simon mutters in the dark, voice still shockingly steady. “Found him in the bathroom Christmas morning.”

Johnny closes his eyes.

What can he even say but, “Simon, I’m so—”

“Don’t.” An order. A command as unflinching as any he’d issued on battlefields and in backrooms. “Just—”

Let me finish, he doesn’t say.

But Johnny lets him anyway.

“Had to wait to bury him, ‘cause the ground was so fuckin’ cold. But by that point, his girlfriend had already gotten rid of the baby…”

Jesus fucking Christ…

“I think it was a boy…”

Johnny’s hand finds a shoulder, just to hold him there, just to say I’m here, I’m here, I’m here…

Simon continues.

“Dad was next, which is probably the only reason I’m still alive. Got fuckin’ plastered after New Year's, tried to strangle me. But he was too sloppy, and I managed to get him off me for once, first time I felt stronger than him.

“Think I scared him maybe. I was…I was scary then.

“Sure enough, he just fucked off. Drove his car into the river that night. Drowned.”

Johnny starts rubbing circles on the man’s shoulder, down his forearm, unconsciously drawn to that location, to the damage underneath.

“Mum never got around to cleanin’ the bathroom after…Tommy, and lemme tell ya, it was a fuckin’ mess. For weeks we just left it like that. Thought that stain’d never come out.

“Picked up some acid ‘cause I thought that’d be the thing to do it. Started scrubbin’ the whole floor. By that point I was already past the worst of the withdrawal, and I just…I needed somethin' to focus on. But mum…”

Johnny tenses, his hand reflexively clenching.

“She was losin’ it already, I should’ve noticed. Made the bathroom into a sort of shrine, didn’t wanna acknowledge that he was gone. So when she saw me on my knees in there, cleanin’ up Tommy’s filth, she just…”

Fingers brush over scar tissue, gnarled, stretched, warping up the skin of Simon’s arm, shoulder, his neck, his face…

“Managed to duck at least, and I’d already gone through most of it, so the container wasn’t even full which was lucky.”

Lucky…

His own mother drenched him in acid, and Simon’s calling it lucky… 

Johnny feels sick to his stomach.

“They ended up committin’ her to a psych ward, which didn’t go over too well. ‘eard she’d suffocated ‘erself with a bed sheet while I was still in the burn unit. Can’t say I really cared that much.”

God…

“’Cause I never did care. About any of them. Still don’t.”

Johnny opens his mouth now, nothing to say at all except, “Simon…”

“No,” Simon says, point-blank, no holds barred. “I never fuckin’ cared, Johnny. I swear down that’s the truth.

“I didn’t cry when they buried my brother, I fuckin’ laughed when they fished my father out of that river. And the only shit I got outta hearin’ ‘bout my mum was a fuckin’ letter from child welfare sayin’ I belonged to the government. Turned sixteen the day after the skin graft for my shoulder…

“But I didn’t fuckin’ care. Not then. Not when I got discharged after months. Not when they finally let me sign up to the service at seventeen, ‘cause I figured if I was owned by the bastards they might as well get some use outta me…

“I didn’t care when they put me on the worst gigs either. Got a reputation, yeah? The guy they’d send when they wanted no questions asked, no traces, no ethics—and believe me, some of that shit could get…unspeakable…”

“Simon, sweetheart,” Johnny tries again, now reaching for his hand, but the man shrugs him off.

“I don’t care, Johnny.”

He really believes that, doesn’t he…

“I…I don’t even know why I’m tellin’ you this…I just fuckin’…”

There’s a shift in him now, like he’d finally come to his senses, his voice sharpening, desperate. Just proving how scared he is underneath it all.

Unraveling, bit by bit…

“I’m not someone who…gets to care, alright?”

So why does that sound like a plea for him to claim otherwise?

“I’ve watched countless men die, families, children, by my hand even. None of them meant a thing because—they hire me specifically to not care.”

“Simon…”

“I swear to fucking God—I could watch everyone in 141 get fucking blown to shreds and I…”

“Look at me, love…”

“Fucking…Price could get sniped right in front of me and I’d still feel…”

“Simon, it’s ok.”

“But…but you…with you…”

Simon’s voice seizes then, too much, too much…

“Johnny, you…”

His name, like a knife-sharp promise, like a scream, like everything he’d never said and never will…

“It’s ok,” Johnny says again. “It’s ok, Simon.” Just to tell him: I know.

I fucking know I’ve known forever l’ll always know…

Simon still gives it his best attempt, fractured, shaken, tragically lost…

“I’m glad you were hurt,” he whispers, as sure as if he’d spoken the real thing, because this is all he has to give, “if it means keeping me from killing you too.”

How can a confession that’s been gutted out, stripped of sentiment, wrapped in barbed wire…still sound so beautiful?

The same way that it makes Johnny smile, in spite of all the horror he’d just played audience to, the tears that still scorch down his cheeks. Just a flicker of warmth in the dark, like someone had missed one string of twinkle-lights in a room that never was.

The same way that love is just a poor man’s word for that feeling you get when carving initials into a nuclear warhead in Verdansk, falling asleep against it with the assurance that even had they failed to disarm it, historians might scour the wreckage someday and find proof of their feelings, however deeply buried, however fractured and misshapen and dusty…  

God…

They’d always been so fucking hopeless, haven’t they…

Johnny shakes his head, finally allowing himself to slide down the bed, sprawling out beside the man on the carpet, shoulder to shoulder.

“Careful, lieutenant,” he says, taking his time drawing it out, breath by breath. “Folks might start thinkin’ ye like me or somethin’.” 

And Simon’s reply is just as dry as it ought to be, as well-loved as an inside joke, “Heaven forbid…”

Johnny chuckles. A sweet sound in the dark.

And his hand finds his again, an anchor, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure to say ‘thank you’.

For sharing all that. For letting him know.

He drags it up his chest, pressing his lips against each callus, that faint scent of rust under fingernails from his father’s bike.

And he wishes it could sound as soft as it does in his head, but the tongues of Alba had always been more for hardened souls, nothing delicate enough to be swept away with the fierce winds of winter…

“Tha gaol agam ort,” Johnny whispers against his skin, harsh as a rasp, peppering each finger with reminders, “mo ghràidh, mo chridhe, mo leannan…”

Simon’s exhale fills the gaps in between, a comfort that sees him turning on his side just slightly, a dark silhouette as he leans in closer.

It doesn’t take long before he’s pressing his head against Johnny’s chest, the big softie. Never let it be said the man doesn’t like a cuddle…

And Johnny holds him there, fishing for more sweet words to draw upon the back of his neck, “M’eudail, mo taibhs…” stroking through strands of blond, so remarkably silky.

“Your pagan spells don’t work on me,” Simon grumbles after a few seconds, reverberating against his ribs. “I’m not a toad yet.”

Johnny just huffs, pulling his hair with a tease. “Pity, then.”

“Gonna need that dictionary after all,” the other man adds, his own lips now tracing the edge of Johnny’s clavicle, naughty boy... “Need to know what kinda shit you’re sayin’ ‘bout me.”

“Thought we weren’t doin’ gifts?” he drawls back, grabbing his bed pillow so he can prop them both up.

Simon draws the blanket around him, nestling further. “Well, I ain’t got nowt for you.”

“’Well I ain’t got nowt for you’”, Johnny grumbles in his best (worst) impression of the man’s accent.

“That’s fuckin’ terrible, MacTavish.”

A low snicker. “Worse than my singin’?”

“Christ, I’d need a dozen gifts from you to forgive that affront to my ears.”

They laugh, the both of them, quiet, soft, like honey. 

And then Johnny tugs his hair sharply, detaching from him to reach for his bedside dresser, fumbling in the drawer. “Aye, I’ll do you one better.”

“Wha—you didn’t actually get me anything, you bastard?” Simon accuses, but John just clicks his mouth at him.

“Ah, it’s nothin’. Jus’ noticed ye saw somethin’ ye liked,” he teases, successfully grabbing the object in question, glad he remembered to nick it from downstairs earlier.

He tosses the polaroid at the man now, a flicker of gloss from the light of his phone.

“Happy holidays, babe.”

Simon’s scoff is extraordinary, clambering up onto his elbows to scowl at Johnny more effectively while the other man just keeps silently cackling. “Wha’d’ya expect me to do with this?”

“Cherish it,” Johnny states, earning another scathing look.

“I can’t carry this around with me,” Simon reasons, sounding uncharacteristically flustered as he waves the photograph like it’s condemning him on the spot. “You’re like…seventeen in this picture, J. People will think I’m some sort of perverted weirdo.”

“Newsflash…”

“Oi!” That gets him a slap to the arm; fair play.

“Jus’…keep it, Simon,” Johnny says, rolling back onto the floor, wincing as his spine throbs, but he reckons it's worth it. “I want ye to have it.”

He doesn’t explain why, not sure if there even is a reason. He just likes the idea of Simon glancing at it every now and then, at his smile, at his long hair…

“’Sides, I look fuckin’ hot in that picture and I want ye to remember tha’, aye?”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell…”

“He doesn’t deny it!”

“Shut up.”

Johnny knows it’s foolish to hope for something in return, seeing as he’d already been granted a full-access pass to the man’s history of trauma, though Simon holding his arm out seems like reward enough.

But as he rolls into him, the two of them snuggled under the blanket on the floor of his bedroom, loosening up with the pressure against his back, he gets one last gift for his troubles.

“Talmadge.”

“Huh?”

“It’s…my middle name.”

Johnny does his best, but he can’t hide his, “Ooof.”

Simon practically snarls against his shoulder blade. “You asked for it…”

“Talmadge,” Johnny says slowly, rounding out the consonants, curling it on his tongue. “Bit stodgy, innit?”

He gets a light tap to the back of his head. “I didn’t fuckin’ pick it.” Just another sin from his godawful parents, he supposes.

“Naw, it’s no’ tha’ bad, reckon.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Simon Talmadge, yeah. Sounds like a professor or somethin’, a scholar.”

“Sounds like a bloke who’d bash your nose in if ya ever tell anyone, hear?”

Johnny chuckles as he tucks his arm around him, tracing his finger over the faded tattoo. “Sure, love.”

“Wha'ever,” Simon grumbles. “Yours is prettier anyway.”

And who said the man can’t sound romantic when he wants to?

Because Johnny nearly swoons when Simon clicks his phone light off, muttering against the back of his neck his loveliest example:

“Merry Christmas, Johnny Laith.”

Johnny smiles, tucking into his warmth, his shadow, his everything.

“Merry Christmas, Simon Talmadge.”

And when he spots that old polaroid sticking out of the cover of Simon’s new leather journal in the morning, right by the scrawl of ‘Ghost’, he smiles to himself.

But he can’t help the naughty urge to add some graffiti of his own, just a quick try at calligraphy, a flowery-looking S, a bold, looping J.

The doodles underneath are just happenstance: a barking little Scottie dog chasing a cartoon ghost.

Immortalized in scribbles is as good a declaration as any, Johnny supposes, hoping the other man thinks it’s as cute as he does.

Though he reckons he will, the big softie…

Chapter Text

Simon gets the motorcycle to start two days after Christmas. It’s also the same day that a snowstorm strikes the town, burying any chance he had of going for a test drive.

“It’ll ease off by tomorrow, forecast says,” Johnny informs him, still in his pajamas and peeking out the door with an air of liberal caution.

“What are ya doing—get back inside!” Simon grumbles back, currently in the process of shoveling a path to the driveway, no one having asked him, but a task he’d self-designated all the same.

“It’s pure baltic, mate,” Johnny hisses, nodding his head through the door from where he’s clinging to it for warmth. “Ye should come in fer some tea.”

The other man scoffs, his breath clouding in front of his mask to emphasize the chill. “And you should be resting, you twat. Doctor’s orders.”

Johnny had gone (been forced) to the local clinic yesterday, just to confirm he hadn’t done any grievous damage to his back. He’d also had to make excuses for the bruise under his eye, mam fussing up a storm when he’d come down the next morning after Simon had accidentally punched him from his nightmare. Hit the dresser rolling out of bed, he’d said, a believable alibi as it had actually happened to him once or twice before, clumsy git.

The verdict from the doctor had been fair enough, a suggestion that he keep to bedrest these next few days, more reminders that he shouldn’t be straining himself, the usual. Simon, apparently, seems to be taking it as gospel.

“Go lay down or I’ll shove this down your fuckin’ neck,” he growls, holding up the shovel full of snow; a loaded threat.

Johnny heeds his advice.

And it’s not so bad, really, snuggling up on the couch all day, holiday films on the telly, mam perfecting her batch of Atholl Brose before Hogmanay and letting him be the taste-tester.

Suffice it to say, he’s comfortably inebriated by noon.

And when Simon comes back inside, Jack and him conversing about the bike, his father thanking him profusely for the shoveling because lord knows he wouldn’t have done it himself, Johnny lies there smiling like a loon, even giddier when Simon shrugs his boots and coat off, slumping in a heap at the foot of the couch, just by his head.

“What’re we ‘avin’?” he asks, about the drink in Johnny’s hand, attempt number five and mam’s best yet.

He just hands it to the man below him, a warmth in his chest that would surely melt all this goddamn snow as he watches Simon yank his mask off, his cheeks blistered pink, taking generous sips. “Hmn. Creamy. Not bad.”

Yeah, not bad at all.

The days leading up to New Year's are mostly uneventful.

The snow does melt, gradually, and after some time, Simon finally gets to give the bike a try, somehow becoming an occasion enough to warrant a crowd.

“Caro’d never let me ride, reckon,” Greg says, arms crossed and studying the motorcycle with a look of envy.

“Naw, me missus never took to it either,” Jack concurs, just as wistful. “Prob’ly why I gave up my rebel phase...”

Johnny’s snort is substantial. “Hell ye did.”

“A’ yer eggs are double-yoakit,” granda offers, all of them doubtful of if he even knows why he’s here.

“Right,” Simon grunts, climbing to his feet after some last-minute inspections. “Who wants a go?”

“That’d be you, mate,” Johnny rationalizes, nodding at everyone else’s expectant looks.

Simon just blinks at him, holding the key, as if he’d never considered that prospect. “I ‘aven’t got a license.”

Another exaggerated snort. “By jingo, guess yer outta luck then.” Simon rolls his eyes, but Johnny adds, “Gaun, mate, ye fixed the bloody thing. Should get ta enjoy the fruit of yer labors an’ all tha’.”

Simon keeps stalling though, enough for granda to swoop in with a gruff, “Mak a kirk or mill o’t, fionn!” snatching the keys from his grip to try to have a go himself.

“Naw, naw!” Jack scoops them back, manhandling his father with some comical scolding, and by that point, Simon’s made up his mind.

“We’ll wait for the snow to melt more,” he decides, already rolling the bike back under the shed.

“Tha’s a cop-out, Riley!”

“Yeah, c’mon, man,” Greg tries, seemingly in the mood for a show now that he’d come down here for nothing.

But Granda Frank has another spectacle in mind, as out of nowhere, the crazy geezer cocks his old rifle, somehow escaping Jack’s clutch enough to fetch it from under the tarp. And Jesus…that’s a GSW waiting to happen.

Johnny manages to secure the rifle without misfire though, smirking as his grandfather insists, “There be conies oot bin plowterin’, a shair’s ocht.”

And by some absurd circumstance, this leads to them all participating in a lesson from the old man on rabbit-hunting, which then turns into a chance for target practice.

Somehow, Greg ends up as the designated pupil, both Johnny and Simon with a few garbled additions from granda unwittingly coaching the poor sod through a crash course in firearms, Jack placing some spare bean cans out in the field beside the house as targets.

“Telt ye!” granda bellows, pointing at the weapon with a weathered hand. “Tha’s no’ ma wey o’ daein’!”

Johnny rolls his eyes as he readjusts Greg’s grip to the proper hold, his grandfather still sputtering about ‘back in my day’ nonsense.

“Is this even legal?” his brother-in-law asks with an audible gulp.

Simon and Johnny exchange looks, both shrugging.

“Long as ye don’ hit nothin’ breathin’, lad,” da offers, taking several healthy steps back.

Greg gives a nervous chuckle, turning back to ask another question, but the second he does—

“Woah, hey! Wha’d we say about pointing in a safe direction?” Johnny barks, already shoving the rifle away from them all, back towards the field. 

Simon snaps a harsh, “Downrange at all times, muppet!”

“Righ’, righ’,” Greg says, now looking even more out of his depth. “Here goes nothin’.”

His first shot is predictably off-target.   

“Jeeesus, that’ll kick yer teeth in, eh?” The man looks positively ashen already, like at any moment his wife will pop out and give him a scolding. It’s probably best if Caro doesn’t hear about this…

“Elbows in,” Johnny instructs, leaning on his crutches to correct his stance. “That’ll hold off the recoil a bit, plus it’ll keep ye balanced.” He wishes he could say the same about himself.

Greg does his best to hold the stance, but his next shot is just as wide. “Might be better if I see one’a you experts do it,” he mumbles, looking at the both of them for further instruction.

But Simon just crosses his arms, nodding at his companion. “Don’t look at me. Johnny’s always been the better shot.”

And holy shit…

Johnny wants to go down on him right then and there.

Where the hell had that come from?

Simon is cautiously aloof, just shrugging at him while John stares with a slack mouth.

“I’m no’ exactly field ready at the moment,” he reminds with a swing of his crutch, snapping himself out of the split-second fantasy he’d conjured of giving the man a blowjob behind the shed; later, maybe…

“I can steady you,” Simon says, because of course he fucking does.

And what other steamy scenarios can he possibly dream up with the taller man bracing around his waist, his breath on his neck, the rifle just a poorly disguised euphemism all along, he wonders…

Johnny’s aim is still sure as anything.

And he makes six rapid shots, nailing each can in clean succession.

Greg whistles, impressed. “Damn.”

Yeah. Damn. Simon’s hands are still on his fucking waist, now that’s something to whistle at…   

“Never actually got ta see ye shoot before, son,” Jack says, effectively pulling Johnny out of his rampant sexual crisis. Simon still lingers a touch, fingers dragging back along his jeans as he reinstates his grip on his crutches. “Tha’s pretty nifty, eh.”

“Yeah, well…” He doesn’t really know what to say to that, unwilling to confront the dull ache he feels over the pride in his father’s voice. The reminder that as accomplished as he is with firearms, he’d never get to showcase that skill again in the field.

“He's a fuckin’ ace sniper too,” Simon states, and what the fuck—is he just flattering him for kicks now? There’s something overtly smug in the way he smirks at him, like he’s aware of all the sensual payback Johnny’s going to have to enact on him later.

Goddamn seductive prick…

It does help distract from the hollowness he feels over losing his career, though, which may have been his intent in the first place.

Regardless, they let Greg have a few more goes with the rifle, only packing it in when he manages to clip the large leaf a few centimeters from the nearest can, a victory in his book.

“Gave tha’ conie a richt fleg, ‘e did,” Granda Frank mumbles, still under the impression Greg had been shooting at rabbits…

And Caroline does give them all an earful when she finds out, her main argument consisting of, “He’s just a realtor, Johnny!” as if the man’s lackluster profession disqualifies him from getting his hands dirty, which is a pretty fair point, as his brother-in-law spends the rest of the afternoon discussing the expected price drop for the next season in his dullest drawl, seemingly having his share of fun for now.

Meanwhile, Johnny can’t keep his opinions, or hands, to himself for much longer, dragging Simon upstairs and frantically unzipping his pants, army-fast.

“Fuckin’ ace sniper…” Johnny grumbles, ready to prove just how generous he’d regarded the man’s praises.

“Shoulda told ‘em how qualified you are with demolitions too—agh—” Simon hitches a bit as Johnny works his tongue around him, but he still persists, “Or how—mnh—nimble your dainty little fingers are.”

“Shut up,” Johnny hisses, more of a self-command as he finds his mouth serviceably occupied...  

He’ll probably come to regret how drunk he gets on Hogmanay, but Johnny reckons he’d find time for that in the new year.

“2024,” he slurs, hands splayed over his head, eyes bulging, “Tha’s like…tha’s the future, innit? Wha’ th’fuck, 2024 sounds like summin tha’s s’pposed ta have, like, jetpacks an’ robot armies, righ’?”

The argument makes sense to him, in a misguided sort of way, but Simon just shakes his head at him like he’s the biggest idiot he knows, pushing his latest glass of scotch just out of reach.

“Naw, bu’ like, hear me out—” Johnny proceeds to ramble further, a round of laughter at his expense, some overly-touchy nudging to the man next to him, more laughter.

They’d decided to hit up the local pub after celebrating at home, Johnny, Simon, Caro and Greg, his parents off somewhere playing designated drivers, causing a fair amount of liveliness from their corner of the bar as well last Johnny’d checked. The Naismith kids were being babysat by granda, what might’ve been a disastrous endeavor had they not already been put to bed, a slew of old war movies teed-up on the telly to keep the geezer more than occupied.

“Y’got any New Year's traditions, LT?” Johnny mumbles to Simon, still too close to be considered entirely platonic. It’s a good thing his parents are otherwise distracted, but Caro and Greg say nothing of the hand he keeps sliding up the man’s thigh. Oh well... 

“If I had my way, I’d be in bed by 1900.”

“Aw, c’mon, tha’s fuckin’ pitiful, mate.”

“Leave the man be, Johnny,” his sister tsks, and she could be referring to his teasing, or the hand that’s still just shy of groping him.

“Well, we go’ lots’a traditions up ‘ere,” he claims, swiveling his head around for that missing drink.

“Aye, ye can be our first-foot!” Caro says, explaining, “Up in Scotland, it’s said tha’ the first person ye have enter yer house after midnight’s s’pposed ta bring good luck, eh?”

Johnny adds with an evident slur, “Naw, s’pposed ta be a tall, dark-haired bloke tha’ brings the luck, so they say,” digging his finger into his own chest, a bit too emphatically.

“Well, that leaves you out,” Simon states matter-of-factly, placing his palm on the shorter man’s head while Johnny sputters.

“We’ll letcha pop over ta our house, mate,” Greg tries to pacify, smirking as he watches the two men squabble silently over the bar, Johnny clumsily groping for his drink behind Simon’s shoulder, hissing when the other man pushes it further.

John can’t help but sulk, drooping lower in his stupor when he mumbles aimlessly, “S’a pity Roo couldnae make it.” He must be drunk if he’s wishing his youngest sister was here…

“Naw, she’s with the Turd up in Stoney,” Caro says, chewing the cherry from her latest cocktail and tickling her husband with the stem. “They do a big thing fer Hogmanay up there, aye?”

“Tha’s righ’,” Johnny nods, blinking his eyes a bit too rapidly. “S’with all the fire, innit?” He makes a vague impression of flames with his fingers, dizzy at how quickly they move.

“Yeah, the Fireballs,” Greg clarifies, huffing at his brother-in-law in amusement.

Well, Johnny seems to think the word ‘fireballs’ is about the funniest thing he’d heard all night, because he cackles to the point of breathlessness over it, pressing his whole face into Simon’s shoulder.

“F-fuckin’…fireballs…s’like…s’like, hey, mate, ‘ave ye seen me balls? Naw, mate, they’re on fuckin’ fire!”

“That is the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard,” Simon mutters dryly, while the other two chuckle at the absurdity.

“Like…can ye ‘magine Turk comin’ back from Stoney an’ he’s got, like, scorch marks all o’er his trousers, like, aw wha’ happened ta you, mate? Fuckin’ fireballs got me…” His laughter is just silent gasps by this point. 

“Jeeesus, Johnny! I dinnae think I’ve ever seen ye this plastered,” Caroline remarks, quite tipsy herself judging by the redness in her cheeks and her inability to stop giggling at her brother’s ridiculous rant.

Wiping tears from his eyes, Johnny tries to sell his case. “Naw, naw, I’m fuckin’ fine, swear. Jus’ got this tickle in me throat, aye, jus’ need ta—” His attempt to snag his glass is thwarted by Simon sliding it further down the bar, Johnny nearly landing in his lap over his sloppy reach.

“That’s it—I’m cutting you off,” the other man grumbles, propping him back on his own stool with some difficulty.

“Ye’re meeean ta me, LT,” Johnny purrs with a poke to his chest, turning to pout at his sister for sympathy. “He’s so mean ta me, he is.”

“Naw, I reckon he’s bein’ real sweet, Johnny,” his sister claims, and yes; she’s right. Simon is so very sweet to him, sickeningly sweet, like all the sugar in the world, he should—

In all fairness, he’s lucky that he’s drunk right now, otherwise his attempt to snog the other man in public might’ve actually been successful. As it is, he only manages to sloppily smash his mouth into his masked chin, slipping with the momentum and nearly bashing his face on the bar top.

Simon expertly grabs him before he can.

“Oi, there’s a strong lad!” he giggles, groping at the other man’s bicep appreciatively, while Simon hisses at him.

“Ok,” Simon grunts, keeping his arm looped around John’s torso, batting off his advances. “Someone needs to cool off.”

“Naw, m’fine, so fuckin’ fine…‘cept I think my balls’re on fire, can ye check for me? Hah!”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell…”

Caro and Greg just keep chuckling at them both, Johnny too far gone to really register how obvious he’s being.

And Simon ends up dragging him to the bathroom, shoving his face none too gently into the grungy sink to give him a brief shock of cold water and slapping his cheeks while he’s at it.

“F-fuck,” Johnny sputters, wagging his wet head around like a dog. When he blinks, Simon is still standing there, dark eyes judging him silently, arms crossed. “Well, hellooo, stranger,” he slurs, leaning on his crutch to press their chests flush against each other. “Ye come here oft—ach!”

His cheesy line gets quashed when Simon just shoves a palm in his face. “You’re fuckin’ ‘opeless,” he mutters under his breath, tensing as Johnny starts licking his palm. “Uagh! That’s ‘angin’, MacTavish!”

“Ye know wha’ else is hangin’,” John grins, lewdly pressing his crotch into the other man’s jeans.

“Jesus Christ…” The most exasperated of sighs.

“I mean, yeah, technically he was hangin’ on a cross, bu’ tha’s not—”

Simon manages to shut him up with the only effective method he knows works.

Which is to say—they miss the celebratory countdown because they’d been making out in the admittedly filthy pub bathroom, but Johnny can’t think of a better way to ring in 2024.

Then there's more laughter, singing, dancing. And someone sets something on fire, he thinks, more laughter, more singing…

It's a shame he can't really remember the rest…

They have tea over at Alice’s house New Year's morning, both of them being heralded as her first-foots (first-feet?) along with a decent-sized basket full of goodies for her.

Unfortunately, John’s luck seems to be tapped out on the first day, failing to curb his hangover, a downright slug already. Alice comes over to give him a blanket and some aspirin, bless her, while he naps against Simon’s shoulder, all but dead to the world.

But as he vaguely listens to the two discuss the other man’s interest in field medicine, Alice’s new hobby with crocheting, their mutual passion for tea, it’s surprisingly…nice. To just sit there with them both, Simon’s hand tracing lazy patterns on his knee, no need to hide.

It’s easy to pretend he’s not leaving in about three days…

Alice gives them the key to her cabin as they depart, and then it’s just a matter of driving granda up to Drum before they can enjoy their brief little ‘vacation’.

The drive is fairly long, especially with Simon’s insistence on stopping every thirty minutes so that Johnny can stretch out his back. For further inconvenience, Frank usually uses those pit stops as opportunities to wander off, the crazy coot, and Johnny’s not sure how he would’ve worded the conversation to his folks about losing him at a gas station outside of Inverness, but thankfully Simon manages to snatch the bastard snooping in an abandoned sheep barn before he can really run off, bullet dodged.

They actually pass by the location of Alice’s cottage on the way up, having to drive right through the highlands to get his grandfather home, but Johnny doesn’t mind. There’s beautiful country up here, and it’s nice to get to share it with Simon, albeit with a few curmudgeonly interjections from granda.

“Stop ficherin’ aboo’ wi’ yon. Keep the heid, fionn!” Frank grumbles at Simon, who’d simply adjusted his seat for the third time.

“Christ, what’s he sayin’ ‘bout me now?” the man hisses to Johnny, scowling at the old bastard through the mirror.

Johnny just waves a conciliatory hand, smirking at his grandfather’s nickname for him, the Gaelic for ‘blonde’ quite hilarious now that he’s thinking about it.

They make good timing, rolling into the outskirts of Drumnadrochit just after noon, Johnny taking in the scenic sights with a dreamy nostalgia. He’d not been up here since he was a boy, he reckons, the stark, gloomy green landscapes appealing to him just the same as they had back then.

“Aye, ye know wha' this place’s famous for, don’cha?” he asks Simon. The other man shakes his head. “C’mon, mate, this is Ol’ Nessie’s stompin’ grounds.”

Simon scoffs, “The Loch Ness Monster? You gonna introduce me then?”

“Ach, if ye wannae drive by the loch, we can have a look fer ourselves, migh’ catch summin, aye?”

“If that thing’s real, I’ve got an SA-B 50 in my carry-on with his name on it.”

Johnny nearly chokes on his snort, teasing, “An’ how’d ye manage ta get tha’ past airport security?” not at all convinced the man isn’t completely serious.

“That’s need to know,” Simon states bluntly, but there’s an edge of a smile visible even covered with his mask.

They do swing by the famous lake, just a brief inspection at the edge of its frigid shores, observing nothing too outlandish besides another arcane rant from Frank.

“Thon baloon’s needin’ taen doon a hack, wha’s gaun tae bear the gree?”

If Johnny’s not mistaken, the old man sounds like he’d been hoping Simon had packed that bolt-action rifle, clearly wanting someone to rid the area of his cryptid neighbor. Maybe next time…

Before long, they’re seeing Frank off, dropping him off at his humble abode, Johnny a little concerned over how he’d manage on his own, but it’s clear the old man lives comfortably enough out here, as he had for the past however many decades.

After detaching from a surprisingly strong hug, Johnny pulls back, patting his shoulders. “A’right, hang in there, ye ol’ dafty. Gi’es a call sometime too, eh?”

“Caw cannie, laddie boy,” granda says, giving his cheek a fond tap, John still uncertain if he really knows who he is. Then he straightens his chin, directing it at a wary Simon. “Fionn,” he states, drawing a faint shudder from the man. “Ye need a stoot hert fer a stey brae.”

It’s clear the advice goes right over Simon’s head, but the next bit is slightly more palatable.

Clapping Johnny’s shoulder, Frank says, “Tak carr’a my bairn, aye?”

Simon frowns, probably understanding enough, but uncertain what to do with it. After a second, he gives a solid nod.

“Love ye, granda,” Johnny says, kissing his weathered face and bidding farewell.

“You’re the ‘bairn’, right?” Simon mumbles to him on the way back to the car for clarification, and Johnny has to refrain from snickering too loud.

“Aye, though you can jus’ call me ‘baby’ if ye like, sassenach.”

“Oh, you’d fuckin’ like that, wouldn’t you.”

Yes, he thinks he might…

It’s an hour and a half drive back to Laggan, and Johnny spends most of it napping against the car window, his hangover still a dull force inside his head.

He does rouse for the last stretch, offering up his best commentary on the area, a few anecdotes about local legends and family trips and such.

“Never been up round Laggan actually, bu’ Alice says it’s small. Quiet, eh?”

Simon is not unusually unresponsive, but he doesn’t say much as they make their way into the quaint village, following Alice’s instructions to find the house.

It is small, but that isn’t a factor for Johnny. In fact, it looks perfect, set aside on a plot of snowy land, a tiny, frosted pond out by the front.

“Righ’, reckon we’ll be needin’ ta head back inna town ta get a few items, bu’ we can have a look round the cottage first.”

He strides up to the door with his crutches, not taking much note of Simon’s presence until he feels him right behind him, a snatch of hands around his waist nearly making him drop the keys.

“Heh, feelin’ too cold already, LT? Let’s get us warmed up, aye?”

He unlocks the door, Simon still trailing after him as they push into the house, his fingers tightening around Johnny’s hips as he goes to search for the switches.

“Alice said the water needs ta be switched on, bu’ there’ll be logs fer the fire, so we should get on tha’.”

It’s decidedly distracting though, what with the way Simon keeps feeling under his sweater, pulling him into his body.

“Bedroom should be in here, oh—lookit, they’ve got a loft up there as well, tha’s neat. An’ the kitchen’s through here, ah, tha’s a lovely tablecloth, innit? Like the daisies on it—”

A grunt from behind him is all the warning he gets before Simon pretty much shoves him against said tablecloth, his hands greedy as they climb underneath his top.

“Oi, wha’ the hell are ye doin’?” Johnny squawks, blushing at the man’s unexpected passion.

Simon just growls in his ear, “I’m tryna fuck you, MacTavish, what’s it look like?”

Sweet Jesus…

Johnny sputters, gasping out loud when the man drives him further onto the table, his fingers kneading at the muscles of his chest, already hard, another possessive sound in his throat.

“O-ok then,” he concludes, trying to get up to speed, because shit—this is happening, right fucking now, apparently.

Simon wastes no time in stripping both their jeans off, the boxers flung in some uncharted direction, his hands moving in to grasp and pull and spread.

Christ…he doesn’t know if the other man had ever been this…fevered about it before, Johnny doing his best to keep up, but Simon doesn’t seem to have a concept of anything besides pressing his hot skin against Johnny’s, a feral quality to his breaths that just emphasizes his need.

And while Johnny had previously admired the tablecloth, he finds himself getting very familiar with the daisy pattern, face shoved against it, biting around the fabric as Simon gets inside him, rough hands grabbing at his own need with fervent precision.  

“F-fuck…God…S-Simon…mng…fuck m-me…”

“I’m tryin’, J,” comes the rumble in his ear, just more heat for Johnny to drown in.

And even though they’d rushed through preparing, Simon driving in harder than usual, the table solid and unrelenting beneath them both—Johnny takes special pleasure in the fact that he doesn’t have to be quiet, succumbing to the moment with heady cries, more than a few curses, Simon’s name a constant bid to keep him right where he wants him.

“Mnn…yeah…f-fuck…jus’ like tha’…mng…Simon…”

Suffice it to say, that tablecloth is in need of a wash by the time they finish…

And Johnny pants like an overworked pack animal when he peels off from the man, locating the sofa and collapsing against it with a visible wince.

Shit…

That was…

“M’sorry,” Simon mumbles faintly. He’s still standing by the kitchen, shrugging on his reclaimed underwear and looking conflictingly shy. “Dunno what…got into me…”

Johnny just watches him for a moment, still catching his breath.

“Did I…hurt you?”

“Little bit,” he admits, the soreness in his spine and rear urging him to sprawl further back on the couch. But he just pats the spot next to him, waiting for Simon to wander over like the sad puppy he is. “Was fuckin’ hot though,” he adds, just to clarify how much he’d enjoyed it. How much it had felt like old times, the urgency, the vigor, the fact that he wasn’t worried about the damage to his body…

It’s biting him in the arse now though, literally.

Yeah…that had been a bit rough…

Simon all but flops into him, not taking the cushion as John had indicated, but choosing to slump on the floor in front of him, dropping his chin onto Johnny’s stomach. This is better anyway, he decides, getting a chance to pet the man more easily.

Carding fingers through blond hair, Johnny hums contentedly, mentally thanking Alice for her hospitality while also cringing at how much they’d abused it already.

The other man simply leans into him further, hands spreading up an aimless pattern across his bare chest, cataloging scars and freckles alike, a gentleness now that he’s not in the throes of shagging him senseless.

These are the moments Johnny had always lived for…but he’d never tell him that.

He doesn’t quite know why though.

“'ave you always been this hairy?” Simon murmurs, Johnny chuckling at the random question.

“Used’ta shave a bit. Don’ really see much point anymore.” He weaves through that scruffy head again, watching Simon nuzzle against his chest hair with renewed interest. “Why, ye jealous?”

Simon’s fair hair extends to his body, an observation that Johnny’d always thought was…cute, the light dusting up his chest down to his groin one of his favorite pathways, always worth a revisit.

The man scoffs beneath him now, but his head continues nestling into him, the smallest little mumble against his ribcage. “Hmn. It’s…soft.”

Like you, Johnny thinks, but again—doesn’t dare speak aloud.

They lie like that for some time, soaking in the ambiance of the cabin, a kind of quiet grace that settles around the interior, making it feel like a still life, a postcard with no intended recipient, a memory with its edges already blurred.

Johnny finds himself drawn to the few streaks of grey amidst the blond hairs, silver into gold, wondering when they’d started popping up. He doesn’t recall ever seeing them before.

Simon will be thirty-seven in May, he reminds himself, a sort of personal prayer he keeps for moments like these.

May the first…one-hundred and twenty-one days from now…

Johnny loses track of how many breaths Simon carves against his skin like that, gentle, hushed, venerating, but he’s sure they’ll feel like brands later, when all of this is gone…

He cherishes them all the same.

They drive back into town before dark, just a brief stop for some groceries, some booze, a stroll through the frosted streets giving them a full impression of just how tiny the village is.

Johnny has a private laugh when Simon skitters on a patch of ice, muttering with an exaggerated Glasgow accent, “Aye, it’s a pair’a these ye’re wantin’, permagrip soles, Timpson’s 19.99!”

“What the fuck are you on about?” It’s clear the incredibly niche reference goes right over his head, but Johnny still gets a kick out of the man’s flustered reaction.

And it becomes even more apparent how utterly pitiful they both are with cooking, having both enlisted as teenagers and subsequently neglecting to become proper fucking adults, as you would. So dinner consists of a burnt tray of veggies alongside an array of canned soups, Johnny deciding the creamy tomato one does not pair well with charred aubergine but still daft enough to try combining them, lack of maturity and all that…

“What’s the verdict?”

“Absolute shite.”

“Gimme some, I wanna try.”

Then it’s just a lazy night in, Simon successfully lighting the fire, John searching for warm blankets as they lounge on the couch, flipping through channels on the telly for something just bland enough to put on in the background as they continue fondling each other lackadaisically under their clothes.

“Huh. Turns out Scottish TV is practically the same as English TV,” Simon remarks with disinterest.

“Expectin’ somethin’ more entertainin’?”

“No, but I don’t really feel like ‘avin’ that bellend Charles gawkin’ at me while I’m tryna feel you up.”

Johnny giggles like a child, pointing out that, “He’s your bloody king.”

“I didn’t vote for that inbred fuck.”

Another laugh. 

"It's like you can see the depravity of his whole fuckin' genealogy in his beady little eyes, Christ…"

“Aye, e’s go’ a face lit a skelped erse,” Johnny says in his thickest brogue.

Simon just shakes his head at him. “You do that thing, y’know?”

“Wha' thing?”

“Where you butcher English so badly it sounds like a physical struggle.”

“Oi!” Johnny nudges him with his elbow, but Simon converts it into an attempt to nuzzle into him.

“Heh. Yeah, you kind of…talk out the right side of your mouth.”

“Do not!” He knows that he does, though, not like he can help it…

“Doesn’t matter,” Simon mumbles, tugging him closer. “You’ve got nice teeth…”

“That so?” Johnny drawls, proving how much of a child he is by taking a bite out of the arm that’s wrapped around him.

“Augh, you fuckin’ devil! Tryna eat my tattoo off, are ya?”

“Not like I could make it much worse,” Johnny teases, letting Simon’s arm strangle him slightly, poking at the ink. “This thing’s ugly as sin, LT.”

If he’d thought the man might be offended, he gets reassured with Simon’s short bark of a laugh. “’Course it fuckin’ is. Got it at a dive in Croydon with my first army paycheck. Wha’d’ya think I would get? Flowers?”

Johnny traces over the artwork now, black and grisly and honestly—tacky as shite. Especially up close when he can fully appreciate all the silly skulls and blatant propaganda. The whole thing just screams ‘war is hell’ with all the subtlety of a teenager testing his pain tolerance.

He reckons a scattering of daisies might look better instead…

“Ye still manage ta pull it off, sir,” Johnny confirms, giving the stretch of skin a few affectionate pecks. 

“Not the only thing I can pull off.” And with that, Simon snatches his waistband, shoving Johnny’s underwear down to begin familiarizing himself with every crook of the man’s pelvis.

And Johnny scrambles to change the tv channel, not at all in the mood to have any of those pug-faced monarchs in his peripheral while he enjoys the other man’s ministrations.

The bed is big enough for them both, he notes with pleasure. Two nights doesn’t seem like nearly enough time to get to fully appreciate that concept though, seeing as they’re already nearing the last lap of Simon’s leave. Which will be coming to a close on January fourth, 1300 flight.

T-minus three days…

Where did the fucking time go?

It settles over him like a well-worn panic, a tug under his navel that speaks of an inevitable breakdown of dread in his imminent future.

But Johnny tries not to let it spoil his mood right now, taking care to stretch out on the large bed, letting Simon curl up to him like he knows he prefers, the two of them blissfully alone at last. 

And in the morning, they get to finally sleep in, a luxury in itself.

Johnny actually wakes first for once, no alarm, no priorities to get to, no people around to suffocate the space. Just…

Warm skin at his shoulder, Simon’s hair tickling his chin as the man tucks into him.

It’s so rare to see him this at ease, this exposed.

So Johnny studies him while he still has the chance, this big, sturdy, beautiful man. His dusty pale lashes. His slightly crooked nose. The little patch of freckles spawning at each shoulder. The soft pout of his lower lip. His pink cheeks, fluttering as he breathes, in and out…

Mine, he wants to call him, but he knows how hubristic that is.

This man doesn’t belong to him, no.

Simon Riley is a memorial in progress, his body carved anew with each deployment, every scratch and scar and bullet hole a deliberate addition, as if some nameless artist is just taking their time perfecting the form before breaking it further, trying to see how solid all that marble really is.

It’s silly to love a tombstone, he knows, even one so lovely.

Johnny lies back in bed, long enough to pretend Simon had woken first.

The rest of the day is spent with that same undecided laziness, breakfast quietly prepared, no fuss over who gets to eat the best portion of eggs that’d been as scorched as last night’s veggies.

Simon decides to investigate the small pond.

Johnny peruses the shelves for a book.

They fuck again. Less intensely, but still enough to work a sweat.

Then they go for a second round. Debate a third.

More logs for the fire.

Another pop into town.

Back to the couch.  

Johnny’s not sure when he truly realizes how hollow he’s feeling, that dread now sinking its teeth fully in. He doesn’t know when he’d started counting seconds off his leather watch either, why he can’t let himself enjoy the time they have left, what a cruel tease this trip might’ve been after all…

Could be due in part to the fact he hadn’t taken his anti-depressants in a while. Admittedly, since the other man arrived, which was stupid of him, he knows now.

Simon tries his hardest, and perhaps that’s the most painful part.

Because he has to sit there and watch the man fumble with the potato peeler, absentmindedly asking if they’d need to be washed before boiling. “What’s the point? They’ll be fuckin’ drenched either way.”

Johnny just sits there as he strips each one, surprisingly tender, seconds shaved off with each peel… 

Forty-five hours. Eighteen minutes. Forty-nine seconds.

Tick, tick, tick…one potato, two potato…

“’ow many do we even need anyway?” Forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six…

There’s no time, darling, his psyche whispers in the sweetest of screams. There’s no fucking time for me to fall out of love with you.

They go for a walk, just before dusk, leaving the potatoes to cool and Johnny’s mental state to spiral further.

“You’re quiet,” Simon remarks, and that’s surely enough to italicize the change in his mood; it’s usually vice-versa, isn’t it?

But Johnny finds he has nothing to say.

The taller man frowns at him, drifting closer as they skirt around the edge of the pond, mindful of the snowdrops, subtly tracking Johnny’s balance with a hand at the ready. 

“Jus’ cold,” Johnny eventually mumbles, not fooling anyone.

“We could ‘ead back in if ya want.”

“Nah.”

“Ok.”

Simon keeps to his side, going so far as to press against his arm, some paltry attempt at warming him up. All the while, John’s watch continues to tick, a countdown in his head that’s getting harder and harder to shut up.

“What’s on your mind?” Simon asks.

Everything. Nothing. You. Forty-four hours. You. Fifty-six minutes. Thirty-eight seconds. Thirty-seven. Thirty-six. You. You. You…

Johnny just shrugs.

“Hey…” Simon tries, reaching for his sleeve and turning to face him, concern written so clearly on his unmasked face he looks like an entirely different man.

And that might be what snaps him out of it, at least a little bit. He doesn’t want to be the reason those furrowed lines on his forehead become permanent.

“D’ye like it out here?” Johnny asks, completely avoiding the subject, nodding his head at the slowly darkening sky.

“Sure,” Simon says, still frowning.

“It’s like what we talked about, aye?” What we dreamed about, he doesn’t say. “Little cottage in the middle’a nowhere, jus’ the two of us.”

Simon’s quiet sigh is only discernible from the fog of his breath in the cold. “There’s no sheep though,” he mutters absently.

“Aye, tha’s a pity.” Johnny sniffles twice, crossing his arms and forcing a smile at the scene ahead. “It’s still quite bonnie though, isnae it?”

The leaden dusk settles over the landscape, draping the faint whisper of gold under its heavy curtain, day into night, as fleeting and eternal as all of life’s most painful cycles.

Like love, and loss, and that terrible, excruciating thing in between.

And while Johnny gazes at the frosted field, the glen beyond with its gorgeous hills and valleys, sunset casting its last radiant glow, he knows Simon’s eyes are only on him as he says, “Yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ beautiful.”

Just for a second, Johnny likes to imagine that time has frozen.

Just this single second.

No ticks, no countdowns, no empty promises.

Just a warmth in his chest that feels like the first of May.

Shaking his head to break the spell, Johnny burrows his hand into the other man’s pocket, letting Simon tug his coat around him, as he had at the train station in Glasgow once upon a time.

He had been cold, after all.

And he can only nestle in further when, “So fuckin’ beautiful,” gets breathed across the top of his head, like a signature carved into his own half-broken statue, staking its claim.

The sky darkens, taking its gold until tomorrow. Until forty-four hours. Fifty-one minutes…

“C’mon, love,” Johnny mumbles against Simon’s jacket. “The tatties’ll be cold…”

Dinner is adequately terrible yet again, an apt metaphor for the contradiction this getaway really is.

They don’t even try to pretend it tastes good, and Johnny doesn’t even try to pretend he’s feeling like himself.

Simon knows, but he says nothing.

Though, he holds him a bit closer that night, protectively, hands tracing the center of his spine like he’s asking it for forgiveness.  

It’s not at all surprising when Johnny’s emotional turmoil infiltrates his dreams, losing whatever chance he’d had of having a good last night’s rest in the cottage.

The nightmares are pretty bad this time too. Probably because they’re memories.

Someone’s poking at his jaw.

Right in the corner where it connects to his ear.

Hard.

Johnny wants to swat them away, to scream. But he can’t.

“He was showing localized responses earlier, motor exam’s looking better now.”

He distantly feels a sharp prick near his elbow. It twitches.

“C5’s good. L3 is…still not responding.”

“Have you checked his pupils?”

A sudden flash of the brightest white, it nearly swallows his entire mind whole.

He might make a sound.

“There we go. Think he’s coming back. Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

“Blink if you can, Mr. MacTavish. Are you able to open your eyes for us?”

The voices are distinctly British; somehow, that makes it all the more frightening. 

Johnny tries to open his eyes but can’t even tell if he does. Everything’s still just…white.

“That’s it, honey, just try to track my finger if you can. Sharon—what’s the CBC from his last blood test—?”

He drowns again, losing track of everything.

White.

It’s all so white…

There’s more poking, touching, flashes of light, people speaking in his ear, to him, about him, white, white, white…

The first time he’s really aware is when they bring his parents in.

All it takes is mam sobbing, “Johnny…” for him to register how fucking wrong this all is.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he wants to say, as his mother grabs his slack right hand, pressing it against her crying face.

“Oh God…my Johnny. Ye’re so brave, ye are. So very brave, my baby boy.”

His father sits opposite her, just as wrong. “Hey, son.” His voice is awful, on the edge of cracking, wet and terrible, and awful, just awful. “Hi, Johnny-boy.”

They’re both here, his parents, Jack and Elaine MacTavish. Sitting at his bedside.

They brought flowers.

And mam keeps brushing at his hand, careful around the tubes digging into his skin, crying harder. “Thank God…thank God…my poor lamb…it’s ok, Johnny, it’s ok…”

But it isn’t.

None of this is ok at all.

They shouldn’t be here.

They shouldn’t…

“Wh’re’ye doin‘ere?” he tries to speak. It comes out like a punctured rasp.

Mam grips his hand harder, it hurts. Da says, “Shhh, we go’ a call from yer captain, lad. Said ye’d been hurt.”

That doesn’t make any sense.

That doesn’t…

“Ye’ve been sleepin’ a while, sweetheart, but ye’re ok now.”

No. He isn’t ok.

Why are they here?

His parents are supposed to be at home. In Scotland.

If they’re here, that means…

“Ye’re nice an’ safe now, John-boy. Ye’re gonnae be jus’ fine, I promise.”

No…

No, this isn’t…

His father is crying. His mother is in hysterics. The flowers are daisies, his favorites.

They shouldn’t be here.

“C’n’t fu’n br’the,” Johnny attempts to say. He can’t fucking breathe.

“Shhh. It’s ok, darling, it’s ok.”

No.

It isn’t.

This is all fucking wrong.

“I can’ breathe,” he tries again, gasping around the razors in his throat. There are wires hooked around his face, plastic pressing on his mouth, he can’t…

“Nurse!” someone calls, his mother, or some other stranger, it doesn’t matter.

“I can’t…” Johnny grunts, his chest expanding with a shrill scream, fingers clenching around starch blankets, and underneath—nothing.

He feels nothing.

“Wha—wha’s wrong? Is he—”

There’s nothing there.

Nothing, nothing, nothing…

“I can’…I can’t feel my legs…” he rasps, in a voice that doesn’t sound like his at all. 

Oh God…

This is all wrong.

This isn’t happening.

This isn’t…

“Shh, Johnny, son. It’s ok.”

No.

It’s not.

He can’t…

“I can’t feel my legs…”

“Johnny, babes—nurse, wha’s wrong?”

No, no, no…

“Why can’t I feel my fuckin’ legs?”

He’s sure someone’s screaming, maybe him, maybe one of those machines wormed into his flesh.

Just a single, piercing siren, drowning everything in static.

Then it’s all just—

White, and empty, tear-streaked cheeks, his father’s eyes, the bedsheets, the walls, that vacant chair behind them, and he can’t feel his legs, he can’t feel anything, he can’t—

He blanks out again.

Drugs are never fun, not even when they help him escape for a while.

Waking up is always worse each time.

They tell him he’d been unconscious for almost two weeks. In a coma.

They tell him about the ‘accident’. How he fell twelve meters, how he’d damaged his spine, his leg, his ribs, his skull. How he’s lucky to be alive.

Is he though? Is he lucky?

Is he alive?

He can’t even tell.

Johnny doesn’t speak at all that next day.

They ask him if he can feel it when they pinprick various parts of his lower body. He doesn’t even bother shaking his head. Even when they move to the rectal test which is far fucking worse.

His parents are there again.

Mam keeps crying when she sees him, like he’s the memory of her little boy, not the real thing.

Because surely Sgt. John Laith MacTavish lost his life a long time ago, when he’d given his soul to the military. When he’d given his heart to a shadow that just…walked away…

That chair remains empty.

He has surgery for his spine, then his lungs.

He’s almost glad for the pneumonia. Gives him an excuse to lie around, to suffer longer, a chance for those daisies at his bedside to wilt and die.

Because he knows how this story ends, with a discharge form, with a dozen looks of pity, with a chair that stays unoccupied.

But some part of Johnny’s mind keeps trying to relive this. To remind himself that he isn’t lucky, he isn’t alive.

And he might be stuck in this weird post-mortem forever, lost between two lives, just without the complementary mourning period.

Even in his dreams, he can’t decide what kind of epitaph to paint on all that white. 

He wakes up, but he doesn’t.

Johnny stares at the ceiling, panic skittering up the walls of his mind, a certain terror locking him further in place because—he still can’t feel anything.

Nothing besides his head. Everything else is just…gone.

Oh God…oh God, oh God…

He’d had sleep paralysis only once before, as a teenager, in basic. Woke up half the barracks screaming when he’d finally got his senses back, didn’t have the words to explain how creepy and surreal and god-fucking-awful it had felt.

He still doesn’t. But if he had to describe it, Johnny would say it feels like an active decapitation.

Like someone had finally had enough of all his lousy thoughts and separated his head from his body.

He’s aware that it should be there, that he’s lying in bed somehow, but he can’t fucking move.

Oh God…just wake up…just make it stop…

The ceiling seems to threaten him further, pressing down and engulfing him because it’s the only thing he can see right now.

White, white, white…

He can’t move, he can’t speak, he can’t scream, but it feels like he is.

Loud and shrill and empty.   

He can only wait.

Paranoia sets when it feels like it’s been hours. There’s no concept of time, no heartbeats. Just his head, the ceiling, static, his terror.

Oh God…oh God…

It probably only lasts less than a minute.

And scream he does, when his body comes back online, a terrible, raw screech that he tries to bury in his pillow the second he can shift his head again.

Simon wakes up in an instant.

“Wha’s’wrong?” His reflexes keep him sharp enough that he’s able to curb his startlement into action very quickly. All he does is glance at Johnny and then he’s wrapping an arm around his torso. “Shhh. Fuck. You’re alright.”

Johnny stifles another scream, writhing at the pins-and-needles crawling up his skin. But Simon’s steady arms pull him back, tugging him out of his pillow, and he just goes boneless in his embrace.

It’s funny how their respective treatments for nightmares are so drastically different.

Simon is all fists and hard breaths and requiring space.

Johnny needs to be held.

“Shhh. Man up, Johnny. You’re ok.” Simon’s whispers of comfort are as brusque as expected, but still enough to have Johnny almost believing him.

His shudders are as undeniable as the tears still racking through him, especially with the way Simon pulls him against his chest, keeping Johnny safeguarded in his strong arms, but he does calm down, slowly, eventually.

“Quit shakin’, you’re ok.”

Is he? Has he ever been ok?

He might feel close to it, with blunt fingernails scraping against his skull, that deep, dry voice telling him, “You’re fine, fuckface. I’m here.”

It’s also funny how those things are mutually dependent.

I’ll only be fine if you’re here, love. Which isn’t for much longer now…

They pretend to go back to sleep, though neither of them really stop shaking.

Breakfast is a subdued affair, Johnny not saying anything about what happened earlier, Simon not asking. Their usual tactics of evasion.

“What time do ya wanna ‘ead back?” the other man mumbles over his tea, and Johnny has to shake his head a few times to remember what he’s talking about.

“Dunno. Afternoon, maybe. Shouldnae be much traffic, so we can take our time.”

“Sure.”

They’ll be returning to his parents’ house, one last night before Simon’s flight tomorrow, however many hours from now. Johnny had taken his watch off, stuffing it into his bag in between a pair of socks.

He swears he can still hear it though.

“Anything ya wanna do before we go?”

“Not really.”

“Ok.”

It might’ve been more practical had they just spent the entire trip shagging each other, given them something to do other than beating around this colossal-sized bush they’re both hiding behind.

Johnny heads out for a smoke, a chance to test his theory that the other man won’t join him, but sure as anything—he catches the curtains moving now and then, a subtle recon to see if he hadn’t fallen into the frozen pond.

He takes his time working through his packet, deciding that three is a bit excessive, especially for his already compromised lungs, but savoring them nevertheless.

There’s something intrinsically depressing about smoking. Might be why he picked the habit up again. Kind of dumb of him to trust a cigarette to nurse his mental health better than those tailor-made pills, but he knows which ones he’d remembered to pack.

It’s still not enough to keep him warm.

Simon doesn’t come to fetch him, and without his watch, it’s difficult to tell how much time has passed, but Johnny reckons it’d been long enough.

What nearly stops him as he’s entering the door, though, is the unexpected sound of voices.

Simon must be on the phone.

Unable to tiptoe on his crutches, John tries to surreptitiously pick up on the tail-end of the conversation, only hearing a vague grumble from Simon, a few ‘Yessirs’ that give him enough context.

Entering fully into the living room now, he catches the strained look on the man’s face, mobile tucked against his chin, another grumble into the receiver.

“Right. Will do, sir.” With that, Simon exits the call, not necessarily trying to cover his tracks, but not offering clarification either.

“Price missin’ ye tha’ much already?” Johnny drawls, earning a dry huff.

“He says hi.” Simon’s blunt delivery leaves him smirking in spite of how…uncertain he feels. 

“Those his words or yers?”

The other man rolls his eyes, stating in a monotone, “Captain Price says happy holidays to you, former-Sergeant MacTavish, and to give you ‘his best’.”

“Ah, tha’s more like it.” He pretends that hearing former-sergeant doesn’t undo all the temporary effects of those cigarettes. “Get him a pint on me next time ye’s get the chance.”

“Think we’re gonna be a little too busy at the moment for that.” There’s a definite gravity to Simon’s tone that sobers them both right up.

Johnny grits his teeth. “So he has been missin’ ye.”

“Could say that.” Casting a weary hand down his face, Simon huffs again. “There’s a bit of an…overhaul in the works. Brass’s pushin’ it, not like we can tell ‘em no.”

Still unattuned to being so out of the loop, Johnny cautiously shrugs. “Surprised Price hasn’t cut ties and gone rogue yet, honestly.”

“No, Laswell wouldn’t have that,” Simon mutters, somewhat irately. “And believe it or not, the bastard does give a shit about this task force. Should see his recruitment methods, got a whole bloody speech and everything…”

The mention of recruitment leaves a bitter taste in Johnny’s mouth, and he still hadn’t recovered from former-sergeant yet. He swallows heavily.    

“New blood?” he asks, hoping he sounds unaffected, knowing he doesn’t. “Finally get around ta replacin’ me then?”

They’d gone long enough without mentioning it.

It was only a matter of time…

Simon does his best to play neutral. “Couple’a contenders, yeah. Gaz and me ‘ave been vettin’ a new guy, fellow sergeant.”

The sinking in his gut just plunges further, but Johnny asks, “Wha’s he like then?”

“Nondescript.”

That gets him to snort, barely. “I’m sure the poor bloke’d appreciate tha’ endorsement.”

“He’s quiet,” Simon answers more readily, adding, “Unlike you.”

John tries to roll his eyes, but it’s more like an awkward twitch. His stomach hurts. 

“Bit green still. Eager. Decent shot.”

Each assessment sends the knife in his gut further, inch after inch into his self-evisceration. Which makes it all the harder to stop the next insanely stupid comment from coming out of his mouth.

“Sounds a’right. Ye gonnae fuck him too?”

God…why did he fucking say that?

Johnny’s not sure he’s ever hated himself more than in this instance.

“The fuck does that mean?” Simon sees right through his bullshit, not sounding angry as much as he does…disappointed.

“Jus’…forget it.”

Such a goddamn idiot…

“No, I’m not planning on fucking him,” Simon states sharply, making Johnny feel even more ashamed of himself. “I just told you—we’ve got more than enough to deal with already with this executive shit.”

“So it’s not just a big-talk kind of overhaul then?” He’s not sure when he’d sat on the couch, but Simon stands in front of him now, like the fine-line in his psyche that’s waiting to snap.

“No.” The other man shakes his head, a low grumble. “Price’s not too happy either. Practically foamin’ at the mouth every time they mention the ‘R’ word.”

“Wha’—retirement?” Johnny blinks, unable to put two and two together. John Price is not the kind of man to hang up his boots while they’ve still got leather enough. Christ—the bastard’s only forty-two.

“He’s nearing his twenty years, so it’s not off the table.” Simon bows forward a bit, still imposing with his stature. “Either that or the next best thing. Hence the…reconfiguring.”

He’s being vague on purpose, Johnny knows this. For whose sake though, he isn’t sure.

But the mention of twenty years is just another twist in John’s belly, although this one feels an awful lot like hope. It’s all the worse for it.  

Simon will be thirty-seven in May…

Twenty years of service, eligible for retirement. 

He knows there’s no point in expecting he’d pack it in either. But still…

It’s his last, most pathetic wish.

God…he’s such a fucking idiot…

“And you know how he feels about promotions, damn humble prick,” Simon continues. “But I reckon they’ll make it stick this time.” His voice is dry and calculated, choosing the right words that aren’t sealed behind red tape. “So they’ll give him his crown, probably pull him from the field too. Laswell claims he can do just as much in a supervision role, but I know he’ll fuckin' hate it. Just as much as I hate the stars they’re giving me.”

It takes more than a second for that last sentence to land. For Johnny to truly register the meaning, for Simon’s words to take that last-ditch dream and bury it in an unmarked grave.

Please don’t make him say it…

His voice somehow doesn’t break when John clarifies, “Captain Riley?”

And all at once—he feels it unravel. Everything. Their dream. His naïve fucking fantasy. The one-hundred-nineteen days until the first of May. His twenty years. A future they’ll never have. A promise that was always a lie.

Gone.

“If the shoe fits, apparently,” Simon mumbles quietly, bowing his head again, refusing to meet his eyes.

All Johnny can come up with is, “Oh.”

So fucking stupid…God…he’s so fucking stupid…

“Not like I fuckin’ asked for it,” Simon keeps going, heedless of the fact that Johnny’s already lost. His next statement is just the cherry on top. “It should’ve been you.”

Johnny’s not sure if his eyes have closed or he’s just gone fucking blind. It’s all just—white.  

“It was supposed to be you,” Simon adds, exacting in his honesty.

Don’t ask, don’t fucking ask, they used to be so good at this, these tactics of evasion. So much easier to hide behind unsent texts, behind the alibis they bend for each other.

It’s so stupid to have to ask, “What do ye mean?”

Simon’s eyes are rooted on the carpet, but it doesn’t matter. Johnny won’t look at him either. He’s blind.

“Price put in for a field promotion for you. First day we landed in Ukraine.”

He shouldn’t have to hear this. It’s too fucking cruel.

“Said you’d proven yourself clearing that first line, made the right calls, always have. Plus he’d seen the work you put into officer training, figured he’d cut the line a bit. Saw a leader in you, John. A fucking good one.”

It’s shattering, paralyzing, intimately devastating. His eyes are already watering. But Johnny has nothing to say.

“141’s always been his, no question about it, but he wanted you to inherit it. He wanted you to lead this task force after him. Not me. Not even Gaz.”

He wants to shake his head, deny it, scream in his face, make him take it back.

“I’m not telling you this to hurt you, Johnny.” But he reckons he is. He reckons that’s exactly why he’s telling him all this. “I…I don’t have any say in the matter either.”

No, they’ve never had a say, and that’s the bitterest truth. No questions, no comments, just yessirs and stiff jaws.

They’re soldiers, for Christ’s sake. They don’t get to choose how the world fucks them, they just have to sign their names on the dotted line.

So Major Price will get his crown, Captain Riley will get his stars. And Former-Sergeant MacTavish will bury the rest of his posthumous battlefield commission amongst the rubble and concrete that should’ve killed him.

And there’d be nothing more to say about it. Done and dusted.

But his stupid, stubborn, hopeless mouth can’t help itself.

Because Johnny blinks at the floor with damp eyes, dragging his head up to face his inevitable downfall, his voice a desperate whisper when he says:

“Is there any chance you’d…”

God…what could he fill those blanks with to make this even worse?

Turn them down?

Quit the service?

Leave it all behind?

He knows he’s picked the worst one when Simon finally meets his eyes, a slight shake in his head like he’s begging him not to say it.

“Stay?” Johnny breathes, tears already sliding down his face.

Simon just looks at the floor again.

So that’s that, then…

It’s too late now, to stop the torrent of emotion in his chest, though Johnny does try to swallow it down like the hardened soldier he used to be—still is—because he could never let it go, he could never let anything just…go.

He knows how unsuccessful he is with the choked sob that gets caught in his throat, Simon’s low, heavy sigh.

“Don’t cry.”

If only he could remember how to follow commands…

His sharp elbows dig into his thighs, fists in his eyes, but Johnny can’t make it stop, shaking as it all crashes over him.

“Hey…”

He never did get to mourn himself, but he reckons this may be the closest he’ll come.

“Johnny…please…”

Simon still stands there, rigid, sharp, almost terrifying in his absoluteness. The knife he’d like to house in his ribcage forever.

But his knees bend eventually, those edges softening, the look on his carved features too delicate to ever be captured by an artist’s unqualified touch.

Simon kneels in front of him now, bowing his head, bracing his coarse fingers on Johnny’s, gently urging them down.

If ever he were to pray, it might look like this.

“Please don’t fucking cry.”

Johnny squints at him through soaked lashes, his chest convulsing on each sob, but he places a shaking hand on the head below him, as if it’s enough to steady them both. As if it’s enough to say mine, and make it permanent this time. 

Even through his tears, Johnny can’t help but seek out the silver in his dark blond hair, tiny treasures reminding him how mortal the man has always been.

“M’sorry,” he rasps, although he’s not sure who he’s really apologizing to.

Simon takes it as his chance to try to justify it, even though Johnny wishes he’d just kneel there silently, he wishes he’d never speak again if it means keeping his excuses to himself.

“I’m not like you,” Simon mutters, pressing his forehead against Johnny’s kneecap, the one that had shattered in four places after his fall. “This is…all I have.”

And it would be too selfish to imagine those words could ever be about him. That ‘we’ and ‘us’ and being a package deal were ever anything substantial enough to tempt the man away from his warpath.

Because Simon means violence when he says this is all I have. He means weapons and tactics and bloodshed and a hail of bullets in his back. He means all that shit he’d signed on the dotted line for.  

That’s what he’d built his life on, not…this.

Not a broken soldier who’s too stubborn to fucking learn when to let go.

Johnny gets it though.

He’s always gotten it.

Why Simon Riley never says goodbye.

It’s not even from the fear, though he knows how fucking scared he is because of it, scared of Johnny, scared of what he might make of him.

No. He’d told him the reason once before, when he’d asked him why he hadn’t worn tags:   

“Don’t like leaving a trace.”

If he never says goodbye, it’s like he’d never been here in the first place.

In and out.

This is all just his roundabout way of covering his tracks, to avoid having to look him in the eyes and say: you’ll ruin me, Johnny Laith MacTavish, and I’d let you.

So he’s running instead.

He’ll always keep running; that’s what those long, beautiful legs are for.

Johnny just rasps out, “I’m sorry,” again. But he knows who he feels the most remorse for now.

It’s for that forgotten, gangly, brown-eyed boy from Manchester, who’d had to bury his big brother after Christmas, and with him, the last chance he’d had of equating love with something other than a fist in his stomach, acid in his face, who’d spent his first paycheck scribbling hate and anger and ugliness all over his virgin skin because he didn’t know any better. He still doesn’t.    

But Johnny traces over the ink on his arm now, imaginary daisies not enough to cover those wounds, and as he slots his fingers through Simon’s he knows how much he needs him to be the one to tell him what to do next.

So, he tries.

“We’ll expect ye back fer Christmas next year,” Johnny says through his tears, knowing he’d just cursed them both. That thing you’ll say, the ironic statement that’ll seal your fate, what they’d whispered about behind a ratty desert tarp. “So promise ye’ll take care’a yerself?”

Simon doesn’t nod, but his head digs deeper against Johnny’s thigh, a soft hum.

“Take care’a the team too, aye? Make sure ye’ve got proper toys fer everyone ta share. An’ tha’ Gaz gets his beauty rest before a mission. An’ leave Nik outta stealth jobs. An’ don’ be too hard on the new guy.”

There are a dozen other things to say, hand-picked advice, expertise from a man slated to be a leader in another life. But Johnny chooses to end it with: 

“Have faith in yerself, Simon. ‘Cause they’re lucky ta have ye.”

It’s as close as he’ll come to giving him his blessing, even though he’s still spilling at the seams, the knife in his gut now a permanent fixture of his bone structure.

“I’m proud of ye, love.”

Simon exhales slowly against his pant leg, not equipped with the proper social skills to respond to that, hopeless bastard.  

Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, Johnny pets his head again, rousing enough willpower to draw up a façade once more, however flimsy.

And it’s just another evasion tactic, he reckons, crude and probably disturbing in the way Johnny uses it as incentive to get them both distracted enough to not talk about this anymore, but he can’t stop his stupid mouth from saying:

“On yer feet, Captain Riley. Want ye to fuck me against tha’ table again.”

Because Simon had asked if there was anything he’d wanted to do before leaving, and he’d made up his mind.

It’s even rougher than before.

Simon pulls him up, tearing off his clothes like they're full of flames, frantic. His motions are clumsy, forceful, barely contained behind the violence he wears so well. 

And Johnny scrabbles back at him, claws and teeth, raking across the man’s back, his pink skin, clamping down hard on his nipple, sucking, ripping, pulling. 

He gets thrown on his back this time, hard, enough to elicit a cry, but Simon smothers it with his hot mouth, slamming down onto Johnny’s torso as he straddles him on the hardwood table.

“This what ya want?” It’s dark, dangerous, but there’s still that edge in Simon’s voice telling him that this is his out if he needs it.

Johnny’s answer is a hitch of his hips, arching upwards to shove Simon into him, more sharp cries because it hurts, but he wants it to, he needs it to hurt, pushing deeper and deeper in the hopes it might leave a mark. Some fragment left inside his body so that he’d have something to remember him by.

Because Simon’s gonna die out there. He has no doubt.

Maybe soon. Maybe years from now.

There was never going to be another way out for him, no goodbyes, just a KIA tag in his redacted file.

Johnny grinds up with more force, each thrust another inevitable scenario: bleeding out in a ditch, caught in a sniper’s line, internal injuries that take weeks to waste him away, headshot, gutshot, shrapnel to his lungs…

“Johnny…” Simon warns, struggling to keep up with his pace, but he buries in deeper, losing himself to the shape of his heat. “G-god…Johnny…mng…”

Simon comes first, but Johnny keeps pushing, harder and harder until— 

It’s stupid…he’s so fucking stupid…

His spine aches terribly on the ride back to his parents’ house; he might’ve pulled something.

He hopes it sets his recovery back, hopes it makes him walk funny forever.

God…why is he so fucked up?

“Did ye have fun?” Johnny mutters to Simon, who’d barely said a word in the driver’s seat this whole time.

And he's not sure if he means the trip in general, or that catastrophic shitshow that ended with him climaxing on the tablecloth before curling up to sob for five whole goddamn minutes. Simon had helped him clean it though, in all the combined efforts of two hapless soldiers. He still feels bad for bleaching away some of those daisies.

All Simon gives now is a vague grunt. That about sums it up.

There’s a nice hot bubble bath for him when he gets home, Johnny stalling under the soapy water for a while, his back a medley of nerve pain that he can’t find it in himself to regret.

Why does it always feel like he deserves this? Yeah, he’s fucked up, he knows…

Dinner’s ready by the time he dries off.

“Aww, babes, reckon ye should’ve stayed home an’ rested. Was the trip too much?” Mam’s back to fussing around him, coming over to test his forehead again. “Ye look tuckered out, poor thing.”

“Aye, John,” Caroline teases, passing around the tray of turnips. “Did ye overextend yerself?” He knows she’s being cheeky, but all it does is worsen his slump.

“Jus’ a long drive,” he mumbles around his properly-cooked vegetables, not even tasting them.

Without a word, Simon’s hand begins slowly massaging his back. Jesus, he’d nearly forgotten he was here, the bane of his current turmoil.

“Have ye enjoyed yer holidays then, Simon?” mam asks, not remarking upon the intimate behavior, thankfully. “Was so lovely ta get ta share some time with ye.”

Pausing between bites, Simon mutters, “Yes, thank you for having me,” while his hand still digs circles around Johnny’s sore spine.

“Aye, we never get ta meet any’a Johnny’s friends,” Ruth chimes in, fortunately without her boyfriend this time, as Turk had remained in Stoney with his family. Probably still scared of Simon, in all likelihood.

He’s not my friend, Johnny wants to correct, but there’s really no term for what they are, what they were, what they’ll never be.  

“D’ye think ye’ll get any time off soon, Simon?” Caro asks, sending her brother sympathetic glances now that she recognizes what’s got his mood so down. “Would be nice ta have ye by again if we could.”

“No, I won’t have leave for a while,” Simon states bluntly, Johnny tensing under his touch.

“Tha’s a shame,” mam tuts, and she does sound genuinely disappointed. “Lots of…work for ye then?”

“Simon’s gettin' promoted,” Johnny says, not really sure why he’d felt the need to blurt that out. He feels Simon tense as well. 

“Is he now?” da says, sounding appropriately cheerful in his obliviousness. “Well done, lad.”

Simon shakes his head slightly. “It’s not official yet. And it’s…classified.”

“Righ’, righ’, still somethin’ worth celebratin’, no?” Jack has them all raise a glass and everything, Johnny just slumping further against the table.

God…

By that point, he’s done pushing food around his plate, so he excuses himself with a mumbled, “Gonnae go have a lie-down.”

It’s clear his moodiness has set in fully, as he hadn’t even reacted when Greg had asked Ruth, “So how were the Fireballs?”

Johnny just slinks into the living room, lying on the couch, hating how childish he feels but not having anything to do about it.

Eventually, he can hear them all cleaning up dinner, a slight attempt at conversation between his sisters and Simon, and even worse—one with his mother.

Johnny doesn’t have to strain to eavesdrop, Elaine’s stage-whisper very audible even from the couch.

“He gets like this, y’know? All quiet-like sometimes.”

There’s an affirmative grunt from Simon.

“Bu’ havin’ you around’s seemed ta perk him righ’ up, I tell ye. Swear I havnae seen him this lively in a dog’s age. Like his old self, y’know?”

Another grunt.

“Jus’ reckon he’s feelin’ down ‘cause ye're leavin’, poor lamb. Doesnae get a chance ta smile much these days, so thank ye fer comin’ round ta see him.”

He buries his head in the pillow so he doesn’t have to hear the rest. So he doesn’t have to acknowledge the wetness in his eyes.

Later, Simon sits with Agatha and Jessie in the living room, trying to keep quiet for Johnny’s nap, but predictably not having much success.

“Watchit,” Simon hisses, as Jessie flings her action figure into the bookshelf with a crash. “Wha’d we say about maiming your own men?”

“Sorry, Uncle Ghost,” Jessie mumbles, crawling back over to where they’re playing on the carpet and handing over the toy.

“Oof, this poor bastard’s sure had the piss kicked outta him, blimey.” Through his squinted eyes, Johnny watches the man fiddle with the doll. “Now—I know we have fun tossin’ these shitheads around, but the fact remains that patchin’ them back up again is just as important, right?”

Both girls nod enthusiastically, letting Simon impart his foul-mouthed wisdom.

“See—if his leg’s all fuckin’ wonky, ‘ow’s he supposed to meet back up with the rest of his squad?”

“Like this.” Jessie tries to demonstrate a worm-like crawl, causing Aggie to cackle on the floor next to her.

“That’s a good way to lose your keks,” Simon remarks dryly, but he holds up the doll again, insisting his point. “What you need ‘ere is basic med protocol, right? The first things to check for fall under the MARCH order of treatment. That’s massive hemorrhage, airway, respiration, circulation, and head injury.”

Aggie just mumbles, “Wha’s massive hem-ridge?” while Jessie pokes the doll with her finger and says, “I dinnae think he’s breathin’, sir.”

Huffing pointedly, Simon mutters to himself, “I should’ve thought this through…”

He does end up giving them a pretty comprehensive lesson, only considered child-proof because the two girls haven’t a clue what most of the grisly terms mean, which Johnny actually finds fairly informative as he continues pretending to be asleep.

“Bu’…how dae ye treat a soljer who’s…feelin’ sad?” Jessie asks quietly, and he knows she’s peeking at him now, her question going right through his heart.

“Hmn.” Simon takes a second, sounding contemplative. “What helps you when you’re sad?”

“I dunno. Gettin’ hugs an’ kisses?”

“Hmph. That sounds like an effective treatment, I’d say.”

Jessie inches forward sneakily, whispering something in his ear, and Johnny’s eyes are half-closed, but he can still see the small smile on Simon’s face. Then he watches as the man hefts the girl into his arms, Jessie squealing with glee as he swings her forward.

Johnny’s got nothing to shield himself with as the girl plants several sloppy kisses on his face when she gets within range, just a chuckled-out harrumph.  

“Oi, ye little rocket!” he laughs, accepting defeat. 

Dropping onto his chest when Simon eases her down, Jessie asks, “D’ye feel better, Uncle Soap?” giggling as he wraps his arms around her.

“Much better, hen.” And he does. Jessie is a ball of sunshine in his arms, warm and sweet. He feels terrible for making her worry about him.

“Me too! Me too!” Agatha cries, rushing forward to swarm him with kisses as well, snaking in under his free arm.

“Ach, now I’m properly on the mend,” Johnny says, grinning at the two gremlins on his chest.

“Uncle Ghost!” they both call, pointing up at the man with expectance. “You too!”

At first, Johnny snorts at their antics, but his breath cuts short the second Simon leans down, placing a brief, gentle kiss against the top of his forehead.

“Better?”

Oh…

Both girls continue giggling, unaware of the frantic heart palpitations their uncle is experiencing. So much for that med training…

But Simon holds his ground, not even flinching as Johnny reaches for his hand, giving it a soft squeeze.

“Yeah,” he says, maybe even believing it for once. He doesn’t care if any of his family members are within viewing range, he doesn’t even care about the seconds winding down until the man’s departure.

It’s a rush of something like…reassurance, something he only voices later when the two of them are alone again, Simon sprawling out on his bedroom carpet like the dutiful floormat he’d been impersonating these past two weeks.

“You’ll be a good captain,” Johnny tells him, having complete faith in that prediction. 

“Hmn. Not so sure.”

“Don’ be daft, Riley. Ye’ve go’ my nieces recitin’ bloody field manuals, I think ye’ll do ok.”

“They’re good kids,” comes Simon’s low mumble, a wistfulness in his tone. Like he might be thinking about the nephew he’d never know, another casualty in his persistent tragedy.

“Yeah,” Johnny whispers back.

“They’re all good. Your family, everyone you’ve got here. They're…” A dry pause, a scrape of fingers against hair. “Yeah. They’ll take care of you, Johnny.”

Because I can’t, he doesn’t say. It lands in his heart just as surely.

“Could do without that ferret-bastard Turk though…”

“Oh, fuck him,” Simon agrees. But then softer, “I…I mean it, Johnny. I’m…glad you have so many people lookin’ out for you.”

“An’ you’ve got a team too,” Johnny reminds, turning slightly to view him on the floor. “Don’ ferget ta let them give a shite about you once in a while, aye?”

Simon just grunts inarticulately.

There’s quiet once more, only the hush of their breaths. But Simon’s hand brushes through his hair again, a suppressed sigh, breaking the silence.

“You ok?”

They could go on evading each other all they like, but Johnny doesn’t feel like parrying his questions anymore.

“No,” he says, point blank.

Another muffled sound comes from the floor, deliberating.

“I’m…” Johnny breathes, finding honesty so fragile in this moment, “I’m sad.”

Because he is. He’s fucking sad and he doesn’t think it’ll ever go away.

Maybe he’d done it on purpose, though, walked right into his own dumb punchline, because he barely has to wait more than a second before Simon rolls over and peers up at him.

“Got a good field treatment for that, y’know.”

He’s smirking before he can help it. “Oh yeah? Wha’s tha’ then?”

“Bit controversial, not even in the guide yet,” Simon says, crouching on his heels now.

“Is this TCCC approved?” Johnny tilts his head to meet him.

“Dunno. Should be.” With that, Simon moves in with a peck to each cheek, one on his nose.

Johnny chuckles lightly, scrunching his face. “Mmmn. I’m not so convinced it’s workin’, LT.”

“Oh, you fuckin’…” Simon presses in closer, dusting the edge of his lips in a trail up Johnny’s throat. He ends it with a long, careful kiss against the bottom of his jaw.

“Think ye’re losin’ me, sir,” Johnny pushes his luck, barely able to breathe at all with the pressure in his heart.

With that, Simon launches onto the bed, his body sprawled atop Johnny’s, both hands cradling his face as he leans down to grab his lips.

The kiss is slow, methodical, soft with its prelude, sloppy and wet as they explore it further.

It’s…

It’s not a panacea, by any means. And Johnny still feels that striking sadness with every graze, every shared breath.

But it’s warm. And gentle. Forgiving.

A perfect apology for letting themselves get so carried away before.

Johnny shuffles slightly on his bed, leaving a barely lodgeable patch of mattress open beside him, the invitation he should have insisted from day one.

And, as he’d expected, Simon looks absurd curling up on the tiny bedframe next to him, having no other choice but to wrap around Johnny, a king-sized security blanket.

There’s the faintest huff as the man presses his face into the pillow beside Johnny’s neck, a dry tease. “Are these Scooby-Doo bedsheets, MacTavish?”

Johnny just snorts into his soft, blond hair. “Aye, see we’ve got the highest quality up here, now ye’ve been upgraded from the floor.”

“This the penthouse then?” Simon drawls. His fingers have started tracing up the length of metal, the dog-tags underneath.

“Mn-hm, five-star, wha’d’ye think?”

“Not bad. Could do with some more leg-room though.”

Shifting his weight, Johnny slides his shin along the other man’s bare leg, tucking around him. “We’re always happy to accommodate.”

“Got any room service?”

“Hungry, are we?”

“Fuckin’ starvin’. All I’ve had is Scottish shit these past weeks.”

“Oi, you!” Johnny taps his head, wrapping his elbow around him in a soft wrestle.

“The desserts aren’t bad though.”

“Oh, yeah? Taste somethin’ ye like?”

“Mmn.” Simon rolls his neck, pressing that hot mouth against Johnny’s throat again. “Might need seconds.”

“Like I said, we’re very accommodatin’…”

Simon’s chuckle is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard, Johnny reckons, as warm and golden as heather honey.

They have their desserts, their goodnight kisses.

And Johnny wraps himself up in it, both of them under his heavy quilt, as the nighttime urges them to start whispering secrets in the dark, like they’ve always done, the same old sacred act that got them this far gone in the first place.

But instead of worst fears and contingency plans, they mutter about favorite things.

“Hmm, pistachio, reckon.”

“That’s acceptable.”

“Yours?”

“That one with the three flavors.”

“Neapolitan?”

“Now you’re just makin’ up words.”

“Favorite color?”

“Black.”

“Tha’s not a color, ye bampot, tha’s the absence of color.”

“Fine. Green.”

“Which kind?”

“All of them. You?”

“Hmm…pink.”

“Fuckin’ pansy…”

“Oi, back at ye!”

“Films?”

“Braveheart.”

“Oh, bloody fuckin’ typical…”

“It’s a timeless classic, aye. An’ the sex scene’s not bad.”

“That’s poor taste, J.”

“Wha’ about you?”

“Dunno. I liked those ones with the bear in the hat.”

“Wha’, Paddington?”

“Yeah, that’s the tosser.”

“Ye cannae tell me ye’re favorite film is Paddington, LT.”

“Why? It was remarkably wholesome.”

“Never in my fuckin’ life…”

“Favorite book?”

“Bold of ye ta assume I can read.”

“I’ve had my doubts for years.”

“Wha’ about yers? An’ don’ say the field manual…”

They go back and forth for hours, probably, wasting away the time they have left.

And Johnny doesn’t get much sleep crammed under his childhood sheets with a six-foot hindrance at his side, but he’d never been gladder for the smallness of his bed.

Alice drops by in the morning to wish Simon well.

They sit in the kitchen over their teas, Johnny rallying enough of his façade to at least mask some of the gloomy cloud over his shoulder, though he reckons he does a piss poor job.

“Ah, so the rumors are true,” Alice says with a smile, watching Simon dunk his signature heaping of sugar into his new tea mug. “Six sugars is quite a lot, dearie, ye should know.”

The man blushes, sipping it delicately. “Yeah. I’m tryna cut back.”

“Doesnae look like ye’re makin’ many strides,” Johnny teases, nudging his elbow.

“Nah, I’m gonna start when I get back.”

“New Year’s resolution?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Oughtta try tha’ too,” Johnny says, very aware that their flirting is in plain sight. “Should finally learn how ta cook…”

“Tha’s a swell idea, John,” Alice says, still with her sad smile.

“Might need to supervise him,” Simon mutters. “Don’t trust this one near an open flame.”

“Aye, I’ll keep an eye on him for ye.”

It just emphasizes the elephant in the room, the Simon-shaped hole that will be keeping him company for the foreseeable future.

Johnny slumps further onto the counter as they continue their idle chatter, the other man rubbing at the back of his neck, toying with the tiny hairs that’ve sprung since his last buzz; there’s a fair length to it already…

Alice gives him a shy hug when she goes, Simon’s large stature accommodating her as he bends to a more suitable angle.

And Johnny doesn’t hear what she whispers in his ear, but he reckons it was something precious, between the two; a mother without her son, a man who’d never experienced something truly maternal.

He gets just as much of a sendoff from Elaine, as expected.

“Ach, Simon, dear! Please take care’a yersel.” Her hug is far more vigorous than Alice’s, tugging the man into her bosom and giving him a good squeeze.

She also procures some ridiculously-large gift basket full of goodies, Simon holding it with a dubious expression, prepared for the fact that it won’t get past customs.

“Thank you,” he says, regardless. “For everything.”

“Och, of course, dinnae be silly! Ye’re always welcome back, darlin’. Lord knows Johnny’d be thrilled havin’ ye by again.”

It’s pointless to say, they all know he’s not going to have time off for a long while. Maybe never again—no, it’s too morbid to think like that.

His other family members had already said their goodbyes last night, so now it’s just Jack, Johnny, and Simon in the car, the return leg of the trip they’d taken just two weeks prior.

Unsurprisingly, it’s awkwardly silent for the majority of the car ride. Da doesn’t even point out his favorite flood locations, and Johnny doesn’t stop shaking his leg the entire way.

Once they get to the airport, the reality really sets in.

Johnny can feel his face tightening, the sadness brewing in his gut at risk of spilling out everywhere, but he manages to subdue it enough to keep from crying all over himself.

Jack, bless the bastard, gives a brief, heartfelt farewell, then makes a show of pretending to be interested in some flyers by the entrance, leaving Johnny to linger while Simon checks his bags, mam’s basket being regifted to the helpful desk clerk, some of the travel-sized treats stuffed into Simon’s pockets.

Then it’s just the two of them, standing by the gate to security.

Johnny fumbles on his crutches slightly, leaning in a touch closer, his eyes already watering.

“Hey,” Simon mumbles, brushing his thumb in a stripe up his sleeve.

His lower-lip wobbling, Johnny frowns at the floor. He can’t trust himself to speak right now.

But Simon turns so he can grab Johnny by the shoulders, shielding him from his father and the rest of the airport. “I know,” he mutters quietly, rubbing at the base of his neck.

They stand there for some time, people passing, clocks ticking, deadlines closing in.

“Fuck this,” Johnny manages to say, clogged by the tears he refuses to spill.

God…it hurts so fucking much…

“You’ll be fine, Johnny,” Simon says, inflecting it with a firmer grip to his nape, a few gentle tickles through his shorn hair.

His throat keeps trying to seize, emotion brimming at the surface, but Johnny won’t cry here. No, not even when Simon mumbles:

“You don’t have to wait for me.”

God…

Johnny isn’t sure how he manages to nod at that, his head is so heavy.

It comes out as the most pathetic rasp when he says, “I’ll miss ye, Simon.”

The other man just exhales, drawing it out, moving in to complete the hug with another arm around him, tugging his head into his shoulder. 

There’s an obnoxiously loud voice from the loudspeaker, reminding them of the flight’s departure time. Johnny just burrows further into Simon’s jacket, delaying the inevitable.

“Hey,” comes the soft request, Simon urging his head up with those sturdy fingers at the back of his neck.

Johnny can’t move.

“Hey. Look at me.”

He won’t, he won’t…

“Johnny Laith…”

Fuck…he lets out the smallest sob into the man’s jacket, but he finally looks up, rubbing at his damp eyelids.

“You’re gonna be ok,” Simon asserts, holding his gaze with those beautiful deep brown eyes. “I need you to be ok for me.”

Somehow, he’s able to nod.

And while his throat still seizes around those nameless emotions, the words he wants to scream, the confessions that will make him break, I love you, I love you, I love you…Johnny pulls back first.

“See ye around, Simon,” he says. Even though he won’t.

Then it’s…

Time to go.

There are no parting gifts this time, no dog-tags disguised as a blessing, no promises.

Johnny simply watches him walk away, fumbling through the security gate, glancing over his shoulder to see if he’s still standing there.

He waits until it’s clear the other man has to leave, another reminder from the loudspeaker, a queue forming at his heels.

Just as Simon is about to duck into the doorway for the departure gates, Johnny calls out:

“Give ‘em hell, captain!”

And it’s worth it just to see that fraction of a smile beneath his masked face.

But in the next second, he’s just…

Gone.

Johnny’s not sure how long he stands there. As if there’s the smallest chance the man might come rushing back. For a last kiss, for a proper goodbye. Just to embrace him for one minute longer, holding up the plane, like they do in all the movies.

But he doesn’t come back.

And eventually, Jack returns, nodding at the door and ushering him back to the car with a gentle hand on his arm.

They sit there in their customary silence, John watching the dreary gray landscape skate past, his eyes still impossibly tight.

Why does everything always have to feel like ‘before and after’? Why does the ‘after’ part always feel this fucking empty? He swears the world has converted to a monochrome on purpose.

It’s his father that breaks the silence first. And when he does, Johnny feels a piece inside himself shatter with it.

Because da just taps the wheel in his typical way, glancing at him with the corners of his eyes. And he says, so simply:

“Tha’ boy loves ye, Johnny.”

It’s uttered with the purest, most naïve honesty of Jack MacTavish, genuine and good, canny as all fucking hell.

And Johnny’s heart nearly stops with its simplicity, his knees curling up to his chest as he sits there like a dumbstruck child.

Oh…

They say nothing else for the remainder of the car ride.

But when they get back home, John lets his father help him with his crutches, the two of them lingering out in the cold, some unspoken thing urging the old man to tug his son against his chest briefly, a small show of support.

Johnny’s voice catches when he does speak, a shaky nod at the shed door. “He…he never got to ride it.”

And he doesn’t know why that’s the thing that pushes him over the edge, but it does.

All at once, Johnny snaps, tears sliding down his face as he thinks about that rusty old bike, locked away in the shed, never to be touched again.

“H-he didn’t get to ride it.”

Trembling now, he all but collapses, sinking into a huddled slump on the porch as da squats down next to him, shushing and placating to the best of his ability.

He’s not surprised when mam comes out to find them, nor is he all that surprised by her reaction.

Not wasting a second, the woman grabs her son into her arms, cradling Johnny into her soft wool sweater with gentle pats to his head.

“Shhh, love. It’s ok.”

“I’m sorry,” he cries, shuddering violently against her tiny shoulder. “I’m sorry, mam.”

I’m sorry for being so fucked up, he doesn’t say, but it pounds inside his head all the same. I’m sorry for making you worry, for all the shit I pull, for waking up in that hospital and wishing you were gone. I’m sorry that I still wish you were gone, that I was gone.

I’m sorry that I love him.

“I’m sorry, mam,” he just cries again, letting it all wash over him.

“Shhh. Don’ ye dare.”

It’s clear now how fucking hopeless he is, how obvious he’d always been. Because mam keeps stroking his shaking head, giving him every reassurance he knew deep down he was too afraid to hope for.

“Ah, my Johnny…ye’ve never been subtle, babes…” Elaine holds her son closer, kissing his dark hair, just like hers, coaxing those blue eyes to stop their fussing. “Jus’ wish he wasnae English…”

It gets him to laugh, a truly remarkable feat, sobbing wetly into his mother’s knitted sleeve. “I’m sorry,” he says again, because that’s all he really has right now.

“Dinnae be sorry, my lamb. Dinnae ye ever be sorry.” She eases his head into her lap, the cold porch steps chilling them both, but he lets her gentle words dust over his head, as soothing as a lullaby. “We love ye, sweet thing. No matter wha’.”

His father is still here too, keeping vigil as he pulls an umbrella out, shielding them from the frosty rain.

And Johnny doesn’t think he’d ever taken the time to realize how fortunate he really is.

Lucky, even, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Because his folks sit with him on the porch for a long, long time, helping him back to his feet when he’s able, drawing up a bath, cooking up his favorite meal, and he—

He loves them so.

In a way that’s different than what he feels for the shadow he’s always chasing, but no less real.

And even though it hurts so fucking much, they’d been there for him before. They’d been there this whole time.

Simon had been right—these people will take care of him.

So God be damned…

Johnny just might let them. 

Chapter Text

January passes like the tail end of a winter storm; cold, harsh, thawing too slowly.

February is much the same.

That isn’t to say nothing happens in Johnny’s life then, but he’d kind of stopped thinking of things in terms of such parameters, something he’d been working on mentally. Easier to do and get done than to linger in the snowdrift, he supposes.  

Things change, as they’re inclined to do.

That third week in January, he gets cleared from physical therapy, his gait deemed well enough to finally warrant the use of a cane instead of his crutches, Shelly and Dylan being vocal about how proud they are of him and how far he’s come.

It would feel like a triumph if Johnny was still under the impression he’d have places to go.

Having no real reason to see his trainers anymore, Johnny reckons he might honestly miss their company. But he should’ve realized that relationships don’t always have to be so ‘one and done’, as Shelly insists she’d be up for meeting at the gym on weekends, and Dylan gives him his personal number, in case he ever feels like chatting.

They go for drinks a few times too. It’s nice. Gets him out of the house every now and then. Gives him real people to talk to.

With his mother’s assistance, Johnny had gotten in contact with an online therapist as well. Not that he’s super keen on revealing his deepest and darkest secrets over the internet, but the woman is fairly easy to converse with. Nice middle-aged gal named Nellie, lives down in Edinburgh, specializes in ex-military counseling.

She’s got a ginger cat that sometimes pops up during their sessions called Pepper. Those are always the moments Johnny feels the therapy might be working, getting a rare smile out of him every time the bugger takes a swipe at the screen.

It’s really not as bad as he’d been expecting.

For the most part, they talk about his mental state, his mood swings, the nightmares that still crawl their way to the surface, his pain management, the hollowness he feels from losing his career so young. Regular, easy how-do-you-dos.  

But Nellie helps in that gentle, therapeutic, step-by-step kind of way, Johnny making an effort to feel less guilty about the shit he’s been dealing with, even though it’s still a struggle.

One of her favorite things to say is:

“None of this is your fault, John.”

And even though it’s easy enough to comprehend, Johnny can’t quite apply the sentiment to himself.

He gets new meds, and he takes them regularly. He talks about some of his past traumas, the horrors he’s seen, in as much as the English language can allow. He lets Nellie explain to him how to combat all the negativity he houses, and pretends to believe her when she mentions how he’s made such wonderful progress already.

Small steps, he supposes, are better than crippled ones.

They come up with a few solutions for his nightmares, something called ‘imagery rehearsal theory’ that has him pantomiming out his worst ones, Nellie encouraging him to ‘rewrite the ending’, which leads to increasingly silly results. So now whenever he thinks about falling twelve meters, there’s always a trampoline waiting for him at the bottom to flex his gymnastic skills, go figure. 

Does that work in real life too? he wonders, the whole rewriting the ending thing?

Probably not. 

Nellie likes to end each session with a reminder to write down a list of subjects he thinks about during the week; things he’d like to improve about himself, things that bother him, trigger him, etc. And he’d come up with some decent topics these last few calls, gotten a few things off his chest.

So far, though, he hasn’t managed to bring up Simon.

Because Johnny doesn’t think Pepper the cat has enough feline consolation to help navigate that particular minefield.

And he doesn’t want to put that lovely name down on his list of triggers…

Things with Simon have been…a bit like having a foreign pen-pal from a country that doesn’t actually exist.

There have been texts here or there. Their usual song and dance.

Sometimes, there are easy ones like:

Or the time Simon sends him a photograph of his own, such a rarity, just a snap of three purple, green, and yellow tubes that spell out ‘Mleko’, with a very familiar cow, alongside a hilariously emphatic caption:

Johnny had grinned like an absolute fool, practically kicking his feet in his bed when he’d written back:

And Simon had replied just as quickly:

But somehow, those are the ones that end up feeling worse, in retrospect, than the ones that sound like:

Or:

Or even:

They never get around to that call.

But even still, those aren’t any worse than the texts Johnny doesn’t send. The ones that sound like:

Those are the texts he fights with some mad, manic urge, like he’s standing at the edge of a skyscraper, his thumb hovering over the send button before he talks himself down again, each word backspaced, letter by letter, watching his confessions get eaten by his cowardice.

None of this is your fault, John, he reminds, but it’s starting to sound more and more like an empty excuse.

At the end of the month, Simon tells him he’ll be on assignment again for a few days, a covert op, classified, no specifics.

Just another:

And Johnny pretends that he doesn’t hold his breath for the seventy-six hours that it takes the other man to return that message.

The ping to his mobile that simply reads:

is enough to keep him lying awake all night googling symptoms of a heart attack, because he’s pretty sure he’d been experiencing one for the past three days.

In the morning, he realizes he’d never responded. 

And in his next therapy session, he tells Nellie that the nightmares have gotten better, seeing as he can’t actually have them when he doesn’t sleep. Good to know.

What helps more than the therapy, surprisingly, is Alice’s writing club.

After the holidays, she’d somehow managed to gather a few willing participants, arranging a meetup in the community center every Wednesday.

And Johnny hadn’t known what to expect from the group of about six or so individuals, himself included, but honestly—it’s turned out to be the highlight of his week.

From their pool of reluctant townsfolk, they’d bagged a few characters, to say the least. There’s Mrs. Harrison, mother of five, whose dramatic, Shakespearean-esque screenplays often lead to theatrical performances and many rounds of applause. They get to hear a lot about the trials and tribulations of Horatio Nelson from Dan the history buff, who works at the town library and is evidently penning a tome for the ages. A local girl called Maisy stops by after school on occasion to stutter through some truly angst-ridden prose, Johnny admiring her courage to share what’s probably poorly-disguised fanfiction aloud, but she’s got good spirit.

Another surprise contender is Jeremy McGowan, of the notorious Christmas-caroling dog fame, although Johnny’s not sure if he’s disappointed to find that the man’s short stories rarely involve canines at all and, in fact, are mostly about the crippling repercussions of divorce. Ouch.

Alice actually gets a rare hint of interest from him, however, as one of the first bits of writing she shares is a lovely little tale about a puppy and a bunny looking for a lost treasure.

“Ach, I dinnae even know where this came from, I’ve no’ got any good ideas like you all,” she’d bashfully claimed. But Johnny had found her story utterly charming in its wholesomeness.

“Go on, Al, ye’ve got ta give us a sequel,” he’d teased her after. “Ye can make a proper kid’s book outta tha’, reckon.”

She’d blushed up a storm, even moreso when Jeremy had complimented her creativity, and then proceeded to ask her about fifteen different questions about the dog from her story, proving his passion for pooches is very much still relevant.

And as for Johnny himself, well, he’d stuck to the outskirts those first few sessions before finally plucking enough courage to share some of the scribbles he’d written in his new journal. Mostly little tidbits based around experiences in the service. He gets a good round of chuckles over an incident with a certain cadet—who shall remain nameless—and the time he’d had the amazing idea to try to jump across all the beds in their barracks (there were 36), and ended up faceplanting because some unexpected bloke was trying to get a kip in.   

It’s not as soul-baring as he would have expected, even if he has to spend a lot of his time explaining military vernacular to a bunch of plucky civilians and watering down the violence quite a bit.

But he enjoys it. Alice does too.

They’d both needed something like this, pair of recluses that they are, even if they aren’t so ready to admit how close to home it gets sometimes.

After Johnny’d shared a short narrative about the time that same nameless soldier had reassembled an HMG in Urzikstan, having to re-cock the bastard for 150 rounds and earning himself those goddamn medals, he’d needed to step outside for a bit, under the guise of a smoke break, just because his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

If he hadn’t still felt that recoil in his whole body, it might’ve been easy to pretend those hands belonged to someone else, this fictional character he’d been ghostwriting as.

Alice comes to stand with him outside, even in the winter chill, providing a knitted scarf when it’s clear he’d need more than one cigarette to stop the palsy in his fingers.

And when he finds her in that same spot, two sessions later, after she’d had to pause halfway through her latest adventure, the dog and the bunny getting into another sort of mischief, just a mumbled apology when she simply walked out of the room, Johnny hadn’t even needed to ask.

He simply stands vigil next to her, offering his coat as she shivers, a cigarette that she declines, while the woman silently sobs.

“Trevor always wanted a pet,” she reveals later, after all the others have left and it’s just the two of them loitering outside the center like mismatched hooligans, Johnny with his smoke, Alice with a pair of mittens being crocheted on the spot. “The on'y problem was, he was allergic, poor thing. So I bought him these two stuffed animals instead…”

She doesn’t need to say anymore. Johnny gets it.

They get each other. And that’s why he needs this writing club more than the therapy, he reasons.

Because when Alice asks, “How’s yer boy?” he can be honest with her.

“He’s been shuttin’ me out, I think. Prob’ly ta keep his distance from the whole thing. From gettin’ too distracted, y’know?” He pauses to take a hit from his cigarette, mulling it over. ‘He’s not my boy’, is on the tip of his tongue.

Alice just gives him that sad, sad smile.

“He’s a’right, though. Still kickin’.”

Another long drag of nicotine, another row of yarn worked into a chain.

None of this is your fault…

“Wha’ about you, lassie?” he teases, completely taking the spotlight off himself. “Gonnae let Jeremy take ye ta dinner one’a these days?”

“Ach, I dunno wha’ ye’re awn aboot, dear.”

He smirks around his smoke. “Seen the way he looks at ya, Mrs. C. And word on the street is, he’s on the market.”

She taps his arm in protest with her crocheting hook.

“Wha’ was it—'divorce is like a cheese tha’s gone bad, too much mold ta try to chew around’,” he quotes one of the man’s infamously bad metaphors. “Consider tha’ yer ice-breaker.”

“Oh, leave him be, he’s a nice man.”

“Sure is,” Johnny quips, still smirking. “Can still let him buy ye a drink, eh?”

“Dinnae be silly, John.” Her face flushes pink as she shakes her head.  

“If ye’re lucky, he migh’ get the dog ta serenade ye an’ everythin’.”

“Och, you…”

They linger around in the cold for a while, at least until Alice finishes one of the mittens.

One of his other small joys is the fact that Johnny gets to see Jessie pretty much every day.

Ruth had taken more shifts at her new job, which means she isn’t around to fetch the lass when school lets out, so Johnny had taken it as his godfatherly right to step in to help.

Most days, he picks her up in the car and they go for a little drive around town. If it’s nice (ie. not hailing, snowing, sleeting, etc.), they can sometimes take trips to the pond.

Jessie likes to find irregular-sized rocks and see how far she can throw them into the water, judging them on their varying plonking sounds.

After another cold front, half the pond had been glazed over with ice, so the next time they make their circuit, Johnny has a go at poking holes in it with his cane, his niece goading him into writing their names as a form of innocent vandalism. If the townies have complaints, they’ll have to take it up with ‘Jess and Soap’.

“Ye’re way more fun than Alan,” the girl assures, and Johnny takes it as the highest compliment, not that the competition is all that fierce.

Honestly—he’s surprised his sister and that twat are still together.

Ruth hadn’t been around much lately, but he’s secretly glad for it, if it means getting in some quality time with his goddaughter.

On the days when Jessie had done an exceptionally good job in school, John takes her for ice cream; which it turns out, is often.

“Righ’, wha’ are we tryin’ today?” The gawky youth who works behind the counter of the local parlor is very familiar with them by this point, letting Jessie use the spare stool so she can get a proper peek at all the flavors. Probably just glad to have this much business in the winter months, to be honest.

“The blue one!” She points, Johnny keeping her from toppling with her spastic reach, as he reminds her, “Wha’ do we say, hen?” and she responds with a cheerful, elongated, “Pleeeease!”

Some days he talks himself into getting one as well. It’s usually just as often.  

“Uncle Soap, tha’s no’ fair, ye’ve go’ three flavors an’ I on'y got one!” Jessie claims, sounding far too distressed about it.

But Johnny just nibbles at his Neapolitan cone, telling her, “Aye, lass, tha’s ‘cause I know how’ta cheat the system.”

The poor girl looks positively bamboozled by this concept as they take their treats to go and return home.

Intending to stand by her promise to Simon about keeping an eye on him, Alice also pops by the house on occasion, some makeshift cooking lessons giving them both a reason to laugh more often than not, as the results can be hilariously dubious.

“Heavens, John, I dinnae understand how ye managed ta burn spaghetti…” Alice remarks, a fair amount of bemusement in her voice.

Johnny frantically shrugs, still in the process of scraping the straw-like noodles around the crusted pan, having no clue himself.

“Aye, ye shoulda seen the meal he tried ta make us the other night,” mam chimes in, shaking her head at her son while she takes the pan to scrub it in the sink. “Jackie’s still chewin’ tha’ pork chop, reckon.” Because of course his father had been the only one brave enough to take a bite…

“Naw, he’s tryin’, an’ tha’s wha’ matters,” Midge assures, another addition to this odd little spectacle Johnny’s found himself starring in. He should start selling tickets.

Elaine mutters under her breath, “He didnae even know ye’ve got ta take the skin off an onion…”

“Crumbs, child, ye’re lucky ye’re handsome.”

“I’ve eaten food out of a plastic bag most of my adult life,” Johnny defends, failing to suppress a pout. “Cut me some slack, aye?”

The three women continue judging him discreetly, offering up their tried-and-true advice while he struggles with the apparent threat to his dignity; not really all that much left there, to be fair.  

“If ye dinnae fancy cookin’ fer yersel forever, gorgeous, I’ve got a nephew who’s a chef down in Perth,” Midge teases with a wink. “Makes a lovely sausage and mash.”

If that’s an innuendo, Johnny has to admire her cheek.

Honestly, he’s still not used to this whole…acknowledgment of his sexuality thing, but by now, there’s really nothing he can do about it.

Having ‘come out’ in as much as the majority of his family is now aware that he likes shagging men, Johnny barely had a chance to put up any ground rules, oddly willing to let it just be what it is.  

Although, he does wonder if he should commemorate it somehow, by getting an earring, or upgrading his wardrobe so that it’s exclusively mesh, to make it official or something. As supportive as his folks have been so far, he thinks that might be pushing it…

Mam had had her questions, naturally, most of them being shut down with mortified complaints and many a deflection.

But when asked about Simon, he’d simply given the straight facts: No, he’s not my boyfriend. Yes, I have strong feelings for him. Honestly, I don’t know when I’ll see him again. And he’d just left it at that.  

Any hope that his mother and her nagging would be deterred by his change in preference had been quickly overruled.

“Aye, Johnny,” Elaine says with smug enthusiasm. “Duncan’s a real catch, I’d say. He’s got hazel eyes an’ everythin’.”

Slap a bow on his head and call him Sally, and this could’ve been a similar conversation they’d had two months ago…

He should’ve known that even hiding behind homosexuality wouldn’t be enough to get the damn bat off his case.

Johnny gives an exaggerated sigh, going to cover his brow with his palm if it hadn't been covered in charred pasta sauce. He just rolls his eyes at her instead. “I’m sure he is.”

Alice is the only one who seems to recognize his plight, being more privy to his insights about a certain someone and their not-relationship, but all she has to offer is one of her signature sad smiles.

Simon had said he didn’t need to wait for him. And Johnny had chewed that sentence over and over in his head like an overcooked pork chop, but he still doesn’t want to face its implications.

Is he supposed to move on? Is he supposed to stay single forever? Is he supposed to know what the fuck to call the man: his not-ex, his not-lover, his reason for fucking living?

Somehow John’s boy is always the one that he circles back to in his head.

Such a simple epithet for so abstruse a man…

“I can give ye his number if ye like,” Midge is saying, and Johnny has to snap out of it quickly enough to hide the spiral he’d almost caught himself in. Wouldn’t do to have mam worrying about his mental state any more than she already has been.

He huffs at the woman, pretending to swat her with the dish towel. “Naw, reckon he could do better than some mopey cripple.”

“John Laith MacTavish!” his mother chides, never one for letting him talk shit about her son like that, he’d forgotten.

Johnny just waves off her defense on his behalf, as well as the continued efforts to interfere with his love life. He can’t really blame her; it’s February, heart-plastered decorations shoving this notion of romance down all their unsuspecting throats.

And John had not given it much thought himself, but there is something markedly pathetic about sitting up in his bedroom alone on Valentine’s Day talking himself out of a handy and another unsent text.

He recalls a similar expression of repressed man-angst from the latest passage of young Maisy’s fanfiction novella, this same kind of will-they-won’t-they that leaves Johnny waiting week after week to see if these two twinks can ever get their acts together and dry-hump each other already; it’s all very PG-13 at best.  

And hell—he might be crazy, but all of Jeremy’s moldy-cheese divorce metaphors are starting to make sense now. That, or he’d just gone off dairy after that attempt at making cheddar scones had gone disastrously wrong.

It’s all just par for the course anyway…

When he and Simon do finally end up getting a chance to call, Johnny doesn’t know what he’d even expected.

“How’s everythin’ been goin’?”

“It’s…busy.”

“Yeah, ye’ve said.”

“Yeah.”

“Hmn.”

Is it worth the fractured silence just to hear a few seconds of the man’s voice again?

Johnny lies in a sprawl on his bed, twiddling the drawstring of his hoodie, massaging his bad knee, and feeling completely at a loss.

“New guy doin’ alright?”

“Yeah, he’s fine.”

“Done breakin’ him in yet?” He doesn’t even mean it as a reference to that awful comment he’d made at the cabin, but he cringes nonetheless.

Simon barely reacts. “Had him on a few runs. Accuracy could use some work, but he’s fast.”

“Tha’s not bad.”

“Yeah.”

God…why…

Why, why, why can’t he think of a single fucking thing to say when he’d been torturing himself over this for weeks?

The best he can come up with is:

“What’re ye wearin’?”

It might’ve been funny if Simon’s long sigh hadn’t sounded so strained.  “Johnny…”

“Jus’ curious, is all.” There’s a lump pressing on his esophagus that claims otherwise. He slumps further into his sweatshirt. It’s the same one he’d let Simon sleep with.

Still smells like him.

“I…I can’t really do this right now.” And this could mean their disaster of a phone call, or just…Johnny in general.

He swallows around the clench in his throat, biting his lip to stop its tremble. “Sorry, I…I didn’t mean ta distract ye or anythin’.”

“Don’t…Johnny, it’s not…” The stall on the other end lasts long enough to emphasize the lack of an actual resolution. “I’m just really overwhelmed at the moment.”

“Naw, I understand.” He does, honestly, and that’s what makes it harder. “Bein’ a captain not all it’s cracked up ta be?”

There’s a level huff from the man. “Fuckin’ tell me about it.”

“Don’ stress, Simon. Ye don’ need ta worry about me.”

“But I…”

I do, Johnny, is what’s hidden in his next sigh.

It’s ok. He gets it.

“I’m sorry,” comes Simon’s smallest mumble. “I’m…not good at this.”

“I know,” Johnny says. And what he means is ‘I know you’.

I know how hard this is for you, love, because we’ve always carried the same grief, bled the same colors, worn the same masks, for all this time. 

“Bet ye’re feelin’ more sympathetic for Price after all this, eh?” he tries navigating to an easier subject. “All tha’ hassle bein’ everybody’s boss.”

“There’s so much paperwork, Johnny. Like, so much fuckin’ paperwork.”

He allows himself a short laugh, still feeling like his sweatshirt strings are drawing tighter around his neck. “Gives ye a chance ta work on tha’ shoddy penmanship of yers though.”

“My penmanship’s fine.”

“Aye, right. Ye been writin’ in yer new journal at all?”

“No, ‘aven’t ‘ad the time.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Lies, lies, lies. He sinks deeper into his quilt.

After another strained bout of silence, Simon makes a paltry effort.

“How’s…your family?”

“They’re doin’ a’right.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“Mnh.”

God fucking damnit…

“Aggie’s got a recital comin’ up,” John elaborates, fishing for anything to say right now amidst the soft strangling he’s experiencing. “An’ Jessie’s doin’ well too. Ah, get this—they asked all the kiddos in her class wha’ they wanted ta be when they grow up, guess wha’ she said?”

“What?”

“A field medic,” he says with a dry laugh. His heart hurts in a very distinct way over it.

Even more with the return chuckle from Simon. “That’s not bad at all.”

“Aye, reckon she’d be aces.”

“Just gotta get her to upgrade from using duct tape for everything…”

“Dunno, Riley, comes in handy in a pinch, don’ it?”

“Ah, Christ, yeah—that bullet I took in Brazil.”

“Had ta patch ye up like a bloody parcel, but I swear it worked.”

“Shoulda tried it yourself in Las Almas.”

“Bit too busy tryin’ not ta get shot at, remember?”

“Good times.”

They really were, compared to this absolute shitshow of a situation they’ve tangled themselves in. 

What’s worse is that it almost feels…easy again. This back and forth.

But all the more painful when the drag of silence returns, nothing to fill it with.

Who are they kidding…

“My folks are doin’ a’right too,” Johnny says eventually, reverting back to that previous thread. “Da wants ta get me down to the golf course come spring, says he’d like ta show me how it’s done. That’ll be a laugh.”

“Retirement gettin’ to your head, MacTavish?”

Johnny forces out a huff. It hurts. “Must be. Next thing you know, I’ll be harrumphing at the local youth and developing a passion for World War Two.”

“There are worse hobbies.”

“S’ppose so.”

“You need to get out more,” Simon says, plain and simple, as direct as a command.

“Christ, now ye sound like mam,” Johnny gripes. “Damn woman keeps tryna set me up on dates, if ye can believe, wants me to be social.”

“You should.”

If Johnny hadn’t been clutching the phone to his ear, he might’ve been able to pretend he hadn’t heard it.

“Wha’?”

“You should get out,” Simon says, his voice alarmingly neutral. “Meet some new people.”

Why the fuck is he saying this?

Johnny swears he’d stopped breathing, his entire body feeling remarkably paralyzed.

“I’m serious, Johnny.” Simon reads into his silence, like he always does. “I…I want you to…”

Fuck…don’t…don’t say another word…

“I want you to be happy.”

What the hell does that fucking mean?

“Simon, I…”

“Just…don’t feel like you have to hold yourself back because of…”

Because of what? Because of me? Because of us?

Jesus fucking Christ…this is the worst conversation they’ve ever had…

Simon never finishes his thought, but it doesn’t matter. He’d put it out there. 

How Johnny finds it in himself to mumble, “Ok,” is a fucking mystery.

“Listen—I gotta go,” the other man says, still no indication in his tone that this is burning him alive. “Got a buncha shit I still need to review before tomorrow.”

John just says, “Ok,” again, followed by a very contrived, “Give that paperwork a kiss from me.”

He only waits to hear the small huff of breath from Simon before closing the call.

And he lies there on his bed, entirely numb, blinking back the rapid bite of tears and shoving his hood over his whole face.

If his fingers could still move, he might be in the process of whipping out his mobile again, frantic messages being spelled at a fevered pace, deleted just as quickly.

Instead, he just burrows under his quilt in a crumpled ball that can’t be good for his back, and he understands.

He understands how hard it had been for Simon to say those things; as hard as it might’ve been for Johnny had he turned around and said: hey, you can go and fuck that new sergeant if you like, I won’t mind. I won’t be completely fucking slaughtered on the spot about it. Have fun.

But what is he supposed to do with this?

What is he supposed to do with you don’t have to wait for me?

When he knows that the stupid bastard is staring at the white screen of his phone, just the same as Johnny, curling his six-foot-four frame on his office sofa, his eyes blank.

He can see that Simon’s still online, the little tag at the top of their chat.

Even worse, he can see those three dots pop in and out—

Like individual bullet holes. Bang, bang, bang…

They come and go while Johnny takes his own pathetic sentiments out back with a knife, no witnesses.

What he ends up sending, after glancing at the clock that reads 2:05 is just a simple:

And they leave it at that.

“This isn’t your fault, John,” is what Nellie tells him, when he finally confesses to her his surety that he’d be alone forever. “None of this is your fault.”

He listens to her justifications with limp nods, her recommendations, her reassurances.

And in the morning, he lets his sisters help him sign up for a dating app.

It goes about as well as he’d expected.

“Ach, don’ smile like tha’, Johnny, makes ye look like a bloody serial killer.”

“Ruth!” Caroline chides, but after she squints at her phone she mutters, “Aye, might be the lighting. We should try it over there.”

Johnny huffs loudly as his sisters push and pull him along, refusing to budge at all their increasingly irritating suggestions.

“Less teeth.”

“Jus’ drop the smile altogether.”

“Yeah, might make ye more mysterious.”

“Nope, never mind.”

“Maybe turn to the right slightly?”

“Naw, tha’s his bad side,” Ruth insists, pointing out, “Look, he’s got tha’ wicked scar on his chin, boys’ll dig tha’.”

“Ah, true.” Caro tugs at his sweater, squinting at it critically. “D’ye have, like, a tighter shirt maybe?”

“Don’ oversell it. Cannae have him lookin’ like a piece’a meat, they won’ even know he’s a bottom.”

“Ruth!”

“Wha’? Isnae he?” Johnny has no response for that, he’d already mentally checked out fifteen minutes ago. “’Sides, it’s no’ the shirt tha’s the problem. His hair’s so short, looks rather butch...”

“Jesus, Ruth! But really—have we tried parting it?”

Somehow, they end up with an acceptable picture. Then it’s just a matter of coming up with a profile, both his sisters testing his restraint against sororicide once more with their input.

“I dinnae think ye should say ye’re ex-military. Most gays are against tha’, y’know.”

“Mn, an’ maybe dinnae mention ye live with yer parents either…”

“We should give ye a sexier name, aye? Summin like Wolff, with two Fs.”

“Fuck, tha’s stupid, Roo. Though, John is a bit dull…”

“How ‘bout Zephyr?”

“D’ye wannae get him laid, or committed?”

“Axel?”

“That could work…”

It all feels a bit more palatable when he attributes the whole process to someone else. Another character he’s created to bear arms in his stead.

So now, instead of Soap, the sad, soppy piece of shite with no career to his name, he can be John, 30, looking to meet new people, and see where that takes him.

“Oooh, he’s cute,” Caroline says over his shoulder while he scrolls through the other pathetic bastards on the app.

“D’ye on’y go for blonds?” Ruth asks, earning herself another scowl. “Wha’, it’s an honest question…”

No, he doesn’t only go for blonds. He doesn’t go for anyone, he reckons, but maybe he should lower his standards.

“Damn,” his younger sister remarks with more interest. “Some’a these fruits are not bad.”

Caroline scoffs at her, snarking, “Does tha’ mean ye’re finally tradin’ in yer faulty model?”

“Dunno wha’ ye’re on about,” Ruth sneers, but there’s a hint of resignation when she adds, “Me an’ Alan are fine…”

If Johnny wasn’t so caught up in his own personal turmoil, he might’ve been inclined to read into her expression. 

For now, he just lets them continue encouraging him for the sake of their sisterly concern, picking out potential matches until they’re convinced enough that it’s helping.

And it’s fine, for a bit, pretending that this is a step in the right direction.

No reason to pine for pale lashes and a man that explicitly told him to move on…

He deletes the app after three days.

This plague of romance seems to follow Johnny everywhere, though, even infiltrating the sanctity of their writing club.

Now, instead of long-winded, depressing anecdotes about divorce, Jeremy McGowan has taken a whack at writing poetry, of the cringy and obvious variety.

John swears the geezer recites his entire shmaltzy sonnet without breaking eye-contact with Alice the entire time.

As such, Johnny gives his friend the same nudge his family have been forcing on him. “Seems someone’s found a new muse,” he teases Alice after, but she barely offers protest this time, still blushing profusely.

In fact, Johnny catches her conversing with her admirer while they’re packing up, finding it hopelessly cute the way they stutter and stall around each other.

Even the characters from Maisy’s story have been seeing more action than him, some unforeseen scenario finding them alone in a hotel room with only one bed, what are the chances!

He reckons they’d all needed that sobering passage from Dan about Nelson’s limb amputation after a musket-ball to the arm to settle down the excitement. 

Oddly enough, Johnny does find his love life put through its paces when he least expects it.

He’d gone out with Shelly and Dylan on the weekend, their usual gig at the pub, John hoping their easy company might be enough to distract him from his latest installment of heartbreak.

Simon had been on assignment for a few days this past week. He’d neglected to tell Johnny any details.

It’s nothing unusual, besides the fact that he hasn’t bothered to call him for weeks now. Not like there’s much to say anyway…

And John had just intended to drink away his troubles, more bad habits resurfacing out of spite, but as he’s leaning across the bar to order another scotch, someone bumps his stool, nearly sending him to the floor.

Dylan steadies his arm reflexively, and Johnny goes to thank him when the perpetrator taps his other arm, issuing a quick apology.

“Sorry ‘bout that, pal—” But it gets cut off when they both realize they know each other.

It’s Roy Lynch, that Irish coworker of his sister’s, the lad he’d practically run away from on that awful night out a few months back.

Cringing internally, Johnny’s hoping the other man won’t mention anything, but there’s a slightly coy edge to his smile already, and he pats his shoulder again.

“Hey, you’re Caroline’s brother, right?” he remarks. Then his eyes give a brief, appreciative rove, adding with a wink, “Yeah, I remember. Pretty boy that couldn’t hold his liquor.”

Trying to brush it off, John says, “Naw, mate, I’m hardly a lightweight.”

“Let me buy ya a drink then,” Roy counters, close to his ear. “So you can prove me wrong.”

It’s dangerous, he knows. But it also feels…

Different.

So instead of turning him down, Johnny says, “I’ll take ye up on tha’,” and scoots to make room for the man at his side.

Shelly and Dylan don’t seem to mind more company, especially as the conversation is easy enough. Shelly mentions she’d been in a sports club with Caro, which Roy finds hilarious, so for the most part, they just use Johnny’s sister as a buffer, he himself offering up a few tales that’ll be sure to embarrass her as payback for all that dating app bullshit.

“Y’know, I did have a wee crush on the lass back in the day,” Shelly admits, something John’s always suspected.

Grinning around his latest drink, he teases, “Naw, ye’re lucky ye stayed clear. Us MacTavishes can be handfuls, the lot of us.”

Roy raises his brows, a brief flicker of his tongue across his lips that Johnny immediately picks up on.

“Aye, yeah, she was a feisty one a’right,” Shelly concedes, shaking her head with a smirk when she adds, “Nice arse, though.”

“Must run in the family,” Roy says, still eyeing Johnny very pointedly.

After a bit, Dylan gets Shelly’s attention over some discussion about the footie match that’s playing on one of the screens, and for the other two, the conversation moves…elsewhere.

“So, John,” Roy drawls over his shoulder, right near his ear again. “Know you’re prob’ly not up for dancin’ or anythin’,” he taps at Johnny’s cane, leaning in closer, “but how’s about I take ya somewhere a little more interestin’?”

It would be easy to say no. Easy to tell him thanks for the company, but I’ve…got someone else.

Although, ironically, Johnny can’t think of anything more heartbreakingly difficult.

Besides, they’d been having a good time, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to, and he’s…

He’s lonely.

He really is.

So Johnny downs the last of his scotch, bidding farewell to Dylan and Shelly, and he follows Roy out of the bar.

The club he brings him to is fairly posh, some small, poorly-lit joint on the outskirts of Dundee that thinks too highly of itself. Half the clientele look to be embroiled in those kinds of dark-alley trysts that harken back to when being gay was literally a crime.

The whole thing feels very…clandestine.

But John doesn’t feel bad about it, no. He doesn’t…feel anything at all.

“You don’t do this very often, do ya?”

Johnny shakes his head as Lynch leads him to a booth, the two of them pressed together as the man motions for a server to bring them more drinks.

“Ease up, handsome. I don’t bite.”

Roy is a decent guy, honestly.

He’s not pushy or sleazy. He’s funny enough. Attractive, in a ‘stock model’ sort of way, though not at all distinctive.

And he’s easy to talk to.

It’s…

He’s fine.

Johnny only has a minor dissociative episode when the man pops to the bathrooms, leaving him there amidst the purplish ambience, the soft shuffle of moody dancers, the melancholic music pulsing out a static drone, with lyrics that seem custom-made for his own suffering.

He swears he hears something about ghosts…lovers in the end…

God…what is he doing here?

Each chord of the synth track seems to strike just the right notes in his chest, a slow, perfect, personal assault on his unconcluded demise.

This is why he doesn’t listen to music anymore.  

Roy returns, and he lets him buy him another drink.

He lets him stroke a lazy hand up and down his thigh.

He lets him make out with him in the parking lot.

He’s fine, really.

“Mnh,” Roy murmurs into his lips appreciatively. “You’re a real good kisser.”

And Johnny would feel like too much of a dick to say ‘I know,’ so he just says nothing at all, pressing the other man against the side of his car, losing himself further.

Roy’s shorter than him. He doesn’t know what this means in terms of the masculine hierarchy they’re supposed to be adhering to; he should ask Maisy. 

Regardless, John sucks him off in the backseat of his Volvo. And it’s…

It’s fine.

“Hmng…yeah…oh God…” Roy bucks up into his mouth, panting. “Mn…yeah, John…”

Johnny’s back hurts already, his bad knee digging into the leather, trying to be quick.

It’s…

Ok.

He’s ok.

“Mng…your hair’s longer than last time, eh?” the other man remarks, his fingers tightening around Johnny’s scalp, guiding him. “I like it.”

It’s not his fault.

None of this is his fault.

Roy drives him home, after, and Johnny gives him his number.

Then he spends forty-five minutes talking himself out of shaving his whole fucking head off in the bathroom.

He doesn’t.

He just lies in bed for a while, not touching his phone. Not thinking about anything at all.

That song’s still in his head.