Chapter Text
The dim light of The Old Plough fell on the alcohol-flushed faces of the soldiers. For the first time in a long while, both the grizzled veterans and younger folks could finally let their guard down, giving their tired muscles and minds a chance to rest. Soft music played in the pub, drowned out by the voices of dozens of people, as the clock crept toward ten.
141 sat at a table near the fireplace, each holding a rocks glass of scotch—McTavish’s choice. Quiet conversations were periodically interrupted by Price’s low chuckle, the sergeants’ booming laughter, and Ghost’s muffled snickers into his fist. Gaz and Soap sat side by side, exchanging glances that made Johnny shake his head every now and then, earning an elbow to the ribs from his mate and puzzled looks from their lieutenant and captain. His stupid jokes—ones the drunk men found hilariously clever—helped break the awkwardness though, until the cycle repeated. Eventually, Kyle started swaying, so Price escorted him to the bathroom, offering a steadying hands on his shoulders.
Simon and Johnny were left alone, sitting across from each other. MacTavish’s hand slid toward Riley’s, trembling slightly.
“L.T.?” he exhaled, eyes dropping to his own glass.
“Yeah, Johnny? You alright?” Simon tilted his head, his brown eyes glinting with concern and curiosity. He’d looked at Johnny that way ever since Makarov’s nearly fatal shot. The star-shaped scar on the sergeant’s temple constantly reminded them both of that day, and since then, their still-friendship had grown closer and more tender.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” the Scot said, lifting his gaze and nodding. His cheeks flushed—whether from the booze or embarrassment, it was hard to tell. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed Riley’s hand and blurted out, “I just, steamin' Jesus, love you.”
Then he immediately buried his face in his glass, downing the last of the whiskey. A tense silence hung over the table. After a few seconds, Simon clicked his tongue and squeezed MacTavish’s hand back.
“Oh really?” he huffed, dismissing Soap’s words as drunken rambling. Johnny nodded quickly, looking him right in the eyes. Another few seconds of silence. The wordless communication worked, and a faint smirk spread across the lieutenant’s lips. He sighed and let out a quiet laugh. “I know, Johnny. Me too. Your place?” Simon knew the sergeant’s flat wasn’t far from the pub, even though Johnny had never mentioned it.
“Uh… yeah… yeah. Let’s go,” MacTavish said, still processing the fact of the mutual feelings, a goofy smile is glowing on his face.
Just then, Price and Gaz returned to the table, instantly picking up on the shift in mood. Kyle smirked at Johnny and ruffled his mohawk, earning an embarrassed, grumbling protest. Two twenties landed on the table. Garrick nodded and pocketed the cash; the captain did the same, grinning with satisfaction. He leaned toward Simon and murmured, “Go, lads. Get some real rest.” Then he nodded.
Soon after, Soap and Ghost left the pub, calling a taxi to MacTavish’s place.