Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The stately church stares down at John like a priest looming over an unrepentant sinner. It's one of those gothic-style buildings with sweeping arches, intricate stained glass windows, and a massive, spired belfry. The grandeur should inspire thoughts of spiritual transcendence and worship, but all he can think is that he hasn't been inside a church since his mother's funeral seven years ago when he stood in the back and held hands with his oldest sister Fiona to avoid his father's sneers.

To keep things "civil."

Because his mam would've wanted it that way. And he knows she loved him to the end, even if she hadn't been able to stand against her husband's tyrannical ways or rein in the other three children who followed in their bigoted father's footsteps.

He shakes his head to clear the memories.

Weak morning sunlight breaks through the greening trees, attempting to wash away the ominous mood, but it's not the spring morning or the church or even the reality of one of his best mates tying the knot that has him sitting motionless in the driver's seat, heat radiating from his chest and creeping up his collar. He slips a finger between fabric and skin and grimaces at the dampness he finds there.

The pinstripe collar is a choker, the blue silk tie a noose to hang himself on his own anxiety.

He inhales and exhales long and slow.

Kyle is waiting for him. He can't sit in his fucking car all day.

He doesn't move.

A cacophony of indignant bird calls reach him through the glass, and he finally moves enough to lean over the steering column. A cardinal is building a nest in the tree above, its partner fluttering around and squawking at another bird who dared to get too close. The protectiveness in the action sends a pang of yearning through his chest and brings home the reality of his situation.

John swallows hard and rests his forehead on the wheel.

He's not sitting in the car because of a funeral or a wedding or because he's ashamed of the cane he still relies on for balance and supporting his bad knee during long days of being up and about. (It's a rather dashing cane, if he does say so himself, all carved wood and filigreed metal. He's even spruced it up with a thin blue ribbon to match his blue suit for the occasion.)

No, he's sitting there because he knows other people will be at the wedding. People he hasn't seen in more than three years.

Or… not people.

A person. In the singular.

The thought of seeing a single fucking person is driving him toward an anxiety attack in his car on a cool Saturday morning in May.

He grits his teeth and pulls in a few more deep breaths, pushing thoughts of brown eyes and wavy golden hair from his mind. He told Kyle he would be fine seeing Simon again. And he will.

He will.

If it's the last thing he does before his broken head and shattered heart give out for good, he will do this.

He pushes the car door open. A light breeze cools the heat under his collar. He grabs his cane, pulls himself out of the car, and heads for the church.

*

As always, the lead up to the ceremony takes far longer than the event itself. Kyle has already donned his three-piece blue suit that matches John's in all but the creamy champagne and gold vest as opposed to the groomsmens' blue. Kyle is pacing around the tiny room they'd set aside for the groom, though John knows from years of experience that the energy comes more from excitement than nervousness.

"Just want to get this done so we can go back to our lives. Not that I don't want Belle to have whatever she wants. You know that. But weddings in general... they're a bit much, yeah?"

John smiles, nods, makes a joke. A voice in the back of his head warns he's being too distant, but it's all he can do to keep the vague sense of nausea at bay every time he thinks of meeting a warm brown gaze in the middle of the crowd.

Although it wouldn't be warm anymore, would it? Just dark and cold. As if they were distant, former colleagues.

As if they'd never been close.

Unease burns in his gut like a firestorm. He wants to run a hand through his hair, but he can't risk disturbing the product-laden, swept-back strands that cover the ugly scars on either side of his head. Instead, he pulls in a few silent breaths to calm himself.

Then, it's time.

The chapel is beautifully decorated in creamy-colored flowers with blue and gold ribbons that line the seating area and overflow from the dais at the front. An abundance of that ivory, see-through fabric everyone uses at weddings covers the spaces between and drapes from the ornate stone columns that run down either side of the chapel. The final touch is a plush blue runner that leads up the center aisle.

An aisle he will need to walk down in a few minutes.

His stomach rolls.

Someone has thrown open the main doors of the church to welcome the guests, and John is thankful for the cool breeze as he steps into place in the foyer. Ashley, the maid of honor, steps up next to him. He gives her the most charming smile he can manage, and she winks as they link arms.

The rest of the bride and groom's party line up in front of them in a row of blue suits and gold dresses, linking arms as they'd practiced at the rehearsal the day before. After a few words of greeting with Ashley, John faces forward and lets his eyes unfocus until the world is nothing but a hazy muddle of blue, gold, and gray.

He would look for his date in the crowd, but he's too afraid of who else he might see.

He and Alan had agreed to attend the wedding separately due to John's best man duties, and he's glad for it — for the reprieve. Alan is a good man and shouldn't have to deal with the fact that even now, after harsh words and three plus years of deafening silence, John's innards are a writhing mess, slithering around like a pit of snakes.

All over a man who probably hasn't thought of him once since that final disastrous phone call.

He grits his teeth and closes his eyes. Breathes deep. Tries to remind himself that he's over it. He's fine. He's…

He's not fine.

Simon is in that room. As soon as John passes through the arched doorway, Simon will see him and won't care a bit.

But John…

Three years ago, with the monumental help of his friends, his sister, and a slew of doctors, he'd arranged the slivers of his shattered heart into a semblance of the right order and stuck those pieces together with a mishmash of bandages, glue, and tape. On gentle days, he can pretend it worked. That he's healed and whole. That the yawning crevices surrounded by spidering cracks don't still hide under those hastily applied bandages.

On bad days, he wants to rip it all apart and let himself bleed out.

The music starts, and he swallows back a rush of bile. The attendants in front of them move forward on cue, each couple walking slowly down the aisle in time with the music and parting at the front, the whole procession feeling strangely like a prologue to his own personal mental breakdown.

Ashley tries to take a step forward, and John's stomach churns. His deep breaths aren't so silent now.

"Hey, y'alright?" Ashley asks, concern dripping from her tone.

He can't look at her. Can't look anywhere but at the massive arrangement of white flowers at the end of the aisle. Even looking at Kyle is too much. His lips are parched, mouth drier than the unnamed deserts where he'd spent countless hours with a fucked-up lieutenant making awful jokes in his ear as they wreaked havoc upon their enemies.

"Solid," he says as he manages to take a step forward.

And the spiral worsens. Because why the fuck did he say that? He hasn't been in the military since Makarov blew part of his brain out.

Since the only job he ever had or wanted cut him loose for being damaged goods.

Since the only person he ever wanted cut him loose for the same reason.

The vague recognition of his descent into panic helps him mentally pause and take stock. He white-knuckles the handle of his cane, presses a finger and a thumb into the sharp metal filigree, and lets the pressure and pain distract him.

The music swells. Ashley pats his arm, and he moves forward on autopilot. His vision goes blurry, eyes unfocused as he makes for his destination, relying on Ashley to keep them on pace and heading in the right direction.

He forces himself to smile at her as they part at the front. She smiles back, but worry is hidden in the slight furrow of her brow.

He turns away, and Kyle is there. Kyle, who is looking down the aisle and beaming at his future wife now stepping through the arched stone doorway with her father at her side. John takes his place to the side and forces himself to look up, to keep his eyes on Belle, to admire the way the champagne and gold-threaded wedding dress complements her golden brown skin.

The first hint of tears prick at his eyes, and his forced smile morphs into a real one as he absorbs the incandescent joy shining from her face.

They'd all met Belle years ago when she was briefly stationed at Credenhill for a medical training exercise. As a trained doctor and a former emergency combat medic, she was smart and savvy, and Kyle was a goner from the start. When she went back to her teaching job at the Defense Medical Academy at Whittington, the distance and his deployments kept them apart for a time, but in the end, they couldn't stay away from each other.

Now, the two of them share a flat in southwest Birmingham near John's place. John often sees Belle more than Kyle does, especially when Kyle's off on a mission halfway across the planet, and John has come to think of her as another sister, especially considering the things she did for him — and the things he put her through — during his recovery. It's another reason he's willing to stand up with Kyle and risk boking all over everyone's shoes because of who else is in the room.

Right now.

At this very moment.

Stop thinking about it.

He focuses on Belle. Watches her walk down the aisle. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, but he ignores it, though he does check his pocket for the thousandth time, relief rolling through him that the rings are still tucked safely inside.

The nausea recedes when they all turn away from the audience. He takes up the agreed-upon stance of legs slightly apart and hands clasped in front of him. The handle of his cane rests firmly in his palm — less for support and more so he can hide the way his fingers dance over the filigree in an attempt to dispel the excess energy humming under his skin.

The ceremony goes off without a hitch. John hands off the rings at the proper time. And then Kyle and Belle are crying through their vows, and John's face is wet, too, because he's a giant, sappy bastard. Kyle kisses his bride, and they turn to face the crowd as husband and wife. John is distracted, smiling even as the tears roll down his face, and...

He forgets.

Just for a moment, he forgets.

His wandering gaze catches on whisky brown eyes, piercing and warm and staring straight at him—

And everything freezes.

It's Kyle's cousin David, another groomsman, who steadies him as his knees threaten to give out. The wobble breaks eye contact, and John is left floating.

Moorless.

Untethered.

Drowning in an ocean of grief that should've dried up a long time ago. Fucking devastated like it was yesterday that those gruff, earth-shattering words echoed in his ears: There is no us, Johnny.

Thank God for Ashley.

She approaches, smiles, and takes hold of him. "Lean on me if you need to. I'm strong."

He wishes he were, too.

But he's not.

He's weak as a newborn baby, though he does manage to keep his gaze straight ahead as they walk down the aisle behind Kyle and Belle. The sensation of eyes following him only abates once he's through the chapel doors, and he bolts for the restroom — insomuch as he can — when the renewed surge of bile proves too powerful to deny.

A few minutes later, as he washes his hands and rinses his mouth out in the sink, he braves a look in the mirror.

Red-rimmed eyes. Pale, sweaty skin.

Fucking lovely.

Really, though, it's the look of abject despair in his dull blue eyes that sells the whole pathetic package. Fuck. He hopes he's able to get his fucking head on straight before the pictures. He'll be damned if he lets his own bullshit ruin his best mate's day.

And he'll be damned if Simon ever knows how much power he still has over him.

*

The reception hall is full to bursting by the time the wedding party arrives. John has managed to push down the uncomfortable feelings, his smile and laughter genuine as the photographer snapped a million photos around the church grounds. They walk into the room to cheers and well wishes — evidence of Kyle and Belle's ability to make and keep their friends.

John doesn't dare scan over the crowd, though he knows he'll have to eventually if he wants to find Price. The captain is sitting at the same group of tables as a bunch of other army folks, Simon included, but John will be damned if he lets his mental instability prevent him from greeting his former Captain.

Turns out he needn't have worried. Price appears to greet and congratulate Kyle and Belle before draping an arm over John's shoulders. It's only been a few weeks since they last saw each other at Kyle and Belle's flat, so John immediately clocks that the action is rooted in something more than affection. Sure enough, when Kyle and Belle move on to greet others, Price turns John's body away from the tables off to the side and steps back to pat John on the arms.

Simon is behind him, then. Good to know.

"Lookin' good in that suit," Price says with an approving glint in his eye.

"Not lookin' bad yerself, Cap."

Price looks down at the black suit, white shirt, and blue tie tailored to fit him like a glove. "Sometimes it's nice to climb out of the pits and clean up for a special occasion."

Price has left the boonie hat at home for once, and he's clearly gotten a haircut since the last time John saw him, though the bushy facial hair remains. With John's emotions already so close to the surface, he can't fight the wave of nostalgia that washes over him, misty memories of good times with the 141 flickering through his mind — the literal and figurative specter in the background of those memories notwithstanding. With a shake of his head, he claps Price on the shoulder in return.

"Yeah. How've ye been?"

"Well enough. The weeks leading up to the wedding were busier than ever, though. Thought both Kyle and Belle were gonna murder me for that last-minute mission."

"Terrorists never give it a rest, do they?"

"Not bloody likely. But we give 'em hell, same as always."

"'Course ye do. I remember how it's done."

Price gives him a familiar smile, fond but tinged with sadness. John has learned not to hate it. The emcee — some cousin or other of Belle's — gets a hold of the mic, and Price takes the moment to lean in close and murmur over the noise, "I'm guessing Kyle told you he was coming?"

John's chest tightens, a sense of impending doom pouring over his head like gasoline just waiting for a match. The emcee drones on, but John can't hear them anymore.

He swallows. Manages to nod.

"Alright then. I'll… try to keep him contained so you don't accidentally cross paths."

"Dinnae fash yerself," he says through suddenly numb lips, his voice straining for normality. "It isnae like he's going to seek me out. And anyway, this is Kyle's big day. Just have fun, aye? I'll be fine."

Price looks like he doesn't believe him. Probably because he knows it's a big, fat lie — though maybe not the biggest one John's told himself today.

"Always gotta be the big, self-sacrificing hero, huh?"

John whirls around, his head spinning with the movement. He would've ended up on his ass if not for Price's hand curling around his bicep, but he barely notices as he takes in the familiar face to go along with the voice so often in his ear, even now.

"Laswell! I thought ye werenae gonna make it! And where's that bonnie wife of yers?"

Kate Laswell smiles as she walks into John's open arm and hugs him tightly. "Sophia couldn't make it. I barely made it. And now I'm about to leave again. But I wanted to see you before I left."

She pulls back, her hands grasping his upper arms as she gives him a once over. "You look like a god-damned supermodel in that fancy get up. How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad," John says with a laugh, heat rushing to his cheeks. In truth, he feels like he's falling apart, but Price and Laswell are an island in the midst of the raging storm. He waves a hand at her suit, complete with a tie and vest. "And supermodel or no', yer putting me to shame."

"Flatterer," she says with a raised brow and a hint of a smile. They trade a few more pleasantries between the three of them before she puts her hands on her hips. "Well boys, wish I could chat longer, but duty calls. You two behave yourselves tonight, alright?"

She gives Price a significant look and cocks her head to the left. It's not hard to guess who is at the end of that head tilt, but John pretends not to see it. The protectiveness irritates him as much as it warms the cold knot in his stomach, and right now, he's too much of a mess to be upset about it. Laswell turns back to John and lifts a brow.

"I don't want to talk shop here, but... call me on Monday. I have something for you."

For the past few months, Laswell has been looping him into video calls about "hypothetical" military operations involving demolitions and paying him for his time as a "high security clearance civilian consultant" — to the tune of about five hundred American dollars per hour. John isn't sure exactly how legal it is for him to work for the CIA while doing his regular work designing demolition training courses for the Ministry of Defense, but he's not about to say no to that kind of money. And anyway, he trusts Laswell to have his back if the MOD finds out and decides to get testy about it.

"Sounds good. Tell Sophia I said hi. And be safe on yer way home... or... wherever it is yer going."

Laswell just smiles that cryptic smile of hers. "Talk to you Monday."

She gives him another quick hug and steps around them on her way to where Kyle and Belle are chatting with a few people near the front tables. He should probably be heading that direction himself, but a part of him dreads the idea of being at the front, so exposed and... visible — just like those moments during the ceremony when he felt eyes following him down the aisle.

Even now, he feels the weight of a heavy gaze on him, though he has no idea if it's real or all in his head.

Soft violin music fills the air. The lighting in the reception hall is dim enough to give the room an intimate feel, though evening light shines in through the windows along the back wall. Price shuffles up to stand beside him and places a warm hand on his shoulder, and John's tension eases bit by bit.

Kyle and Belle are still talking with Laswell. They look his way, and he gives a salute. He knows he's not imagining the slightly sheepish look on Kyle's face at being caught.

He doesn't blame his friends for their overabundance of caution. Fuck knows he's given them more than enough reason for it.

"I'll be around all evening," Price says. "Let's catch up when you have a free moment, eh?"

"Love to," John says in as natural a tone as he can manage. "Gotta get our guy through the next few hours first."

Price gives him a nod of understanding, pats his shoulder, and wanders back toward his table, which... yeah, that had definitely been the direction of Laswell's held tilt. John looks away before his gaze reaches the ivory table cloth, skimming over the massive man sitting at the table, dressed in a black suit.

His throat goes dry at the thought of it. He's never seen Simon in a suit.

A sour note strikes in his chest.

Now that he knows where not to look, he scans the room for the person he should've been looking for all along. A few rows back, Alan is sitting at a table with a couple of people John doesn't recognize. He's laughing, the creases around his mouth and storm-gray eyes proof of his jovial personality.

They'd met during the first stages of John's recovery when Alan was assigned as his physical therapist. With a focus on slow but steady progress, Alan had encouraged John to have faith in his brain's ability to heal and to not give up when things didn't progress as fast as he wanted. The reality of John's situation sank in quickly, though, when the most basic things like walking and even talking tripped him up. He'd been confined to a wheelchair at the time after the swelling in his brain damaged his inner ear, but the doctors had been hopeful that a few more surgeries and hard work would get him walking again.

They'd been right, but every step — literal and figurative — was excruciating. All the praise and adulation he'd gained throughout his career — "learns quickly," "able to adjust to new circumstances at the drop of a hat," "succeeds at almost anything he attempts" — melted into the ether. Progress came agonizingly slow, and frustration weighed him down like a millstone, miring him in the perceived futility of it all.

But Alan stayed by his side through it all, even when he wondered if he would survive the agony of recovery. If he should survive.

Especially after…

"You need to stop contactin' me."

Simon's words over the crackling connection land like glass on concrete, shattering the fragile world Johnny built around himself — that Simon just needed more time, that he was dealing with the loss in his own way and would eventually find his way back to Johnny...

"So tha's it, then? We cannae even be friends?"

The words wobble on their way past Johnny's lips, a first warning of the coming flood.

"We were never friends. Teammates and partners on missions? Sure. But you're not here now, so none of that applies."

"Wh-what about… what about us?"

"There is no us, Johnny. Never was."

It's a lie. He's as sure of it as he is that he'll topple over if he tries to stand from his wheelchair. But he's already so beaten down, so hurt, he can't seem to form words anymore. It feels like those first few weeks after waking up when he thought the bullet had literally and permanently severed the connection between his brain and mouth. He places a palm on the wheel of his chair and rolls it back and forth to mimic a rocking motion. A crackle pierces the silence, as if Simon is waiting for the rebuttal, but Johnny's tongue is tied up in razor wire, any move guaranteed to cause him more pain, to leave him bleeding out until nothing is left.

Perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"Don't contact me again," Simon says in his lieutenant voice.

The line goes dead.

Johnny feels it like a snapped lifeline.

And he breaks.

The flood comes like a tsunami and strips him to the bone, taking even the things he thought he'd bolted down and anchored to his soul. Sobs wrack his body, and he falls to the floor expecting to shatter like the life he'd once had with the 141.

But his heart goes on beating.

And as his lungs convulse with the force of his sobs, he can't help thinking of all the ways he could change that...

John wipes a shaking hand over his damp forehead as if he can wipe away the memory. God knows he's tried. So many times, in so many ways. Most unhealthy and a few downright dangerous.

One of them nearly lethal.

He hisses a vehement "fuck" under his breath. A soft laugh catches him off guard, and he turns to glare at the offending party. Ashley just smiles at him.

"Practicing your speech?"

"Ye know it. Gotta get all my fucks in a row. That time already?"

"Not quite. I think we get dinner first."

"Thank Christ. I'm starving."

Ashley just laughs again and takes his arm, guiding him to the table up front where Kyle and Belle have taken a seat. The glaring stage lights make it difficult to see into the crowd, which John considers a blessing. There's no chance of accidental eye contact when all he can see is the brilliant white of his table cloth against a backdrop of black.

A pretty gold-plated hook is clipped onto the tabletop on his left side, and a lump forms in his throat as he realizes what it's for. He places his cane in the hook, and with a bit of shuffling, he drops into the seat beside Kyle. With a huff of breath, he tries to clear his mind, gaze focused on the empty plate in front of him.

Kyle's voice startles him out of his daze. "How you holding up, mate?"

"Doing fine."

"You sure?"

John looks up to see another worried face. He sighs and grabs Kyle's chin to turn his head the opposite direction.

"Stop worrying about me and worry about that new wife of yers, yeah?"

Kyle laughs as he looks at Belle where she sits on his opposite side chatting with Ashley. When he bats John's hand away and turns back, it's with his signature toothy grin on display.

"Fucking finally, right? Thanks man, for everything. I know this isn't easy for you, but—"

"We've talked about it a dozen times, Garrick. It's yer wedding, so shut the fuck up and focus on enjoying yerself."

The emcee cuts in with something about the meal; John's brain is too fuzzed out to catch the actual words. Kyle's smile fades into something a bit fonder, a bit sadder. He pats John on the thigh and turns back to Belle, who smiles at him, eyes shining.

A tender kiss is shared. A loving gaze exchanged.

John can't breathe.

A hand pounding on his shoulder — Kyle's cousin again, saying something about how lovely the couple are — breaks him from his second spiral of the day.

Or is it his third? He's lost count.

He sucks in a gasping breath, but no one can hear it over the applause.

*

Dinner is served, and John eats like the military man he still is at heart. Kyle isn't much better, and they both sit back from their clean plates as the rest of the guests continue to eat.

"You should go sit with your man for a while," Kyle suggests. "It'll be a while before we do the speeches and such, what with everyone here being such slow eaters."

John snorts, though his chest aches at the words "your man." For a split second, his mind had gone to a very different person than the brown-haired, gray-eyed man waiting for him at a table toward the back.

"S'pose yer right about that."

He grabs his cane — he'll have to ask Belle where she'd gotten the handy hook — and eases himself up. His balance isn't giving him much trouble yet, and his knee is behaving. He's being careful, though, in hopes he'll be able to dance at least a few rounds with Belle and maybe Alan. Tiredness always makes the vertigo worse, but he's spent the past year building up his strength, focusing on stamina and endurance rather than the raw strength of his former muscled physique. He's leaner, but certainly not weak... though as the last few hours have already proven, tonight will be more about mental fortitude than physical strength.

Alan seems to sense him coming, turning from his dinner with a wide grin. He stands, and John forces himself to lean forward. At the last moment, he turns his head slightly to switch from a full kiss to a peck at the corner of the mouth.

His gut starts churning all over again, this time with anger. At Simon. At himself. At the cruel universe that seems intent on keeping him forever tied to a ghost.

Alan flashes him an odd look but thankfully doesn't say anything about it. He smiles again a moment later and pulls John into the seat next to him that was supposed to be for John's sister Fiona, though she'd called a few days ago to apologize profusely that she was stuck working on a big case with her firm in Glasgow and wouldn't make it. He's sad she's missing out, especially after how close they've all gotten since John's discharge, but the bigger part of him is relieved — the idea of Fi and Simon in the same space makes him nervous.

The other people at the table are apparently old college friends of Belle's, and their chatter quickly falls into that strange blackhole in his mind that appeared after his injury. The doctors said the bullet damaged areas of his brain related to impulse regulation, attention and memory — along with a host of other things — and though he's improved a lot through his brain rehabilitation therapy, the issues can still flare up when he feels overwhelmed or agitated. Alan gives him a couple more odd looks before tugging him up and away from the table to a vacant corner.

"Y'alright, love? You're looking a bit peely-wally."

Alan emphasizes the Scottish phrase in his posh Cambridgeshire accent and smiles; it's a little joke between them that Alan's attempts at a Scottish accent are fucking terrible. But even with the smile, his gaze is worried. He holds John's free hand in both of his own, fingers massaging John's palm.

He thinks John is having a hard time seeing old army acquaintances.

If he only fucking knew.

"Yeah, just been a long day already. I'm—"

The change in Alan's expression as he glances over John's shoulder is like being splashed with cold water. In an instant, he knows who is standing behind him, though he could never hope to hear him approach, even in silent conditions. Alan blinks, glancing at John before putting on his customer service smile.

John likes that he knows that about Alan. Fuck, he likes Alan.

Too bad his patchwork heart is racing out of his chest for a completely different reason.

For a completely different person, who is currently standing behind him.

"Hi there!" Alan says in a kind tone. "Are you a friend of John's?"

"Somethin' like that."

The voice rumbles like thunder behind him — a voice he hasn't heard in person since before he took a bullet to the brain. It rolls over John's skin like the rough caress of a callused hand, and he holds back a shudder with the last of his willpower.

Then, the words register, and John scoffs.

"Nah. We were never friends, right Ghost?"

He doesn't look at Simon as he pulls at Alan's hand and tugs him toward their table. He tells himself he doesn't know or care why Simon chose to approach him now, of all things.

The much larger hand grabbing his bicep is as devastating as it is unexpected.

John is drowning again, but his arm is on fire where Simon has grasped him even as numbness trickles through the rest of his body. He meets Alan's gaze, and he knows his face is blank. Unreadable. Because he's falling out of his own body, floating toward the ceiling as the anger and poison he wants to spew slide back down from where they'd been crawling up his throat.

But Alan has seen him like this before. Has been there through panic attacks and PTSD episodes and so much other shit that John wouldn't have lived through without all his friends and family there to support him.

Alan knows, and his gaze hardens. "Sorry, but they need John up at the front table now."

The hand around his arm loosens, and John is sickened by his own disappointment. With a glance at Alan, his flight response finally kicks in. He starts to pull away, but that voice stops him again.

"Wanna talk to you later, Johnny."

John whips his head around at that, getting his first good look at Simon in more than three years...

And bleeding Christ, Simon's all-black suit fits him like he's been poured into it, wide shoulders, massive biceps, and thick chest all on display. If John looked down, he'd probably melt at the sight of those thick thighs he remembers so well, so he keeps his gaze firmly above the chest. And what he finds…

He can't— He won't see it. He lets a spark of anger ignite instead.

"Ye dinnae get to call me tha'," he hisses before swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat as their gazes hold. "Not anymore. Johnny is dead."

Simon freezes, and though he's wearing a black mask over the bottom half of his face, John still knows exactly what his expression is doing under all that fabric — twisting into confusion and disbelief. John doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget all of Simon Riley's minute expressions, and the spark of anger turns into a conflagration. Their gazes lock, and he counts down to the moment Simon's brows furrow in three, two—

A pull on his hand breaks the moment. He turns to stumble toward Alan, and the hand on his bicep falls away just as the emcee comes over the speakers announcing it's time to get the party started. John knows that's his cue, but he's not sure how he's going to walk across the room let alone make a speech. He's numb, his heart racing in his chest like he's diffusing a bomb.

Maybe he is, in a way.

A hot gaze paints a stripe of awareness up his spine as he walks away, hand in hand with Alan, and this time, he knows it's not all in his head. He stumbles again, a fit of dizziness overtaking him before he remembers he needs to actually use the cane in his free hand.

Alan slows down once they're back at their table. He hasn't looked at John since the confrontation, and now he's rubbing a hand over his forehead as if staving off a headache. John squeezes his hand, shame and guilt swirling in his stomach like a sickness. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Alan is faster.

"That's him, isn't it? The one you… the one who hurt you so badly?"

John drops his gaze. "Aye."

"Why is he here?"

"Because he and Kyle are still coworkers and... and friends, I guess. Because I owe Kyle a wedding where he can have all the people who care about him here to support him, even if some of them dinnae get along anymore."

Alan lets out a long sigh. "You're too good."

"I'm not. I'm just painfully aware of how fleeting and precious time with good friends can be. And good people in general."

This time, there's no hesitation as he looks up, lifts Alan's hand, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. Alan's face softens, but doubt lingers in the slant of his brows and the way his gaze skitters off to the side.

"He's… a big guy."

John laughs at that because what else can he do? They both ignore the tinge of hysteria in the tone.

"Aye. A giant bastard. Meant a lot to me once." What a fucking understatement. And yet. John licks his dry lips as he manages to catch Alan's eye. "Now, other people mean more."

He wants the words to be true. So he lets himself believe.

Alan smiles.

But the doubt remains.

Art by Kiba (@kibagib)

Chapter Text

It takes three stiff drinks and the entire duration of the three speeches ahead of his own for John's hands to stop shaking. Kyle had given him a worried look when he first came back, but John just waved him off and ordered another drink. He downs the last of his scotch as Ashley concludes her maid-of-honor speech.

"Belle is the best friend anyone could ever ask for. I'm so lucky to call her my bestie, and I can't wait to see what these two amazing people accomplish together. To Belle and Kyle!"

The repeated toast echoes through the reception hall. Belle and Ashley cry into each other's shoulders, and their extended hug gives John a final moment to collect himself. He exhales a shaky breath and pulls out his notes. The microphone appears in front of him, Ashley giving him another wink and smile as she goes back to her seat. He sends her a wobbly smile in return.

With a final exhale, he stands from his chair, shuffling around behind it to use the high back as a support. Kyle shifts in his chair to face John, his expression softer than John's ever seen it before.

"Hi everyone. Name's John MacTavish, and I've known Garrick here off and on for more than a decade, though we really only bonded as co-conspirators and best mates about six years ago." John raises his glass toward the table where he knows Price is sitting and once again sends up thanks for the bright lights. "Captain Price can vouch for the co-conspirators part."

"Bunch of delinquents, all of you!" Price shouts in return.

The audience laughs, and a chuckle bubbles up in John's chest as well, the taut wire Simon wrapped around his lungs loosening with Price's words. John glances over to find Kyle smiling up at him, and tears sting the back of his eyes. His next words wobble a bit.

"We, uh… worked together for years. I'd tell ye a few stories, but I'm afraid it's all classified."

The audience laughs again, and John and Kyle share a look. Belle's voice rings out over the sounds of amusement.

"You all laugh, but he's telling the truth. Do you know how hard it is to get good stories out of special ops boys?"

"I take it back," Price calls out. "Good lads."

The laughter ramps up, so John plays into it. "Hey now. Who's giving this speech anyway?"

"Sorry!" Belle shouts. "Continue, continue!"

As John waits for the laughter to die down, he glances at his notes and licks his lips. When it's quiet enough, he does his best to keep his voice steady as he continues.

"Kyle and I met Belle at the same time, but even if I'd wanted to shoot my shot, it was clear to me from day one that Kyle was head over heels. And so I got to watch them circle each other like a couple of wary boxers, taking pot shots at each other to test the waters." John pauses for more laughter. "For a while, we weren't sure what would happen, but when they finally came together for good, it was like watching puzzle pieces click in place. I knew we'd be seeing a lot of her after that. And I'll never be more glad. Ye make my best mate so happy, Belle, and I just want to say thank ye."

Tears flow down Belle's cheeks, but she's grinning ear to ear as she blows him a kiss. Kyle hasn't broken yet, but John has no doubt he'll get him with the next section. He runs a hand over his own damp eyes and cracks his neck, trying to swallow down the growing lump in his throat.

"Kyle and I, we worked together until… well, until we couldnae anymore, but that didnae stop ye from sticking by me. Ye went out of yer way to make me a part of yer life and introduce me to yer family. I especially appreciate the introduction to yer mam's home cooking."

Although he still can't see a thing in the audience, he winks toward where he knows Kyle's mom is sitting in the front row. As the audience laughs, John closes his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids to try to relieve the pressure. He grits his teeth to keep the tears at bay before sucking in a deep breath and facing Kyle again.

"Ye saved my life in the field so many times I lost count, but ye were also there for me after, when I thought I'd lost everything. Ye saved my life when it mattered the least to the world, and that matters the most to me."

Kyle holds out… until John follows this line with a half laugh, half sob. The tears overflow, streaming down John's face with abandon, and Kyle loses it, too, his own tears welling up and dripping from his lashes. He stands, and John lets the mic fall to his side as Kyle wraps him up in a breath-taking hug.

"You are and will always be worth saving, mate," Kyle murmurs. "Love you, brother. Always."

John buries his face in Kyle's neck and curls his fist into the back of his suit jacket, the overwhelming flood of emotions tossing him around like a ship in a storm. His insides are stretched thin by how far he's split himself open, blood and guts on visceral display.

A part of him wishes Simon weren't there to see it. A more vindictive part of him is glad to show the fucker exactly how unnecessary he is in John's life these days.

But this is not about Simon. Or John. It's about Kyle. And he needs to finish the damn speech.

He shakes Kyle a bit, and his friend takes the hint, patting him hard on the back before backing away just enough to gently cup his face with both hands.

"Just you wait," Kyle says with a raised brow. "Someday, I'm gonna get you back for making me bawl like a baby at my own wedding."

John laughs, the action dislodging a few more tears. Belle is there, of course, with tissues for them both, and John nods his thanks as he wipes his face.

"And now ye all know what my crying face looks like," John says to the crowd when he finally lifts the mic.

The audience's quiet laughter is a balm, and so is Kyle's added, "And mine."

"I'm so happy for ye, Kyle," John continues when the lump in his throat recedes enough to speak again. "For both o' ye. Ye truly are better together than apart. I know yers is a love that's gonna span a lifetime, and I cannae wait to see ye both grow with each other over the years. Keep that love. Cherish it. It's a gift. Love ye both." He turns and raises his glass. "To Kyle and Belle."

John drains his champagne as the reception hall once again echoes with hundreds of joyous toasts to the bride and groom. Before he can sit down, though, Belle pulls him into a hug, her tiara poking him in the jaw as she wraps her arms around him.

"You really are our best man, John. Love you back."

A few more tears slip past his defenses as he dodges the spiky tiara well enough to kiss her on the forehead. "I'm gonna remind ye of that next time me and Garrick get into trouble."

Belle just laughs, swatting him on the arm. The emcee breaks in to announce the first dance, and Belle and Kyle sweep off to the center of the room. As the first strains of their chosen song float through the air, John falls into his chair feeling like he's been flayed alive. He closes his eyes and lets the lyrics wash over him.

Adrenaline, running through my veins and my skeleton, when you say my name…

An ache starts up behind his sternum, and he hates himself a little bit more with every word. Because there's only one person on his mind as the words continue to flow.

Like jumping out of airplanes and swimming with the sharks, that existential feeling when you're staring at the stars… when you walk through the door and you look in my eyes, it feels like the very first time…

The ache turns into a dull throb, echoing through the emptiness of his chest. He's wrung out. Worn thin. And whisky brown eyes are all he can see.

His head swims as he pushes himself up, intent on escaping the love song and emptying his bladder. He passes through the crowds and gets held up several times by slightly drunk people getting teary-eyed as they congratulate him on a beautiful speech. He smiles and nods and tunes it all out until he pushes through the doors into a dimly-lit hallway.

The door closes. The music turns into a muffled slurry of bass notes and melody. He lets out a sigh of relief and follows the signs until he reaches the blessedly empty lavatory.

He's washing his hands when the door opens. He absently flicks his gaze up to the mirror to see who's come in.

He freezes at the deep brown eyes staring back at him in the reflection.

"John."

The dissonance of that name in that voice grates against John's ears like an out-of-tune piano. He doesn't respond. Doesn't even turn around. He just watches in the mirror as Simon steps through the door, lets it close, and then leans against it before pulling off his mask — an action that had once seemed precious to John and made him feel like he was seeing a side of the legendary Ghost that no one else got to see.

God, he'd been such a fucking fool.

All the anger and hurt he's been holding in his chest for years pushes against his lungs, begging him to snap. Instead, he keeps his voice as calm as he can.

"What d'ye want, then?" he asks, dropping his gaze to his soapy hands as he violently scrubs them together under the flow of water.

Simon's swallow echos like a gunshot off the fancy, marble-tiled walls. "Just… just to talk."

"Got nothing to say to ye."

"Just listen, then."

The words light a fuse in John's chest, and he's powerless to stop it. "Why th' fuck would I waste my time doing tha'?"

Simon huffs out a breath, a hint of anger creeping into his tone. "Because this separation thing is fuckin' stupid."

John turns the water off a bit more forcefully than necessary, spins around, and grabs a few paper towels, deliberately avoiding Simon's gaze. "This 'separation thing' is what ye fuckin' wanted," he growls. "It's what ye asked for. Ye've got only yerself to blame."

"I know. It was wrong... I was wrong."

With one blow, Simon shatters all the barely-held-together pieces of his heart, shredding through bandages, glue, and tape like claws through tissue paper. He'd thought his heart couldn't break any further, but here he is, bleeding out all over again.

Because if Simon had come back to him and said those exact words three years ago, John would have taken him back in an instant. He would have cried and fawned and done whatever it took to keep Simon happy. To make him stay.

But it's taken him years to crawl out of the pit of misery that came from one career-ending — nearly life-ending — mission and a heartbreak so thorough he'd lost whatever parts of himself his medical discharge hadn't taken.

He can't do it again.

He won't.

He turns around and meets Simon's gaze head on, his jaw clenched so hard it aches. "Dinnae care. I'm done with this conversation. Now get th' fuck outta my way."

Simon doesn't move. Instead, he meets John's stony gaze, his expression hesitant. It's disorienting, as are the next words out of Simon's mouth.

"What did you mean out there?" he asks.

John shakes his head and rubs a hand over his forehead. "Gonna have to be more fucking specific than that."

"Your speech. You said Garrick saved your life... after?"

John's blood runs cold. He expected people to take it as a metaphor, and most people probably did. But whether John likes it or not, Simon knows him. Knows that those words imply something deeper.

"Ye dinnae get to know that," he growls.

"Because we're not friends?"

"Yer words, not mine."

"I take 'em back."

John scoffs, astonishment flaring alongside his rekindled anger. He shakes his head. The fire in his chest turns sulfurous, and he has to fight the explosion crawling up his throat.

"Just like tha', huh? Ye were wrong. Ye take it back. Fuckin' just like tha'?"

Simon shrugs, though his gaze falters. "Wish I could undo it, but I can't. So we just gotta move forward."

John huffs a derisive laugh and growls, "No. We fucking don't. Yer three years too late, ye fucker, and I'm no' doing this with ye. Not now. Not ever. Move."

Simon crosses his arms, settles more firmly against the door, and looks up again, defiance creeping into the set of his brows. "Not movin' 'til we figure this out."

"There's nothing to figure out!" John shouts. He turns to lean over the counter as the world spins, careful not to look in the mirror while letting his head drop between his shoulders. Exhaustion hits him like a punch to the gut, and he lowers his voice, though the pressure in his chest still threatens to suffocate him. "Yer the one who cut me off. Told me not to contact ye. Which means I dinnae owe ye a fucking thing, least of all an explanation for something ye chose to throw away."

"S'not like you fought me on it."

John scoffs half in anger and half in disbelief. But just like everything else, he feels no need to explain the way his brain hadn't worked like it should back then. Even now, words could be difficult. If Simon had bothered to stick around after the injury, he would've known that. But he'd dropped John like a bad habit before he even woke up in the hospital.

Familiar pain stabs him through the chest. His tongue feels like razor wire all over again, and any words he might've said fizzle away in the rush of agony.

Simon apparently isn't satisfied with the silence. "So when I start comin' around, you're not gonna fight it?" he goads.

At that, confusion gets the best of him, and he turns around to find Simon has taken a step closer, though he's still far enough away to block the door. "What th' fuck are ye on about?"

"I'm talkin' about Price or Gaz 'n' Belle never invitin' me places when they know you'll be around. We should... we should be fuckin' adults about this, be able to be in the same place without causin' our friends so much trouble."

The flames rise up again in place of John's exhaustion, bigger and brighter than anything he's felt since his days in the 141. A burst of adrenaline scorches through every limb. He steps as close as he dares, scowls up at Simon, and lets the fire loose.

"Lemme get this straight. Yer the one who took a sledgehammer tae everything we built. Pounded it into sand. Fucked it up beyond recognition. And now ye want tae make tha' my problem? Blame me, the man recovering from taking a fucking bullet through the fucking brain? I was sick and wounded, and ye fuckin' kicked me while I was down, but I was still s'posed tae fight ye when ye ruined everything wi'out so much as coming tae see me in person before ye cast me aside? Do ye even hear what yer saying, ye selfish fuckin' roaster? Ye can fuck off straight tae hell with that bullshite!"

"Johnny—"

"No! No. Ye made yer bed, and ye can fucking die in it for all I care. Now get out of my way, and dinnae fucking contact me again!"

John flings Simon's own words back at him with a snarl as he tries to push the giant arsehole out of the way. His lungs constrict to the point of pain, burning with the need for air, and as he reaches around Simon for the door handle, his choppy, half-panicked inhales suck in the scent of honey and gunpowder, of detergent and an achingly familiar cologne.

He's falling into the memory before he can stop it.

"What's that smell?"

"What?"

"Dunno. Smells like oranges and pine?"

Ghost doesn't answer, but his bare cheeks tinge pink. Showing his face like this is new for them. One of the few good things — at least in Soap's eyes — that came out of that wretched mission in Mexico: A look at Simon's braw face. And Ghost team, of course.

He's lounging in Ghost's office, the door locked and barricaded with a chair under the door knob. Not because anything is going to happen between them, but because Ghost is a paranoid fucker who won't even show his face on base without a deadbolt and a physical barrier between him and the outside world.

Although... the stuff happening between them... that's new, too — Ghost sneaking into Soap's room in the dead of night, all fumbling hands and desperate kisses. It feels illicit because it technically is, though Soap's pretty sure Price knows. Gaz definitely knows because Soap needed to tell someone about it.

Ghost never stays, though. Never lets Soap come to his room, either. But Soap is glad for anything he can get. It feels like he's won some kind of shagging lottery. Ghost is good — better than good — and Soap shudders just thinking about it.

The scent lingers in the room, and Soap tries to focus on his own paperwork.

He ends up between Ghost's legs instead, breathing in Ghost's heady musk and the scent of orange blossoms...

They're so close that it takes no effort at all for Simon to reach out and topple John into his chest with one strong arm around his waist. Simon shuffles backward, John in tow, and leans against the door again. John's cane clatters to the floor as he flails for balance — something that used to be so simple but now takes all his strength — but Simon's arm is already clamping tighter around his waist while a bare hand slides up his chest and neck, tipping his chin up—

John fights. Or he tries. But Simon's hand on his neck sends his body into overdrive. He's Pavlov's dog, and the slightest touch of Simon's bare skin against his is the chiming of a bell that elicits a rush of pure lust.

How can Simon still do this to him? How does he still have this power?

And why is John still so fucking weak for it?

Simon's gaze is ravenous as he leans down, and the throb under John's sternum turns into a thunderous beat, his heart rising from the sand-blown remains to throw itself into Simon's hands.

Once a fool, always a fool, it seems.

Simon brushes their noses together.

John has just enough willpower to keep himself still. He closes his eyes, a tear squeezing past his eyelids.

Their mouths meet.

And John breaks again.

A moan judders from his chest at the taste, the feel, of Simon's mouth on his. His hands move of their own volition and curl into Simon's lapel. He pulls hard, his grip as desperate as the way he arches his back when Simon licks at his bottom lip.

He's a dying man savoring his last meal. Because this? This will be the end of him.

The flames of anger burn brighter, but they turn inward, razing everything in their path. He hates himself for opening to Simon, for letting him plunder his mouth, for gasping and moaning under the talented tongue that delves inside as soon as he opens his lips.

But he's helpless against the riptide that is Simon, and that sick, needy part of him revels in the way Simon's hand trembles where it curls around his jaw. A low groan echoes in the small space — Simon's, he realizes — and he melts, the sound at once so foreign and familiar that it only feeds the flames of self-immolation.

Simon pulls him closer as if trying to meld their bodies, and his trembling hand strokes John's jaw before spreading over his neck, the heel of his palm nestling against his pulse point. Want lances through John, a feeling so potent he can't begin to fight it.

So he stops fighting. Stops thinking. And lets the tide take him.

His hands slide up to tangle in Simon's too-long hair, the wavy strands at the crown just as soft as he remembers. When he grips and tugs, Simon gasps but doesn't stop his assault on John's mouth. If anything, the kiss grows more desperate. Huffs and pants caress his mouth every time they part, but then Simon is back, surrounding and encompassing him until Simon is all he can see, hear, smell, feel…

It's everything.

Everything he's been missing.

And all he's ever wanted.

"Johnny… fuck… didn't know… didn't understand... how much I needed—"

The pounding on the door starts up around the same time Simon's breathless words penetrate John's hazy, love-sick mind. It's not until Price's voice reverberates through the wood, though, that John comes back to himself.

"John? Are you in there?"

He wrenches out of Simon's grasp and throws himself backward, stumbling until his ass hits the sink counter. He grasps the edge like a lifeline. He's panting and turned on and absolutely fucking horrified. He starts shaking his head as the door rattles.

"If someone doesn't answer, I will break this door down."

Simon seems conflicted. He's staring at John like he wants to come after him, but if he does—

The door rattles again.

"Move," John whispers.

Simon moves to the side. The door flies open, and Price manages to catch it before it hits the wall. He sees John, and he seems relieved for a split second. Then his gaze flicks around the room, and his eyes fall on Simon, who is still staring at John. Price's expression hardens. He moves to the side and points toward the reception hall.

"Get your ass back to the party, Simon."

For a long moment, Simon doesn't move. His eyes are wide, chest heaving and hair wilder than usual from the violence of John's hands. His voice, when he finally speaks, is barely above a whisper.

"Price, just give us—"

"No. Out."

"Go," John whispers again.

At that, Simon shuts down, his face falling blank. He pulls his mask from his pocket and puts it on before turning to leave the room.

Price lets the door shut. He approaches, hands outstretched like he's approaching a wild animal until he can lightly curl his fingers around John's upper arms.

"You alright?"

John just stares at him. The tidal currents of feeling rushed out the door with Simon, leaving only shame and horror and guilt to douse the flames and fill his mouth with ash.

He's just betrayed one of the most amazing people he's ever met.

He might never be alright again.

"Need my cane."

"John—"

"Don't. It willnae make a difference."

Price sighs but otherwise remains silent as he picks up the cane and hands it to John. When the door closes behind them, John doesn't look back.

*

By the time they return to the reception hall, the slow dance has shifted to a high-energy, mini dance-off between Kyle and his parents and Belle and her parents. It's objectively hilarious and lovely. Heartwarming even. But John can't feel anything other than a vague sense of panic. He knows the avalanche will come later and bury him under a mountain of pain and regret, but he's banking on much later as he flags down a server with a tray of drinks and grabs a glass of wine.

Not his first choice for booze, but at this point anything will do. The three scotches from earlier aren't doing much for him anymore.

Price stands on the periphery with him as he drinks. They don't look at or acknowledge each other, but John is grateful for his solid presence nonetheless. His legs still feel like jello from the explosive kiss that knocked him off his feet as surely as the bullet that sliced through his brain.

He doesn't think about what might've happened — what he might've let happen — if Price hadn't come looking.

The song changes. Kyle looks up and seems to know exactly where to find them, even with the crowd of people around the dance floor. He cuts through the guests and comes to a stop in front of John, his gaze searching and lips turned down. John plasters on a smile.

"I hear I'm supposed to dance with the bride?"

"Only if you feel up to it," Kyle says slowly.

John doesn't answer. He just sets his empty glass on a table and makes his way to the dance floor. His head hurts and he's a little dizzy, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the vast, aching emptiness in his chest. And as he takes Belle's hand, as her smile turns toward him with all the warmth of a summer day and love pours out of her like a fountain, he realizes the truth.

His pulverized heart still belongs to Simon. Even after everything, his heart is not his own — not to hide away and certainly not to give to someone else.

The rage bubbles up inside him again, the volcano ready to blow, but he stems the heat. He won't ruin the day for his best friends.

So he forces a smile, and Belle's smile slips a bit. She holds him close, whispers words of affirmation. And he feels even more like shit.

The dance ends, but she doesn't let him go, twirling him around for a second song and then a third. By the time the third dance ends, John has calmed himself enough to give Belle a more genuine smile before pulling her in for another hug.

"I meant every word I said up there, ye know."

"I know," she says and hugs him like she can extinguish the heat building up in his chest if only she squeezes hard enough.

The string lights glitter in her dark eyes as she pulls back to pat him on the cheek. Her smile is soft and understanding, though she can't possibly know what happened.

He fucking hates that he's become the "sad friend." He used to be the fucking life of the party. Now he gets soft looks and pity.

The volcano tries to erupt again. He shoves the explosion down, well aware that when it finally blows, it'll take everything with it for miles around.

He has to make sure his friends aren't anywhere within the blast radius. Simon on the the other hand—

Kyle appears at Belle's side and gives John a once-over. "You sticking around, mate?"

"Ah... for a bit," John hedges. "Should probably try to find my date if nothing else."

"Say goodbye before you go, alright? Had enough of the disappearing act from you know who for one night."

John's heart shoots into his throat, and he stiffens. Kyle's eyes widen, and John wonders exactly when he got so bad at hiding his feelings.

In truth, he knows. But he doesn't want to think about that night anymore. This one is turning out depressing enough as it is.

"Fuck," Kyle hisses, his hand landing on John's shoulder to draw him closer. "I just thought I'd let you know he's gone so you can relax. What happened? Did he try to talk to you?"

"It's nothing," John says with a wave of his hand, though he has to look off to the side as he says it. "Nothing that should ruin yer evening. We'll talk about it when ye get back, aye?"

Kyle grits his teeth and takes a deep breath through his nose before glancing at Belle. She nods and says, "We'll hold you to that, Tav. Dinner next Saturday as usual?"

"O' course. Ye know me. Cannae resist an opportunity to talk yer ear off."

Kyle cocks his head to the side and gives him a wry-but-knowing smile. Because that might have been true at one time, but it certainly isn't anymore.

"I'll wanna hear all about yer trip, too," John adds. Then he blinks and breaks into a grin, the expression feeling more natural this time. "Whatever bits of it aren't X rated, anyway."

Kyle snorts, and Belle scoffs and slaps him on the arm. The tension between them eases.

"If ye two dinnae get out there and have fun, I'll kick both yer asses."

"Big words," Kyle taunts.

John pushes him back toward the dance floor, and Kyle shakes his head before taking the hint. Belle blows him a kiss, and the newlyweds twirl onto the glossy parquet flooring, smiling into each other's eyes, just the way it should be.

A waiter walks by with another tray of drinks, but John lets him pass in favor of scanning the crowd. Now that he knows Simon is gone and the fear of meeting his gaze has been neutralized, he finds the person he's looking for in seconds.

Alan is standing off to the side, occasionally glancing around with a worried look on his face. The crowd between them is dense, and he hasn't seen John yet. The music changes to a slow song John doesn't recognize, and he exhales a long breath.

He should ask Alan to dance. He should also tell him what happened, though he dreads it. The last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt a fantastic guy like Alan. Probably a bad idea to combine the two, but he's nothing if not full of bad ideas tonight.

Case in point, the shot of scotch he orders and downs two minutes later at the generously-provided open bar. It burns all the way down, and he stuffs a fiver in the tip jar before gripping his cane handle, taking a deep breath, and bee-lining for Alan.

He's coming at Alan from behind this time. At one point in his life, he might have snuck up on him and given him a scare, but even when trying to be quiet, the tap of his cane is familiar enough to draw Alan's attention. He turns, smiles, and then immediately frowns.

"I knew I shouldn't have let you out of my sight," he mumbles as John wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him toward the dance floor. "Did he try to talk to you again?"

A rush of sulfur coats his tongue at Alan's words. "I'm not some wean ye need to babysit," he hisses.

Alan blinks and snaps his mouth closed around whatever he'd been about to say next.

Sour shame replaces the sulfur in John's mouth, effectively dousing the sliver of escaped fire. The last person in the room who deserves his anger is Alan.

"Sorry," John mumbles. "Let's no' talk about it. No' yet."

Alan says nothing in return, but when they reach the dance floor, strong arms curl around John's shoulders and pull him into a loose embrace. John pushes as close as his cane allows and rests his cheek on the shorter man's temple, though guilt swims in his stomach because he knows, he knows, he's only dancing so close so he doesn't have to look Alan in the eye.

They sway on the edges of the dance floor, moving slowly even after the song changes to something more upbeat. The music is loud enough to be a good excuse for not speaking, and Alan doesn't try to start up a conversation either. An unfamiliar tension grows underneath John's hand where it rests on Alan's lower back.

A few party songs later, another of Kyle and Belle's special songs pop up in the rotation. It's one he remembers Kyle playing for him when they were deciding on the wedding playlist, explaining how perfect it was for his and Belle's early days as they were trying to build a relationship in the middle of all his dangerous deployments.

Once more the lyrics pierce through John for all the wrong reasons.

The distance and the time between us, it'll never change my mind, 'cause baby, I would die for you…

John closes his eyes against the first signs of the flood.

"We need to talk," he says in Alan's ear.

"Okay."

John keeps his gaze averted as he leads them off the dance floor, past the tables and chairs, and into the garden off to the side of the reception hall. A few people are dancing and laughing on the patio, so John leads them deeper into the garden until he finds a secluded stone bench with a view of a nearby fountain. Snippets of music ebb and flow with the cool evening breeze, though thankfully he can no longer hear the lyrics. Dusky light mixes with the soft glow of the intermittent lamp posts along the walk, lending the spot a romantic ambiance, as was probably intended.

Everything about it feels wrong — wrong for the moment and wrong for his well being — but if he puts this off any longer, he'll find a reason to never do it at all.

And somehow that seems even worse than the bomb he's about to drop.

After such a stressful day, the low-grade vertigo of his day-to-day life has turned into full on dizziness, and he gracelessly falls onto the bench. Alan attempts to steady him before he sits, too, and the gap he leaves between them is proof that he knows something is wrong.

Alan has always been too smart and empathetic for his own good.

"I willnae beat around the bush," John says before finally daring to meet and hold Alan's gaze. "Simon cornered me and… he kissed me."

"That absolute wanker!" Alan explodes. "How dare he—"

"I kissed him back," John interrupts.

Instead of hurt, Alan's expression crumbles into confusion. He presses his lips together, brows furrowed.

"I thought I was over it," John barrels on, "but all it took was one fucking kiss, and I'm… I'm gone fer 'im all over again. And maybe it helps to know I feel like utter shite about it. Or, fuck… maybe it doesnae help at all. All I know is that if I'd thought for one second that I could still feel like this about him, I never would've…"

He trails off as words fail him. Every ending to the sentence seems trite and self-serving. Alan, however, doesn't seem to have the same problem.

"Never would've what? Tried to move on and be happy? That's ridiculous, John."

And… it's not what he expected, but now that he thinks about it, maybe he should have. Alan is good and kind, but he's also one of the most pragmatic people John's ever met.

"Things happen," Alan continues with a helpless shrug. "And considering how important he was... is to you, maybe it's not a bad thing that you have an opportunity to work through it. Lance the wound, as they say. No matter the end result, you have a chance to get the closure he denied you all those years ago."

John just stares at Alan, wide-eyed and unable to form a reply. Only Alan could look at this fucked up situation and come up with a silver lining. He shakes his head, and Alan seems to read his mind as he continues.

"I can't believe he did this at your best mate's wedding, though, when you're feeling the separation from your team more than usual… God, this is the absolute worst bloody place and time. He's a complete wanker for it. I won't say I'm not disappointed and hurt at the way it happened, but at least you're being honest with me about it."

"I never did deserve ye, did I?" John whispers.

"Haud your wheesht," Alan says in the absolute poshest accent John's ever heard.

"Fuck me sideways, Alan. Even an American could do better than tha'."

Alan laughs. He fucking laughs. There's a little hiccup at the end, and maybe it's a little wobbly all around, but it's still a laugh. And John feels like the lowest worm on Earth. Here he is pining over a man who ripped his heart out and stomped on it with both feet when he could have someone like this. Someone who cares for him and still fucking defends him when he basically cheats on them.

Steaming bloody Christ. He's beyond fucked in the head.

"I know it's selfish, but... ye've been the best of friends tae me these last three years," John whispers. "I dinnae want tae lose ye."

It is, in fact, just as selfish as he accused Simon of being only an hour ago — but the thought of not having Alan in his life is too painful to contemplate. Alan gives him a weak smile.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily," Alan replies with a sigh. "I just... I might need a little bit of time..."

"Of course. Whatever ye need," John says before pulling Alan into a tight hug. "I wish..."

I wish I weren't so fucked up. I wish I hadn't ruined everything. I wish I could love you like you deserve.

"I know," Alan says in his ear.

And fuck if that doesn't make John want to break down and bawl like the wean he'd told Alan he wasn't.

He could've had something beautiful with a man like Alan. A man who would cherish him and never hurt him. A man who could be there for him both physically and emotionally. A man who would love him unconditionally and make him happy.

But maybe that's been John's real problem all along.

It doesn't feel like love unless it hurts.

*

John is halfway through his fifth Scotch of the night when Price plops down on the barstool next to him. Kyle and Belle cut the cake half an hour ago and are now wandering between tables, talking to people. A few energetic souls dance it out to the music pumping from the speakers, and John has no doubt a majority of the guests will soon join them, especially when the alcohol starts to hit.

"Prefer liquid carbs, eh?" Price asks, eyeing John's scotch. "Can't say I blame you."

Price flags down the bartender and orders some sort of fancy cocktail off the menu. John snorts.

"What? I like a fruity drink sometimes."

"No comment."

"You're one to talk."

John full-out laughs at that, though it rings hollow even in his own ears. He stares into the caramel-colored liquid, and whisky eyes stare back. He covers his eyes with his hand.

"I'm losing it, Cap."

The roar of guest chatter and rattle of the bartender shaking up a drink fills the space between them. Price lays a hand on his shoulder but says nothing, and John keeps his hand firmly planted over his face, the fight between explosion and flood still too close to call. He hopes for the flood, but every time he remembers Alan's sad-but-resigned face as he gave John a final hug, got in his car, and drove away, the anger stirs up a firestorm once more.

Why can't he love someone like that? Why is he fucking doomed to love a man who never has and never will love him back?

A glass clinks against the bar, and Price thanks the bartender. The clatter of ice comes next as Price lifts his drink to take a sip. The hand on John's shoulder squeezes.

"Do you wanna tell me what happened with Simon?"

Old habits die hard. That sympathetic but firm tone has John wanting to spill his guts in seconds. Price knows it, too, the bastard. But John just wipes his hand down his face before slinging back the rest of his scotch. The liquor burns all the way down, and his control over his accent disappears entirely.

"Didnae ken ye werenae invitin' him tae things anymore."

"He told you that?"

John nods. "Wants tae come along tae gatherings wi'out it bein' a problem. Says we should be fuckin' 'adults' about it."

Price is quiet for a moment. He squeezes John's shoulder.

"Is that… possible?"

The answer should be yes. Three fucking years later, he should be over it and be able to be a "fucking adult." If not for his own sake, then for Kyle and Price's. But if this wedding has taught him anything, it's that no matter how far he thinks he's come, he doesn't have a handle on his emotions.

Not by a long shot.

"No' fuckin' likely."

"Okay. We'll make it work."

"Ye shouldnae have tae do tha'."

Price sighs and takes a sip of his drink. When he puts it down, he glances past John to where more guests have found their way to the dance floor. John follows his gaze.

The group of soldiers is easy to spot. Kyle had invited some of their international friends, but only Laswell had been able to make the journey. She left hours ago, so it's just their local military friends bunched together, dancing and laughing. John recognizes most of them as peripheral members of the 141 — people he'd known in passing and worked with occasionally — or fellow medical personnel he's met a time or two at one of Kyle and Belle's parties.

A couple of the faces are new, and John's bitterness grows as he realizes one of them is probably the person who took his place on the task force — a bloke named Sanderson, call sign "Roach" of all things. And people had given him hell about Soap. Kyle and Price offered to introduce him to the man a couple of years ago, but that was before John had gotten better at controlling his impulses and still had a lot of memory gaps. He doesn't remember much about what happened, but apparently he'd reacted so poorly to the idea that they'd never followed through... and never mentioned it again.

He wonders how good Sanderson is and if he can really keep up with the rest of the 141. Wonders if his replacement does a good enough job of watching the team's back.

He shakes his head and looks away.

Of course he's good. Price wouldn't let mediocre soldiers into the task force.

When Price speaks again, his voice is low enough that John has to strain to hear him.

"I feel responsible. I knew something was going on between you two, and I should've put a stop to it."

"Wouldnae have made a difference. Was gone on 'im long afore anything happened 'tween us."

"Still—"

"No' yer fault, Cap. S'mine for bein' a god damned fool, and his for makin' me think he..."

John lets the words trail away, but the unspoken ending screams inside his head and stabs into the tender flesh around his shredded makeshift heart all the same. He pushes his glass forward and raises his hand, motioning to the bartender for another. Price's hand reappears on his shoulder.

"Getting pissed won't change anything."

"Aye. But mebbe I can ferget fer a few hours."

"MacTavish—"

"Gimme t'night, Cap."

Price inhales, huffs out a sigh, and pats John's shoulder. When the bartender comes to take their orders, Price beats John to it.

"Another Scotch for this one and water for me."

John frowns. "Water?"

"Someone's gotta get your sorry ass home."

And that. That right there is why he can't quite reconcile himself to his fate. Even when he's useless to them in a professional sense, the 141 sticks by him. They check on him and take care of him.

Well. Most of them do.

Before the bartender can walk away, John leans forward and raps two knuckles on the bar top. "Make it a double."

It's going to be a long night.

Art by Kiba (@kibagib)

Chapter Text

John's first inkling of consciousness comes in the form of a terrible smell invading his nose. He turns his head but the scent follows him, and he's forced to crack an eye open. A blinding sliver of light peeking between his blackout curtains sends throbbing pain through his already ruined skull, and he squeezes his eyes shut again.

The discovery that the rank smell is actually his breath does nothing to improve his mood. His memories of the night before are foggy from drink and sleep and that strange black-hole effect that sometimes steals away his short-term memory, and he has no idea when he got home or how. He hopes at least his car is safe, wherever it ended up.

He grumbles out a curse and rolls to the edge of the bed. The clock on his side table reads 13:37, and he curses again. It's a struggle to push himself upright, but he manages it, planting his feet on the cool wood floor. Vertigo spins him in circles, and he wonders if it's his damaged inner ear — a casualty of the major swelling in his brain during the first few weeks of his recovery — or if he's still half drunk from the night before. He pauses and takes a few deep breaths. When the sensation eases a bit, he attempts to stand.

Apparently, that's where his body draws the hard and fast line for the day. His brain refuses to right itself enough to keep his balance, sending him sprawling back to his mattress three times in a row. The third fall leaves him winded, but he finds enough air to let out a growl into his pillow.

He doesn't have days like this very often anymore, but every time, it feels like being shoved off the edge of a cliff after spending days, weeks, or months climbing to the top. Realistically, he knows he just needs rest to bounce back, but he can't help feeling like a useless lump of flesh compared to the well-oiled machine his body used to be. In his SAS days, he could take on missions with little to no sleep, push through injuries and pain, run for miles while weighed down with gear, and stay laser-focused on his mission objectives through it all. Now, he can't make it through a stressful day without his brain needing another full day to recover.

No wonder Simon cut him loose. He's nothing but a liability now.

The familiar pain stabs through his chest but also has the double effect of reminding him of what happened the night before.

Or rather who happened.

John's lungs seize as the memories flood back — Simon's hands and mouth on him, Simon's words ringing in his ears.

How much I needed—

Needed what? And why does John care? He can't let Simon back in. He wouldn't survive being cut loose a second time.

But God. Simon's hands on his skin have resurrected the ache he thought he'd buried deep enough to kill it for good, and it throbs in the hollow space where his tattered heart used to be.

He presses one palm to his aching chest and the other to his pounding head and groans.

In the silence that follows his pathetic moaning, the faint hum of voices reaches him through the door. He frowns when he realizes one of the voices sounds like Fiona. She flies or takes the train down from Glasgow at least once a month and stays in the upstairs rooms of the Birmingham house she'd bought for them during the early months of John's recovery, but she was supposed to be working this weekend. At least that was the excuse she gave for missing the wedding. Perhaps they'd finished early, and she decided to catch an early morning flight anyway?

But even so, who is she talking to?

He lifts himself up into a sitting position again and this time reaches for the small wheelchair he keeps for days like this. He's managed to get his body back in shape over the past couple of years, so beyond feeling like he's on a never-ending tea-cup ride, maneuvering himself into the chair isn't a problem.

The murmuring comes and goes. As he wheels himself toward the door, though, the sound resolves into clearer voices, and he realizes it's Price.

What's Price doing at his place? Wasn't he house sitting for Kyle and Belle this week?

Wait... no. They'd ended the reception sitting at the bar and drinking together.

Or rather, John had been drinking himself into oblivion while Price babysat.

"Shit," he mumbles under his breath.

He rests his head on the wooden door frame of the closed door, his bad mood spiraling into something darker. Yet another reason he doesn't deserve his friends. They stick with him despite his poor life choices.

Instead of opening the door, John shakes his head and wheels himself through his closet-turned-office into his attached bathroom. Better to let Price and Fiona talk. Maybe if he leaves them alone long enough, one of them will actually do something more than awkwardly flirt.

He snorts at his own joke. Fiona MacTavish's stubbornness makes John look reasonable by comparison. He would lock her and Price in a room together if he thought he could find a place within a five-hundred-kilometer radius of Birmingham that would hold Price for more than a few minutes.

In his more dour moments, he wonders if it wasn't the method of their introduction that doomed them to dance around each other forever.

The day Makarov had painted the train platform with a sampling of John's brain matter, Fi had been living in Glasgow and happily going about her fancy solicitor job. As the only living relative he still spoke to, he'd named her his next of kin on his military paperwork, but Price made the decision not to call her until John was out of danger. It took weeks. When the doctors deemed John stable enough to transfer from the trauma ICU in London to a regular hospital room, Price finally called and explained the situation — or as much of it as he could (so practically zero details except John's current condition).

Fiona was livid.

John knew she loved him. After the way she'd stuck by him when their father kicked him out of the house at fifteen, taking him in and giving him a place to stay for those couple of years before he enlisted, it was undeniable. But he hadn't realized exactly how much she cared until Price told him about that conversation — or rather, the one-sided screaming match — and about what came after.

As soon as that call with Price ended, she'd dropped everything and traveled through the night to be by his side. She took care of all the legal paperwork and stayed to hold his hand in the hospital.

Not that he'd noticed, still being in an actual and then induced coma for the first few weeks after the transfer out of ICU. Even after he woke up, he was in the hospital for months, though they transferred him to the Birmingham hospital a couple of weeks after he woke, which made things easier for Price and especially for Kyle, considering Belle's location at Whittington. So Fiona made arrangements with her job to work remotely, bought them a house in southwest Birmingham, and essentially took care of him after he was released. Price and Kyle worked with Fi to equip the bottom floor of the house with everything John would need to get around in a wheelchair, including renovating a front "parlor" room and the existing bathroom into a wheelchair-friendly en suite, complete with a walk-in closet that doubled as a lockable office and a laundry area.

Kyle, bless him, had covered John's half of the rent for their shared flat in Hereford until Fi could get John's finances in order. Then, six months after John's injury, Kyle let their lease expire, and he and Belle moved into a flat in the same neighborhood as John and Fi's house so Fi could go back to her life in Glasgow.

And then he'd made her bitterly regret the decision not two weeks later.

He still tears up when he thinks of everything his friends and family did to help him, only for him to throw it back in their faces. Old and familiar shame rears up, and he can't quite push it down like usual.

He'd hoped he was getting better. Hoped he was at the point he could move forward with his life instead of being dragged two steps backward with every step of progress he made.

But then Simon bullied his way back into John's life and showed him how worthless all his supposed progress really was.

He sighs as he wheels into the bathroom, takes hold of the grab bars, and maneuvers onto the toilet to take a piss. Then, keeping his balance with a death grip on the handrails, he stands and peels off his sleep clothes with one hand. He lowers himself back into his chair and wheels into the zero-entry shower to transfer to the special seat that keeps him from smashing his head open on the tile on bad days. It has a back and side rails to help him stay upright when the horizon line seems to wobble with every movement of his head.

He switches the main showerhead to the handheld attachment and turns on the faucet. The rush of warm water helps with the hangover, at least. He dips his head and lets the water run over his neck and shoulders, letting the heat and the pulsing water pressure work into tense muscles, washing the sweat and stickiness away.

He wishes it were that simple. To just wash everything down the drain.

The hurt. The anger. The weakness.

The shame.

"John! John! Wake up for me, mate! I need you to wake up for me right now."

Alan's voice, high-pitched and panicky, seeps through John's sluggish brain. Something hard jolts against his sternum multiple times, and soft lips cover his mouth. His lungs fill with air, and he inhales through a wheeze. He pries his eyes open, and Alan's stricken face comes into view.

"Oh, thank God," Alan says. "Thank God."

Alan says something else, but his voice is shaking too much. John can't parse it. A disembodied voice off to his side warbles in John's ear, and Alan grabs something from the floor — John's empty pain pill bottle. Alan holds it up and speaks again. John blinks slowly, his damaged brain working even slower than normal. The weight of a mountain sits on his chest, and he pulls in another labored breath.

His body is numb.

He feels like he's floating, and it's so hard to breathe.

He wants to sleep.

"No. NO!"

A sharp pain across his cheek accompanied by a cracking noise brings John back.

"Wha?" he slurs through a gasping inhale.

His mind focuses for just a moment, and suddenly, he's thrown back to earlier in the evening, when an angry voice growled harsh words into his ear over a crackling phone line. They ricochet around his skull like trapped bullets, scrambling everything into mush.

"There is no us, Johnny. Never was."

John groans, tears gathering in eyes that already feel gritty from draining himself dry. "Jus' lemme go."

The words slide out of a half numb mouth, barely understandable, even to himself, but Alan seems to get the gist. His face twists into half anger, half despair.

"No! John! You've been doing so well. What happened?"

"Lemme go," John whispers again, tears sliding down his temples as he sprawls across the bedroom floor where he'd dragged himself after falling out of his wheelchair.

An unfamiliar voice shouts at them from somewhere outside the room. Alan's face disappears from view as he calls out in return, but the words aren't processing any longer in John's damaged brain. He tries and fails to draw another breath.

Weak.

Worthless.

Can't walk. Can't work.

Can't remember things from one minute to the next. Can barely take a shit by himself without falling off the toilet.

A burden to the one remaining family member who cares about him. A drowning stone around the neck of all his friends... and the man he loves.

They're out there saving lives. Saving the world. And he's a useless lump of flesh who only makes their complicated lives harder.

He should've died on that platform.

But it's never too late to correct a mistake.

Just as he slips under again, a mask covers his face and oxygen floods his lungs...

It's not a place he can ever let himself go again.

So, after wasting too much hot water cleaning himself up, John goes through the motions of his daily routine, waiting for the numbness to fade. The discipline he learned in the military gets him through each action on autopilot — turning off the faucet, drying off, maneuvering back to his wheelchair, and wheeling to the sink to finally brush the sour taste from his mouth before grabbing an over-the-counter pain pill from the rows of various medications in his drawer and swallowing it with a large glass of water.

Back in his room, he pulls on gray jogger bottoms, a white t-shirt, and thick cotton socks — it's Sunday, and he doesn't have anywhere to be. Besides, it's not like Price or Fi care what he wears around the house.

The voices outside his door ebb and flow just within his hearing. He wheels to the door, takes a deep breath to clear the rest of the cobwebs cluttering his mind, and opens it.

The sounds resolve into Fi and Price murmuring back and forth. She's saying something about a troublesome client. Price makes a terrible joke in return, and Fiona complains but laughs anyway. John would gag if he weren't insanely jealous. Even if nothing ever happened between them, at least they could still talk and enjoy each other's company and jokes. Not like—

He cuts off the thought. His mind is already in disarray this morning. No use making it worse rehashing all the might-have-beens.

Following the voices, he wheels past the kitchen entryway, into the living room, and pauses at the opening into the dining area. Fi and Price are sitting at the dining room table, empty plates off to the side and mugs of tea cooling in front of them. He watches them chat quietly for a moment and notes that Fi looks especially tired, faint smudges of purple decorating the pale skin under her clear blue eyes.

He and Fiona both inherited their mother's eyes, but only John had gotten her dark hair and tawny skin. Fiona, much to her dismay, took after their arsehole of a father with her fair skin, freckles, and light brown hair. She's wearing her hair loose as usual, the wavy strands reaching to her shoulder blades in layers, unlike John's straight, thick hair that only curls slightly at the ends where the long strands at his crown reach down to brush the tops of his ears.

His sour mood fades a bit as fondness wells up for his older sister. She's a pain in his arse at times, but he couldn't love her more.

Eventually, she notices him sitting there, her blue eyes widening a bit before her expression resolves into a wry grin. "There he is. How're ye feelin' this mornin', ye lazy bum?"

"Feel like shite." He pauses, debating leaving off the dark humor, but he's in a mood. Best if everyone knows it now. "Better than a bullet through the brain, though."

"Och, terrible, John!"

Price huffs a laugh, but it sounds pained. John grimaces.

"Sorry. Bad morning."

"Afternoon now," she quips. "Hungry?"

"I could eat a bit if ye've already got somethin' goin'."

"Set aside a plate for ye when I made up lunch. I'll fetch it."

She stands as John wheels up to the open space at the table he leaves for the days he needs the wheelchair. He watches her shuffle past him on slippered feet before glancing at Price.

"Thank ye," he murmurs, his Scots more prominent from exhaustion and his sister's voice in his ear. "Fer last night. Ye didnae have tae take care o' me like tha'."

"I've told you before, and I'll keep telling you until you believe it: You're not a burden to anyone, MacTavish. Least of all me."

He's using his captain's voice again, and John shudders. He can't argue with that. Not without sounding like an ungrateful prick. So he just nods.

"When'd ye get in, Fi?" he calls out.

The wall between the dining and kitchen area is thin, and he can hear her shuffling around before opening and closing the oven door. He looks over his shoulder just as she appears at the doorway between the two rooms and shrugs.

"Oh, a couple of hours ago."

"What about yer project?"

She presses her lips together. "Didnae have a project, actually."

John opens his mouth. Then closes it.

"What d'ye mean?" he finally says, twisting his upper body around to properly face her.

She crosses her arms over her chest, the familiar stubbornness settling into the slant of her brows. "I knew who would be there. Didnae want tae risk ruinin' the weddin' because I couldnae keep my gob shut."

Price blinks and then wipes a hand down his face as he leans back in his chair. John just stares at her.

"Ye mean tae tell me tha' ye skipped the wedding so ye wouldnae go off on Simon? Wish someone'd told me I could do tha'."

"Yer mad at me."

"No..." he says slowly. "Maybe a wee bit jealous. And also sorry Price had tae take care of my blootered arse."

"I told you, MacTavish, you're not—"

"No' a burden, aye. Aye."

Fi steps forward at that, leaning against the table beside John to look him straight in the eye. "Yer not a fuckin' burden, love. Far from it. I couldnae go because I didnae think I could let that walkin' pile o' shite get away without givin' 'im a piece of my mind. I'm sorry I left ye alone in the process, though."

John waves her away. "Nae, dinnae fash yersel'."

A beeping interrupts the conversation, and Fi sighs before heading back into the kitchen. The room falls silent. Price seems content to sip at his probably cold tea, but John is restless.

The interaction with Simon knocked something loose inside him, and now it's swimming around in his head, spinning much like his vision on days like this. He sets both hands on the table, focusing on the way his fingers stand out against the dark wood grain.

A knock sounds at the door, and John frowns at his fingers. Kyle and Belle are on their honeymoon, Price and Fiona are already here, and he ruined things with Alan last night. Maybe he left something at Alan's flat, and the saint of a man has come to give it back? Or maybe it's somebody selling something and they'll go away if John ignores them long enough.

Price's phone buzzes. He pulls it out and answers with a curt, "Price."

A faint voice begins speaking on the other end, but John can't make out the tone or the words. He averts his gaze as bitterness coats his tongue. It's not as if he has the clearance to know what's happening with the 141 anymore.

"Bloody hell, Laswell," Price growls as he suddenly stands. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. What's he bloody thinking?"

The next knock sounds like someone is pounding a fist against the door, and it covers the sound of whatever reply Price receives. John glances at Price, half pissed and half alarmed, but apparently the conversation is over. Price stows his phone in his pocket and moves to the dining room doorway to stare at the front door.

The pounding comes again, followed by a muffled growl that freezes John's insides.

"What the fuck?" John hisses at the same time Fiona calls out from the kitchen, "Someone plannin' to answer tha'? I'm a bit busy right now."

John starts to back away from the table, but Price raises his hand. "I'll get it."

There's something in Price's expression that makes John back down immediately. A chill runs down his spine.

But the 141 already took out Makarov, and he can't think of anyone else still alive from his SAS days who might come after him. The chilling sensation shifts into dread as he hears Price open the front door and immediately let out a muffled growl before launching into his captain's tone.

"What the fuck do you think you're—"

The door slams closed again, muffling Price's words. Whoever it was, Price went outside to deal with them. A strange sense of foreboding floods his body like someone pumping an IV full of lead into his veins. John's lungs constrict as he wheels himself through the living room to the front windows. With a shaking hand, he lifts a single slat of the closed blinds.

He lets the slat fall back into place with an exhale of shock.

"John? Price? Where've ye gone?"

Fiona appears in the dining room doorway, takes one look at him, and rushes over. "What is it? What's—"

The door flies open, and Price storms through, slamming it behind him. He sees John sitting by the window, and his shoulders deflate.

"You looked?"

John nods, though he feels more like throwing himself on the floor and sobbing. "Is he...?"

"He's alright, but I'm going to have to take him back to base myself," Price says through a long exhale. "He's bloody hammered out of his mind."

"Still?"

"Didn't have more than a drink or two at the wedding as far as I know. Must've gone out after I told him about..."

John perks up in his chair. The way Price trails off and grimaces as he looks away sets off all John's internal alarms, and the shock quickly turns into a bone-deep kind of dread.

"Price," he begins in a low tone. "Told him about what, exactly?"

"What're ye two on about? 'He' who?" Fi asks.

John is too focused on Price to notice that she's leaning over him to look through the slats. He jolts and reaches for her just as she screams and stumbles backward, the slat falling back into place. John manages to keep her from falling on her ass, though their combined weight tips his chair to the side a bit. When she regains her balance, she rips her gaze from the blinds and looks between him and Price.

"Why th' fuck is the fuckin' grim reaper standin' ootside our windae like he's waitin' to collect a bleedin' soul?"

John swallows and glances at Price, who sighs and shrugs. Clearly his tactical prowess begins and ends with military maneuvers.

"Yer a lot of help," John grumbles.

"I promised Fiona I wouldn't lie to her again."

Now that surprises John. He looks between them.

"About me, ye mean?"

"About anything," Price clarifies. "Barring confidential intel, of course."

"Damn right," Fiona grumbles. "Now is someone gonna explain or no'?"

John lets his head fall backward and stares at the ceiling. Another knock verging on pounding thunders against the door, but this time a muffled name cuts it through the cacophony.

A name that died on John's bedroom floor three years ago.

He swallows hard and looks his sister square in the eye.

"It's Ghost."

She freezes, every muscle in her body tensing at once. When she moves, it's only to tilt her head down and stare at him.

"Ghost? As in the Ghost?" she asks in a deadly tone he hasn't heard since he was an annoying preteen pranking his eighteen-year-old sister by putting black dye in her laundry. "Simon fuckin' Riley is standin' at our door right this fuckin' minute?"

"Fi—"

She's gone before John can say her full name. Price backs away from the door, hands up, as she stalks out, but unlike Price, she doesn't bother to close the door behind her. The smack of a hand against something solid followed by uneven scuffing of shoes against concrete sends a jolt down John's spine, but he's frozen, utterly powerless as he listens to his sister let loose on Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley.

"Who th' fuck d'ye think ye are, comin' 'ere? Get th' fuck aff my property afore I make ye, ye giant walloper!"

For the second time in as many days, that voice grates over John's ears, though the delivery is slurred beyond anything he's ever heard before. "Who're you?"

"Who am I? Who am I? Yer worst fuckin' nightmare, tha's who! I should put ye in the ground for what ye did tae my baby brother!"

"Brother?" The words are slow and halting, Simon's inebriation clearly taking a toll on his comprehension. "You're... Fiona?"

"In th' fuckin' flesh, ye bawbag. I'm pure scunnered wi' the likes o' ye. Now get yer blootered arse oot o' 'ere before I call the police on ye!"

John wheels closer to the door, his chest heaving as his lungs tighten to the point of panic. He knows that even an inebriated Simon wouldn't hurt his sister in the same way he knows seeing Simon will only cause him more pain. But like a fucking addict needing another hit, he can't seem to help himself. Price puts a hand on his shoulder — whether to ground him or stop him or just offer support, he doesn't know. But... it helps.

And then, Simon's voice goes soft and... fuck... pleading.

Simon Riley — the Ghost himself — is begging.

"I need t' see 'im. Please? Jus' for a minute. Jus' let me see Johnny for—"

"Ooooh no." Smack. "Ye had yer chance, and ye fucked it up good and proper!" Smack. Smack. "Yer aff yer heid if ye think he'll see ye now!"

"Shit," John mutters under his breath.

Fiona has gotten progressively louder, and if the more aggressive smacks to what sounds like Simon's chest are anything to go by, she's about to lose it. MacTavishes aren't known for being gentle, but this is extreme. If John doesn't do something, the neighbors will call the police, and he knows exactly the kind of damage even a drunk Ghost can do to unknown people threatening him with violence.

Price seems to have the same thought. He moves toward the door, but John holds out a hand.

"I'll take care of it."

"John... Are you sure? I can—"

He doesn't pause to hear Price's words, instead wheeling himself through the door and pausing just past the threshold to the walkway. His heart is racing, palms sweaty against the wheels, but everything falls away as Simon comes into view.

He's still in his suit from the night before, the fabric dirty, creased, and possibly torn in places. The plain black mask from the wedding has been replaced by one of a similar cut but printed with the lower half of a skull. His hair is wild — even wilder than after John had ruined it with his hands in the reception hall lavatory.

"Where were ye three years ago, eh?" Fiona steps back, her hand falling away from Simon's chest where she'd apparently been smacking him halfway down the walkway. She spits at his feet, and growls, "Where were ye when he needed ye the most?"

"Jus' wanted 'im to do better."

Fiona scoffs. "Better? Better than what?"

Simon seems to notice the movement at the door, and he glances in John's direction. His eyes widen, and then he's stumbling past Fi, practically shoving her out of the way to get to John.

"Than me. Johnny. Fuck. Din't wan' y' to be stuck w' me. Thought I was doin' th' right thing. Thought I was doin' good lettin' y' go. But then… then I saw y' in th' church 'n' y' were so bloody fucking beautiful..."

As he slurs through the words in his thick Manc accent, Simon falls to his knees in front of John and rests his hands on the backs of John's calves. His eyes are like nothing John's ever seen; looking into them is like drowning in amber pools of devastation and desperation and something... something broken all at once. It's a perfect representation of how John felt in those months after their final phone call — the days spent in the hospital followed by the weeks in a mental health facility after that.

"But y' were with 'im... lettin' 'im kiss you 'n'... fuck. Couldn't bloody... couldn't stand it. Had t' see... t' see if I could fix it." Simon's gaze falters and ends up somewhere around John's chest as he mumbles, "Shouldn't. Selfish, right? That's what y' said. Should leave y' be, but..."

Simon's slurred speech trails off as he leans down and presses his face into John's lap. Before any of them can think of doing anything, though, he starts up again. And despite the shock of all that came before, it's the garbled words spoken directly into John's legs that turn his blood to ice.

"But he said… He said you tried t' off y'self... 'n' I did that. 'Cause I told you we were nowt but teammates 'n' not even that… 'n' it was a fuckin' lie cause you were fuckin' everythin' t' me 'n' I thought you'd call me on it. But y' didn't say shit. So I jus'… I jus'… I fucked everythin' up, Johnny. Fucked it up. Thought it was right. Thought you'd be better off wi' out me. But it feels like..." There's a thudding noise, and John realizes Simon is pounding his fist against his chest. "Feels like a bullet t' th' chest e'ry day for three fuckin' years. S'all wrong, Johnny. Wrong, wrong, wrong..."

Simon's back and shoulders heave with something close to hyperventilation, and John is panting along with him because...

Because the words only make sense if one of his friends betrayed him.

The glut of wild emotions collide in his head and send him into a spin worse than any vertigo. Terror and anger try to push up from where they're always at the ready, simmering in his gut, but he pushes them down.

He can't think about that now. Not when Simon is here, head buried in John's lap and looking as utterly destroyed as John has felt for the past three years as he beats his chest and mumbles how wrong everything is over and over.

John reaches out with a shaking hand and rests it on top of Simon's head. The pounding stops, and a sound he's never heard before — never imagined he'd ever hear — rips through him like a gunshot as Simon releases a wrenching sob into his legs.

And John lets him, despite the glare from Fiona and the shuddering sigh from Price, who is looking down at Simon over John's shoulder with an indescribably sad expression. Simon leans more heavily on John's legs, hugging them to his chest as tears soak through John's jogger bottoms.

It occurs to him that self-inflicted pain is still pain.

After all, he should know.

"Hells fuckin' bells," he murmurs under his breath. He allows himself a single stroke over Simon's hair before glancing between the other two. "Let's get him inside before someone actually calls the police, yeah?"

Art by Kiba (@kibagib)

Chapter Text

With Price ducking under an arm and taking most of Simon's weight, they manage to pull him off John and drag him into the house. Miraculously, he relents to the manhandling, though he also grabs on and refuses to let go of John's hand in the process, his grip crushing John's fingers while panicked breaths wheeze from his lungs every time their fingers so much as slip. Fiona assists the effort by pushing John along beside them, though John can feel the disapproval and anger still radiating off her like summer sunlight off pavement.

His sister is nothing if not protective. A few tears and drunken confessions aren't going to change her mind about Simon. And it shouldn't change his mind either.

It shouldn't.

And yet a sick part of him revels in the unprecedented show of neediness from a man who'd made it his mission in life to not need anyone. Not even John. The larger part of him, though, wonders how he'll ever get over knowing Simon has been just as devastated as him this whole time but fucking left him anyway.

It's enough to fire up that volcano inside him still waiting to blow.

They lay Simon out on the couch, and he instantly buries his masked face in the pillow Price left there from the night before. He quickly looks back up, though, pulling at John's hand until he's moved his chair alongside the couch. Something tells him Simon would try to bodily pull him onto the couch if it weren't for the wheelchair. Simon eyes it and then John before his lids flicker shut for a few moments.

He seems to have talked himself out since the outburst on the porch, but when he opens his eyes again, his heavy gaze finds John immediately. The next few minutes are a lesson in torture as fluttering brown eyes track John's every movement between longer and longer blinks, and the attention brings pain and pleasure in equal portions.

It's broken glass scraping over raw skin as well as the soothing touch of a healing salve. It's fire that consumes him whole as well as a cool rush of water that douses the flames. And John is at the center of it all, pulled in every direction at once, stretched thin and worn through.

He's so tired. Raw. Aching.

And yet he can't look away.

The room is dim from the closed blinds, but light from the sliding glass window in the dining room cuts over Simon's sharp cheekbones and glints off his honey gold hair, like a Rembrandt painting come to life. The hand gripping John's is warm and callused. Just like he remembers. And once again, John finds there's more of his heart left to break after all.

The pressure of hot ashes in his lungs is held back by the lump in his throat.

When Simon's lids fall closed and his grip goes limp, John disentangles their fingers. He allows himself one more long look before joining Fi and Price at the kitchen table.

Price's expression is downright morose, and Fi looks like she could chew glass.

"I've clearly been too optimistic about Simon's mental health these past couple of years," Price grumbles.

John shakes his head, his anger still churning in spite of the way Simon's slurred words play on repeat in his mind. "He's drunk. He'll wake up and no' remember a thing."

"Aye, but he'll wake up here," Fi growls into her mug.

"And then he'll leave," John says as evenly as he can.

He leaves no room for hope that Simon will remember what happened or want to talk about anything. That road leads to even more disappointment. And he's not even sure he wants to have that conversation, though Alan's words about closure still needle at him. Perhaps he should at least give Simon the opportunity...

He frowns as another thought occurs to him. "How did he find us?"

Price drags a hand down his face. "We never bothered to hide the fact that you lived close to Kyle and Belle. Never thought it would be an issue seeing as he was the one to cut contact. But apparently, he's been wandering the neighborhood most of the morning — I'm guessing in search of my car. The call from Laswell was to let me know she got several pings on reports of suspicious activities to authorities. Something about 'a drunk man with a skull-printed mask' walking the streets."

In spite of everything, John huffs a wry laugh. "She's fuckin' scary wi' tha' intelligence shite. Glad she's on our side."

"You and me both," Price says with a nod.

"I just... I dinnae understand," Fi sighs. "Why now? S'pose it was the wedding that set him off? But how am I tae get rid of him? I'd drag him out by his ear, but he's a fuckin' giant, that one. A giant tadger who needs a serious kick in the arse."

"Fi, just calm dow—"

"Och! Dinnae ye tell me tae calm down, John Callum! Yer my only true family, and he nearly took ye from me. I'll not forget nor forgive as long as I live."

"Wasnae his fault," John murmurs.

Fi gives him a disbelieving look — the one she gives him every time the topic comes up. The headache he'd staved off earlier comes back full force, and he closes his eyes and rubs at his temples before sliding his fingers further into the damp strands to brush over the scars on either side of his head. The headaches happen far more often and are more severe now, but he's lucky it's not worse.

At least that's what the doctors tell him.

"Was just the straw tha' broke the camel's back as they say," he mumbles.

The silence that greets the admission is deafening. He's sure they both knew in a roundabout way — the way anyone could look at his situation and the doctor's reports and guess what might drive him to such an action — but John has only actually said the words aloud to his therapist.

He lost everything that day in the tunnel — the career he defined himself by, the man he'd come to desperately love, and enough of his brain matter to make so-called "everyday" life seem impossible. The first two had been agonizing enough, but the last one had stolen his fire and left him wondering what possible benefit he could be to the world when he was nothing but a burden to everyone he loved. All his life, he'd hung his worth on what he could do, and suddenly, the most basic things were beyond his reach.

The doctors warned them that depression was a natural result of the damage to the frontal lobes. Between the emotional toll of losing his place in life and the long-term recovery, John was primed and ready for a fall. When Simon cut him off, not even allowing them to be friendly former colleagues, John saw it as more evidence of his worthlessness. And perhaps it was the final straw, but it wasn't the reason.

No, the reason came in the form of looking at the long span of his new life and seeing nothing but blackness. He couldn't envision a future outside military life. Couldn't see himself as anything but the soldier he'd always been... but would never be again.

Luckily, Kyle had been paying attention. He and Belle were visiting his family in London that night, but he'd called like usual to check in. When he couldn't reach John over the phone, he hadn't hesitated to call Alan and send him over to John's place.

That decision, paired with Alan's quick actions, saved his life.

John cringes internally at the reminder.

He should be with Alan right now. But if he's learned anything from the past thirty-six hours, it's that he has no business expecting anyone, let alone someone as good and kind as Alan, to deal with the minefield that is his fucked-up relationship with the man currently passed out on his couch. Maybe in the future, things will be different, but for now, he needs to focus on working through the whirlwind of feelings the weekend has brought to light.

John opens his eyes again when Fi pushes away from the table and comes back with another pain pill and a glass of water. He gives her a grateful look before washing his second pill of the morning down with the full glass.

And with that, he's forced to acknowledge the elephant in the room. He stares at the table for a long moment, gathering his strength to ask the question even though, deep down, he already knows the answer. Of everyone at the wedding last night, only four people, not including Laswell, could have spilled the closely-guarded secret that John's friends had promised to keep for him, especially from Simon.

He desperately wants to be wrong, and that tiny sliver of hope allows him to push out the difficult words. Still, they come out on a sigh as he looks Price in the eye.

"Ye said Simon must've gone drinking after ye told him something. What was it?"

To Price's credit, he doesn't pretend to misunderstand. He leans back in his chair and tenses his jaw, though he doesn't break eye contact with John.

"What I should've told him three years ago — I let him know exactly what happened after he told you not to contact him anymore."

The words are a tripwire. The explosion inevitable.

"Ye fuckin' what?" John growls as he pushes up from his chair. He presses his hands flat to the table to keep his balance and looms over Price. "Ye promised me! Ye promised ye wouldnae tell 'im!"

"I know what I bloody promised, but he wasn't listening to me," Price says in an infuriatingly calm tone. "Kyle and I told him to stay away from you, but as soon as he saw you walk down the aisle of that church, he was fixated. Nothing I could say would sway him. Then I found you two in that lavatory and... He needed to know the true consequences of his actions. Needed to know why he should leave you alone. I just didn't realize..."

John's chest heaves with repressed anger and hurt, lungs sawing through breaths double time, even as his brain slows down. The black hole opens up wider with each gasp, trying to swallow his words.

"What? Th... that knowing I tried tae... tae off myself the same night he told me tae stop contacting him would send him into a spiral? That betraying me would... would... would hurt me even more than havin' tae deal with S... S... with him?"

"John—"

"No! I told ye it... it wasnae his fault. And it wasnae yer place tae say... tae say... Fuck!" John growls as the words bunch up in his mouth, trying to come out wrong. He struggles to spit out the rest of the sentence before giving up. "Jus' get out ye fuckin' t-traitor!"

"I only—"

"GET! OUT!"

As John leans forward and bellows the words right in Price's face, a small part of him cringes at shouting at a superior officer, but...

He's not in the military chain of command anymore. And Price? Price took things too fucking far this time.

Price's face twists into something like anger, brows furrowed and jaw set. He looks like he might try to argue again, and John almost wants him to. Volcanic ash coats his tongue, and fire hisses from his throat, begging to be freed. To rain down destruction on the man who betrayed his most closely-held secret to the person he least wanted to know.

Fiona places a hand on Price's elbow and jerks her head toward the door. He glances at her, and his anger seems to fade into resignation. He nods and stands.

John slumps over the table, head dangling between shaking arms. He feels Price's eyes on him for a moment before footsteps on hardwood echo through the house.

Pools of liquid drip onto the shiny wood below his face. He watches them with growing detachment. The numbness spills into his arms and legs, and he has just enough awareness to let himself slump backward into his chair instead of falling to the floor.

Mumbled words surround him. Fi and Price are standing at the door, but they sound like they're speaking underwater. The door opens and then closes again.

Through the numbness, he backs away from the table and wheels into the living room just as Fi turns away from the door. He ignores her in favor of rolling to sit in front of the couch.

The shouting doesn't seem to have bothered Simon in the slightest. His breaths are heavy and even, though his leg twitches now and then.

Just like always.

They'd managed to pull off his suit jacket and shoes, but he's still in his mask, dress shirt, and trousers. John stares at the thick muscles standing out in hard relief against the fabric, his mind wandering to a night only weeks before Makarov nearly took his life.

The last time he felt like everything was going right in his life.

Their last time together before the deployment that changed everything...

Johnny smiles into his pillow as he hears his door open. The locked door to his private room.

Although he and Gaz share a flat in Hereford, it's often easier to stay on base with their last-minute deployments. At least that's what he told Gaz earlier in the day. Gaz just rolled his eyes, knowing that this is the real reason Johnny stays in this sterile military base room more often than he used to — the chance that a silent guest will make his way through the "restricted" sergeants' barracks and into Johnny's room.

Even better: The rest of the sergeants in this wing, including Gaz, have gone out for a night on the town, leaving the floor empty and quiet. Johnny had stayed behind, claiming a sore throat.

At least he hopes he'll have a sore throat by the end of the night. And that he won't have to hold back his moans for once.

He hears nothing more, not even the click of the door closing, until the bed dips with the substantial weight of an added person. A large hand runs gently down his naked back before curving over his waist. The heat of bare skin burns into him, letting him know Ghost has already removed his gloves. It's a rare enough action that Johnny wonders if he'll get to see Ghost's face again tonight. Johnny thinks it's been happening more often lately.

When Ghost's hand remains on his waist, thumb gently caressing his skin instead of moving into his usual manhandling, Johnny rolls to his back. Ghost doesn't move his hand, and it glides over Johnny's body, coming to rest on his stomach.

It's dark, only thin lines of moonlight streaking across the room through the string holes in the closed blinds to light the way, but a heaviness falls over Johnny at the sight of Ghost's pale face turned toward him, dark eyes even more visible without the eye black to obscure them as they follow his movements like a hawk. Instinctively, Johnny knows he shouldn't break the silence, so he lifts a hand and lays it over Ghost's where it rests on his belly.

The hawk-like gaze moves to stare at their stacked hands. Ghost remains still for so long, Johnny wonders if he's fallen asleep with his eyes open. With their hectic schedules, they often catch naps whenever and wherever they can, so it wouldn't be that surprising. Just as he's debating breaking the silence that has crept up on them like a thick fog, Ghost's hand pulls back. Disappointment rushes in like a fast flowing river, pushing aside the quiet hopes he'd been hoarding since he'd nonchalantly mentioned to Ghost that he wasn't going out with the others tonight. He tries to withdraw his own hand as well.

But Ghost catches Johnny's fingers between his own. He threads their scarred skin and knuckles together like interwoven lines in a story of all the wounds treated with out-of-date med kits and near misses ridden out in cramped waiting rooms, all the terrible jokes stuttered through gritted teeth and laughter barked through comm lines, all the desperation embossed in tender skin and pleas whispered into panting mouths. Johnny's heart races, pounding like it might jump out of his chest and into Ghost's... into Simon's scarred hands.

Careful to keep their fingers intertwined, Johnny sits up and gets a good look at the lost expression on Simon's face. He wants to ask — "what happened?" "What do you need?" — but he's terrified to shatter the unprecedented softness of the moment with his clumsy words. Instead he slowly raises his free hand to cup the side of Simon's face. When Simon doesn't pull away, when he leans into the touch instead, Johnny strokes a thumb over his stubbled cheek.

Simon angles his head and tips forward until their mouth's meet, and Johnny bites back his gasp.

It's been nearly a year since they began this dance, and not once in all that time has Simon ever initiated a kiss. If they do kiss, it's because Johnny starts it, but sometimes Simon doesn't even lift the mask over his mouth while they fuck. The fact that Simon is here maskless, gloveless, sitting in his bed, holding his hand, and initiating a gentle kiss instead of their usual rough sex is too much to process.

So Johnny ignores the implications and lets Simon kiss him, slow and deep.

When Simon finally lays him down in the bed, the sex is just as unhurried, their hands still intertwined and mouths moving in languid glides over lips, jaws, necks and shoulders. Tears squeeze from his eyes as Simon slowly takes him apart.

And for the first time, when Johnny wakes at 0530 the next morning, it's to a wall of heat at his back and an arm wrapped tight around his middle...

"—back tae me, little brother. Can ye hear me? Dinnae greet, love."

A hand strokes across his cheek and breaks him from the memories. He feels the glide of wetness under the cool touch of slender fingers and hears Fiona coaxing him to respond. His lungs scream for air. He gasps, the rush of oxygen his only indication that he'd been holding his breath.

"Fuck. He's gonna wake up and no' remember a thing. And then he's gonna leave, and I'm gonna fall apart again." He wants to be strong. To look away from the man sprawled out on his couch. But Simon's draw has always been too powerful to resist. John drinks in the features he's been deprived of for years and feels his chest crack open. "Fi. Fi, I dinnae want tae fall apart," he gasps, eyes burning as more tears streak down his face. "Took me so long tae put myself back together. I dinnae ken if I can do it again."

The soft puffs of breath that follow the rise and fall of Simon's chest fill the ensuing silence. Finally, Fiona moves into his line of sight, her devastated expression a perfect reflection of his inner turmoil.

"I'll do everything I can fer ye. I meant wha' I said earlier. Yer the only family tha' matters tae me." She gently cups his damp face and murmurs, "I wish the bastard didnae have such a hold on ye."

God. If only. But the volcano is silent now, swallowed up by a sea of grief.

"It shouldnae fuckin' be like this," John whispers. "No' after so long. But apparently that MacTavish stubbornness extends tae no' bein' able tae let go of even doomed love." He sighs and grasps Fi's hand to hold it against his cheek. "Will ye stay with me? Just fer a few days?"

"I already put in for the week off. And... dinnae fash over Price. I'll give 'im a proper talkin' to."

John shakes his head, the shame and horror gripping him all over again. "I cannae believe... why now? Why after all this time?"

Fi shrugs. "Somethin' about the arse not listenin' tae reason, remember? Apparently both he and Kyle told him tae stay away from ye, but he approached ye all the same?"

The tone of Fi's voice lets him know she's fishing for information, but he can decide whether to bite or not. John's gaze shifts behind Fiona to Simon's masked face, and a shudder runs through him.

"He did."

"And? What did the bawbag want?"

"He..." John swallows. Unlike Price, he lies to his sister quite a bit, but the wilderness of his own mind is too dense to navigate an untruth at the moment. He keeps his gaze on Simon as he whispers, "He kissed me."

For the first time in three years — for the second time in their history together — Simon had initiated a kiss between them. And not just any kiss. He'd kissed like a thirsty man given water in a desert. Like a starving man offered a feast during a famine. John hadn't let himself think about what that kiss might mean. Or rather, he'd assumed it was a mistake, the reflexive twitch of something long dead.

And then Simon had shown up at his door, begging and pleading to see him and sobbing in his lap.

And John has no idea what to do about any of it because he doesn't know how much of the former was a desperate attempt to manipulate him and how much of the latter, if anything, Simon will remember when he wakes. All he can do is wait for the inevitable, soul-shattering moment when Simon, despite the truth of how he feels, chooses to leave him again.

He did it once. Why wouldn't he do it again?

Fiona doesn't respond, and John tears his gaze away from Simon to find her staring at him with a gaping mouth and raised brows. When their eyes meet, her expression shutters, though he catches the way her hand balls into a fist where it rests on his knee.

"Come on. Ye need tae eat somethin'. And ye still look pure knackered. How about ye eat the bit of food I saved fer ye and then go off fer a kip?"

"I jus' woke up, Fi. What'er ye playin' at?"

Her gaze flicks to the man on the couch. "Oh, dinnae mind me. Jus' lookin' tae get ye out o' the way so I can murder the bawbag in his sleep."

John barks a wry laugh and then snaps his mouth shut when Simon shuffles on the couch. A soft snort is followed by a few mumbled words, but he only recognizes one of them.

"...Johnny."

His heart seizes in his chest. The flood waters lap at his shoulders and up to his neck, threatening to pull him under again.

Maybe a nap isn't such a bad idea after all.

*

Despite years of civilian life, John still wakes to any noise the way he was trained — quiet and without any muscle movement or change in breathing. He's facing away from the door with only the gloom of dusk to light his room, but the creak of the doorknob followed by the soft thud of socked feet on the floor sets him at ease. He lets his body relax again as cool, slender fingers slide over his bare arm, right beneath the scar from a rainy, horror-filled night in Las Almas.

"John, love. I think he might be wakin' up."

The tension returns with a vengeance. "Aye?"

"Mmhmm. He's movin' around a bit more. Thought ye'd want tae ken. I can deal with it if ye wanna stay in here."

The man known as Soap to his friends and colleagues would've scoffed at that. Then again, Soap wouldn't have let Ghost get away with the past three and a half years of shite in the first place. He would've backed Ghost against a wall — physically if he had to — and demanded answers. Would've exploited that newfound softness in how Ghost touched and kissed him to extract every piece of critical information.

Would've made Ghost admit to his fucking lies.

And Ghost knew it. Or thought he did, anyway. But instead of sticking around and learning about John's new reality, Ghost had relied on something, someone, who no longer existed.

Because Soap died on that train platform in a pool of his own blood and brain matter. The bullet that killed him left behind one John C. MacTavish, a discharged soldier with neither a life's purpose nor a properly working brain, who could barely keep himself alive, let alone fight Simon to keep their relationship alive.

Who, despite Simon's absence during those first few months, had desperately clung to the only other name that had ever meant anything to him: Johnny.

He knows Simon saved his life that day in the tunnel. Price and Kyle filled in enough gaps for him to understand he would've died without Simon and Laswell's quick actions getting him on a train and to a London trauma center. But after that, Simon lived up to his call sign, disappearing into the ether. Price and Kyle tried to cover for him at first, but even they began to express their frustration when Johnny was released after months in the hospital and Simon still stayed away.

For a time, Simon responded to messages in the group chat between the four of them, but he never visited and never picked up Johnny's calls. And Johnny never left messages, not trusting the miswired connection between brain and mouth to spit out the correct words without a person on the other end of the line to verify. Still, he clung to the name, to the person he'd been and was trying to be again in the midst of excruciating stints of physical and brain rehabilitation therapies.

The struggle for independence was slow and demoralizing — for the first two months out of the hospital, his vertigo had been so bad he'd needed help feeding himself and even staying upright on the fucking toilet. Simon's refusal to talk to him was like being thrown off a boat without a lifejacket when he already had weights tied around his ankles. Lying in his bed, head spinning while all the muscle he'd built up over the years wasted away, John would think of those soft moments between them before everything went to shit and wonder if he'd ever meant anything to Simon at all.

Or if he would ever recover enough to be more than a fucking burden to everyone around him.

After all, Simon had obviously understood what Johnny had become and wanted no part of it.

For five months after waking up in the hospital, Johnny flailed in the vast ocean of his own mind, barely keeping his head above water, until a single call cut his last connection to the past. And so, with a handful of pills, Johnny slipped into the depths of that ocean.

But the pills that sent Johnny under weren't Simon's fault any more than the bullet that killed Soap was his fault. That night was a culmination. A final strike that ripped through the already fraying sutures barely holding him together and shattered the last remnants of his will to keep fighting what felt like a losing battle to stay afloat.

And even as Alan drew him out of the ocean, gasping and heaving, John quietly let Johnny drown.

Just Plain John is the only one left now, and the only thing Just Plain John wants is to stay in his cocoon of safety. He wants to bury himself in the covers and let the last remnants of himself drift away.

Which is how he knows he's spiraling. It's how he knows he needs to get up right now before he succumbs to the lure of dark thoughts and lethargy that always seem to be waiting in the wings these days.

He's got a good fucking life. It's not the same, and he still misses his SAS days. But it's good. And he'll be damned if he lets Simon ruin that for him.

With a heaving breath that seems to require every ounce of energy in his body, he rolls over, pushes himself upright, and sighs in relief that the world has finally stopped spinning. The cane is where he left it in the nook between his bed and nightstand. He pulls it out, and Fiona steps back to give him more room as he stands.

"Lookin' good, love," she says with a cheeky grin, seeming to pick up on his mood.

"I look like shite, but thanks for lyin' tae me," he snarks at her.

"Only the best fer my baby bro," she replies with a laugh. Her smile falters, though, as she glances at the door. "Ye want me tae stay or go?"

"Probably best if ye go fer now. Isnae Price staying at Kyle and Belle's place?"

"Aye. The workaholic actually took a few days aff."

"Ye should pay him a visit. Give 'im that talkin' to ye promised me."

Fiona bites her lip. A conflicted expression flits over her face as she glances over her shoulder, but eventually, she nods.

"How big of a new one ye want me tae rip 'im?"

John laughs at that. It's a faint, shuddering thing, but some of the crushing weight on his chest dissipates with the flash of amusement.

"Avoid any permanent damage." He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "Just... tell 'im to give me some space. Jus' fer a few days. I'm fuckin' volcanic when I think about it right now, and my filter isnae great on the best of days."

"Aye. I can do tha'."

"And if Price wants to start making it up to me, maybe the two of ye can pick up my car from the reception hall? I'll text ye when S… when he's gone."

"Yer sure ye'll be alright with the brute?"

"Dinnae think he'll stay long enough to be a danger to more than my brittle sanity. Might've bolted already."

Instead of responding, she gives him a dirty look.

"Too soon?" he asks even as he gives her an apologetic smile that probably looks more like a grimace.

"Always, ye rocket, but I love ye anyway."

She leans up to press a kiss to his cheek before heading out of the room. John stands there and wiggles his sock-covered toes against the wooden floor to ground himself before following her through the door to meet his fate.

Art by Kiba (@kibagib)

Chapter Text

John stares at the masked man sleeping on his couch while fire and ice steam through his veins. Anger fights with anxiety. Fear wrestles with longing. Hate tries to smother the love that should have sunk to the depths with the name Johnny a long time ago.

Should have.

But obviously didn't.

How dare Simon come now? Now, when John has pulled himself back together, bit by agonizing bit?

Nine months after being shot through the head, he took his first wobbling steps with the help of Alan and a walker. It took another year of work with Alan and the brain rehabilitation specialist to rewire his neural connections enough to overcome the worst of his injuries.

The moment the doctors deemed his recovery within the "acceptable" range, Price was talking to his contacts in the Ministry of Defense, lining up work for John. With his history in special ops, it was easy to get him all the civilian security clearances he needed.

For the past year, he's been designing demolitions and explosives training courses for military personnel. He even got a call last week about teaching one of his courses at a nearby base in person over the summer.

And of course there's the work from Laswell.

It's not the same as fighting terrorists in the field — being the "self-sacrificing hero" as Laswell calls it — but his work means others are prepared for the kinds of situations he used to face on missions. He's just a few steps removed from action these days.

With a new sense of purpose from his work and the feel-good endorphins from slowly getting back into shape over the past couple of years, he's improved his mental outlook to the point his therapist suggested going down to "as needed" sessions.

And he has… he had been stepping back into the world of dating with Alan.

But from the moment he locked eyes with Simon in that church, his life has gone tits up in a series of uncontrolled explosions — breaking off his romantic relationship with Alan, drinking himself into oblivion, fighting with Price, and having about eighty mental breakdowns at various points in between…

He hasn't lost everything. Far from it. But his mental health has certainly tanked thanks to the wankstain currently sleeping it off on his couch — the huge, still maddeningly gorgeous wankstain who broke down in fucking tears on his porch after a series of events that seems more like a fever dream than reality. He would doubt his sanity if Fiona and Price hadn't been there, too.

But the images are burned into his brain, stirring up feelings he'd much rather keep buried. He has no idea what he's going to do with those feelings, especially when Simon runs away again. Because even with those drunken words ringing in John's ears, the leaving part seems like a foregone conclusion.

He once trusted Simon to always have his six. To always be there and back him up. Now, the idea of Simon actually making an effort and working to earn back his place in John's life sounds like pure fantasy.

The last rays of daylight fade from the room. Fi switched on a lamp at the far end of the couch before she left a few minutes ago, and it throws soft white light over Simon's shifting body. John's world narrows to his even breathing, the occasional leg twitch, and the sweep of blond lashes against pale cheeks.

It's surreal to watch Simon transition from sleep to wakefulness — without John's own training and his intimate knowledge of the man in question, he never would've noticed. But when Simon's leg goes still for too long, it's a dead giveaway.

Adrenaline shoots through his system, skin prickling and hands trembling with the sudden rush. He curls his hands into fists on his thighs. He needs to get the upper hand in the coming conversation — what little it might entail — if he wants to preserve the last shreds of his dignity, so he speaks before Simon can get his bearings.

"Pain meds and water are on the side table above yer heid," he says in a calm tone.

Simon tenses before jerking his head up to stare at John through bloodshot eyes. They watch one another for what seems like an age, but John has no intention of giving in, even if his entire body is awash in goosebumps at the prolonged eye contact.

He's succeeded in getting the upper hand. Now he needs to maintain it.

Finally, Simon breaks eye contact to look around the living room. "This your 'ouse?"

"Aye."

"What… When'd I get 'ere?"

"'Bout five hours ago."

"Did I… talk?"

"Plenty."

Simon's swallow is audible in the painful silence that settles between them. A grimace flits over what's visible of his face as he slowly sits up on the couch, the heel of his palm pressed to his temple. He glances toward the pills and water and then toward John before pulling off his mask and reaching for the offered medication.

"Thanks."

John hums something like an acknowledgement before adding, "Ye were pure rat-arsed when ye got here."

The silence returns, broken only by the sound of Simon swallowing down the pills as well as the whole glass of water. He runs his tongue over his teeth and grimaces again.

Although fine tremors run through John's body, he tries to keep his voice even as he adds, "I take it from yer questions tha' ye dinnae remember anything from earlier today?"

Simon doesn't look up, but John can see from his furrowed brows that he's considering the question. "I remember... someone small yellin' at me." He looks up, gaze piercing. "They had your eyes."

"Aye, my sister Fiona. She was pure scunnered with yer steamin' arse."

Simon shakes his head, a familiar glint in his eye as he glances up at John, opens his mouth, and—

His eyes widen with a suddenness that puts John on edge. A deep inhale is followed by a sharp exhale, and Simon buries his head in his hands.

"Fuck. I remember... you and me. At the wedding. And then Price. He said—"

"Price is a fuckin' traitor," John growls before he can contain the surge of anger, "and he shoulda kept his mouth shut."

"Shoulda left me in the dark, you mean?" Simon asks as he lifts his head to stare at John.

"Why no'? Ye've seemed pretty happy there these past three years."

The barb lands with the unerring precision of a sniper shot, and Simon's expression darkens as frustration edges his voice. "Because I didn't know!"

John throws his hands up in the air, the waiting eruption burning away his calm. "We talked about this yesterday! Ye chose not to know, Simon! Ye chose to dump me at tha' hospital and walk away. To ignore my calls and texts. And then ye chose to cut me off. In tha' order. Dinnae pretend I had a thing to do wi' it. I couldnae even talk right at the time!"

The lava burns under John's skin as he fumes in his seat, muscles tensed and jaw clenched. He feels no remorse for the eruption of the sulfurous poison that's been swirling in his gut for years — this is what he's been waiting for, after all. How dare Simon be frustrated at John for having to suffer the consequences of his own actions?

"Yer a right lavvy-heided wankstain, ye know tha'?"

Simon winces. He subsides into the couch and frowns as he rubs his forehead. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more hesitant.

"What d'ya mean 'couldn't talk right'?"

"If ye'd bothered to stick around, ye'd know!"

"I know that!" Simon growls in return, curling his hands into fists on his thighs. "We both know I bloody fucked everythin' to hell! You want me to say it? Right, then. I'm a daft bastard who doesn't deserve your time or attention. Never did for that matter, but I can't do owt about the past. All I can do is…"

Simon trails off and closes eyes. The frustration drains from his expression, and when opens his eyes again, he pins John with a look he's never seen before — half determined, half pleading. As their gazes clash and hold, John's heart stutters through a complicated rhythm, and whether he likes it or not, the lava under his skin cools.

He didn't know Simon could look like that while stone-cold sober. Nor that his voice could sound so plaintive and yet resigned at the same time as he lowers his gaze and says, "All I can do is sit here like the complete git I am and ask. So, even though I know I don't deserve it, I'm askin'... I'm askin' you to tell me anyway, Johnn— John." Simon licks his lips before looking up and adding a gruff, "Please."

And John is so fucking weak for this man. He huffs a sigh, leans back in his chair, and looks off to the side, willing his voice to stay calm and detached as he explains.

"The bullet damaged the part of my brain tha' controls speech — and dinnae ye dare make a fuckin' joke about it," John warns, though he still doesn't look at Simon. "When I first woke up, the doctors thought I might be permanently mute. Six months later, I still lost my words more often than not, especially in high-stress situations." He finally dares to catch and hold Simon's wide-eyed gaze. "Ye know, like when someone important to me kicks me to the fucking curb?"

"But..." Simon leans forward, covers his face with his hands again, and presses his elbows to his knees and palms into his eyes. "They — Price and Gaz — they told me you were doin' good."

"For a man the doctors werenae sure would live through the first few weeks, I'm sure that was relatively true."

"No…" Simon shakes his head though he doesn't lift it from his hands. "They made it sound like you'd made a full recovery. Like you were gettin' on with your life. I thought…"

"What? Tha' I was doing alright, so I'd obviously be fine with you fuckin' ditching me? Tha' I wouldnae be devastated by yer call when all I ever wanted was—"

Pain lances through his palms, and he looks down to find his hands clenched so hard the nails are digging into his skin. He spreads his hands, stretching his fingers wide before laying them palm down on his thighs.

"Fuck," he hisses under his breath before looking up to stare at the top of Simon's bowed head. "Why are ye doin' this, Simon? Ye've had three years to own up to yer shite behavior. Why now? Why..."

He trails off and grits his teeth to fight back the sudden burn behind his eyes. He's already cried too much today.

And anyway, does he really want to hear all those drunk words from a sober Simon's mouth?

He doesn't doubt the truth of them. Those words were ripped from the place deep inside where Simon buries all his inconvenient emotions. Drunkenness might've made it easier to dig them up and put them on display, but it wouldn't have prompted a SAS officer trained to resist drugging and torture to share secrets if he wasn't already planning to do so.

Simon might not remember it right now, but he'd come here and said those things on purpose.

But Simon's actions are what hurt John, not his feelings. Simon shouldn't get points for just doing the decent thing and owning up to his mistakes. And John shouldn't be sitting here fucking hoping for an apology from the man who ghosted him, not only as a lover but as a friend.

A listlessness replaces his anger, and he slumps lower in his chair.

"I was doin' alright," John finally says in a dull tone, "and then ye had to come barrelling in and ruin the best thing to come from all o' this."

Simon moves the heels of his hands to his temples and stares at the floor between his knees. His furrowed brows would be amusing if John weren't so angry.

Or maybe just violently sad.

It's hard to tell the difference these days.

"Y'mean the bloke you were with last night?"

Let it never be said that Simon Riley isn't quick on the uptake — at least when he's not actively burying his head in the sand. John shakes his head and huffs a derisive laugh.

"His name is Alan. And aye. Tha's who I mean."

Simon visibly flinches at that. John can't find it in himself to care.

"Been together long?" Simon asks the floor in a monotone voice.

John doesn't want to answer. He wants to let Simon wallow in what is clearly jealousy, especially considering what he said while hammered out of his mind. But John can't stand the idea of making Alan a pawn — no matter that Alan would likely give him his blessing to do so.

Alan deserves better.

And the parallels of that sentiment between himself and the man sitting across from him are not lost on John.

"Long enough to make telling him what happened last night fucking painful," John finally admits.

Simon's head shoots up at that, his gaze narrow and assessing. John has to fight the heat rising up his chest. The last thing he needs is to blush like a school boy at having Simon's full attention on him again. Last night was bad enough, and now there's no Price to save him if Simon decides he wants a repeat. Or more. And God knows John can't save himself. Not when Simon actually seems to be sticking around. Asking questions. Wanting to know more.

His pathetic heart trembles at the thought, and he hates himself just a little bit.

"You told 'im about that?" Simon asks.

"'Course I did. I may have buckets of blood on my hands and a kill roster a hundred klicks long, but I've got no desire to add 'cheater' to my list of sins. And I... I shoulda fought ye harder. Shoulda stayed true. But I didnae, and now I'm alone. Again." John rubs a shaking hand over his face. "So thanks for helping me out with tha'. Again."

Fuck. He needs to fucking shut his fucking mouth. He told himself he wouldn't do this, wouldn't explain all the things Simon would've known if he just fucking stayed. But one pleading question from Simon and he's gone and spilled his guts like some sort of pathetic arsehole.

Which he is, but Simon doesn't need to know that.

He's so fucked up. He wants Simon to leave and yet desperately wants him to stay. He wants to beg Simon to explain himself as much as he doesn't want to hear those pathetic excuses all over again. His heart is already shattered, but now his very soul is stretching apart, tearing at the seams.

The silence combined with Simon's penetrating stare is too much. He needs some fucking space before he loses what's left of his mind.

He pushes out of the chair and walks into the kitchen, intent on a hot drink. If Simon takes him walking away as an opportunity to bolt, so be it. It'll be enough of an answer to the questions swirling in his head and making it hard to think about much besides Simon's hulking presence in his house.

Fi left the electric kettle full, bless her, so he flicks it on and grabs a mug from the cabinet above him. The world tilts enough that he has to grab the counter for support, but thankfully everything rights itself a moment later.

He hesitates at the sound of socks shuffling along the floor. The warning is purposeful and yet hesitant, the sounds stopping at the kitchen doorway. With one hand curled around his own mug on the counter, John taps a fingertip against another mug still sitting inside the cabinet.

"Cuppa?" he asks without looking at Simon.

A pause, then, "A brew?"

"Aye. Turns out all kinds of weird shite happens when a bullet slices through yer brain." John takes down a second mug and opens the drawer in front of him to reveal a row of various teas, all while avoiding looking at Simon. "Take yer pick."

The shift in taste came along with the shifts in John's personality after the injury. Doctors said the changes were normal based on the location of his injury, and by the time this particular quirk arose and he started drinking tea with them, Kyle and Price did little more than lift a brow. Fi had been the one to bring him a variety, though, letting him taste the differences in white and green and black teas. He gravitated toward the milder flavors along with a few herbal blends, so she stocked him up, happy to have an excuse to buy the good stuff. Or so she said.

He chooses an oolong tea — something mild and sweet to take the edge off. He's not sure how well it will work, however, as Simon steps up behind him, hand resting on the side of the drawer. Just like the night before, heat floods John's veins at Simon's proximity.

So much for it being a fluke.

John swallows hard and steps back, leaving the drawer open for Simon to make his selection. He rubs a hand over his sternum, trying to distract himself from the ache building in his chest. The sudden politeness of their actions rings hollow amid the storm of contradictions whirling around their heads, but he also can't imagine making tea and not offering Simon something. It goes against everything his mam taught him, God rest her soul.

The unsettled feeling follows him around the kitchen as he pulls out his tea strainer, scoops in the loose leaf tea and waits for the kettle to beep. It's all so fucking domestic. He feels like he's floating outside his body, watching an alternate reality where Simon never took a sledgehammer to their relationship. Where they have a dozen moments just like this one every day.

The hollow place in his chest pulses with longing.

Is it his imagination, or is Simon watching him?

He shouldn't look.

He should be stronger than this.

Fuck.

He glances over, and their gazes collide. Warmth pools in his gut like the burn of a fine scotch whisky sliding down his throat. John swallows and looks back at his mug. He lets his eyes fall shut. The sound of socks on wood reaches him again, and he knows Simon is doing it on purpose.

How can a man so thoughtful in some ways be such a force of utter destruction in others?

John's eyes fly open as fingers trail over his waist. He freezes in place when Simon's voice rumbles in his ear.

"I'll have whatever you're havin'."

He wills himself to stay utterly still, wills his hands move — and not to tremble — as he automatically adds more tea to the strainer and pulls the teapot out from its spot next to the kettle. The fingers rest more firmly on skin covered by only a thin white t-shirt, and goosebumps erupt over John's body, raising the hairs on his arms and neck. He can feel the heat radiating off Simon from how close he is.

He should push Simon away. Or at least step away himself.

But he doesn't. Because he's still a complete fucking fool. He feels his soul stretch thinner, just waiting to rip apart.

"Ye didnae answer my question," John rumbles through a clenched jaw.

Because fuck it. He does want to hear Simon say all those things, but sober this time. He wants Simon to know what he's saying and fucking say it anyway.

But Simon is quiet, and John… John has no idea what he's thinking. Everything about the past two days is so far outside his experiences with his former lieutenant that he can't begin to guess what might be running through his head.

"Which question?" Simon finally asks in a gruff tone, his breath brushing over John's ear.

Bloody Christ. He's so close. So warm and solid. John wants to move away and demand Simon never touch him again with the same ferocity that he wants to move closer, to meld with Simon's body so the man can never part from him again.

"Why?"

The cascade of questions, both spoken and unspoken, fill scant space between them — Why are you here? Why are you doing this to me? Why now? — but the kettle chooses that moment to beep. John exhales a slow breath as he fills the teapot and dumps in the strainer while Simon remains silent, though his hand grasps John's waist a bit tighter.

Pulls him a bit closer.

John is about to scream or break free or both when the words come, raw and hesitant in his ear.

"Because I've regretted walkin' away every fuckin' day for three and a half years. And seein' you again... I had to know."

"Know what?"

"If I could fix it."

John lets his head droop and closes his eyes. It's a direct echo of the confession Simon spilled into his lap hours ago, and it beats against the walls he hastily built the day before out of anger and grief and loss. He has no other defenses — despaired of ever needing them — and yet the words keep coming.

"But then you were right there in front of me, angry and sayin' all these things I didn't know about. And you're right. I coulda known if I'd just stayed, but..." Simon swallows hard. "But that day in the tunnels... Laswell stopped the closest train, and I got you on it, but you..."

Simon is breathing hard now, his voice raw as he grasps John's waist tighter. His fingers flex and dig into John's side.

"You died durin' those twelve minutes to London. Twice. The only reason you're alive is 'cause a doctor happened to be on the train. She used the emergency defibrillator and CPR to keep you goin' until we reached the paramedics."

Simon huffs out a breath, and it wafts across John's neck this time. Closer and hotter. Then a mop of blond hair brushes John's ear as Simon's forehead hits his shoulder.

Ice fights with fire and leaves John a steaming puddle, his walls trembling against the double assault. Grief escapes him. Anger escapes him. The only thing left is a bone deep exhaustion that he really shouldn't feel after sleeping for so long.

And yet the words just... keep... coming...

"Fucked me up seein' you die like that. Told myself stayin' away was best for you, but… truth is I was a bloody coward. Afraid to admit..." Simon swallows hard. "...to admit I was scared of losin' you like I lost my family. Pure sick with fear that I'd walk into that hospital only to find out you died after all. Then, when they told me you were gettin' better, I convinced myself you didn't need me. Would be better off findin' a new life and not waitin' around for me to die on you somewhere half-way across the world." Simon pulls in a long breath and squeezes John's waist hard enough to bruise. "Don't know why you'd ever forgive me. I wouldn't. But I'm askin' all the same."

All the air leaves John's body in a rush as the sharp edge of grief rises up again, slicing him open. He rips himself away from Simon, gasping for breath and slashing a hand through the air.

"No! Yer asking me to trust ye, Simon. But I cannae do tha'! Not after how ye left me. Maybe ye had yer reasons, but then what's to stop ye from cutting me off again when things get difficult?"

John's head swims with the sudden movement, but he manages to back himself into the counter behind him for balance. Simon closes his eyes and curls his hands into fists at his side.

"I won't."

"Didnae think ye'd do it the first time, either, but here we are!"

"I wouldn't risk your life like that again."

"Bleedin' Jesus! Is tha' what this is? Guilt?" John threads his hands through his sleep-mussed hair and growls in frustration. "It wasnae yer fault!"

Simon's eyes fly open. "Yes, it was. Price said—"

"Did ye develop another fuckin' martyr complex since the last time I saw ye? I'm tellin' ye it wasnae yer fault! My brain was... is literally broken. I still have trouble connecting my mouth with the words I wanna say. And I couldnae walk reliably for months after I woke up. Not to minimize the fact that ye fuckin' left me when I needed friends the most, but at the time, ye were the least of my fuckin' problems."

"Still... I tipped the scales and—"

"Stop it! Just stop. Back then I was… I was looking for a reason, Simon. I would've found one, with or without ye."

The words hang in the air between them. John's chest heaves, and his hands shake with the rush of adrenaline that follows his little speech. His stomach curdles, and his eyes dart away from Simon's shocked face down to the counter.

"Fuck," he hisses as he sees the teapot.

He stumbles back over and removes the strainer. It's probably a little bitter after steeping too long, but it still smells alright. He pours the tea for them both, pushes a mug toward Simon, and then stands there facing the cabinets with his mug under his nose, praying for an ounce of peace in the fraught day and half since Simon reentered his life.

It feels like years have passed already.

Simon's gaze bores into the side of his head.

"Ye've got plenty of reasons to feel like shite about what happened," John says as he blows cooling breaths over his mug, "but that shouldnae be one of them."

"Still sorry," Simon murmurs. "For everythin'. Even if we can't... even if you don't want me in your life anymore. I'm... I'm more sorry than I know how to say."

Simon curls his big hand around his mug while John swallows down a million and one acerbic replies with a sip of tea. Too little. Too fucking late. But the sad thing is, with Simon standing there drinking tea in his kitchen and spouting justifications and apologies — Simon fucking Riley apologizing — he's not sure if it is too late.

And it rekindles the volcano in his gut all over again.

Anger at Simon. At himself. At the way he still wants so badly and the way he itches to relive the memory of scarred skin under his fingertips. At the way a single kiss in a reception hall lavatory was enough to dredge up all the feelings he thought long buried under the infinite ocean of his grief.

The tea burns his tongue as he takes too large a sip. The flavor is strong but still soothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Simon lift his mug and take a sip, and the appreciative hum that follows sends little shockwaves down John's spine.

They stand there until their mugs are empty. Simon doesn't say anything else, so John stays silent too, though the glut of unspoken words bunches up behind his teeth like a logjam. Simon hasn't tried to touch him again, either, and just like everything else concerning Simon, John is grateful and disappointed all at once.

Perhaps that's why the words that finally unjam and flow past his lips are exactly the wrong ones.

"If ye wanna clean up before ye go, I've got things ye can wear."

*

John lies on his bed in his dark bedroom and curses himself as the sound of the shower trickles from behind the closed bathroom door. It's bad enough that he let Simon stay, but letting him use the shower — knowing Simon is naked right fucking now beyond that door — is doing terrible things to his state of mind.

Damn his impulsiveness. He feels like a fool, but he can't seem to help it. He's a wide-eyed sergeant working with the infamous Ghost all over again, pretending to be cool, and then losing his cool over Makarov's smug indifference to the suffering he caused blowing up that airport. In John's darkest hours, he'd blamed Price for not letting him pull the trigger when he had the chance, but he's long since resigned himself to the fact that there was no way he or Price could've known what that decision would cost them.

Him most of all.

The world has moved on to new terrors and new war zones, though he only knows about most of them due to his "hypothetical" maps and building blueprints from Laswell. Occasionally, Price takes a phone call when John is nearby, and he gleans things from one-sided conversations. And Kyle lets things slip as well, sometimes in a conspiratorial manner but mostly because he keeps forgetting John doesn't have that kind of clearance anymore.

Speaking of which...

His phone sits face down on his side table, silenced and untouched since the wedding. He picks it up and braces himself for a message or two from Price at the least.

58 messages

He almost drops the phone on his face. He sits up in bed, his sock-covered feet hitting the floor, and stares at the banner across his lock screen. Suspicions whirl in his head as he slowly lifts his gaze to the hallway and the closed bathroom door beyond. The sound of running water still comes from the other room, so he takes a deep breath and unlocks his phone.

4 messages from "Garrick"

5 messages from "Cap"

49 messages from "Unknown"

The messages from Kyle are just another round of thanks for the wedding and a few scenic landscape photos from his and Belle's arrival at their honeymoon spot in Greece. John types out a quick message to have fun, sure that Kyle has turned off his phone by now. The ones from Price he skips, knowing he isn't ready to see them yet.

Not that he's ready to dive into forty nine messages from a number he assumes is Simon's, but it's better than thinking about Price's betrayal.

With a deep inhale, he clicks into the Unknown message thread.

He blinks.

Blinks again.

A good number of the messages are just his name — or rather Simon's nickname for him. Several other messages are so obscured by typos and autocorrect's panicked attempts at deciphering misspelled words that he can't begin to make out the intended thought.

But others—

A pained breath rushes from John's lungs as a band tightens around his chest. He presses his hand into his sternum, willing the ache away, but it only intensifies.

"Fuck," he hisses as he bows his head.

What would he have given to hear all these words, all these confessions, three years ago? Simon's drunk ramblings pierced his heart, but it's the words Simon shared in the kitchen that have John truly fucked up. He's embarrassed just thinking about how fast he would've forgiven it all — the months of silence, the not visiting him, even those harsh words over the phone — if Simon had come to him with those words three years ago.

Fuck. He would have pulled Simon back into his bed, pleaded with him to stay, to try...

The water cuts off.

John exhales another shaking breath.

Phantom sensations from the night before return to him, somehow brighter and more distinct as a memory than when he'd been in the moment: the tremble of Simon's hand on his neck, the power of the arm around his waist crushing them together, the glide of lips ravishing his own, and the familiar hint of bourbon lingering on Simon's tongue.

It's the memory of Simon's desperation that digs deep, dredging up a need John has tried to drown for years. It rises up from the flood waters of all that grief, reminding him once again that his heart no longer belongs to him.

Simon owns it, pulverized as it is. And John is tired of pretending he'll ever get it back.

He curls his fingers around the phone and shoves it back on the nightstand before grabbing for his cane. The metal filigree is familiar under his fingers as he traces the lines he's used a hundred times to calm himself. But tonight, it brings no comfort.

The bathroom door opens. Simon's silhouette appears in John's doorway, stark against the harsh light filtering in from the hall and bathroom. He's barefoot and wearing John's loosest jogging bottoms, which are sinfully tight on him. His massive, scar-littered chest is bare, the white t-shirt hanging from his hands.

"Shirt's a bit small," he rumbles.

John grits his teeth against a wave of longing as he stands and slowly walks across the room toward the embodiment of everything he's been both hating and missing all these years. The embodiment of everything he's lost. Simon goes preternaturally still, perhaps sensing John's change in mood as he stops less than a foot away, his gaze scouring that familiar broad chest.

All the old scars are there. He knows the stories behind some and even treated a few of them himself in dark alleys or cold safe houses, but others — especially the most vicious of them — are still a mystery.

I was scared of losin' you like I lost my family.

Ghost was never one to share much of his past, and Soap, though he might've pushed things when teasing or bantering, had never crossed those lines Ghost drew for him, even during those nights when he thought maybe... just maybe... Simon was coming to see him more often than Ghost.

There's so much he doesn't know.

He tells himself he doesn't want to know, but the lie chimes a sour note in the chaos of his mind.

A few new scars peek through the dusting of blond chest hair, and John thinks maybe it would be worth the pain to learn them — one last night with the man he'd thought forever lost to him, one last rush of feeling before Simon leaves him again. Because despite Simon's assurances, despite all the words shared between them today, the leaving still feels as sure to him as the changing of the seasons or the rising and setting of the sun.

The trust is gone.

But everything else?

It's all there, pushing up from that deep ocean and pressing against his sternum like a boulder pinning him to the ground.

His chest hitches with a shaking breath as he reaches out and rests his palm between Simon's pecs. A corresponding soft rush of air over his face is the only indication the touch affects Simon at all. The silver disks that state name, number, and blood type sit just above his fingertips, and he frowns as he realizes there are more disks on the standard-issue silver chain than there should be.

He slides his hand up to brush over the Riley on display, and Simon's chest convulses. His hand shoots up to cover John's, obscuring the tags, but not before they're jostled around to reveal a different yet wholly familiar name on the tags underneath.

MacTavish
J C

He jerks his head up to finally look Simon in the eye, but Simon has turned his head to the side, blotches of color forming high on his bare cheeks.

"Simon," he says in a low and disbelieving tone. "Are those my tags?"

Simon still doesn't look at him or respond, but he does drop his hand. John stays still. Waits. It takes a few seconds, but Simon finally glances over at him.

His curt nod is like a kick to the chest.

John's breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, and the boulder bares down on him as he looks down at where his fingertips touch the silver disks — the tags he was told were lost during his final mission. He'd come into the hospital without them, setting off a chain of endless paperwork for Price.

"Ye've had them? All this time?"

"Just... just wanted to have somethin' of you. In case..."

"In case I died again and they couldn't bring me back?"

John whispers the question even as the hope he doesn't want — can't afford to indulge — digs in like a splinter in that hollow place inside. Simon hums, and it's answer enough to have John clenching his jaw to fight the pressure behind his eyes.

"We weren't owt in the military's eyes," Simon says in a low rumble. "They woulda sent 'em to your family. And I knew how much you hated those fuckers. Well. Almost all of 'em."

"But ye kept 'em even when ye knew I was still alive?"

Simon doesn't respond. And John...

John frowns as logic bullies its way into those warm feelings. "Wait... Ye mean to say ye've been wearing these for years? What if ye were injured and the medics didnae know which one to use? We're no' even the same blood type, ye wee radge! If yer vest gets damaged or removed before they can see it, ye could get yerself killed—"

"Negative," Simon interrupts. "O positive is safe for B positive blood types."

"But—"

"If you want 'em back, just say so," Simon rasps. "Otherwise, they stay where they are."

Simon looks away. His whole body is coiled tight like a spring, as if he's bracing for another barrage of angry words from John. And John should be angry. Simon has been wearing John's tags all this time like some sort of fucking military widower, when he was the one who destroyed everything they were to begin with.

Fucked me up seein' you die like that.

Light begins to dawn as he puts the pieces together.

"I'm no' fucking dead, ye bastard," John growls, though the words don't have the bite they should. Instead, his voice is graveled. Desperate. "I'm right here. I've been here all along."

When John's hand slides up and grips hard at the back of Simon's neck, Simon whips his gaze back to John, and something clicks into place in his stance and expression. Perhaps it's the familiarity of the action. Perhaps it's something about John's face, though he can't begin to imagine what he must look like — can't image what the information that Simon has been wearing John's tags next to his own for three and a half fucking years has done to his expression.

He's so tired of fighting. So tired of the anger and grief that's festered inside him for years. It's not gone. Far from it. But standing here in front of the only person he's ever truly loved with his whole heart, his need outweighs his caution.

And maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it never mattered. If he's destined to live a tragedy, what's one more crack in the pieces of an already shattered heart?

Right now, all he wants is one more night and damn the consequences.

His fingers curl tighter around Simon's neck. Simon drags in a shaking breath.

Everything clicks into place like no time has passed at all. The white t-shirt falls to the floor, and Simon's hands are gripping John's waist before their lips even meet.

The world explodes into light and heat.

John pulls, and Simon pushes, devouring one another with a sudden and mutual rush of need. Simon tastes like borrowed mint toothpaste and a faint residue of oolong tea, and John greedily licks into his already-open mouth, clinging to Simon with a hand around his neck that would crush a lesser man.

The hands at John's waist shake as they begin an exploration of his hips before gaining confidence to slip under his shirt. Bare arms wrap around his back, and Simon holds them together like he wants to meld their bodies into a single unit. The skin-on-skin contact is a drug pulsing through John's veins, ramping up his desperation. A tear pushes out of the corner of his eye, but he ignores it as the crushing embrace fills him with all the warmth and comfort he's been living without for years.

The need inside him grows deeper. Stronger. And John is helpless against the current.

He needs to be closer.

Locking his arm around Simon's neck, he drops his cane and shoves his other hand into the damp hair at the back of Simon's head. At the same time, Simon's hands glide up and down the length of his back, stroking and touching the bare skin under his shirt, though he somehow keeps up the pressure holding them together at the same time.

Simon's hands pause at John's lower back, fingers pressing into the sensitive curves and divots of his muscles, before grasping his waist again. All the timidness is gone, though the frantic quality of Simon's movements remain. His touch is raw and rough and perfect. They pant into each other's mouths, gasping for breath before diving back in, tongues gliding and teeth nipping at kiss-swollen lips.

"Fuck. Johnny. Need—"

Simon cuts himself off with another savage kiss. Those hands, wide and callused, reach down, slipping over the waist of his jogging bottoms to curve around his ass and grind their hips together. A ragged moan breaks free from John's throat, and Simon echoes the sound as he reaches just a bit further down and—

John gasps as those hands wrap around the backs of his thighs and he's bodily lifted from the floor. He scrambles to lock both arms around Simon's shoulders and curl his legs around his thick waist.

There's no discussion or hesitation as Simon walks them to John's bed and gently lays him down. Simon follows because John doesn't give him a choice, clinging and pulling every moment of joy from his impulsive actions that he can.

He won't think about the ruin awaiting him as Simon settles between his legs. He won't listen to the faint voice of reason screaming from the bottom of a deep well to stop, to think, as their lips crash together and then part. Harsh breaths followed by low groans are traded between them at the tentative roll of hips, and the need rises high enough to drown out the doubt. Desperation claws at John, a wild beast given a taste of freedom the night before and now all the more powerful for the realization that nothing has changed about how much he wants Simon.

If anything, the beast is stronger, more frenzied.

Despair tries to follow, but John cuts it off, content to wallow in the ephemeral ecstasy of his poor decisions. The coming crash is a problem for future John.

Simon, however, seems to have a moment of clarity on the matter. He pulls back, heavy breaths obscuring his words, though not enough that John can't understand them.

"Johnny—"

Simon has pulled his mouth too far away for easy access, so John latches onto his neck instead, sucking and nipping at the shower-warmed skin. Simon's full-body shudder jostles his mouth, and then Simon backs farther away, though he keeps their hips melded together and... yeah. Yeah, that's familiar, too. John's eyes nearly roll back in his head at the feel of all that hard body pressed against him.

"—don't start somethin' if you're gonna regret it."

"Why no'?" John pants, silver disks glinting in the corner of his eye and drunken texts dancing in his mind. "S'not like it ever stopped me before."

"'Cause 'm serious when I say I wanna fix this if I can. If… if you'll let me. Don't wanna ruin things any more than I already have."

John's head finally clears enough to relax into his pillow, and without the rush of desire to keep it at bay, all the doubt comes flooding back. He drops his hands and feet to the mattress, swallows, and averts his gaze, but Simon's hand is there, gentle but insistent, to cup his jaw and connect their gazes again.

And... fuck.

Fuck.

That braw fucking face twisted into concern. Those whisky eyes soft and pleading...

He doesn't answer, his brain far too confused by all the conflicting feelings to say anything intelligible, and lets his gaze focus on the ceiling to the right of Simon's head. Simon sighs and drops his forehead to the pillow, though he still doesn't move out from between John's legs or remove his hand from John's face.

The hard length pressed into the crease between John's thigh and pelvis is distracting in the worst way.

"'M not... Not complainin'," Simon mumbles, "but I need to know what you're thinkin'. You were spittin' mad at me twenty minutes ago."

"I've been spitting mad at ye for three years, Simon."

"Then… what happened?"

John sighs, the ache returning to his hollow chest. "What hasnae happened? Ye come to me after years of radio silence and turn me upside down with yer words and texts and those stupid tags—"

"Texts?"

"Dinnae remember those, eh?"

Simon pauses before shaking his head. John sighs and pushes at Simon's shoulders. It takes a second push before Simon rolls into a sitting position beside him. John sits up and rubs both hands over his face to clear away the fog of lingering arousal before reaching for his phone. He pulls a leg up onto the bed as he turns to face Simon and shows him the message screen.

"This yer number?"

Simon squints. "Affirmative. Can I...?"

John clicks into the message chain and hands over the phone. They're facing each other on the bed now, and the ache in John's chest grows into throbbing pain. A movie plays itself out in his head of how this might've been his life, in bed with his lover.

The two of them. Together.

But the daydream ends before it can begin when Simon's body stiffens as he scrolls through his own texts. The blankets are soft under John's fingers, and he digs his hands into the soothing sensation. It's a relief compared to the shards of his broken life that keep pricking at him until he bleeds. His soul is a patchwork of scars, crisscrossed with grief.

"So, was it jus' the ramblings of a rat-arsed fool, then?"

"I..."

Simon trails off and sucks in a few shaking breaths. John's disappointment takes him by surprise. He wasn't aware he had enough hope to be disappointed anymore. But then—

"I meant it," Simon whispers. He swallows hard and looks up, pinning John with his dark, serious gaze. "I mean it. Every word, Johnny. I'll do whatever it takes."

And how is that worse? Something floods into his chest — an emotion he can't even begin to parse except that it hurts. The pain is swift and sharp, like a knife to the gut, and he can't help lashing out.

"I dinnae believe ye," he hisses.

Simon flinches. "I understand."

"Dinnae think ye do." John stands and paces away from the bed, grasping onto the door frame just in case the stress makes his world start spinning again. It takes a few swallows to push down the lump in his throat enough to whisper, "It isnae a relief, Simon, to know ye cared... but not enough to help me when I was helpless. Not enough to stay by my side when I'd lost almost everything. I'd rather believe ye never cared about me at all than think ye did but left me anyway."

A hissed curse and a shuffle of fabric prepares John for Simon's approach, but the hands that wrap around his torso still surprise him, one arm crossed over his chest, hand clenching his shoulder, while the other wraps around his waist and grasps hard at his hip as Simon glues himself to John's back.

John doesn't have the energy or will to fight it. He sags into Simon's embrace, and Simon holds him up, face pressed into his hair, mouth against his ear.

"I didn't... I didn't know then," he murmurs. "Or... couldn't admit it, even to myself. I know that sounds like bullshit. It is bloody bullshit. And it's not enough. But it's all I've got."

"When ye came here ye said..." John pauses as Simon goes still.

"Wha'd I say?"

"That ye stayed away because ye thought I deserved better. So I wouldnae be 'stuck' with ye."

"Never could understand what you saw in me," Simon says by way of confirmation. "What... what else did I say?"

"That ye were jealous of Alan."

In lieu of a response, Simon's arms tighten around John's body. The burn behind his eyes grows stronger.

He desperately wishes he could believe it meant something. Because now — now — he has Simon here with him, just like he's dreamed about for years.

But what happens when the next difficult thing comes along? What happens when he starts having more bad days than good and Simon runs again? Leaves John alone to fight through the hard times by himself again? How can he justify the risk just because his impulsive side desperately wants the comfort he's only ever found in Simon's arms?

As if reading John's mind, Simon mumbles, "I fucked it all up. I shoulda stayed. I... I wanted to."

"Then why didnae ye?" John half whispers, half sobs as the burn gives way to tears at the corners of his eyes.

"You had a chance for a life away from SAS. Away from the danger. Away from me. You deserved that."

"What I deserved was a say in the matter! All I needed," John growls through his tears as he thumps his closed fist against the arm crossing his chest, "was someone who wouldnae desert me and make me feel like a fuckin' burden. I wasn't askin' for yer fuckin' hand in marriage, Simon. I just wanted my friend to talk to me now and then. Instead, all I got was proof that ye thought I was too broken and worthless for even an occasional phone call."

Simon's arms loosen, and John nearly falls to the floor before those same arms spin him around, grasping at his biceps to hold him in place. The paleness of Simon's skin and features are highlighted by the hall and bathroom lights, revealing a wide-eyed, desperate expression. John's traitorous heart beats hard in his chest, even as tears of frustration and more of that pent-up grief spill over and trail down his cheeks.

"No. That's... it wasn't like that... I didn't think I could let you go unless I cut myself off."

"Problem is, there were two ends tae tha' line ye cut, Simon. I was on the other end, and ye left me tae drown."

The silence that descends is sharp enough to make John bleed. He closes his eyes. More tears flow down his cheeks and neck, but that's nothing new.

"I don't know what to do," Simon whispers, panic threading through the words as his hands squeeze and release John's arms in little pulses. "Don't know how to fix it. I just... I don't wanna be without you anymore. Please, Johnny. Just need one more chance. I won't fail you again."

A deep inhale shakes through John's spasming lungs at the sudden softness of Simon's lips against his own, the gentle press reminding him of the way Simon had kissed him during their first and last full night together. Fresh tears track down his face as their lips drag and press in slow motion. Simon's hand slides up to cup John's jaw, gently holding and stroking over his skin.

A harsher inhale catches in his lungs.

The next exhale is a full and broken sob, and John breaks the kiss. He tries to turn away and cover his face, but Simon wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, pressing their cheeks together, which only seems to make the next sob louder.

"'S a'right, Johnny. I've got you."

The words open the floodgates, and his knees threaten to buckle. He grabs at Simon's back, holding on for dear life as the sobs wrack his body, as the ocean of grief rises up to consume him.

He's barely conscious of being manhandled back to the bed, of being laid down, of the large body curling around him, holding him close as he cries. A hand threads through his long hair, pausing at the feel of one of those hidden scars before gently brushing over it. A voice in the back of his mind whispers that he's dooming himself to even more heartbreak, but as the grief continues to rise, so does that ache in his hollow chest that only Simon can fill.

Fuck.

He wants to believe. He wants to take Simon at his word. But the trust is gone, broken by harsh words born out of fear and self-loathing and a misplaced sense of duty. It doesn't matter that he can now see the clear trajectory of their destruction, charges placed in the perfect locations to blow everything straight to hell. And it doesn't matter that Simon's three-year-old lies make a sick kind of sense if he thinks about things from his point of view.

It doesn't matter because John won't survive another point-blank explosion. He can't let himself get in range until he's certain it's safe.

And yet.

And yet.

With Simon curled around him like a human blanket, he hasn't felt this fucking safe in years.

It's the most he's had of Simon since the only "morning after" he ever got, just before everything went to shit...

The press of dry lips to his temple wakes Johnny for a second time that morning, and he's aware enough to grab Simon's arm as he tries to leave the bed.

"Dinnae go."

"It's almost 0600. Already stayed longer than I shoulda. Gotta get out before the others wake up."

"They're all pished and sleepin' it off. Ye've got time."

"Didn't know you were so needy in the mornings, Sergeant."

"Not usually," he lies. "But yer warm." A huff greets Soap's words, and he smiles into the darkness. "If ye have tae go, gie's a nip first."

The huff turns into a genuine laugh. "Dunno what th' fuck you're sayin'."

"A kiss, Simon," Johnny enunciates. "Give me a kiss."

A snort this time. "Then just say so."

The lips that press into Johnny's are still dry, but the kiss is not. Johnny wraps his arms around Simon's broad shoulders and sinks into it, letting his body react accordingly, already disposed to arousal in his warm, relaxed state. When they finally pull apart, they're both breathing hard. He reaches for Simon's hand and places it on his aching cock with only the covers between their bare skin.

"Ye sure ye cannae stay a bit longer?"

Instead of replying, Simon throws Johnny's covers off. Cool air hits his bare skin, and goosebumps erupt all over his body. His protests die in his throat, though, at the feel of warm lips wrapping around the tip of his hard cock. Simon swirls his tongue around the head, and John gasps at the sudden rush of sensations.

"Bleedin' Jesus, Si. Ye should stay the night more often."

Simon doesn't respond, his mouth too busy sucking Johnny all the way down. But as good as the heat and slick roughness of Simon's tongue are, it's Simon's moans that really get Johnny going. The man is a glutton for cock, and Johnny is more than willing to be the one to provide.

He resolutely doesn't think about the possibility that someone else gets to hear those moans, too.

Because they've never talked about that part. Or any part, really. It goes without saying that it's a secret — what with military codes of conduct and all. And the sex is just... sex. A way to let off steam and work through stress.

At least it was at first.

It's been almost a year since Johnny let anyone else touch him this way. It's been a couple of months since he realized why.

Last night was the first time he's dared to wonder if he's not the only one feeling it. The hope tastes like gunpowder on his tongue just waiting for a spark.

He pushes the thoughts away and focuses on the man between his legs and the feel of a hot mouth sliding up and down his cock.

The darkness surrounding them enhances the sounds, and Johnny can't resist slipping his fingers into Simon's hair and tugging. He's rewarded with a long, low moan. Despite a satisfying night before, the pressure builds quickly, and soon Johnny can't hold back his own sounds — moans of pleasure he tries to cut off for fear of waking his neighbors. But Simon is so good with his mouth, and soon he's arching his back, crying out as his bollocks draw up.

"Gonna cum. Fuck. Love. Gonna — ahh!"

Simon works him through the orgasm, fingers digging into his thighs as he sucks him dry and finally pops off his cock. Then, he tucks the blanket around Johnny before threading his hand into Johnny's hair.

"That enough for you, slag?" he asks in a warm tone as he tugs gently at Johnny's mohawk.

Johnny shivers at the sound of Simon's voice — the gravel even more pronounced after having Johnny's cock down his throat. "Never," he replies with just as much warmth. "Dinnae think I'll ever get enough o' ye."

Simon gives one last tug to his hair, stands, and slips out the door before Johnny can recover enough to regret the words.

The sobs die out with the memory, but he doesn't move. Neither does Simon. The thud of Simon's heart in his ear is soothing, but tension still haunts John's every movement.

He's sick and exhausted and resigned to his fate. Waiting for the moment to end. Waiting for the final strike of the guillotine that will sever his heart from his chest.

Waiting for Simon to change his mind, disentangle himself, and leave John alone.

He wonders if a part of him will always be waiting for it. The thought exhausts and terrifies him.

"Johnny... I—"

The buzz of the phone somewhere within the bed interrupts whatever Simon is about to say. John shimmies enough to reveal the lighted face of the phone between them, and his entire body clenches at the name on the screen. He rolls away from Simon to sit at the edge of the bed, takes a deep breath, and answers the phone.

"Are ye alive?" Fi asks as soon as the line connects.

"Nae. This is the ghost of John Callum speaking."

The words ring like a bell in his chest. Fi scoffs.

"N'more death jokes today, John Callum. I cannae take it."

A wave of guilt rises up, threatening to push his head under water. "Sorry."

"Aye. Anno ye are. Have ye gotten rid of our unwelcome guest?"

"Uh... almost."

The ensuing silence is deafening. Fi lets out a long breath.

"How long?"

"Fifteen more minutes? Maybe?"

"I'll have Price drive me tae get yer car. That'll give ye a good half hour."

"Thank ye, Fi."

"We'll talk about this later, aye?"

"Aye."

The line cuts out and John winces. She's proper pissed at him, but he couldn't risk lying about Simon only for her to be calling from right outside the house. He is a liar, but living with Fiona as a teenager taught him how to lie strategically. He lets out a long sigh of his own.

"Fi's coming back soon. Ye should go before she gets here."

Simon's gaze doesn't waver. "That what you want?"

No. "Aye. Ye may not remember much o' yer first meeting, but the neighbors definitely do."

A soft breath puffs between Simon's lips as he winces and drops his gaze. "That it, then?"

John presses his lips together.

Perhaps Simon doesn't deserve another chance. Perhaps he'll prove that constant fear right and disappoint John all over again. But if he's truly serious about fixing things, John doesn't think can live with himself if he doesn't open the door. At least a crack.

If all he gets in return is more pain, he'll have only himself to blame. It's not like he isn't used to explosions.

"For tonight. What happens after... tha's up to ye."

John stands, swallows down the lump building in his throat, and gingerly picks up his cane from the floor. He just needs to get through the next few minutes of Simon collecting his things. Of Simon preparing to leave. Then he can properly fall apart, though he's not certain he has any tears left to cry after his earlier outbursts.

While Simon finishes dressing in his borrowed clothes, John heads for the living room and stands by the door. The fire in his gut seems to have been doused and the flood drained away for the moment, and it leaves him anxious and unsettled. He's held on to his anger and grief for so long — even when his therapist encouraged him to work through it — that his chest feels empty without the fury to fill that hollow space.

Simon walks into the living room, and the emptiness fills with a different emotion.

Amusement.

"Tha's quite the fashion statement."

Simon's neutral expression breaks into a small, wry smile as he looks down at himself. He's covered John's too-small shirt with his wrinkled, unbuttoned dress shirt and hung the loosened tie around his neck. Paired with the too-tight jogger bottoms and dress shoes, with a suit jacket and trousers draped over his arm, he looks like the epitome of the walk of shame.

"Just gotta get to Gaz and Belle's place."

"Yer staying with Price?"

Simon studies John's face for a few seconds before slowly nodding. "Price gave the 141 a week of leave, so I've got nowt better to do. Unless..." He pauses again, glances down, then looks up to catch John's gaze. "I could come by here tomorrow?"

John swallows. "S'pose ye could."

Simon nods. They stand there, staring at each other in tense silence, until Simon approaches like a cat stalking a mouse, silent as ever. He leans close before pausing and searching John's face again.

For what, John doesn't know, but he obviously finds what he's looking for.

Simon closes the distance, and the kiss is soft. Gentle. John's eyes flutter closed. He balls a fist into Simon's shirt front and holds back a fresh batch of tears — apparently he has more left after all — as Simon presses their mouths together two... three... four times...

He shouldn't allow it. He hates it.

He fucking loves it.

The volcano suddenly flares to life, anger pulsing through him again, this time at his own sheer idiocy. God help him, if he's allowing this to happen, if he's opening himself up to being hurt again, he at least needs to set some fucking ground rules and boundaries. Because it's going to be hard enough trying to reconnect as friends. The last thing he needs is his libido getting in the way... like it is right fucking now.

He squeezes his hand into a tighter fist. Then, he opens his fingers and shoves Simon away.

"If ye want to fix things, we'll have no more o' tha'," he says in a harsh tone as he opens his eyes. "No' until I say so."

Simon stumbles back a few steps, more from surprise than from the force of the shove, his face slack with shock. John holds the handle of his cane in a death grip and pushes his free hand through his hair, bunching it up at his crown.

"I cannae think when ye do that," John explains, the anger translating into a frustrated tone. "And I willnae stand for this being just a... a physical thing. Whether ye'll admit it or no', we were friends before any of tha' started. If we can get back to tha' point, we'll see about the rest. But one conversation, half yelling and half crying, and a few kisses doesnae mean we're suddenly okay. Ye understand tha', right? I still dinnae fucking trust ye."

Simon has pulled himself up straight, planted his feet, and fixed his gaze on the far wall. He nods once, his jaw tensed. He looks like he's about to go into battle.

John should know. He's seen the look enough times that it's permanently burned into his memory.

"Affirmative," Simon says in his gruff lieutenant tone. "Gotta earn it back."

John licks his lips. Drops his hand from his hair and curls it into a fist at his side. Swallows down the side of him that wants to beg Simon to stay.

"Aye. If ye can."

Simon nods again as his gaze flicks over to meet John's. Something dangerous flashes in those dark brown depths. Something else John recognizes from their 141 days.

Challenge accepted.

Simon holds John's gaze for a long moment before turning away. "See you tomorrow, then."

The black hole opens up and steals any response John might've had, so he just watches from the door as Simon pulls on his mask and disappears into the night.

Art by Kiba (@kibagib)

Chapter Text

"John. Thanks for calling. How are you?"

John isn't stupid enough to think Laswell doesn't know about what's happening between him and Simon, so he doesn't bother to deflect.

"Wee bit of a mess, I'm afraid."

"I bet. You need anything?"

"If yer asking if I need ye to get involved, tha's a hard negative, Watcher-1."

Laswell huffs a laugh at the call sign. John doesn't use them much anymore — he's not in the military and hearing them tears holes in his barely-there shroud of sanity — but Laswell is different.

"Any chance of fair weather ahead?" Laswell asks.

It's a loaded question, and they both know it. John grits his teeth and looks down as fear and doubt fight with that splinter of hope left behind by a lost set of ID tags.

"Dinnae have enough intel for a proper assessment," he murmurs.

"Well... keep me informed if you would."

John licks his lips and dares to glance up into her sympathetic but thankfully not pitying gaze. "Aye."

Laswell nods and then looks to the side to shuffle a few papers. There's no way she wasn't prepared for the meeting, so John can only assume the pause is meant for him to pull himself together.

It's a tall order.

He spent most of the night staring at his darkened ceiling and replaying every minor detail of his interactions with Simon over the past two days: the pleading words, the admissions of guilt, the flames of passion that still haunt him everytime he closes his eyes...

He's swung wildly between every possible emotion so many times since he first pulled up to that damn church that he's not sure he knows what emotions are anymore, let alone what he's feeling. The world seems both darker and brighter. The future seems both frightening and exhilarating. Every turn reveals a deeper contradiction, and yet he can't seem to commit to either side.

Choosing to forgive and trust feels like a betrayal of everything he's gone through during the past three years. And yet choosing to push Simon away feels like a reactionary decision based solely on fear and anger — the two emotions least likely to give a full and fair picture of a situation and the ones he spent most of his military career trying to separate from tactical decisions.

But his heart has been little more than a fractured shell for years, and the realization that he's probably going to feel like this for the foreseeable future makes him want to crawl into bed and never get up again.

Thank God his therapist managed to find him a fifteen minute slot this afternoon. He just hopes he doesn't have a mental breakdown before then.

What he needs right now is a good distraction, and that's something Laswell can provide. He sits up a bit straighter, rolls his shoulders back, and gives her a tight-lipped smile.

"What's on the docket today, then?"

A secure FTP link pings through their encrypted chat, and he accepts the connection. As the files download, Laswell gives him the rundown.

"We're looking to bring down a twenty-story building, built in the 80s. Lots of metal and glass, as you'll see from the building plans I'm sending."

"Topography?"

"Flat."

"Weather?"

"Dry and hot."

"Full collapse?"

"Ideally, though a partial could work. We're on a tight turn around for this... exercise."

John holds back a snort. He's never believed the "hypothetical" part of these little interactions. Laswell knows it, too, but everything is about plausible deniability in her world. She gives him just enough information to complete the job, and he provides the schematics for the locations and types of explosives or incendiaries to get the job done in return.

When it seems like a bigger job, he'll sometimes keep a close eye on the news to see if he can spot his plan in action. It's always pretty obvious when he manages to catch the story.

It's also how he knows he's doing good work for people still out in the field. He teaches them how to manage the explosives in his MOD classes; then he provides the instructions to Laswell for how to use them in specific missions.

Maybe even for the 141.

"Define 'tight,'" John says warily.

Laswell grimaces. "Three days?"

John blinks. The file download indicator turns green, and he clicks into the building plans. He's sucking on his teeth before he can stop himself.

"Steamin' Jesus, Kate! I can mebbe get ye a partial demo in tha' time, but this is one of them earthquake resistant designs. Takes more charges in more locations. One wrong calculation..."

For the first time since he started this work for Laswell, a hint of fear creeps into the back of his mind as he trails off. He's good at this kind of thing. Possibly one of the best out there. But such a short time frame means less opportunity to double and triple check for errors. Errors mean people could die — not just soldiers, but civilians caught in the path of a massive building falling the wrong way, crushing entire city blocks, because he got something wrong.

"Do what you can, John," Laswell says in a softer tone. "I know it's not ideal, but I didn't have the intel until this morning."

"How many operatives would be available to set charges for the exercise?"

"One."

"Laswell!"

"Maybe two."

He hisses a curse under his breath. "Ye've got tae promise me two."

"Do what you can with one, and then give me the plans for two if you have the time. What's your MOD load look like this week?"

"I can push them off until the end of the week."

"Good. I'll—"

A chime from his phone interrupts Laswell, and heat rushes to John's cheeks as he grabs his phone to silence it. The name on the message, however, sends a one-two punch of anxiety and adrenaline through his body.

Simon: I'm here.

At the same time, a knock sounds at his front door, and John lets his head drop. When he lifts it again, he finds Laswell raising a brow at him.

"Uh... S... someone is at the door."

Laswell's brow furrows, and she looks off to the side. Her jaw tightens.

"Need me to intervene now?"

"Nae, I— Wait... What? Are ye spying on my house?"

"Do you actually expect me to answer that?"

"Just tell me ye dinnae have cameras inside the house."

"Not yet," she says with one of those smiles he can only assume means it's a joke. But only kind of.

"Fuckin' hell." Another knock. John huffs and asks, "D'ye want to say hello?"

Laswell shrugs. "Why not?"

John gets up from his desk and heads out of his mini office. The room was originally designed to be his closet, taking up the space between his bedroom and the bathroom, but it's more useful to him as a lockable, windowless office space. The pocket doors on either end let him move between the bedroom and bathroom without going into the hall if he wants privacy when Fiona is home, but mostly he keeps the room locked due to the sensitive information from Laswell.

His vertigo is worse this morning from a lack of sleep, though not bad enough to need the wheelchair, and he leans on his cane as he walks down the short hall and through the living room. Pausing at the front door, he presses a hand to his racing heart and takes a deep breath.

He'd mostly talked himself out of hoping that Simon would actually stop by. Now that he's here, John isn't sure how to act. The deep-seated anger still boils under the surface, just as explosive as ever when provoked, and he certainly doesn't trust Simon any more than he did before all this started.

But Simon is here. Finally. And...

It's something.

A muffled voice comes through the door. "MacTavish? You home?"

John blows out a breath and opens the door to find a much more familiar-looking Simon at his doorstep — black boots, black cargo pants, black hoodie with the hood up over a plain black balaclava. Only the eye black is missing, leaving blond lashes and the pale skin around his eyes visible. His hand is poised as if he's going to knock again, but he drops it when their gazes lock.

They stare in silence for a few seconds before Simon blinks and then lifts the bag in his other hand. "Brought lunch."

The scent of fried food wafts from the bag. John's stomach growls, and he licks his lips.

"From the chip shop down the street?"

"Price recommended it."

A sour note chimes in John's head at the mention of Price, and he almost laughs aloud at the reversal — Price is on his shit list while Simon...

Well, he doesn't know exactly where he stands with Simon except that he's somehow, whether due to stupidity or a stroke of actual madness, agreed to give Simon a chance to earn back his trust. He supposes Simon actually showing up when he said he would — and with food, no less — gains him a point or two.

Not that it makes much of a dent in his massive deficit. But it's a start.

John moves out of the doorway slowly, making sure not to turn too fast and send himself sprawling to the floor. As soon as Simon has closed the door and removed his boots, John leads the way to the kitchen and points to the counter.

"Ye can set it there. I've got to finish up a call. It's someone ye know if ye want to say hello."

Simon sets the bag on the counter before turning to John with furrowed brows. "Someone I'd wanna talk to?"

"As far as I know."

"Not gonna tell me who?"

John shrugs. "More fun this way."

Simon snorts. "After you, then."

John tries to breathe normally as they walk down the hall, taking the door to the right into his bedroom and then turning immediately left into the office. His heart hasn't slowed its machine-gun pace since the moment he saw Simon's name on his screen, and his anxiety spikes as he enters the small space. He's never let anyone into the room before, but he calms himself with the knowledge that Laswell wouldn't have agreed to say hello if she had a problem with Simon knowing about their arrangement.

John turns back to find Simon standing in the doorway, hands resting on either side of the door frame. His gaze skims over the plans and documents pinned to the walls and strewn over the desk that runs the length of the small room, and blond eyebrows peek from beneath the balaclava as he furrows his brow.

"Fuckin' hell," he grumbles. "You doin' spy work now?"

"In a way," Laswell answers.

Simon freezes for a split second. John only notices because even after three years, it seems he still knows all of Simon's quirks. John waves a hand toward the screen.

"Come say hello."

As Simon moves toward the computer, John grabs his mouse and clicks the button to send the building plans to his large format printer. The machine hums as it warms up and begins processing the information.

"Hello, Ghost."

"Laswell. Didn't know you and John—" Simon drops off at the end, obviously cutting himself off. "Didn't know you two were still workin' together."

"Just some low-level stuff. You know how it is."

Simon hums. "Affirmative. Which is why I don't believe you."

Laswell laughs, and John can't help smiling along even as the nostalgia stabs through him like a knife to the gut.

Fuck, he's missed this. The camaraderie. The snarky back and forth. He gets a bit of it when he, Price, and Kyle manage to spend time together, but it's nothing like being part of the group.

Being part of the action.

Longing rises up like a fast-flowing river, sweeping him into nostalgia.

Which means he's distracted, so Laswell's next words don't register until too late.

"You know I respect you as an operator, Ghost."

"Feelin's mutual."

"Good," she pauses, and suddenly the scary Laswell voice is coming through his computer speakers. "Then you know I mean it when I say if you hurt John again, your call sign will be all that's left of you."

Simon stiffens at the same time John calls out in protest, "Bleedin' Christ! Cut it out, Laswell. Yer as bad as Fiona!"

"A woman after my own heart," Kate affirms. "No hard feelings, Ghost. Just wanted to be sure we're on the same page."

"Yes, ma'am," Simon says, his voice gruff and body still stiff. His eyes, though, are pools of regret as he glances at John. "I'll let you two finish up. Nice seein' you, Laswell."

"You, too," she says even as Simon bolts.

John flops into his office chair and slumps over the desk, hands covering his face. He splits his fingers and glares at her through the camera.

"Ye did tha' on purpose."

"I did that because Ghost knows I don't fuck around. And you're too important to me to let him get away with the same shit twice. He'd better mean it this time or give up now."

"Sometimes it doesnae work like tha', and ye know it."

"It does when I'm involved."

John sighs before glancing over at the intricate building plans scrolling out of his printer. "I'll do my best to get ye a schematic by Thursday morning, but dinnae hold yer breath that it will actually work."

"Remember, it's just an exercise, John."

"Right," he mutters under his breath, "and I'm the bloody King of England."

"You know how to contact me if you have any questions. I'll stay in touch if any additional intel comes through."

They say their goodbyes, and the screen goes black. John, however, stays where he is, fingers massaging his temples. He'll have to work straight through with only a few breaks for sleep and food if he wants to be sure of his calculations. And with Simon here distracting him, he'll have even less time.

He heaves out a shaky breath as the reality hits him full on.

Simon is here.

In his house.

On purpose.

He remembers that determined stare from last night, and a shudder works its way down his spine at the intensity of the moment. He'd been too angry and exhausted to feel the full force of it at the time, but he's seen that look plenty of times before, most recently when they were going after Makarov.

Of course, he wasn't around for the actual kill, and he no longer has clearance to know how it all went down. The most he got out of Kyle and Price was that Ghost reported the KIA over the radio.

And that they'd had to identify Makarov's body via fingerprints and dental records.

At the time, he dismissed the idea that violence done to Makarov had been from Ghost. Now, knowing what he does about how things went down that day he almost died in the tunnels — did die, technically — he's not so sure.

He can't say the idea doesn't appeal to him, though.

A soft, slightly hysterical laugh passes over his lips, and he quickly bites it back. He puts it on his list of things to ask Simon about later.

If Simon sticks around long enough, that is.

He sucks in a trembling breath and lets it out.

Repeats the process once more.

Twice more...

A shuffling noise comes from the kitchen, and he curls his hands into fists. His stomach growls again, reminding him that he barely ate that morning due to his emotional state, and he exhales a long breath to steel himself for the coming interactions.

He has no illusions that they'll simply fall back into their old habits. He doesn't really want them to, if he's honest. Those old habits included not talking about complicated things like feelings and eventually led to a complete disconnect once they no longer worked together.

He wonders if things would've been different if he'd pushed Simon to talk about their relationship before everything went down with Makarov. Maybe they could've salvaged something in the aftermath.

Or maybe Simon would've just cut him loose even earlier. Maybe that would've been better in the long run.

His hands are shaking as he grips his cane and starts down the hall.

His heart has calmed to a normal pace, but anxiety creeps up his spine the closer he gets to the kitchen. He pauses at the edge of the doorway, and images of the night before flash through his mind. He closes his eyes as a churning starts up in his gut.

What was he thinking letting Simon back into his life? Opening himself up to that kind of hurt?

Oh, right, he was thinking with his dick and his fucked-up, impulsive brain. Talk about doomed from the start.

And now Laswell is involved. He wants to believe she's joking about turning Simon into a literal ghost, but Laswell surprised him with how protective she was during his recovery. She'd called to check in on him at least once a week since the discharge and called him with her CIA consultation job offer before Price had even gotten off the phone with his MOD contacts. Perhaps he should have expected it, but he always figured he was just one more soldier in a long line of grunts under her command.

Instead, she's become a constant, if mostly virtual, presence in his life. And a trusted friend.

The crinkling of paper draws him out of his spiraling thoughts, and he hears cabinet doors opening and closing as if Simon is looking for something. John takes yet another deep-but-silent breath to clear away the lingering anxiety and steps into the kitchen.

Simon has pulled down his hood and removed his mask and gloves, and John tries not to let the sight affect him as he watches Simon unwrap their lunches and place them, paper and all, on the plates he obviously found in his search.

A faint hiss reaches him, and he realizes Simon has also started the kettle. John heads for the tea drawer and opens it, letting his fingers run over the boxes and tins.

"Any preference?" he asks without looking up.

"Whatever you're havin'."

John reaches in to pull out one of his stronger black teas. "This one's most like yer precious PG Tips."

"Too good for the real thing, eh?"

Despite John's efforts to keep a straight face, a small smile breaks free. "Oh, aye. Much too posh for the no-frills brands. Didnae ye know? I'm a tea snob now."

He looks up, expecting to see at least a small smile from Simon, too.

Instead, Simon just stares blankly at their plates of food.

John's smile fades as Simon lifts his head and their gazes lock, and though he used to pride himself on knowing Simon's every expression and mood — even with the mask on — he can't parse this one.

If pressed, he'd call it melancholic.

The beeping kettle once again breaks the tension. John swallows hard and looks away as he pulls out the pot, fills the steeper, and then pours hot water into the pot. Awkwardness fills the space between them, and he can feel Simon watching him for a moment before clearing his throat.

"I'll take these into the dining room, then."

Simon doesn't wait for an answer, so John doesn't bother to respond as he sets the timer on his watch and then closes his eyes. He pulls in another slow deep breath in an attempt to settle the restlessness snapping through his nerve endings like a thousand mini explosions.

He's walking a tightrope, and with balance as fucked as his, he's destined to fall.

The pot is full and hot, so John carefully takes hold of the insulated handle with one hand, grips his cane firmly with the other, and moves into the dining room as well.

"Grab us a couple of mugs, will ye?" he asks Simon, his focus on the tea pot. "And the honey on the counter?"

Simon hums his agreement and passes by John like a wraith. It's always been impressive how silent Simon can be on his feet, especially for his size. John had once worked hard to emulate those moves. Now, he's lucky when he can manage to walk in a straight line without a cane. He rarely goes without it, even on good days, because he never knows when something might trigger a dizzy spell.

Since the wedding, vertigo seems to be making a return as a constant companion. Between the stress of the wedding, Simon's sudden reappearance, Price's betrayal, and Laswell's tight turn around for such a big job, he has a feeling things won't get better any time soon.

He reminds himself it will get better, though. He just needs to be careful until the additional stressors taper off.

He sets the pot down on the table and looks between the newspapers. They both look the same, but—

"Yours is the one closest to you."

John jumps at the voice right behind him and whips his head around.

Or tries to.

The world spins violently with the movement, and even the cane isn't enough to save him. He's had plenty of tumbles, especially during the first two years of his recovery, so he knows there's nothing he can do to prevent it now. Not when his head will be wobbling for the next few minutes.

Suddenly, he's surrounded by thick arms that hold him up and press him into a solid chest. His cane hits the wood floor with a clatter as his head continues to spin, and he gives a little growl as he slaps a hand to Simon's chest.

"Dinnae scare me like that, ye wee tadger!"

"Only you would call me 'wee.'"

"Means yer a little bit of a dick, not that yer wee in size." He swallows and doesn't look up as he curls his hand into Simon's hoodie and says in a more subdued tone, "Ye cannae startle me like tha', Simon. I'll fall."

Simon lets out a heavy breath that rustles through Johnny's loose hair. "Sorry."

"Ye didnae know."

"Shoulda, though."

John shrugs, unwilling to argue the truth. "Help me sit."

Simon guides him to the chair and helps him sit without falling over. The spinning is already dying down, but John places both hands on the table, palms down, spreads his feet wide and plants them on the floor, and then closes his eyes. The multiple touch points ground him and help his brain focus on which direction is up and down. He takes a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

"Did the bullet do that?" Simon asks in a low tone.

John's balance is good enough to shrug, though he keeps his eyes closed. "Sort of? The first couple of weeks, my brain swelled up like a dead body left out too long, and it damaged my inner ear on the left side."

"Entry side."

John peeks an eye open. "Aye."

"And that's why you need the wheelchair, too?"

"Aye. Though tha's rare these days." John frowns. "Wait. How did ye—"

"You were in it when I came yesterday."

Both John's eyes pop open, and he stares at Simon. "Ye remember?"

"Bits and pieces are comin' back to me. You weren't fuckin' jokin' about your sister."

"So… ye remember what ye said to me, then?"

Simon drops his gaze. "Some of it, yeah. Stuff like what's in those texts, I guess."

He licks his lips and shoves a few chips in his mouth. John dares to lift his hands from the table and open the paper wider to do the same but pauses at the sight of five lemon slices wrapped in plastic and tucked off to the side.

"Ye remembered tha' too, eh?" he says with a gesture at the lemons.

"Hard to forget," Simon says with a shrug, though he keeps his gaze on his meal. "Never seen anyone that mad for lemon juice before."

John grits his teeth to hold back the rush of conflicting emotions. He's so tired of parsing all the fucking feelings. It's too much.

It's all too fucking much.

The buzzing at his wrist distracts him, and he moves on autopilot, taking out the steeper and pouring their tea. He hands Simon a mug without looking up and begins to add honey to his tea.

"Thanks, but I dinnae really care for strong or spicy flavors anymore. Coffee, lemons, vinegar, ginger, chiles... It's all too much these days."

Simon doesn't respond, so John flicks a glance in his direction. He's got that blank stare again, fingers pinched around another handful of chips but not moving to eat them. John clears his throat.

"Just another weird thing that went haywire."

When Simon remains silent, John's anxiety surges again. He's used to people like Alan who've been with him from the beginning. Who know about all his changes and limitations. But Simon...

How many more awkward or fragile moments will it take before Simon decides John is too much trouble and cuts him loose again? Because the man that Simon expects to drink coffee instead of tea, to stand steady without falling, and to douse his fish in lemon juice? That man is gone.

John's body, his brain, his outlook on life... Everything has changed.

It's just another reminder that he's not Soap or Johnny anymore. He's just John. And if all those melancholic looks are anything to go by, Simon isn't happy about it.

John's shoulders droop. He leans back in his chair and sighs.

"I'm different."

"Tell me somethin' I don't know," Simon finally says in a deadpan tone as he puts the chips back down on his plate and wipes his hand with a napkin.

John can't help his flash of wry amusement as he meets Simon's gaze, but the tentative smile they share drops away as he refocuses. If Simon is going to have a problem with the "new" him, he wants to know now, before he gets too invested.

As if he isn't already.

As if he ever stood a fucking chance after that first look, that first touch, drawing him in like water on the lips of a man dying of thirst.

Another deep breath inflates his lungs as he struggles for control... and for the right words to make Simon understand.

"I'm serious. I'm no' the person ye remember. The man ye thought would fight ye about cutting contact is gone. The man who could keep up with ye in the field and pass any physical test thrown at him? He's gone, too." Some of John's lingering anger bubbles to the surface, and his voice grows hard as he gestures to himself. "This is all tha's left. The man who sometimes cannae walk or talk right. The man who forgets things and loses time and fights every day against anxiety and depression. And none of it will get easier. If tha's no' something ye want to deal with, tha's fine, but we should call it quits now. Because I cannae go through rebuilding our friendship only to have ye give me tha' very excuse when ye run away again."

Simon leans back in his seat and stares at John for a moment before lowering his gaze to the table. When he finally speaks, his voice is hard and yet brittle as sugar glass.

"First off, I won't be runnin' anywhere. Tried that, and it was fuckin' miserable."

"Understatement of the fucking decade," John grumbles.

"Yeah, but that's the thing, innit? I could tell you the differences don't matter to me. Could say it doesn't change how I... how I feel. I could spout promises 'til I'm blue in the face, but you've got no reason to believe me."

And Simon is right. John has no reason to believe him and, in fact, doesn't believe him. That voice in the back of his head is still screaming at him to run. That fear squirming in his chest is still begging him to stop this madness before he gets hurt again.

"So... what now?"

"So… much as it pains me to admit, Price has the right idea. I gotta be consistent with you. Gotta show you I'm trustworthy again. But mostly..." Simon huffs out a breath and motions at his head. "I gotta deal with the stuff in here that made me do all that stupid shit in the first place."

"Price told you all tha'?" John murmurs, his heart thumping hard against his sternum.

"Been tellin' me that for years. But we talked again last night, and I'm beginnin' to think he maybe has a point..." Simon leans his arms on the table and looks up to pin John with that determined stare. "I'm shit at this. I've made a fuck-ton of mistakes. But I can do better. Just need to get some outside help figurin' out how."

A surge of conflicting emotions surfaces at that, but the main one is surprise. John never imagined Simon would consent to having a therapist, let alone seek one out on his own. To know that he's going specifically because he doesn't want to mess things up again...?

John swallows down the glut of words trying to spill over his lips and reminds himself that right now, it's just talk. Maybe he'll believe it when Simon actually makes good on those promises.

For now, raises his mug and says, "S'pose tha's a step in the right direction, then."

Simon nods. "A step, yeah. As for the other stuff… Things might've changed, but I haven't seen owt that makes me think you aren't you. I just… I feel like a complete twat because you're right. I should already know all this. So… I'll learn. And I'll prove you can trust me to stick around the same way you used to trust me at your six."

The words fall between them with a finality that leaves John breathless. All the times he dreamed of Simon coming to him, begging for forgiveness — and God help him, he's imagined it a lot — he never imagined this. But at the same time, it's all so perfectly Simon.

Fine tremors race down John's arms, and he has to set down his mug for fear of spilling his tea.

Simon either doesn't notice John's distress or politely pretends not to as he resumes eating. After a few more sips of tea, John manages to tuck away the confusing feelings for later examination and pull himself together enough to eat as well.

Despite the shaky start, the rest of the meal is comfortable as they tuck into their fish. It's from one of the best chip shops in Birmingham, and even slightly cooled, it's delicious. The comfort food chases away the jittery, unsettled feeling in his gut, and he hums his approval as he bites into the flaky crust and even flakier fish underneath. The middle is still steaming, though, and he breathes through the heat. Simon reaches into the takeaway bag and offers up a napkin, which John takes with a grateful nod as he covers his mouth.

"Got too greedy," he says after swallowing.

"At least that hasn't changed."

John scoffs. "What's tha' supposed to mean?"

Simon doesn't answer or look up from his food, but there's a small, knowing smile peeking out from the corner of his mouth as he chews. John's eyes widen even as his cheeks heat at the implication.

"Awa' an' bile yer heid!"

"I know that one," Simon finally responds, a full smile taking over as he gives John a sideways glance.

John blinks and then huffs a laugh. "Shut yer pus, ye scabby tadger."

"You lost me again."

"Shut it, ye dick."

And Simon laughs. The rare sound brings with it a host of memories, but John pushes them away, determined not to fall into reminiscing. The subtle reminder of all the mind-blowing sex they used to have isn't helping, though.

Rule Two: No thinking about sex.

"No' like yer any better," John grumbles before he can stop himself.

"Nope. I'm worse."

The response is quiet, but John doesn't think he's imagining the thread of longing woven through the words.

Rule two gets thrown in the trash bin when he can't quite push the memories down a second time…

The safehouse is cold and dark as they unlock and enter the building. Their mission is complete — a resounding success, of course — and there's no one left alive to pursue them. Still, they take precautions, closing blinds as they clear the house. Exfil won't come until the following day, so Ghost goes to the basement to find the breaker box and start up the furnace while Soap takes stock of the kitchen.

By the time Ghost gets back upstairs, Soap is standing in the cold, dimly lit kitchen in nothing but his boxer briefs as he pulls out the MREs he found in the cabinet. He points to the pile of bloody clothes on the floor.

"There's a washer and dryer. Figure there's no reason to stay in dirty clothes. Add what ye want, and I'll start a load."

Ghost doesn't move. Soap glances up from adding water to the heating pouches to find Ghost staring at him. Soap arranges the packages and leaves them on the counter to heat up before turning and propping his palms on the counter. He gives Ghost a smirk and subtly flexes his arms, abs and pecs.

"See something ye like?" he asks.

Just Ghost's gaze on him is enough to get him half hard these days, and the lingering adrenaline churning through his system only makes it worse. From the way Ghost's eyes drop to his crotch, it's obviously starting to show. Between the dim light and Ghost's typical all-black get up, Soap can't verify if his little pose is similarly affecting Ghost, but the intensity of Ghost's stare is enough to all but prove it.

He hadn't actually meant to start anything by stripping. He just wanted the bloody clothes off and away so he could wash up in the sink and start their meal prep. But they've been having regular sex for several months now, and Soap has slowly learned to read Ghost's moods.

The current mood seems to be that Ghost's adrenaline high hasn't crashed yet, either. And that's always good for Soap if they can manage to be alone.

Which they are.

Right now.

Ghost takes a step forward. Soap clicks his tongue at him.

"No' with all that blood all over ye. I'll admit it's hot to watch ye shank a terrorist, but it's not nearly as sexy when the blood's cold and congealed."

But Ghost doesn't stop. He rips off his gloves, shoves his mask above his nose, and drops to his knees between Soap's legs.

"Steamin' Jesus, Ghost. Yer pure gaggin' for it, arenae ye?"

"Shut the fuck up, Soap."

Soap laughs but cuts himself off with a moan a moment later at the feel of his boxers sliding down…

Heat gathers under John's shirt collar, and he pulls himself from the memory before it can leave him too uncomfortable. He clears his throat and takes a long sip of tea. Simon does the same, drinking down the mug before rising and clearing away the trash.

"Ye dinnae have to—"

"Consider it an apology for almost makin' you fall on your arse."

John snorts. Somehow the joke about falling from Simon doesn't bother him like it might from anyone else. He files that away as something to think about later.

Funny how that list seems to get longer every time they're together.

"Want another brew?" Simon calls from the kitchen.

"Aye."

He listens to Simon fill the kettle and set it to boil, and that sensation comes to him again: The two of them living life like they'd never been apart, Simon coming around whenever possible between deployments and maybe spending his weekends and leave with John. The whole idea is surreal, something he'd given up dreaming about a long time ago, and his brain can't decide whether he should be mad about it or cry about it.

Thankfully, he's familiar enough with the sensations now that he does neither.

Simon has been back in his life for two fucking days, and he's already carved out a space in John's life. It's dangerous, and John should be doing all he can to hit the brakes. But it's disorienting how easy it's been to just exist together again. Just like old times.

It still feels like a dream.

Or a nightmare.

No matter what Simon promises, John can't escape the undercurrent of fear. That Simon will take it all away again. That it will break him permanently the second time.

Alongside the fear, though, something else sparks to life despite the flood of grief threatening to snuff it out. And John begins to wonder if his love for Simon isn't the only thing that never quite drowned in those deep waters.

The spark grows, and it makes him bold.

"So, did ye come to the wedding already planning to bully me into accepting yer absurd demands, or was it a spur of the moment decision?"

Simon appears at the doorway from the kitchen, and John turns in his chair to face him head on. Simon's expression is neutral, but there's wariness in his gaze.

"When I found out you'd be at the weddin', I did plan on talkin' to you about makin' things easier for Gaz and Price. But then you didn't want to talk and... I was… guess I was surprised you were so mad. Thought you woulda forgotten about me already. They said you'd moved on a long time ago, and I had no reason to think otherwise. And you were…" Simon licks his lips before shrugging. "You looked good. Couldn't seem to let it go, even though I knew from that first meetin' that I should stay away."

"Ye were mad fer me in my dashing blue suit, were ye?"

Simon blinks, clearly not expecting the joke. He huffs and looks down before trailing his gaze up John's body. He isn't wearing anything special, just jeans and an old green button-up shirt that's seen too many washes, but Simon's gaze is hot as he looks John over before meeting his gaze.

"Had nowt to do with the suit, John."

John looks off to the side, his cheeks blazing as he tries to hide his smile. "Awa' an' dinnae talk pish."

Simon's laugh is soft and warm, and the needy part of John is already regretting rule one. He'd somehow forgotten the way Simon can get him hot under the collar with just a look.

Or maybe he just hadn't truly believed Simon still wanted this. Wanted him.

All the more reason to keep their interactions purely platonic. If he's this turned around from just a few innuendos and a distant memory, he can't imagine what kind of terrible, impulsive decisions he'd make if Simon were to come walking over, drop to his knees, and—

A buzzing and a distant chime from down the hall catches his attention, and he grimaces at both the direction of his thoughts and forgetting to bring his phone with him. "Shite. I need to answer tha'. Will ye hand me my cane?"

Simon obliges, and John makes his way back to his room as quickly as he can while adjusting his jeans. The buzzing has stopped, but he remembers that he left it next to his computer in the office. Just as he picks it up to check his messages, it lights up with a text.

John curses under his breath and quickly types out a response. Not answering his phone is one of Fiona's top three pet peeves. For good reason, of course. But just because it's his own fault doesn't make it any less annoying.

The response is immediate.

"Double shite."

John stands there staring at his phone. It seemed like a normal interaction, but he can't help thinking it's her way of buttering him up for the talk they didn't end up having last night. She usually balances her overprotective side by being conscientious of his boundaries, but since… everything, she's struggled to keep her worry in check.

It doesn't help that John had crashed before she got home the night before, too emotionally exhausted from Simon's visit to talk with his sister about what happened. He'd then dragged himself out of bed before she woke up and walked down to the gym for his Monday work out. By the time he returned, she'd already gone out with her friends for the day.

He heaves out a breath and returns to the kitchen in time to watch Simon pour them another cup of tea. He nods his head toward the living room and sits down on one of the side chairs — the same one he'd sat in the night before while waiting for Simon to wake up — and Simon sits in the other. The fabric groans a bit from his weight, and John flashes him a grin before he can think better of it. Simon rolls his eyes, but he's smiling too.

The smile drops when John announces, "Fi's gonna be back in about fifteen minutes."

Silence wraps around them as John takes a sip of his tea. He raises his brow at the hint of honey.

Simon was paying attention.

"That's your way of sayin' I should go then."

It isn't a question. John shrugs.

"I havenae talked to her about this yet. I need to prepare her for ye coming 'round."

"Can I… come by again tomorrow?"

John's heart leaps in his chest. He has to take another sip of tea to hide his reaction.

"Dinnae think tha's a good idea. This job from Laswell is gonna take most of my time until Thursday. Maybe we can meet up after I hand it off."

Simon leans forward in the chair, both hands wrapped around his mug as he stares into the dark brown liquid. He licks his lips and glances up.

"I could bring a book or somethin'? Read while you work? I'd stay quiet and outta your way."

The hesitation in Simon's voice is still so unfamiliar to John that he doesn't process the words right away. When he does, he can't help but be surprised. Because it sounds a whole lot like more begging. And yet John can't risk fucking up Laswell's job because he's mooning over the man who already broke his heart once instead of paying attention to his calculations.

Simon interprets John's silence for the rejection it is. He swallows down the rest of his tea, stands up, and takes his mug to the kitchen.

When he comes back, that look of determination has etched itself onto his face again. He pauses in front of John's chair, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.

"Thursday, then."

"Aye."

"Can I message you? Before then, I mean."

John bites his lip before nodding. "Aye, though I may no' be able to answer right away if I'm working. Which I will be. A lot."

The relief in Simon's tone takes John by surprise yet again, as do his words. "That's alright. Just... wanna get in the habit of keepin' in contact."

Simon pauses as if waiting for a reply, but the blackhole has opened up, stealing John's thoughts and threatening to jumble his words. Even if his brain would allow him to speak, he doubts he could force words past the lump in his throat that springs up along with a sudden rush of emotion. He manages a nod, and Simon nods back before bringing out his balaclava and pulling it over his head.

His eyes still tell John everything he needs to know, though, and John decides he was right about the melancholy. It hits him that he's not the only one who's changed in the past three years.

He has a bit of learning to do, too.

Simon blows out a soft breath and moves to the door to put on his boots. John stands up and slowly walks over as well, leaning on his cane as the world threatens to upend itself. The black hole eases enough to attempt a half joke.

"Tell Price to... to piss off fer me, eh?"

The melancholy disappears, and Simon's eyes crinkled around the edges as he glances up at John.

"Affirmative." He stands up and pulls his hood up over his head. "See ya, Johnn—"

That cut off sound again. The crinkles around Simon's eyes disappear. John grips his cane more firmly and slides his socked foot out to kick Simon's shin. Not hard… but not softly, either.

"Get out o' here before F... Fi comes back and... and gives ye another tongue lashing."

Simon huffs a wry laugh. Nods. And once more disappears through John's door.

Another sliver of hope lodges beside the first one in John's hollow chest. He both hates and craves it all at once.

He sighs and sits down to wait for Fi.

Art by Kiba (@kibagib)

Chapter Text

John hears the car pull into the drive and steps out to help Fiona bring in the groceries. The spring afternoon is almost warm, bright sunlight and a soft breeze blowing his hair into his eyes as he hurries out in just his jeans and a thin t-shirt. Before Fi can get out of the car, he's got the boot open and one arm lined with most of her canvas totes. He's gotten good at not toppling over from the uneven weight during the past year of solo shopping trips.

His arm is shaking a little, though, by the time he gets inside and drops the bags on the counter. He might've gone a bit too hard at the gym this morning trying to quiet his mind with physical exhaustion.

And then Simon showed up and ruined all that mind-numbing work.

A surge of giddy disbelief courses through him again at the memory of Simon on his doorstep, of Simon at his dining room table... followed by a rush of bitter anger at his own low standards. The man showed up once. So what? Price and Gaz never stopped showing up.

He grimaces at the realization that this will be an ongoing problem. He's never been one to hold grudges — notwithstanding terrorists and his father — but for his own good, he needs to assume that every interaction with Simon is a buried landmine just waiting to explode. He has to step carefully, or he'll end up in pieces.

Again.

And with all that sitting in the back of his mind, he's also got to somehow convince Fiona not to murder Simon the next time she sees him.

Fi arrives with the last of the bags, and they put away the groceries in silence, moving around each other in a dance of familiarity they'd started as kids and perfected over the past three years — still in sync despite the seven-year age gap and his stint in the military when he only saw her a few times a year. No matter what, they always fell back into their easy camaraderie.

Those two years living together before he enlisted were instrumental in that, he supposes.

Today, though, a slight tension underpins their movements, especially when she moves toward the sink. Her sudden stillness reminds him of the two mugs and two plates waiting there to be placed in the dishwasher. He expects her to say something. Instead, she jerks back into motion.

The silence grows. His skin prickles with the weight of words unsaid.

When the groceries are all relegated to their proper places in cabinets and fridge, Fiona grabs the final item — a bag of his favorite crisps — and hands it to him. The bag crinkles in his hand. He gives her a tentative smile and carefully places it on the counter.

"Thanks, but I just ate. I'll have 'em later."

"Smells like fish. Did ye go down tae the shop?"

"Ah... nae." John swallows and looks at his fingers where he plays with the filigree of his cane. "Simon brought it."

The hiss of an inhale through teeth is all the response he gets. He winces and looks up, only to find her leaning back against the counter, one hand covering her eyes and the other arm wrapped tight around her torso. The silence is heavy, and though he knows he hasn't done anything wrong, he can't help the surge of rebelliousness that shoots up his spine.

He's fifteen all over again, arguing with her at every turn, processing the hurt of his family's abandonment by lashing out at the only person he had left — just like the little punk he always was. But even struggling to provide for them while going through law school, Fiona took all his shite in stride.

He can only hope she'll do the same now.

Curling his free hand into a fist and closing his eyes, he lets out a soft sigh. She has a right to be upset after everything he put her through. A sense of calm washes over him, and he nods to himself.

"Say yer piece, Fi."

"I dinnae understand, John," she bursts out in a wavering tone. "What he did... how he treated ye... how can ye just let him... Christ!"

John is horrified to see a tear escape from behind her hand. He takes a step forward and reaches out, though he's too far away to touch her. He lets his hand fall back to his side as the shattered pieces of his heart tremble with sorrow.

"Fi, love... nothing's certain. I'm being careful. Told him he's got tae earn back my trust."

"Oh, tha' makes everything better, does it?" she snarks without uncovering her eyes. "What if he does it again? Are ye prepared for tha', John?"

A wave of grief rushes in to lap at his ankles. "Aye. It's always on my mind. He and I... we've talked about it."

"About him leavin' ye?"

The wave rises to his knees. He grits his teeth and stands firm against the current that tries to draw him deeper into the flood.

He knows she's only being cautious. Trying to make him see reason. But the words dig deep into his grief, dragging up all the doubt that's been with him since the moment he let Simon kiss him — and kissed him back — in that reception hall lavatory.

"About how I dinnae believe him when he says he willnae do it again. He knows I dinnae trust him."

She scoffs, though the rush of more tears from behind her fingers ruins the effect. "So what's his plan, then? Is he goin' tae come cryin' ev'ry time he fucks up?"

At least here he's on firmer ground. John is nothing if not certain that Simon Riley "crying" on their doorstep was a one-time, hell-freezes-over event.

"He's promised tae keep in contact and see me when he can. He also says he's going tae see a therapist, though I'll believe tha' when I see it." John hesitates before adding, "I dinnae think ye understand, Fi... tha' display on the porch? Tha' wasnae a Simon Riley any of us had ever seen before. Even Price."

"What the fuck does tha' mean?"

"It means..."

John blows out a breath, unsure of how to explain the enormity of the moment without tearing himself open and exposing that hollow place inside — a place he's hidden from her up to now.

It's an emptiness he thought he would carry to the end of his days.

But now, those shards of hope are lodged deep. And it scares the fuck out of him. From the tears still running down Fi's cheeks, he can tell it scares her, too.

Honesty might be the only way forward after all, no matter how messy.

He presses his lips together, closes his eyes, and lets the words flow.

"Of all the times I dreamed he'd come back and beg for forgiveness, all the times I let my fantasies run wild, something like tha' never entered my mind. It was too outlandish. Simon Riley would never cry, never let himself be vulnerable, never share all those feelings he buries."

John swallows and opens his eyes. Hot tears gather on his lower lid at the memory of Simon's head in his lap, of his gut-wrenching sobs and his tight hold on John's legs.

"But then came here, walked for hours to find me, and said things I never thought I'd hear. And instead of denying it when he sobered up, he doubled down. Swore he meant every word. And..." He shakes his head, his voice descending into a whisper. "He's been wearing my tags, Fi. All this time. Maybe it sounds like nothing to ye, but to me... to anyone who knows him..."

He trails off, at a loss for how to help her understand. He shakes his head and sighs.

"I dinnae have the words to describe it better."

Fi sucks in a shaking breath and pulls her hand down her face. Blood-shot, tear-filled eyes greet him, and he winces. His own tears escape at the movement, streaking down his cheeks, and she cocks her head to the side as a look of devastation crosses her face.

He takes another step forward and holds out his hand.

She reaches back and squeezes tightly before letting out an explosive sigh.

"It's yer life, John. Obviously, I cannae tell ye what tae do with it. So, if ye want tae give the bawbag another chance, then tha's what ye'll do." With her next deep breath, her expression hardens. "But I stand by what I've always said. I'll never forgive him for what he did tae ye, so dinnae expect me to be welcoming."

"I'd be disappointed if ye were," he says with a broken little laugh as he looks down at their joined hands.

It's more than he expected, though he knows she's always done her best not to be overbearing. Fear of turning into their father lingers between them like an unexploded landmine, too dangerous for either of them to dig too deeply into the other's life. He lifts his gaze to give her a small smile, and her hard expression melts into something softer, almost apologetic.

"Ye ken... ye ken I'm just scared, aye? So scared. I love yer stubborn arse too much tae lose ye."

The truth lands between them like a thrown gauntlet. Because no matter how much he improves or how many precautions he takes — medication and therapy and check ins — his past actions will always be there, like a shadow haunting his every move. He wants to be angry, to rant that he's quite literally not that person anymore with all the brain rehab he's gone through, but they both know her fear can't be reasoned away.

So instead of getting angry at something he can't control, he pulls at her hand. She comes to him, hugging him tightly around his middle as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. With a sigh and a kiss to her temple, he pulls back enough to look her in the eye.

"You willane lose me, Fi. I promise. He doesnae have that kind of power over me anymore."

The words don't feel like a lie, but they don't quite feel like the truth, either.

He can't think about that, though. The panic that's been with him since the wedding still sits too close to the surface to let those thoughts take over.

It'll be fine. He'll be fine.

He won't accept anything less.

"I ken..." she says with a sigh. "And I do trust ye. I guess I havenae worked through these feelings as well as I thought. And havin' him here... seein' him waltzin' about... it just stirs me all up."

"I told him no' tae come back 'til Thursday because I just got assigned a big work project, and I want tae spend whatever free time I have wit' ye. I can meet him somewhere else if it's easier on ye, though. I willnae force ye tae deal with him."

"And no' be able to keep an eye on him? Yer aff yer heid."

He laughs, and the grief recedes a bit more. She gives him a wry smile before it drops into a worried expression. He shakes her a bit.

"What's on yer mind now?"

She scrunches up her nose at him, but her words are tentative. "I thought I'd stay until Saturday dinner with the newly minted Garricks. I've still got tae apologize for skippin' out on 'em. But if ye want me tae leave sooner—"

"Fuck no. It's been almost two months since I saw ye last. Besides, yer much further away. If Simon wants tae see me, he can make the drive in an hour, not tae mention Kyle is already driving this way on the regular."

"If yer sure..."

There's too much wrapped up in those halting words for John to take them at face value. He pulls her close again.

"I'll be alright," he murmurs into her hair. "Even if everything goes tae hell, and he fucks aff never tae be seen again... I'll be alright."

She doesn't respond, but she squeezes him tighter, holding on as if she's scared to let go. He supposes he can't blame her.

The past is a noose around both their necks. Maybe one day, they'll cut the rope and be free, but it won't be today.

They hug in the middle of the kitchen for as long as it takes for Fi to remember she's the older sister and that she has a report to make. She pulls back and pats him on the cheek.

"Gave Price my best Scottish hag impression last night. He seemed properly cowed after tha'. Still alive. But cowed."

"Oh?"

"Aye. And... I ken ye probably dinnae want tae hear it right now, but he wanted me tae pass on tha' he's truly sorry."

John looks away, scrunches up his face and hums a doubtful tone. Sorry or not, the idea of even seeing Price right now sends lava through his veins.

He's pretty sure he's got enough of that volcano left for both Price and Simon.

Fi huffs a laugh and rubs his arm. "I told him ye'd be raging fer a while yet. But he promised he'd do whatever it takes tae get back on yer good side."

"Right. All these people betraying me and then promising they'll do whatever it takes tae make it right... maybe try not fucking up so phenomenally in the first place, hmmm?"

Fi is quiet, though he knows she's silently agreeing with him. He inhales and blows out a long exhale before meeting her gaze again.

"Sometimes it is hard to stay mad at them, though," he admits quietly. "Even the ones who took three years to figure out how badly they fucked up."

Fi's lips twist into a wry moue. "I ken. They're yer family."

"Yer my fam—"

"Och, Anno!" she says with a soft smack to his bicep. "But ye ken what I mean. Ye share blood with yer family. Just in this case, it's the blood from the baddies ye sent tae their graves together... and a fair bit of yer own as well. Tha's more meaningful than biological 'family,' who cannae be bothered tae pull their heids from their arses long enough tae see what an incredible man ye are."

John feels the burn of more tears at her words, but he's fucking tired of all the tears.

So he snorts and cracks a smile instead. "I s'pose ye've got a point there. But ye'll always be the most important."

Fi smiles back. "Oh, aye. I'm a fuckin' kick-arse sister."

And John wouldn't dare contradict that.

*

His eyes blur as he moves his electric toothbrush around his mouth in the habitual pattern, but the hint of blue draws his gaze to the brightly-colored spare toothbrush left on the counter from the day before — the toothbrush he'd lent to Simon. His mind blanks out for a moment as exhaustion and an unwillingness to address the sudden surge of emotions open up a black hole wide enough to swallow him whole.

The subtle burn of mint toothpaste on his gums brings him back, and he quickly spits and rinses.

His head spins from not enough sleep paired with a full day of lunch with Simon, heavy conversation with Fi, meeting with his therapist — who, after five minutes of chatting, had immediately scheduled him for a full session on Friday — and then staring at building plans while running constant calculations in his head. He'd only paused to cook and eat dinner with Fi before diving back in, but he has yet to find anything close to a safe solution that won't take three days and three people to set up.

He consoles himself that he still has two more days and prays to whatever god is listening that it'll be enough.

As he pads into his room and sinks into his lovely, soft mattress, a buzz sounds from his nightstand. He frowns and reaches over to check his messages.

He still hasn't read Price's messages, though he's feeling a tiny bit less like punching the wanker in the face after Fiona's report of his contrition. However, the message waiting for him isn't from Price.

A breathy laugh explodes from his lungs. How pathetic is he that he missed this?

John snorts and lets the phone fall to his chest. He's mentally and physically exhausted, but for the first time in three days, he doesn't feel like the world is falling down around him. It feels too soon to hope, but those slivers remain firmly lodged in that formerly hollow space inside him.

Once a fool...

*

The next two days fly by in a jumble of math, schematics, quick breaks to spend time with Fi... and amazingly, more texts from Simon. They come through at various times during the day, though John doesn't allow himself to check his phone except at meal breaks. Any time he texts back, though, Simon's responses are almost instant, and they go on to chat about whatever comes up — updates from Simon on the day's news, mundane things they did that day, or occasionally surface-level conversations about their lives during their three years apart — until John has to get back to work.

It feels surreal. Like he's going to wake up and find it was all a dream.

He tells himself Simon is only responding so much because he's on leave and bored out of his ghostly skull.

And yet this is the first time he's ever heard from Simon while on leave. Even during that full month of leave Price forced them to take the summer before John was injured and discharged, he hadn't heard from Ghost once. And not for lack of trying.

When he got back from that particular leave, though... that was a different story altogether. Another example of Ghost's changeability, he supposes.

The memories steal over him before he can push them away.

Soap steps off the bus, hefting his duffle higher on his shoulder as he jumps through the hoops of base security and then heads for his room in the sergeants' barracks. Technically, he's back a day early, but he sent Price and Ghost a message about it and received no reply. He doubts that Price will complain...

Or that Ghost will care.

Beyond the directive to keep things quiet, he hadn't thought much about his and Ghost's "arrangement" during the past few months. The quick fucks and Ghost's hot mouth or big hands were a welcome repreive from having to go out looking for a hook up. And with Gaz spending time with Belle instead of at the bars, it's given Soap an excuse to not go out either, though Gaz has started to give him worried looks now and then.

He's assured Gaz it's no big deal. That he's just not in the mood.

He hadn't realized he was lying to himself until this past month of zero contact.

It's not like he's ever heard from Ghost while on leave before. He has no idea where the man goes or what he does, though he assumes he goes back to Manchester, which, relatively speaking, isn't that far away from Glasgow...

And yet every message he sent to the only number he has for Ghost was left untouched. Not even read. It's enough to make him wonder if Ghost doesn't take his phone on leave, though realistically, he knows Ghost would never throw away an opportunity for Price to call him back to base early.

The thoughts swirling in his head and the tension in his muscles leave him feeling sick to his stomach. Because even with a month off to relax, even with days upon days to catch up with Fiona and enjoy her company, even with the invitation from Gaz to visit his family and spend a few days with them in London, his mind has been frozen up for weeks at the lack of a gritty Manc's voice in his ear.

But it's more than his mind. And more than his cock, too, though he can admit he's a bit pent up going from regular sex to nothing at all for four weeks.

It's a frozen feeling in his chest. Creaking ice waiting for a hard blow to shatter him into pieces.

And that's how he knows he's totally fucked — but not in the good way.

He stopped texting after five untouched messages, and he's glad he managed to keep the first messages light so he never looked quite as desperate as he was beginning to fe—

Before he can think to shout, a hand covers his mouth and another grabs his wrist, pulling him into a narrow space between buildings. Soap struggles against the hold, grasping at a wall of muscle before reeling his free hand back for a punch. A massive body crowds him against the wall, destroying his leverage, at the same moment a familiar growl freezes him in place.

"Calm the fuck down, Johnny. It's just me."

At the sound of that voice, Soap's body goes from high alert to horny so fast his head spins. He looks up to find a familiar pair of brown eyes glaring at him from behind a skull-printed balaclava.

"Ghost?"

"Who else?"

"I dunno. I've never been dragged into a cozy alcove by my C.O. before. Ye got a 'mission' for me?"

Soap punctuates the word with a hard squeeze to the parts of Ghost's body he can reach while being essentially pinned to a wall with said body. He feels the flex of a bicep under his fingers as well as the fine tremble of Ghost's hip under his hand.

"Always gotta flap your mouth at me," Ghost growls again.

There's a strange tenor to the sound, though, and a breathlessness to the tone he doesn't recognize. Something about it punts Soap's brain into the stratosphere, leaving him to run his mouth without any kind of filter.

"I have it on good authority that ye like my mouth."

Soap surges upward, fitting his lips over Ghost's covered ones. Ghost reels back, and Soap almost whines. Before the sound can pass his lips, though, Ghost lifts the mask above his nose and crashes their mouths together.

It's rough and desperate and everything Soap needs.

He curls his arm around Ghost's neck and rolls his hips. Ghost gives him the most delicious full-body shudder in return, his breaths sounding almost panicked as he presses Soap harder into the brick.

"Gonna leave bruises," Soap says between Ghost's assault on his lips.

"Do you care?"

"Prefer it, actually."

"Fuckin' mental," Ghost grunts between kisses.

"Ye like that, too," Soap says with a smile.

Ghost's hands squeeze his hips hard, and Soap moans into his mouth. He's fucking gone. Completely wrecked with only a few kisses and the growing length of Simon's cock pressing against his pelvis.

A voice in the distance registers in Soap's mind just before Ghost pulls away to grab Soap's duffle off the ground where he'd dropped it and drag him further into the space between buildings. A door appears on their right, and Ghost pushes into it before kicking the small rock out of the doorway and letting it latch closed behind them.

They're in some kind of storage area, though Soap's eyes haven't adjusted enough to see much. Not that he cares when Ghost slams him against the door, this time reaching for Soap's waistband. Soap's jeans are undone, and Ghost's hand is sliding into his pants before he can process the movement.

His whole body fucking lights up at the skin-on-skin contact.

And not just any skin. Not just any contact.

Ghost's.

Not to be outdone, Soap slams their mouths back together as he reaches for Ghost's trouser button. He flicks it open, and the moment he curls his hand around Ghost, the man honest-to-God gasps into his mouth.

Soap moans again, fighting against an embarrassingly early urge to come. His own hand could never compare to the feeling of Ghost's big, callused palm.

But beyond the physical sensations, a hurricane of pure relief whirls through him at the knowledge that Ghost is just as desperate for this as him. Ghost is not normally one to risk these kinds of semi-public liaisons, but here they are in some random storage room jerking each other off where anyone could find them.

All because Ghost couldn't wait another few hours for the cover of night.

He thrusts his hips forward into the scant space between them, throwing his head back as their cocks slide together.

"Want it that way, eh?" Ghost pants against his lips as he wraps his big hand around them both. "Can't say I mind."

Soap doesn't respond — can't respond. The surge of pleasure has short-circuited his brain. He gives up on trying to kiss Ghost, his chest heaving with perpetual breathlessness. Want sparks through his body like lightning, and his limbs tingle with the building pressure.

Ghost is so close, Soap can't see anything else, his body curling over and around Soap. He is Soap's whole world, his only focal point, and the realization of his feelings over the past few weeks only enhances the sensation.

He curls a hand over Ghost's, eager to feel them moving together, as he wraps an arm around Ghost's neck and pulls him even closer. Their foreheads press together. Their gazes lock. The pleasure sparks pure and clear as Soap rolls his hips for extra friction.

It only takes a few thrusts before Ghost squeezes his eyes closed, buries his face in Soap's neck, and exhales a deep, shuddering moan. Slick warmth coats their fingers.

And Soaps has no walls left. No defenses against watching the man he loves fall apart in his arms.

He closes his eyes. Turns his face inward to graze needy lips over the skin behind Ghost's ear. Loses himself in the landslide of passion.

And though he senses the danger — knows there are reasons why Ghost left him hanging for a full month — he can't help himself.

He'll love Ghost as long as the man lets him.

And damn the consequences.

John leans forward in his office chair, props his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands while refusing to address the physical reaction the memories bring with them.

Still, it's official. Rule two is a total bust.

He's become even better acquainted than usual with his own hand over the past few days in an attempt to keep his thoughts from straying to his physical wants. The results are... not promising.

Still, it's better than letting himself get wrapped up in an actual physical relationship with Simon, especially because the real test will be when the 141 goes back to base.

On base, Simon has duties to distract him. And if the drills and paperwork don't keep him busy enough to forget all about John, then the missions and long deployments will.

He thinks he's been doing a good job not letting those slivers of hope grow, but the warmth in his chest is concerning.

He needs to hold back.

Needs to be strong.

But it's harder than he thought it would be, even when deliberately reminding himself of everything Simon did to him.

He leans up and clicks off his computer with a sigh.

As he stands from his chair, back and neck cracking from sitting in one place for too long, he finishes up a reminder checklist of things to triple check early tomorrow morning before he sends the files back to Laswell. The project is mostly done, though he gave up on a full building demo after finding out Laswell wants them in and out of the building in less than an hour. He's put the basic schematic together for a half demo with one person, and even that only works if they pre-build all eleven bombs.

He'll leave the details about how the fuck they plan to get all those pre-built bombs into the building to Laswell. She's always got an ace or two up her sleeve.

Still, the idea of one person getting through planting all those charges in an enemy building without getting caught seems like a fantasy, but perhaps the building is just near the target and they're using it as a distraction? He doesn't know, and it frustrates him.

Laswell would tell him if it were important to the job, though.

He has to trust that, or he'll lose what's left of his mind.

He walks into his room and picks up his phone to find three more terrible jokes sent by Simon throughout the afternoon. He sends a row of eye roll emojis. Within seconds, three gray dots appear.

John bites his lip as he brings his phone with him to the kitchen. Fiona went out for dinner with her friends, so the house is empty. But after being cooped up for days in his windowless office, he's not really in the mood to be alone.

Usually that's when he'd call Gaz or Belle. Or Alan.

Regret clangs around in his exhausted brain, and he vaguely wonders if he should check in with his... friend? Ex? They hadn't talked about rules for contact, so he assumed he should wait until Alan wanted to talk. But he also wants to make sure Alan knows he's still welcome to come to their "family" dinners.

Though maybe not to his particular Saturday dinner. It's going to be enough of a shitshow with Price there. And if Ghost decides to stick around...

With a sigh, he makes a note in his reminder app to talk to Kyle and Belle about it. They're due back on Friday evening, so they'll have time to prepare for what's sure to be a tense evening, though he grimaces when he remembers they don't actually know about his break up with Alan.

Or about his tentative truce with Simon.

Or about his grudge against Price.

Christ, his life truly has turned upside down in a matter of days. No wonder he's exhausted. He steps into the kitchen and leans on the counter, letting his head droop between his shoulders.

His brain is a bit muddled from working long hours, so when he eventually gets moving again, he heads for the tea drawer and picks out a soothing herbal tea, hopeful it will help him sleep. As he starts the water boiling and pulls down a mug, his mind begins to drift, fingers tapping against the counter. He's pulled out of the fog by a buzz in his pocket and unlocks his phone to find another message from Simon.

John stares at the message until the kettle beeps at him. Before he can second guess himself, he taps the call button and presses the speaker option as he fixes his tea.

It makes it half a ring before Simon's voice fills John's kitchen.

"I'll take that as a no."

"What makes ye say tha'?" John asks, genuinely curious how Simon had figured it out.

"Your texts seemed off."

John hums and frowns as he taps through to their messages and reads back through his texts. He supposes tonight's messages have a curt edge to them that more resembles their exchanges earlier in the week rather than the longer, more in-depth conversations of the day before.

That doesn't mean there's something wrong, though.

"Admit it. Ye guessed."

"I didn't," Simon says with a snort. "I know things've changed, and I'm learnin' about that stuff. But... you're not as different from the MacTavish I remember as you seem to think."

A strange shiver runs down John's spine as he stares at his steeping tea. He thinks about Soap. About Johnny. About how he'd drowned them both in his ocean of grief.

About how Simon has churned up that ocean. About how the waters have receded just enough to reveal things he thought long dead.

"Or mebbe ye bring it out in me."

"Maybe. So what's wrong, then?"

"Nothing special. Just worn thin with this job. And all the people I'd usually call arenae available."

"So I win by virtue of bein' the last standin'?" Simon huffs a wry laugh. "At least I rate above Price right now."

John laughs. "Aye, yer neck and neck, but his fuck up was more recent, so ye win by default."

Simon is quiet for a moment, and John swallows. He's not exactly sorry for saying it, but he hadn't really thought about it, either. His filter went out the window about a day and a half ago.

"Ah, well—"

"Are you—"

They pause and then both breathe out a quiet laugh.

"What were ye going to say?" John asks.

"Just wanted to make sure you're okay with me stayin' for Gaz and Belle's dinner on Saturday. Price mentioned he's gonna bow out and get some work done before we're all back on Monday."

"Tell Price to fuckin' man up and take his lumps. Gaz and Belle will want him there."

Simon grunts. "Damn... I'm beginnin' to see what a bloody pain in the arse it is to be in the middle."

John barks a laugh. "And Price and I have only been at odds for a few days. Price and Gaz have been dealing with our eejit arses for years."

"Guess I owe Price some nice cigars. Have to think of somethin' for Gaz, too."

John quiets at that, the idea of giving Price a gift leaving a bad taste in his mouth despite the indisputable fact that he's put Price through the ringer over the years.

Price could've ditched him when things got complicated. It would've been all too easy to excuse his absence with the amount of work he has to do as captain of the 141. But he stuck around, helped Fi with the house remodel, stayed with John whenever he could to give her a break, and later helped John get his job at the MOD. John knows first hand how busy life in the 141 can be, but Price has always made time for him.

He grumbles a bit to himself as he resolves to talk to Price on Saturday.

Even if he is still angry as fuck.

He hasn't decided if he wants to thank or curse Gaz for the wedding that brought him and Simon back together. Depends on how things shake out over the next few weeks, he supposes.

"Talkin' to yourself now?"

"Shut yer pus," John huffs. "I'm leaving it to... to ye to tell Gaz and Belle what's going on. Also, Fi is coming, so gird yer loins for ba... battle."

Fuck. It's getting harder to pull words out of the heavy gravity of his exhausted mind. The blackhole hasn't appeared, yet, but he can feel it coming. He clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath.

"Noted. Should I wear my body armor?"

"No' a bad idea, actually."

The timer buzzes, and he focuses on his tea. He pulls out the strainer and taps the leaves into the trash.

"Makin' a brew?"

"Hmm? Oh, y...eah. Just some her... h... some tea that helps me sleep."

"I'd throw your 'fuckin' Brits' back at you if I didn't think—"

"That I'd kick your... your arse for c-calling me a... a... a Brit?"

Simon hums a laugh and ends on a sigh. "Sounds like maybe you need that brew and a good night's sleep."

And John opens his mouth.

But nothing comes out.

The blackhole sucks all his words away. He tries to breathe out something... anything, but the blankness envelopes him.

"John?"

John slams his fist on the counter, tears burning in the back of his eyes.

"S'alright. I'll hang up and text you?"

The call cuts off, and John picks up his phone, breathing through the burn. He is so fucking tired of crying lately.

And being tired.

And failing to power through it all like he could before.

God—

God—

John takes deep breaths as he types out his lie.

The pause is longer than usual. John almost feels bad about bringing it up.

Almost.

But he can't fucking walk on eggshells anymore. He refuses to live in fear that anything he says might push Simon away. If Simon can't handle him anymore—

John surprises himself by laughing aloud at that, and the blackhole begins to subside, as does the panic and anxiety that had taken hold. He breathes a bit easier as he takes his tea back to his room and contemplates how to answer Simon's question.

Fi has made it clear she doesn't intend to forgive or forget, but if by some miracle Simon sticks around this time, John wonders if she'll eventually change her mind.

Probably best not to hope.

*

That night, John dreams of a warm body curled around him in bed.

Of a graveled voice murmuring words of adoration in his ear.

Of big arms cradling him and hands skimming his overheated skin.

He dreams of turning around only to find himself utterly alone in the dark, an echo of "there is no us" ringing in his ears.

Art by Kiba (@kibagib on Tumblr and Twitter)

Chapter Text

"If I wanted to know something but it was classified information, would ye tell me?"

John asks the question while sitting in his office answering MOD emails he's neglected all week in favor of Laswell's time-sensitive project. He pauses, leans back, and peers through the open door into his bedroom to judge Simon's response. As his gaze sweeps over the room, he ignores the nerves that prickle to life under his skin.

It's just because he had an exceptionally hard week.

And a few disturbing dreams.

And, alright, maybe it's a little bit because an unmasked Simon Riley is sitting in his bed in jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, his back propped up by John's pillows as he calmly reads an Agatha Christie novel.

An image right out of his wildest fantasies.

Simon had appeared on John's doorstep at 1300 on the dot and hadn't batted an eye when John told him he wasn't done working for the day. Instead, he quietly pulled out his book and sat down on the couch to read. However, when Fiona came down the stairs two seconds later and glared daggers at Simon while muttering curses under her breath as she made her way to the kitchen, John decided to make a tactical retreat. He pulled Simon back to his room, pointed at the bed, and made a bee-line for his office.

They've been sitting in silence for the past hour, despite the increasing electrical storm sparking over John's skin with every soft shuffle of fabric or crackle of turning pages coming from the other room. It's distracting, and part of him wishes he'd told Simon to wait until later in the afternoon.

At least it's confirmation that he would've bombed Laswell's job if he'd allowed Simon to come over throughout the week. John's body is too attuned to Simon's presence — always has been and apparently always will be — and it's a losing battle to stay focused when he's got callused hands, soft lips, and hard muscles on the brain.

He feels like a fucking teenager all over again, painfully aware of his latest crush's every move.

It's fucking ridiculous. But he can't seem to stop. Even his dreams won't leave him in peace, and they have the added disadvantage of turning to nightmares as often as not.

Stop thinking about it.

Simon lowers his book and looks over. Their eyes meet, and the sparks along John's skin turn into a constant buzz of nervous energy coursing through his body. He swallows down an urge to laugh hysterically.

Because he remembers this. Remembers the shivers and amped up energy from just being in Simon's presence. Remembers the heat and the want—

For fuck's sake. Get yourself together.

Simon breaks eye contact as he looks down and shrugs. "As long as you're not plannin' to use it against me, I don't see why not."

Just the answer he was hoping for. He rereads his reply one more time just to be sure he's covered everything regarding his upcoming demolitions course in Kineton. He's nervous but also excited to be back on a military base; it helps that it's familiar territory from his younger days when things weren't so fraught — the place where he learned a lot of what he was about to teach.

But that's still a few weeks away. Right now, he has questions, and Simon has answers.

John is feeling almost normal after a decent night's sleep, so he hops up from his chair, runs over, and lifts his legs as he jumps so he lands upright beside Simon on the bed. With a curse followed by a huff of laughter, Simon reaches out to steady him when he wobbles and falls into Simon due to the violent movement.

"Bloody hell. Still reckless as ever. You'll knock us both out of bed."

John snorts his derision and waves away Simon's concerns as the spinning quickly dies down. "It's fine. Now, tell me. What happened with Makarov? Gaz and Price willnae give me the details."

Simon stills, his hand falling away from John's shoulder. His gaze goes unfocused for a moment before he turns narrowed eyes on John.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to know?"

John furrows his brows, more confused than offended by the question. "Because the fucker took away my life, Simon, and I wanna know how his ended. Kyle said ye were the one to radio in the KIA, but tha's all he'd tell me."

"Because that's all he knows."

John frowns. "Confidential stuff?"

"Negative," Simon rumbles. He closes his book and sets it aside before leaning his head back against the wall. "Told everyone he was already dead when I found him."

A buzzing starts up under John's skin. Turns out he still knows Simon well enough to read between the lines. He licks his lips as he studies Simon's bare-faced profile, but the man they call the Ghost is too good at hiding his emotions, even without the mask.

John knows he's close to the truth. So he does something he hasn't done in ages.

He pushes.

"Oh? Seems strange tha' one of his own would do tha' to him."

Simon blinks and turns his head enough to give John a side glance. "Do what?"

"Price said his body was too mangled to ID him by sight."

A soft hum is Simon's only reply as he returns to staring at the ceiling. John turns too, mimicking the position.

The buzzing under his skin leaves his limbs restless with pent-up energy. He taps his fingers silently on his thigh.

He understands the implications. He knows the score.

But fuck if he doesn't want to hear Simon say it.

He wants to hear all the words. All the ones he denied himself when Simon refused to acknowledge what they had and John refused to push him. He wants to draw them out and use them to finally remake his shattered heart into something stronger.

Something that can withstand Simon's harsher moods without falling to pieces again.

Simon moves again, bringing his legs up and leaning forward to loosely curl his arms around his knees. His face is partially obscured by the angle, but John can see the deep frown lines marring his face.

"You sure you wanna hear this?"

"Wouldnae have asked if I didn't."

Simon nods.

The silence builds into a suffocating weight over them both as Simon pulls in a long breath and lets it out slowly. His voice when he speaks is little more than a rasp.

"About a year after you... after what happened in the tunnels, Farah and Alex discovered a Konni cell in Urzikstan. A big one. Laswell picked up chatter that they were plannin' somethin' in the area. Said there was a chance Makarov was with them. I didn't believe it at first. Too good to be fuckin' true, y'know?"

John only hums softly in agreement; he's too desperate for a glimpse of the world he was forced to leave behind to risk distracting Simon by speaking. A story like this is far more than he expected when he asked the question, and he'll take every scrap of information Simon is willing to offer.

"Bravo team was on the ground in some shit town on the Urzikstan Russian border waitin' for Farah's troops to drive the Konni northwest into our ambush. But as always, the slippery bastards seemed to be a step ahead. We had to split up. I was followin' a group of 'em through an abandoned building when I caught sight of him. Fuckin' Makarov himself." Simon clears his throat and swallows hard, and his voice grows harsher as he continues. "I cornered them and whittled down his guards until it was just him and me. There was about thirty minutes between then and when I called it in. Put a bullet through his brain with his own gun... but not before I made him fuckin' suffer."

John stills even as his heart takes off in a gallop, thundering against his ribs. He keeps his eyes glued to what he can see of Simon's profile, but the man's face is carved in granite. Simon remains silent, as if he's waiting for John to render some kind of judgment.

But John is...

He's flooded with the absolute feral joy of knowing that Makarov suffered. That it wasn't a quick kill. That perhaps that fucker felt a tiny portion of the fear and horror and devastation he'd inflicted on countless others over the years, including John.

Fuck.

Fuck.

It's a heady feeling; the elation courses through his veins like a drug. Because John is certain — absolutely certain — that Simon's emotions led him down the path of torturing a target for half an hour and then lying on official government documents about it.

John worked with the Ghost long enough to know he has a sadistic streak. Most people in their line of work do to some degree. But John also knows when it comes down to taking the shot, Ghost never hesitates. Never draws things out. He's always focused on the mission and completing the goal as efficiently as possible.

Ghost might threaten his targets — which John was always more than happy to join in on, especially when it was Shepherd or Graves — but he never let personal feelings dictate how he responded to a situation.

Until Makarov.

"Good," John finally whispers through the lump forming in his throat. "Fucking good."

Simon doesn't look back. He doesn't move at all until he opens his mouth again, his voice coming out in an even deeper, graveled rasp.

"Could say I did it for you. And that'd be partly true. But mostly, I did it for me. I was so fuckin' angry, John. All the time. Price reprimanded me a couple times, but it made no difference." Simon leans forward until his forehead is resting on his knees. "The fucker took away my life, too. And I wanted him to suffer for it."

John closes his eyes as the words roll over him like a tank. He doesn't want to read into it, but it's difficult to explain the words in any other way than—

"Ye mean he took me away?" John whispers.

"That's what I fuckin' said."

It's everything. Christ, it's fucking everything.

And yet he can't help that bitter voice in the back of his head reminding him that Simon still left.

"They might've kicked me out of the military, but like I said before, I wasnae dead. Ye were the one who gave up on me."

"I know. It wasn't about that. It was..." Simon pauses. Taps his forehead against his knees. "Fuck. I'm gonna say the wrong fuckin' thing if we keep talkin' about this."

"Like what? Tha' me being gone felt like a knife twisting in the gut? Tha' my discharge was like a death in the Task Force? I felt it, too, ye know? And I was the one left hanging without a purpose." John sucks in a ragged breath as the flood of grief fights with explosive anger yet again. "Tha's why I needed my friends so badly. Why I needed you. And why I—"

John cuts himself off, suddenly and painfully aware that they've devolved into rehashing the same argument. It's true that they might need to talk through things a few times before they come to a resolution, but... it's too soon. The anger and despair is still too close to the surface.

Too likely to cause collateral damage.

Besides, John hasn't had a chance to talk to his therapist, and Simon probably hasn't either.

If Simon actually plans to find one at all.

John squeezes his eyes closed and pushes the thought away. He can't let himself trust Simon. Not yet. But he refuses to be the kind of person who holds a grudge and hurts people just because he feels it's justified.

He refuses to become his fucking father.

John takes a deep breath as he stands at the front door of his childhood home, raises a hand, and knocks. A few minutes pass. He's just about to knock again when the door opens to reveal a much older but still lovely Mary MacTavish.

She opens her mouth to say something, but whatever it is dies on her lips when their gazes collide. Her hand flies up to grab at her shirt over her heart.

"John?" she whispers, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Hey, mam."

Before he can say anything else, Mary surges forward and pulls him into a fierce hug. "John, love," she whispers, "it's so good tae see ye. Oh, God. God, I've missed ye so."

His chest cracks open at the desperate way she clings to him. He wraps his arms around her thin frame and closes his eyes as the warmth of his mother's love washes over him.

The creak of the entry floorboard — the one his teenage self memorized and deftly avoided every time he snuck out of the house — lets him know they aren't alone.

"I told ye no' tae come back 'ere."

His father's first words to him in six years are disappointing... but not surprising. John keeps his eyes closed but loosens his grasp in case his mother wants to break the hug.

"Step away from him, Mary," his father orders.

She does pull away, but only so she can turn and place herself between them — as if she can shield John from the waves of vitriol pouring from his father. "He's our son, Alastair. Please."

"Has he finally confessed his sins and come looking for forgiveness, then?"

"'Course not," John grasps his mother's shoulders and gently moves her out from between them, standing directly in front of Alastair MacTavish. "I'd have tae do something wrong tae need forgiveness. You, on the other hand, can feel free tae ask me for forgiveness any time ye like."

For the second time in John's memory, the anger in his father's perpetually disapproving expression boils over into something worse. Something that looks a whole lot like hate.

A fist flies toward John's face.

The violent reaction surprises John, but he still catches his father's fist in his hand, reflexes primed and well-trained muscles not giving way from the impact. Four years in the military had done him some good after all.

"If ye wanted tae take a swipe at me, ye shoulda done it before I joined up," John growls. "It's been six years, Da. When are ye gonna let it go?"

"Never," his father spits out before ripping his fist out of John's hand and taking a step back inside the house. "Yer an embarrassment tae the family, a stain on the MacTavish name. If ye step foot on my property again, I'll call the police."

John reaches for Mary's hand just as Alastair grasps her arm to pull her back toward the house. She holds John's hand in a death grip as silent tears stream down her face.

"Bye mam."

"John."

Her whisper slices through his chest like a serrated knife. He presses a kiss to her hand, squeezes once, and let's go as he turns away from his implacable father.

There will be no reconciliation today.

The memory is bitter, but it's also a reminder that while his father will never ask for forgiveness — will never think he's done anything that requires it — Simon is asking. And he's trying to do better.

John knows he doesn't owe Simon anything. But according to his very wise older sister, forgiveness isn't about who's owed what. It's an active choice that a person can make with or without the other person.

He doesn't think he'll ever be able to forgive his father.

But Simon?

More than ever, John hopes Simon will prove that cynical inner voice wrong over the next few weeks. That they'll continue along this path until John can let go of the past and grab onto those shards of hope for the future.

John comes back to himself when Simon starts rocking. It's a subtle motion — no more than a centimeter or two of distance between the back and forth — but John's only seen him do it a few times, mostly when he's exhausted, hovering on the edge of sleep, or injured and hopped up on meds.

John raises a hand.

Hesitates.

Reaches forward.

Simon jolts, but he doesn't move away as John rests his hand in the curve of Simon's shoulder blade and rubs his hand in small circles. Simon stops rocking and leans into the touch.

"Thank ye for telling me about Makarov," John murmurs. "I... I needed to know."

Simon nods once. They sit in silence until a muted clatter reaches them from beyond the closed door. John sighs, and with a final pat, he gets up to make them some tea.

*

To: John C. MacTavish
From: Cpt. Reginald Carter
Subject: DEMS Training Regiment class

John,

Thank you for your quick reply to my most recent email regarding class size. We've had a surge of interest in your class since the rumor of your involvement with a certain special ops task force was somehow leaked on base. I've cut off enrollment at your recommendation of ten intermediate-level students.

Would you be opposed to teaching a second class on the same days? How much time between classes would you need to set up?

I've also had a few upper level soldiers (two staff sergeants and a warrant officer class 2) ask about a more strenuous, focused class on IEDs with more complicated construction and detonation methods. Would that interest you? If so, how much time would you need to put together a seminar-style course? Let's say two or three day-long sessions at various days and times that work for the students?

Please let me know if you have any further questions.

Thank you,

Cpt. Reg Carter
Defence Explosive Ordnance Disposal, Munitions and Search Training Regiment
Royal School of Military Engineering
MOD Kineton

To: Cpt. Reginald Carter
From: John C. MacTavish
Subject: Re: DEMS Training Regiment class

Cpt. Carter,

A second class would be great. An hour between classes should do it, though I'll need additional supplies — same as the list I provided for the first class.

I'd be happy to put together a few day-long seminars focused on more complex explosives. I wouldn't want more than three or four in that class, though, and I'd need a bigger materials budget. I can have the first seminar ready in as soon as three weeks. As long as you schedule it on a day I'm not teaching the other classes, I'm open.

Thanks,

John

To: John C. MacTavish
From: Cpt. Reginald Carter
Subject: Re: DEMS Training Regiment class

John,

That's great news. I'll take care of ordering additional supplies for the second intermediate class. Once you know what you need, send me the list for the first seminar as well. I'll work on finding times when all three of the interested soldiers can be present and get back to you.

Thank you,

Cpt. Reg Carter

*

On Friday, Fiona beats John to the door. He rounds the corner into the living room just in time to hear her greeting.

"Oh, so ye do know how tae fuckin' show up! Two days in a row, even. Too bad yer a few years too late, ye tadger."

John grips her shoulders from behind. "Thank ye, Fi. I can take it from here."

After giving Simon a narrow-eyed glare, she lets out a heavy sigh and turns to face John. "Headed out, then?"

"Aye."

"Call me if ye need me."

"Ye know I will," he promises.

She pushes up on her toes and gives John a soft kiss on the cheek before turning to punch Simon hard in the shoulder. John presses his lips in a thin line to keep from laughing at Simon's wide-eyes as he watches her turn on her heel and walk away. As soon as she disappears into the kitchen, he lets out a quiet huff and rubs a hand over the spot where she punched him.

"Fuck. That actually hurt a little."

"Tha's 'cause she's a MacTavish and doesnae know how to pull her punches. I'll talk to her about it. I know yer no wilting flower, but she shouldnae go around assaulting people. She's a solicitor fer fuck's sake."

Simon shrugs. "If it keeps her from tryin' to murder me, maybe it's for the best."

"Naw. A taste of blood only makes a MacTavish bite down harder."

"Hmmm... seem to remember somethin' about that."

Simon's voice switches from wry to low and teasing on a dime, leaving John gaping like fish out of water. Heat floods his body from his ears all the way down to his traitorous dick.

"Aye, well..." He clears his throat and gestures out the door. "I thought mebbe we could take a walk if yer up for it?"

Simon nods and steps back out the door. It's still cool, even for May, so John pulls on a jumper over his gray t-shirt and slips on his running shoes before closing and locking the door behind him. He's feeling better than he has in weeks, not even a hint of vertigo in his peripherals, but he keeps his cane in hand. He's all too aware of how fast things can change when it comes to his brain.

"Hungry?" Simon asks.

"I didnae have lunch. You?"

"I could eat."

"Which means ye did eat but, yer still a bottomless pit."

Simon grunts an affirmative, a hint of a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, though the smile itself is hidden behind his plain black balaclava. A vision of Simon straight out of the shower flashes in John's mind, and he bites his lip and looks away.

Clearly, three years hasn't affected his metabolism... or made a dent in all that muscle.

The shopping district isn't far, just a couple of kilometers down the road, and the late spring morning is pleasantly sunny. They walk in comfortable silence for the most part, quiet conversation popping up here and there as well as a bit of their old banter.

They find a cafe and have lunch, Simon pulling up his mask enough to eat and drink. A few people stare, but John just stares right back until they notice him and quickly look away.

"You don't have to do that, y'know."

"What?"

"The pissed off stare."

"I'll stop when they start minding their own fucking business."

Simon huffs a laugh before taking a final bite of his sandwich. He washes it down with the last gulp of his tea before pulling his mask down again.

"You're quiet," he says as the mask settles into place.

John frowns. "Sorry? I can try to be more chatty if ye like."

"No, I meant..." Simon's eyes scrunch up like he's grimacing. "Just wanted to make sure everythin' was okay, I guess."

"Yeah? As good as it can be, anyway. Price is still a thorn in my side, but otherwise I think this" —He gestures between the two of them— "is going... okay? Better than I..."

John trails off and shrugs before taking the final bite of his own sandwich. The bell over the door jingles as a few more patrons wander in for a late lunch, but Simon's gaze never leaves John.

"So... that's a difference, then?"

John's frown deepens as he swallows, wipes his mouth and takes a drink of water. The conversation has taken an odd turn, and he's not quite following Simon's train of thought.

"I dinnae ken what yer on about... what diff—" John cuts off as he remembers their conversation from Monday. Suddenly, the pieces click together. "Ye mean that I dinnae talk as much as I used to... before?"

"Just somethin' I noticed."

"Bad noticed?"

Simon shrugs and looks down at the table as he crosses his arms over his chest. It's the same defensive stance he used on Monday, which means he's probably about to say something that makes him uncomfortable.

The slivers of hope tremble in John's chest cavity like newly budded flowers in a spring breeze. And though he still feels a bit like an idiot for being so gone on Simon after all this time, he still just wants to hear all those words—

"S'not bad. Just..." Simon shrugs again. "I miss hearin' your voice is all."

John's heart pounds like a jackhammer at the admission, but he can't help the half gasp, half laugh that bubbles up at the same time. "Yer the one who used to tell me to shut up all the time!"

"Just keepin' up appearances," Simon says to the table before glancing up through those stupidly pretty blond lashes of his. "Couldn't have anyone thinkin' I was playin' favorites."

The restless energy is back, stronger than ever, and John knows if he were alone with Simon, he'd be having a much harder time keeping his hands to himself. As it is, his fingers dance along the side of his water glass, blunt fingernails gently tapping out a random pattern.

The strange and somewhat brutal honesty Simon has introduced between them is as unnerving as it is welcome. He wants to laugh.

And equally, he wants to cry — for all those weeks and months and years he spent agonizing over a man he thought had forgotten him.

"Sorry to burst yer bubble, but I think everyone knew," John quips, more to tease Simon than because of any certainty on the matter.

"That you were my favorite? Maybe. You did follow me around base like a puppy."

"Oi! Yer the one who would accost me—"

"'Accost,'" Simon parrots with a snort.

"It's true and ye know it! Gaggin' for it."

And somehow John just knows there's a bright blush building on Simon's cheeks behind that balaclava. Maybe it's the way his brows furrow.

Or perhaps it's the predatory glint in his eye.

Another jingle of the bell heralds the arrival of a bigger group, this one more boisterous than the first. John is grateful for the distraction — the last thing he needs is to go down the path of hot and heavy flirting with Simon. He scoots his chair forward as they move toward the register, but the cafe is small, and the last of the group ends up hovering behind him as the line extends to the door. His anxiety spikes, and his palms begin to sweat at the sensation of being surrounded on all sides, though he does his best to breathe through it without drawing attention.

Something about his demeanor must catch Simon's attention because, without a word, he stands and walks to John's side of the table, effectively making everyone around them take a few steps back to avoid his bulk. John rises from his chair and grabs his cane while Simon gathers their trash to throw it away before leading them out of the suddenly crowded space.

It takes a couple of blocks of basking in the spring sunshine before John's shoulders relax enough to enjoy the moment. His mind, however, is still circling around their earlier conversation. Simon hasn't brought it up again, and though John isn't familiar enough with Simon's melancholy moods to parse them, the conversation seems to hang over them like a thundercloud.

Perhaps it's because Simon is the one who initiated the conversation in the first place. John is still getting used to being the one answering questions instead of asking them all the time.

He huffs out a long breath before glancing over to catch Simon's eye.

"For someone like me... a person who used to work through problems and emotions by talking about them... not being able to talk properly — or sometimes at all — was torture," he says in a quiet tone. "My therapist, Abby, thinks it's one of the reasons I spiraled so badly after the injury."

"So... you got used to being quiet."

"Had to."

"And it stuck."

"Learned other ways to work through my troubles."

Simon sighs. "Guess I gotta learn how to ask good questions, then."

And John doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing at all.

But something flutters under all those bandages holding together the shattered remains of his heart — a weak sign of life amid ruins.

*

John clicks to disconnect the video call with his therapist and lets his head thud against his desk. It's been a long time since he felt so wrung out after a session, but as usual, Abby gave him solid advice while also handing him the reins and encouraging him to take control. Most of the time he's grateful for her approach, but it would be nice to have a clear "this is the right path" from the woman he's come to respect a great deal.

She had, however, praised him for his balanced approach to allowing Simon back into his life, which was validating. Maintaining the balance would be hard, though, especially if Simon kept calling and texting.

Kept coming around in his off time.

Kept making John think this might last beyond a single week of leave.

Speaking of which...

Simon had stayed with him throughout the afternoon, once again reading while John worked for a few hours putting together training materials for his advanced seminar. Then they'd sat together on his bed while John searched through the news sites, trying to find any stories about a building coming down.

He didn't find anything about a building collapse, but like those calm moments in the kitchen over the weekend, the domesticity of it all left him breathless. Those shards of hope whispered that maybe this kind of thing would become a regular occurrence.

While the cynical voice in the back of his head called him a fool.

A recurring theme, apparently.

Simon had gone back to Kyle and Belle's when it was time for John's evening appointment. Fi's glare from her spot on the couch was as potent as ever; Simon glanced her way and grimaced before giving John a nod and walking out the door with a quiet, "See you tomorrow."

It would be funnier if John wasn't painfully aware of how serious Fi was.

He checked his phone and groaned at the hour. It was too early to crawl into bed but too late for more work. Standing from his desk, he wandered into the living room and plopped down beside Fi before toppling over to lay his head in her lap. She was reading something on her e-reader, but she reached down and began petting his head in an absent motion.

One by one, his muscles unclenched. He let out a long, grateful sigh.

"Rough one?"

"Aye. But good."

"Good."

John smiled and closed his eyes. A buzz against his thigh, however, brought him back enough to pull his phone from his pocket.

"Hells fuckin' bells."

"Alright?"

"It's Kyle. Apparently they're back. Price must've filled him in about some things, but clearly no' everything."

The remains of John's heart clench hard in his chest. He breathes through it, thankful for the constant pressure of Fi's hand in his hair.

He replies with his own goodbye and rolls to his back. Fi's hand moves with him, still carding through his hair. His body aches with a bone-deep exhaustion that has nothing to do with physical exertion. They sit in silence for a long while, the rhythmic motion of fingers through his hair calming him bit by bit.

When he meets Fi's gaze, he finds nothing but concern and understanding.

"Best sister ever," he mumbles.

Fi smiles and winks and keeps carding her hand through his hair until he dozes off.

*

To: John C. MacTavish
From: Cpt. Reginald Carter
Subject: Re: DEMS Training Regiment class

John,

I received your seminar supply list and ordered the devices you requested. The three interested in the advanced class are all currently available on Tuesday, June 15. I've reserved Room 256 and Training Field 3 for the day. When you arrive for your intermediate classes on June 7, please review the spaces and let me know if you'll need something different.

For your records, the three signed up for the day seminar so far are:

• William "Rizz" Eisel, Warrant Officer Class 2, 22 SAS, Squadron A
• Lori "Bone" Barton, Staff Sergeant, 3rd Division, 101st Logistic Brigade
• Gary "Roach" Sanderson, Staff Sergeant, 22 SAS, TF 141

Thank you,

Cpt. Reg Carter

Art by Kiba (@kibagib on Tumblr and Twitter)

Chapter Text

For the second Saturday in a row, John finds himself sitting in his parked car while fighting off a minor anxiety attack. (Christ, has it only been a week since the wedding? It feels like a fucking lifetime.) He grips the steering wheel and breathes through the first hints of tightness in his chest.

In just a few hours, he'll be having dinner with Kyle, Price and Simon. They'll sit around Kyle's table the same way they used to sit together on base before John's injury.

Just like old times.

His lungs hitch.

He takes a deeper, longer breath.

When Simon cut contact, he broke what John had once thought unbreakable, shattering his quiet dream of building something even stronger than militaristic forced proximity and shared trauma. He's been holding onto the pieces for years, cutting himself on the sharp edges, but apparently, all it takes to piece the dream back together is a wedding followed by a week of gut-wrenching turmoil.

Even with him and Price being at odds, it's a big moment — one he should be happy about.

And yet.

The wheels of time never slow. They grind on, with new faces, new missions, new team members, new stories and jokes...

Most of which John doesn't know. Not anymore. He's been out of the 141 for as long as he was in it at this point.

A huff of wry laughter erupts from his chest as he realizes his dream of a proper reunion might very well become a nightmare. After all, what does he have in common anymore with elite special forces operators?

He's the oxbow lake left behind when the river changes course — a trough of stagnant water in a flood plain — and the fast-flowing currents that carved him into the earth are nothing more than a faded memory.

The rest of the 141, though? They're still part of the river, swept far away by those same currents to unknown missions with unknown people.

People like Gary "Roach" Sanderson.

Who will be taking John's advanced explosives seminar in a few weeks.

He thumps his forehead against the steering wheel and grits his teeth.

It took all his restraint not to email Captain Carter this morning and cancel the seminar outright. He always hoped he wouldn't be forced to meet the man, and if Kyle or Price were arranging the meeting, he would ditch in a heartbeat.

But if Sanderson... if Roach wants to learn more about explosives — and if that knowledge increases the chances of the 141 coming home safely by any margin, however small — he can't justify denying him the opportunity. At least this way, John gets to meet his replacement far away from the prying eyes of the 141.

He has no doubt Sanderson knows who he is... Or rather who he was before the rushing water carved out a new path and left him behind.

He can only hope he'll be able to maintain his professionalism and avoid getting overly emotional when the time comes. Anger would be bad, but tears would be worse.

Sometimes, though, his brain doesn't let him choose his reactions.

The afternoon has turned warm, and the sun beats through the windshield. A drip of sweat rolls down his spine.

With a sigh, he rolls his forehead on the wheel to stare at the semi-attached house where Kyle and Belle are waiting for him. It's a pretty little spot at the end of the row with a fenced-in outdoor space along the side, complete with outdoor furniture and a gas "fire" pit. He imagines that's where they'll end up after dinner with the weather so nice.

Another breath passes over his lips, this time a sigh of resignation.

His session with Abby the night before still echoes in his head, and his inner voice pipes up to remind him he's letting his fear overrule his common sense. Even if there is a grain of truth in all his run-away fears, he can't change what's coming.

With a final deep breath, he leaves the heat of the car behind.

As he steps up to Kyle's door, he tries to leave his fears behind as well — both the rational and not-so-rational ones.

*

Kyle and Belle greet him at the door with hugs and laughter, and his mood instantly improves just from seeing his friends again. They both look relaxed and happy, the honeymoon clearly doing them good after a stressful few months of work and wedding planning.

He tells himself it doesn't matter that no one else is there to greet him. It's not as if John told Simon he was heading over to Kyle and Belle's early.

He swallows past the bitterness climbing up his throat.

The three of them get as far as the entry hall before they start chatting about the newlyweds' adventures in Greece. Kyle and Belle gush about their experiences while John teases them about being tourists. Just as John is letting his guard down, wondering if he'll get a reprieve from the promised interrogation, Kyle's expression turns serious.

"Alright, enough about us. I'm gonna need a thorough debrief, mate, starting with why you didn't tell us Ghost was bothering you at the wedding."

John holds back a grimace. "Can we at least sit down before we get into the interrogation? I'm a wee bit wobbly today."

"Shit. Yeah. 'Course."

Belle leads him into the living room and takes a seat on their brown leather couch while Kyle runs to grab drinks from the kitchen. John chooses the matching leather chair across from her that's wide enough to fit two of him. The room is decorated in an array of browns and tans with occasional pops of teal and orange here and there in the rug and accent pillows. Sheer white curtains let in an abundance of light, offsetting the darker furniture and giving the room a welcoming feel.

Relaxing into the familiar space, John lets his anxiety fade to the background as Kyle returns with beers for all of them and takes a seat next to Belle. The newlyweds sit close together on the couch, their sides touching from arms to knees, and John tries to hold back both a smile and the pinch of jealousy at their easy intimacy.

These are your friends, he reminds himself in a mental tone that sounds a lot like Abby. They asked you here because they care about you and want to know if you're okay.

As if reading his mind, Kyle and Belle give him an expectant look. John nods.

"Right then. Get ready, because this is gonna take a while."

John launches into a play-by-play of the past week, though he leaves out a few of the more private details (Kyle certainly doesn't need to know about all the kissing... or the ID tags... or the passing on of classified information). Some memories are still hard to relive, such as his talk with Alan or Simon's breakdown, but all-in-all, he's proud of himself for getting through an insanely stressful week unscathed outside of a few extra black hole episodes and more dizziness than usual. He owes some of that success to Fi's support through the week, but much of it he dealt with on his own.

When he's finished, he feels lighter, as if he's shed a massive weight. He leans back in his chair and takes a long sip of his beer while raising a brow at his uncharacteristically quiet friends.

Kyle just stares at him before blinking once. Then twice. Belle's mouth hangs open, though she manages to snap it shut with a click before clearing her throat.

"Well! That's..." She trails off, her eyes softening as she meets John's gaze. "That's a lot."

"Aye," John replies with a snort. "No' sure what deity I pissed off, but they arenae fuckin' around."

Kyle blinks again. Belle puts her hand on his knee and gives him a concerned look.

"Alright, love?"

With a shake of his head, he looks at her and then over at John. "So, what you're telling me is all it took to fix a fucking three-year problem was getting you and Ghost in the same room for five seconds?"

John opens his mouth. Closes it. Curls his upper lip in a sneer.

"Tha's no' all it took."

Kyle blows out a breath, leans forward, and rubs his hands over his face. "Price. Right. Bloody hell."

"Did the two of 'em fuck off back to base after all?" John asks, trying not to let the bitterness leak into his tone.

"No. Well... yes. They went back late last night to get a head start on the paperwork that's piled up over the past week. But they promised to be here in time for dinner."

The bitterness subsides, but John's chest tightens at the reminder that the 141's leave ends tomorrow. Starting this week, Simon will go back to spending all his time on base. Back to training and missions.

Back to the place John is no longer welcome.

He's dealt so well with the past week partly because Simon has been attentive and focused on fixing the rift between them. What happens if Simon falls into his old habits and leaves John behind again?

Every ounce of fear and doubt he shoved away during the past week comes down in a landslide, barrelling over him and crushing all the air from his body. His lungs expand in retaliation, pulling in a stifled gasp.

A soft hand on his shoulder snaps him back to the present. He looks over to find Belle has moved from the couch to sit on the plush arm of his chair. She looks down at him with a serious expression.

"What about you? Are you okay?"

She's so kind. So worried. And the last thing he wants to do is worry her more than he already has, so he pushes down all the seething emotions before smiling at her and patting her hand. He wonders if she can see through his fake smile.

"Aye, just too inside my own heid lately."

"Don't fuck around, Tav," Kyle says, his lips set in a firm line as he drops his hands from his face. "This... I know this can't be easy for you, mate."

John blows out a harsh breath. He should've known Kyle would see right through him.

"'Course it's no' easy," he admits in a rough tone. "One minute I want to strangle him and the next I want... Well, I'll spare ye the details."

"Thank fuck," Kyle says with a raised brow.

John gives him the finger before continuing. "But like I said, we're taking things slow. Getting to know each other again. It's probably gonna take a while."

"Makes sense," Belle says with a soft smile. "No matter his reasons, he still hurt you. It would be hard to trust after that."

John offers her a more genuine smile this time, though his insides are squirming. It's good to have the validation, but he doesn't really want to talk about it — his brain is too wont to blow his emotions out of proportion these days. Besides, he hasn't seen his friends in a week, and he wants to enjoy his time with them, especially considering he's been granted a reprieve from dealing with Price.

As if reading his mind, Kyle asks, "What about Price? You gonna keep him on your shit list for a while?"

"I was planning to talk to him today," John admits with a shrug. "I'm still angry but... he's done so much for me. I owe all of ye more than I could ever repay."

"Bollocks," Belle says with a snort. "We just did what any true friends would do. And Price shouldn't have said anything to Ghost. He overstepped."

Kyle nods. "He did overstep. I'm not arguing that. But John... you've gotta know that the Ghost that showed up to our wedding was different from the Ghost I've known for the past three years. He changed after you were injured, and not for the better. He got angry and sullen. Then after that, he got quiet — not a single joke or bit of banter. Nothing outside the tactical. Any attempt to talk about you got shut down before it started. It's why we were so sure his cold shoulder wouldn't last..." Kyle rubs a hand over his hair and shakes his head. "But he's too much of a stubborn bastard. We should've forced the issue, I think. It was clear even then he didn't want to be away from you."

"Ye cannae force him to do what he doesnae want to do," John says quietly.

Belle shakes her head. "I'm not as familiar with Ghost, but I think what Kyle is saying is that seeing you in person broke through... or maybe overruled whatever was holding him back before."

"It flipped some kinda switch in his brain," Kyle agrees. "We thought he'd ditch before the wedding even ended. But then... at the wedding and then at the reception, he kept watching you, and we started worrying about him bothering you. Price said he was like a fucking dog with a bone."

"Aye. I experienced that part."

"Yeah... fuck." With a sigh, Kyle slouches back into the couch cushions. "And then he comes walking in last night, acting all polite and actually laughing at something Belle says." Kyle raises a hand toward Belle, a worried expression taking over his confusion. "Not that you're not funny, love. Just that... Well... he doesn't laugh. Not anymore."

"Oh, I know," she says with a wry smile. "I've been around him enough to see the change."

The tightness that's been lingering in John's chest since his mini breakdown in the car stretches to a breaking point, the slivers of hope hanging in the balance. He swallows hard as he looks between his friends.

A week ago, learning exactly how miserable Simon was all that time they were apart would've been satisfying. Even now, the remnants of his anger seethe under his skin, and the vindictive part of him whispers a vicious "good" in the back of his mind.

But after a week of messages and jokes and spending time with Simon again, the anger has ebbed enough for him to see the deep craters in Simon's psyche left behind by the violence of John's exit from the team. And below that lives a myriad of other scars from past traumas, most unknown to him.

None of it excuses Simon's behavior, of course, but John is tired of being cautious for once.

His chest warms, and he licks his lips as he allows his friends' words to pierce through his hollow chest to those slivers of hope. The slivers expand into thin bands that pull together the scattered remains and begin to reshape them into a familiar form.

The fluttering of those tattered pieces turns into a hesitant beat, life and warmth returning to that hollow space in increments.

"Ye think I've had tha' much of an effect?" he asks in a quiet tone, almost afraid of the answer.

"You're joking, right?" Kyle asks, genuine surprise twisting his expression. "It's like night and day. I don't think I've ever seen him like this, even when you were still with the 141."

"I've definitely never seen him like this," Belle confirms before patting his shoulder. "But as always, it's your choice. You're not responsible for him or his emotional state, so that shouldn't make a difference in your choice."

John blows out a breath. "I appreciate tha'. And I know I'm no' responsible for him — I told him so to his face. But... after going through so much together, it's hard to separate my feelings from his."

Kyle hums as he shares a look with Belle. It's a look of understanding, as if they know exactly what John's talking about. Kyle flicks his gaze to John and gives him a sympathetic smile.

"Whatever happens, you know we'll be here for you, mate."

John smiles at Kyle's words and once again thanks whoever might be listening for his amazing friends.

*

John texts Fi that it's safe to come over, and when she arrives, she promptly pulls both Kyle and Belle into a crushing hug — one arm around each of their necks — and begs for forgiveness for missing the wedding. They're more than happy to pardon her absence, and the four of them spend the rest of the afternoon talking, drinking and making their portions of the meal. The specters of Price and Simon haunt the back of John's mind, but mostly, he's just glad to have a moment to relax and spend time with some of the people he loves most in the world.

It does feel strange without Alan, but both Kyle and Belle assure him they'll stay in touch with the missing member of their group.

"He's too much a part of us now," Belle says as she pulls some kind of pasta dish out of the oven, the scent of garlic and herbs filling the kitchen. "I can't imagine doing these dinners without him."

"He said he still wants to be friends, but I'm no' sure how much of tha' was him being optimistic," John admits, a wave of sadness washing over him. "I'm happy to alternate dinners if he doesnae want to see me anymore."

"You know as well as I do that he's not the type to say something he doesn't mean," Kyle says. "But we'll give him an out if he needs it."

Once the meal is ready, they take their drinks and a few snacks outside to enjoy the late afternoon weather as they wait for the rest of the group to arrive. They pile everything on the gas fire pit that doubles as a low table when not in use, and John sinks into a cushioned chair, his previous anxiety reduced to nothing more than faint discomfort.

The hours of relaxation and easy conversation with his friends have given him a more realistic view of his firm place within the group. Even the thought of seeing Price doesn't fill him with the same dread. And seeing Simon...

Well...

That's a different kind of anxiety — one that's laced with equal parts anger and longing, grief and hope.

The sound of a car pulling up draws John's attention away from Fi's ridiculous story about a recent divorce case. He sits up taller in his seat, takes a long pull from his drink, and watches through the slats of the wooden fence as a familiar SUV rolls up and parks along the curb.

The doors open.

Price and Simon step out.

Even if John wanted to look at Price right now, his gaze would still be drawn to the giant man dressed in all black, complete with balaclava and hoodie, emerging from the passenger side of the car. When they enter through the side door in the fence, Simon's eyes immediately lock on him from across the yard, and a frisson of electricity shivers down John's spine. Simon beelines toward him, cutting off Price in the process as he takes the empty chair next to John's.

His gaze doesn't falter as he leans forward and utters a gruff, "MacTavish."

"Simon," John replies in kind, grateful his tone remains even despite the nervous energy coursing through his limbs.

"Woulda dragged Price out of his office sooner if I'd known you were gonna be here early."

John shrugs. "Just wanted a moment to catch up with the newlyweds."

The words are innocuous, but from the slight rise of Simon's brows and the glance he throws at Kyle, he understands the implications.

The sudden silence all around them catches John's attention. Heat flares up in his chest and expands outward as he feels everyone's eyes on him. He glances over to find Kyle's gaze darting between the two of them and then over to—

"It's good to see you, John."

Price stands on the opposite side of the table, and John grits his teeth as he dares to meet the man's eyes.

"Price."

His voice is so low, it might as well be a growl. The air thickens with tension, covering the group in a blanket of anticipation.

It takes a moment for John to remember he and Price aren't the only ones at odds with each other.

He glances at Fi, who is sitting in the chair to his left, and is unsurprised to find her glaring at Simon. John reaches over to grab her hand, and it takes a moment for her to pivot her gaze toward him. He gives her a weak smile, and she wrinkles her nose at him but squeezes his hand in acknowledgement.

A sharp slap of hands against thighs jerks them all out of the deafening silence. Kyle stands and opens his arms wide.

"Who's hungry?"

*

The tension ebbs enough for the group to grab food and get settled at the dining table. John sits next to Kyle, who is at the head of the table, and Simon tries to sit on his opposite side, but Fi beats him to the seat. (Her smug look would be funny any other time, but John is too busy dealing with alternating surges of anger and anticipation to appreciate it.) Simon grabs the chair across from John instead, while Price takes the seat opposite Fi. Belle rounds out the table at the opposite end from Kyle.

The food is excellent, but it doesn't hide the awkward silence that builds around the table as they dig in. John catches Kyle giving Belle a desperate look and takes pity on his friends. He throws out his socked foot and kicks a shin as hard as granite.

"Get a lot done on base today, Si?"

Simon seems surprised that John is speaking to him, but he quickly recovers and nods. "Set up the next round of trainin'. Probably got a mission comin' up soon, too, though nowt this first week."

"That we know of," Kyle adds with a wry smile.

Belle scoffs. "Laswell with her 'last-minute' intel."

"Give 'er a piece of yer mind at the wedding, did ye?" John asks with a twinkle in his eyes.

She twists her lips to hold back the amusement so clear in the rest of her expression. "Right. Like I'm gonna cross the woman who can dig up any info she wants on me including what I had for breakfast three years ago."

"Eh, don't worry," Kyle replies with a wink. "She wouldn't waste her time on boring shite like that."

"Oi!"

Belle throws a cooked carrot slice at Kyle, which he proceeds to catch out of the air and eat with a self-satisfied grin. She laughs.

And the tension breaks.

John can feel Price's eyes on him, but he doesn't look over. The fire burns in his gut. The volcano rumbles. But it's all embers in the midst of the chatter rising up around the table.

The core team. Together again.

Finally.

John leans back in his chair and meets Simon's gaze. Simon has pulled up his mask enough to eat, though he hasn't removed it. Still, it's enough to give John a clear view of the Mona Lisa smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

John darts his tongue out to wet his lips. Simon's gaze flicks down to follow the motion. Heats surges again, this time flowing up his neck, past the collar of his blue button-down to flood his cheeks. He raises his brow the tiniest bit.

The corner of Simon's mouth rises in direct proportion.

Simon suddenly looks to John's right and immediately drops his gaze to his plate. John rolls his head to the side to glare at Fi. She's already watching him with a smug grin.

Stop being a jerk, he mouths at her.

Stop mooning at the dinner table, she mouths back.

His cheeks burn hotter. She snorts and turns to talk to Belle while he sighs and focuses on his food.

Price's gaze bores into the side of his face, but he doesn't look up.

*

Once the meal is finished, they grab more drinks and head back outside. The sun has dropped past the roofline of the house west of them, though the yard is still flooded with ambient sunlight. Between the shade and the coming evening hours, the temperature has dropped, so Kyle pulls the cover from the middle of the low table and lights the fire pit. The glow adds a cozy ambiance to the gathering, but the tension still lingers as they choose their seats — Simon follows John outside, nearly stepping on his heels as he gently guides John toward the chairs with a warm hand on the small of his back.

The intimate touch lights his nerve endings on fire and leaves him breathless.

He picks a chair next to Kyle, and Fi manages to snag the spot to his left. Kyle foils her plans, though, when he winks at John, gets up out of his chair, and joins Belle on the loveseat, leaving the chair to John's right free. Simon nods at Kyle as he passes, drags the chair a bit closer to John, and sits.

The heat from their staring contest at dinner has yet to fully subside, and Simon's continued efforts to be near him — even with other people around — add petrol to the fire.

When they were together before, John got used to scrutinizing every interaction to make sure they didn't give anything away. Price and Kyle knew, of course, in the way that close teammates know things without having to be told, but everything was about maintaining plausible deniability.

To have Simon so blatantly favoring him now is sending him into a bit of a spiral.

Not a bad one.

Not necessarily.

It's just... a lot.

So he tries to ignore it and pays attention to the conversations around him instead. Fi and Belle are talking about some sort of legal quandary with the local hospital and the military base where Belle works. Kyle and Price are chatting in quiet tones John can't understand, though the occasional glance his way lets him know he's not paranoid for wondering if it's about him. And Simon...

Simon slouches a bit lower in his seat, and their chairs are close enough together that their knees brush. John fights back another blush and then scowls when he notices Simon's stupid smirk, visible due to the mask still rolled up past his nose. Simon takes a sip of his beer and glances at John again before pressing his knee more firmly into John's.

"Proud of yerself, are ye?" John grumbles.

"A little," Simon admits before adding in a low, teasing tone, "Always like seein' you blush."

"Haud yer wheesht!" John hisses as the heat in his face intensifies.

He doesn't think he's blushed this much in literal decades. It's embarrassing, but he can't seem to help it.

"So. Tav."

John smacks his knee against Simon's and clears his throat before giving Kyle his attention. "Tha's my name."

"I heard from a certain someone that you're teaching a class over at Kineton in a few weeks."

"Three classes, actually," John corrects before raising his hand to waver it in a so-so motion. "Or two classes and a seminar."

"Annnnd..." Kyle prompts.

John rolls his eyes. "And it seems there's a member of the 141 who wants to learn how to blow shite up from the best of the best."

"Sergeant Sanderson's takin' your class?" Simon asks in a quiet tone.

John's brows furrow a little as he looks over at him. "Aye. Figured ye would know, being his superior and all."

"He came to me about it," Price interjects. "I pointed him toward Captain Carter."

A bit of that simmering fury rises up, and he meets Price's gaze for the first time that evening. "Just cannae resist meddling, can ye?"

"I didn't know you were teaching the classes at the time, John."

John scoffs and looks away. Yet another awkward silence descends. John closes his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh.

Simon's knee presses harder into his.

John presses back before pushing up from his seat. He wavers for a moment, but Simon's hand is there in an instant, grasping his forearm in a steadying grip before reaching forward to grab John's cane and hand it to him.

John doesn't look at him, but he whispers a quiet, "thanks," before stepping away. He's halfway to the house before he calls over his shoulder.

"Come get a beer with me, Price."

*

The kitchen is still warm from all the cooking they did that afternoon. John presses his hands to the cool countertops and closes his eyes.

Waiting.

He hears the sliding door open and then close again. A bit of shuffling brings the faint scent of cigar smoke to his nose. It's both irritating and calming at once — the one constant in his life since that fateful day Captain John Price tapped him for the special ops team to end them all, Task Force 141.

His purpose.

His life's work.

Until it wasn't anymore.

So many opportunities and choices were taken away from him with that fateful bullet. And last weekend, Price took another choice away that John had thought safe in his friends' hands.

"I cannae say I'm not angry," John says in a low tone that borders on a growl. The volcano tries to reignite, but John breathes through the impulse. "I'm still fucking furious that ye took it upon yerself to tell Simon when I asked ye not to. Ye had no right."

Price doesn't speak for a moment, as if waiting for John to continue, but... what else is there to say? A soft sigh reaches him between his own deep breaths before Price's voice fills the room.

"I know. And I'm truly sorry."

John huffs a derisive laugh before finally looking over at Price where he stands a couple of feet away with his hip resting against the counter. "Tha's all ye've got to say?"

"You want me to go into all my justifications and excuses?"

"No' really."

"Then all I can say is I'm sorry..." He pauses before cocking his head to the side. "And also promise to not do it again."

"Tha' would be lovely, aye," John says in a dry tone.

He looks away again, tapping his fingers on the counter in a frenetic rhythm as his anger fights with the inevitable. A part of him wants to explode at Price the way he did with Simon, wants to lash out and try to hurt Price the way Price hurt him.

But he can't imagine letting something like this — even as serious as it is — destroy their relationship, especially when Price is apologizing and clearly wants to repair the rift.

They've been through too much together for that.

And so he finds himself disarming his own bomb, clipping the wires in the right order to keep himself from blowing up by forcing the good memories to the surface: the confidence in Price's stance as he asked John to join the task force; the wild look in the captain's eye — matched only by the feral joy in John's chest — whenever they were on the hunt; the laughter strung between them like Christmas lights, shimmering and bright, as they rode home together after a successful mission; and later, Price spending his limited free time holding John's hand and then cooking him dinner when he couldn't do it for himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Price pull off his hat and run a hand through his hair as he turns to lean his back against the counter. He's wearing his familiar non-uniform uniform of cargo pants and a dark gray t-shirt, and the sight brings back more memories of late-night debriefings, off-duty drinks, and even the occasional "man-to-man" talk in Price's office while the ever-present scent of cigars lingers in the air.

One talk in particular comes to mind, and John's lips twist in wry amusement.

"Close the door behind you and have a seat, Soap."

Price is leaning back in his chair as Soap enters, an unlit cigar hanging from his lips. He's in casual clothing, and so is Soap, who was getting ready to head off base with Kyle for the weekend when he got the summons from Price. Soap is surprised to find no one else in the room, and his assumption of a sudden, pop-up mission is replaced by a wariness he rarely feels around his captain.

"Something wrong, Cap?" he asks as he closes the door and walks toward one of the chairs in front of Price's desk.

Instead of offering the reassurance Soap hoped for, Price takes a deep breath, pulls the cigar from his mouth, and leans over his desk on folded arms. Soap sits down and tries to relax into the padded chair despite his tense muscles. This close to Price, though, Soap recognizes his captain's narrowed gaze.

It's the one he uses for interrogations.

Soap sits up a bit straighter in the chair.

"You tell me," Price says in an infuriatingly neutral tone.

What the fuck?

"Nothing wrong on my end."

"No?"

"Nope."

"But if something was wrong, you'd tell me."

"'Course."

"Even if it was what you might consider a... personal matter?"

Soap pauses at this. Because his "what the fuck" is rapidly turning into an "oh fuck."

Does Price know?

Drawing on his own anti-interrogation training, Soap keeps his expression neutral and his voice calm as he replies, "S'pose it depends on whether I thought those personal matters had anything to do with my job."

Price lets out a long breath and leans back in his chair again. "And if the personal matters involve another member of the 141?"

Fucking fuck. Price does know. The question is: How much?

"If I thought an incident with a teammate would affect my job performance in any way, ye'd be the first to know, Captain."

They hold gazes for a long moment before Price relents. He flicks the window beside him open despite the October chill and lights his cigar. A fresh wave of smoke fills the room, and John's muscles finally begin to relax.

"Anything else, Cap? Gaz is waiting for me."

"No. Dismissed."

Soap gives Price a wide smile and a sloppy salute before heading for the door. His hand is on the doorknob when Price finally speaks again.

"You can always talk to me, Soap. About anything — job-related or not."

And that's enough to melt away the last of the tension. Because Soap understands now. Price isn't trying to get Soap to crack so he can write him up or give him a lecture.

No, Price is worried, and he's showing it in one of the few ways he knows how.

Soap looks over his shoulder, softening his grin into something more genuine. "I know, sir. And I appreciate it."

Price just grunts and waves him off as he turns back to his computer. Soap shakes his head and leaves the man to his workaholic ways. Not that the rest of them are any better. They all come running back to base any time Price calls.

But for now, Soap is going to spend a weekend off base not thinking about the fact that Price likely knows something is going on between him and Ghost.

He wishes it were that easy to stop thinking about Ghost, too. But Soap knows he'll be back on base early Sunday night, waiting and hoping for a midnight guest...

Price has always been more like Simon in how he shows his care, favoring actions and problem solving. Sometimes, though, John wishes both of them would use their fucking words.

He supposes he'll have to be the one to start.

"I get ye were trying to protect me. And I appreciate it. But I'm no' one of yer soldiers anymore. Ye cannae make decisions like tha' for me. And ye really shouldnae do it with Simon, either. He's messed up; he knows it. He says he's gonna try to fix it. But in the end, it's his choice, and it doesnae help him take control if you treat him like a child."

"I..." Price sighs and nods. "You're right. But there are things you don't know about Simon's last three years. Hell, there are things I don't know, and I was with him the whole time."

"Like?"

With a heavy sigh, Price raises a hand to rub at his temples. "Before I got the call from Garrick about your attempt, I was already dealing with an incident on base. Got an earful from some visiting captain screaming at me to come to the gym and put my 'dog on a leash.' I raced over there and found Simon choking out another visiting officer on the mats." Price glances over, catching John's side eye. "He'd already beaten the man bloody, and I have no doubt he would've killed him if I hadn't gotten there in time."

John swallows and looks down at the striations of gray and white granite beneath his fingers, his heart beating hard against his sternum as he imagines the scene. He doesn't want to think about it — about how much pain Simon could've saved them both if he'd just come to see John instead of making that fateful phone call. The familiar fantasy echoes through his mind: A tearful reunion, a slew of promises made... and then broken when Simon went on a deployment and John was left to the darkness of his own mind again.

Would John have been better off knowing Simon still cared? Was Fi right that it would have been enough to hold back the all-encompassing hopelessness he'd felt at the time?

Or would he be dead right now?

He doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to dwell on the "what if" anymore.

But Price isn't done yet.

"Had to put him on administrative leave while the investigation took place. Luckily, enough witnesses saw the other officer goading 'the Ghost' into sparring and then playing dirty during the spar that I was able to convince the upper brass Simon had only been trying to scare the man. Simon didn't seem to care one way or the other... until I reminded him he wouldn't be able to go after Makarov until this was cleared up."

"Let me guess: He became a model officer after tha'?"

"Never seen a quicker about face. Lightning fast."

"So then... what? Ye want me to feel sorry for him for making his bed and having to lie in it?"

"What? No!" Price sounds surprised enough that John glances over. Their eyes meet and Price shakes his head. "That's not why I'm telling you this."

"Then it's a reversal — ye told him something personal about me, so now yer telling me something about him?"

Price waggles his head from side to side. "I suppose you could call it that—"

"Fuckin hell, Price!"

"—but I learned my lesson! I got Simon's permission to tell you about it."

"Really?"

Disbelief drips from the word like hot tar, viscous and toxic. Price cuts him a sidelong glance.

"Really. He seemed relieved, actually. Said it feels like he's making excuses any time he talks about stuff like this with you." Price shrugs. "And maybe it does sound like an excuse to you, but... I wasn't prepared for the way Simon reacted to seeing you at the wedding. Since the incident with the officer, he's become a model subordinate, tactical and focused. He fooled me and Gaz into thinking he was fine. Or... at least as fine as he could be, considering."

"But he wasn't," John says.

Because that much is clear from the picture Price, Gaz and even Simon have painted of those years since John's injury.

"No." Price looks over and meets John's gaze. "Not until this week, anyway."

John inhales a shaky breath. He isn't dumb enough to miss the insinuation, but he's no more interested in being a savior than he is in being a martyr.

"He's still not fine, Price. He might be acting different right now, but just being around me willnae fix whatever made him do those things in the first place."

Price's shoulders slump. "Yeah."

"No offense, Cap, but ye might try talking to someone about all this, too." Price looks up, brows raised, though his expression is more surprised than offended. John manages a weak smile and a wink. "I could give ye a recommendation if ye need one."

A gruff laugh followed by a short cough is all the response John gets, but it's enough. Price has heard him.

(Put "suggesting a therapist to your former commanding officer" on his bingo card for things he never expected to do. Ever. In his whole life.)

They fall into silence. They've spoken all the "right" words between them — the bomb is dismantled and in no danger of exploding — but the air is still thick with hard feelings, like dust after an explosion. He takes a deep breath but can't quite seem to fill his lungs.

And as seems to be his default these days during moments of inactivity, his thoughts bend toward Simon.

It's still hard to accept the fact that Simon was in pain but chose to stay away. Then again, it also makes perfect sense, especially if Simon was waiting on "Soap" to come after him. John wishes he had been in the right state of mind to go after Simon at the time — if only to knock him upside the head.

Anger and determination spark to life in his chest as he realizes he's strong enough this time. If Simon ditches him again, he could go after him. Could give him a piece of his mind.

Could.

But he doesn't want to.

He doesn't want to have to chase Simon. Doesn't want to have to beg him to stay.

He wants Simon to stay because he wants to. Because he thinks John is worth staying for.

Worth fighting for.

The past week has been eye-opening in regards to how much effort John was putting into their "relationship" before the injury compared to Simon. And now... after a few days of Simon pursuing him, he's already spoiled. He doesn't think he can ever go back to scraps of Simon's time and attention, no matter how much he craves it. It has to be equal effort or nothing at all.

He deserves that.

He taps his fingers a little faster on the counter and then leans forward, pressing his hands down hard on the granite. "This whole thing is a fucking mess."

"Dunno... things are looking up from where I'm standing."

"Why, because me and Simon are talking again?

"Among other things. You've got a good thing going with the MOD, and Laswell tells me her projects with you are going well." Price runs a hand over his beard before giving John a sidelong glance. "She's talking about bringing you into missions as a real-time consultant."

John whips his head around—

And instantly regrets it as the world spins. He's already grasping the counter, though, so he just closes his eyes and lets his head spin. The light touch to his elbow — a precaution — is a welcome one.

"She told ye tha'?"

"Brought it up in a call a couple of days ago. She'll be angry with me for telling you, though, so maybe try to act surprised, eh?"

John huffs a laugh and dares to open his eyes. The spinning has died down enough that he can meet and hold Price's gaze, and... yeah, there it is. That familiar twinkle of mischief.

"Yer a proper fucking meddler, ye know tha'?"

"So I've been told once or twice."

With a slow shake of his head, John turns around to mimic Price's position, leaning back and propping the heels of his palms on the edge of the counter. From that position, he can see out the sliding glass door to where the others are gathered around the fire.

"Aw shite."

"What?"

He gently nods his head toward the others. "Fi's in my seat and shaking her finger at Simon."

Price glances over and lets out a snort of amusement. "If I can endure it, so can he."

"It's no' the same. She knows and likes you. Simon is just the man who ditched her baby brother, and ye know as well as I do she blames him for what happened after tha'."

Price just hums. They stand in silence as Fi's shaking finger becomes more animated. When she finally stands up, John grasps his cane and prepares to go back outside to intervene. But Fi only turns her back on Simon and plops down in her previous chair, turning to talk to Belle, who looks more than a bit stressed.

"Are ye ever gonna do something about that, by the way?" John asks in a nonchalant tone. He can feel Price's eyes on him, but he keeps his gaze on the fire.

"About what?"

At that, John does roll his head around to give Price a withering look. "Fiona."

Price looks surprised. And then... holy hells.

"Are ye blushing, old man?"

"Shut your fucking mouth, MacTavish."

And John can't help it. He bursts into peals of laughter loud enough to draw the attention of those outside. He throws a wave at them. The other four wave back, and something in John's chest cracks open at Kyle and Belle's relieved smiles, Fiona's wide grin, and Simon's irreverent salute.

John inhales a long, slow breath to calm his laughter and pushes away from the counter, cane in hand.

"Aye aye, sir. We should probably get back out there, anyway. Looks like the Garricks are thinking twice about this whole dinner fiasco right about now."

A hand lands on his forearm, and John pauses. He glances at Price with a raised brow.

"We're okay, then?" Price asks.

John sucks a breath through his teeth. "Let's say we're on the way to being okay."

Price nods. "Good. Things will be busy for us once we get back on base, but if you need anything—"

"I know, I know. I'll call."

"Good man."

*

When they return to the group, another round of beers in hand, John plops into Price's former seat — the one on Simon's right — which forces Price to take John's chair next to Fi. Price gives him a scathing look, but the glance Price throws at Fiona is anything but.

John considers it a job well done, even if it does give him a better view of his sister's scowl when Simon scoots his chair away from Price and toward John. He raises a brow at her, and she huffs at him before jerking her chin toward Price. He gives her a slight nod and then quirks his brow at her before jerking his chin toward Price as well.

Her cheeks turn a lovely shade of hot pink, and she narrows her gaze. John decides this is a perfect time to turn his attention to Simon.

Who is so close now, he's practically on top of John's chair.

He's still got his mask rolled up to his nose, and John lets his gaze linger on Simon's lips for a few seconds too long. The way Simon's mouth quirks up at the corner lets John know he's been caught.

"You and Price better now?" Simon asks.

"Getting there."

"Like you and me, then?"

"Something like, aye."

"Glad you're not lettin' him off the hook so easy."

"I would've thought ye'd want me to forgive and forget."

Simon shrugs and stuffs his hands in his hoodie pockets as he looks at the fire. "Any fucker who hurts you doesn't deserve easy forgiveness."

The weak flutter in John's chest turns into a mad thumping. "Tha' includes you."

Simon gives a curt nod. "Pretty sure I wrote the field manual."

"Nae. That would be my father, and I'd rather ye not try to compete with him."

"Fucker," Simon says in a dry tone.

The laugh that bubbles up John's throat is half wry, half hysterical. Last weekend, he was having multiple panic attacks per hour at the mere idea of seeing Simon again. This weekend, he's sitting with almost all the most important people to him in the world, including Simon, while drinking beer and laughing at everyone's stupid stories.

It's a dream.

It has to be.

Any moment, he's going to wake up, and the events of the evening will fade into the ether with the rest of his too-good-to-be true dreams. He subtly reaches down to pinch his thigh.

The fire, the conversation, the warm looks... they remain.

John blows out a breath and dares to believe.

If only for now.

*

The rest of the evening ebbs and flows with laughter and chatter interwoven with patches of tension. Price manages to distract Fi when she gets too caught up in glaring at Simon while John and Simon catch up with Kyle and Belle.

John doesn't miss the way Belle's eyes sparkle and her grin widens when Simon once again slouches down enough in his chair to touch their knees together. He gives her a playful glare — one that has far too much smile to be anything but a toothless warning — and she has the gall to wink at him.

The light fades and the air cools around them, but the fire keeps them warm. It isn't until Kyle lets out a violent yawn that the group begins to rouse from the comfort of the (mostly) friendly gathering.

"You think I'd be used to the travel lag by now," Kyle says as he wipes tears from his eyes. "And we didn't even go that far, comparatively."

"Getting old, are ye?" John teases.

"Oi! Not any older than you, Tav!"

Belle laughs and wraps her arms around Kyle's shoulders while pressing their cheeks together. "It's okay, baby. You'll always be young and handsome in my eyes."

"See?" Kyle says as he points at Belle while giving the rest of them a smug look. "The hottest woman in the world — no offense Fi — thinks I'm young and handsome."

Belle laughs and presses a kiss to his cheek, which he reciprocates with a kiss to hers. Simon sighs.

"Christ. It's definitely time to go. You up for drivin', Price?"

Price jerks back from where he's been leaning progressively closer to Fiona. "Right. Give me a minute to gather my things."

They start picking up the trash and leftover snacks to take inside while Kyle turns off the fire. The flames die out, and John uses the light from the kitchen to carefully navigate the darkened path back to the house. Simon is there a moment later, hand again burning through the thin fabric of his shirt to imprint on the small of his back.

It's a small gesture, but it makes John's heart pound with equal parts anxiety and anticipation.

He wants more of that touch, more of Simon's care, but he knows he can't have it. Not yet.

Not yet.

Another few weeks, he reminds himself. Just long enough for Simon to get back into his routine on base and maybe go on an op or two. Just long enough to prove that Simon will actually stay in touch. That he's willing to make the effort.

If he does, then maybe... Maybe.

"Alright?" Simon asks quietly as they step into the kitchen.

"Aye," John replies before clearing his throat. "Yer heading back to base, too?"

"Price and I decided we needed to get out of Kyle and Belle's way this weekend. Kyle said I could come with him next weekend, though."

John sucks in a breath. His hands are shaking as he places a few dirty glasses on the counter. He can't bring himself to look at Simon, so he starts loading up the dishwasher.

"Already making plans? What if ye get sent on an op?"

"If it happens, it happens. Can't live my life around the what ifs."

Simon pauses. John looks up to find he's lifted his mask up to his forehead. Their gazes meet, and John fumbles the glass in his hand, though he manages to catch it and set it safely on the rack. Simon takes a step closer and starts handing John the glasses.

"Fiona is taking you home?" Simon asks.

"Aye, then she's heading back to Glasgow tomorrow."

Simon hums. The sliding door opens and the rest of the group pours inside, still chatting and laughing. John watches from the corner of his eye as Price and Fi wander toward the door. Belle distracts John from further snooping, however, when she chases him away from the dishwasher.

"That's Kyle's job. Don't deny him the joy of dishes."

Kyle pops up and catches her around the waist. "Now now, love. If the man wants to load a dishwasher, who are we to deny him?"

"We are the hosts," she protests.

"Aye. Yer always the hosts, so ye should let us help out more."

"I knew you were my favorite for a reason, Tav."

"Alright, alright," Fi cuts in as she sidles up to John's side. "It's time tae let the lovebirds have the house tae themselves." She turns to give Kyle and Belle each a hug. "Thank ye for being such wonderful friends. Until next time, aye?"

"You know you're always welcome, Fi," Kyle says as he pats her on the back.

"Always," Belle agrees. "In fact, if you want to fly back just for dinner next week, we wouldn't say no."

Fi laughs and promises to come back soon. Then, the four of them take their leave out the front door, Price and Fi leading the way while John and Simon hang back. Fi's been quieter than normal the whole evening, and though he knows it's going to take her a while to come to terms with Simon, he's hopeful that they can at least use this evening as a guide to remain civil. He still doesn't know what Fi said to Simon while he was inside talking to Price, but that's a conversation for later, he supposes.

"In case I wasn't clear earlier, I want to see you next weekend," Simon says suddenly. "More than just Saturday dinner."

With a single sentence from Simon, the blush returns with a vengeance. John clears his throat and nods.

"I figured... but thanks for clarifying. It's nice to know for sure."

Simon nods. His mask is back in place, but John can imagine that determined expression on his face. They reach Price's SUV, and John pauses.

"I guess I'll see ye next weekend, then? Unless something comes up."

"You'll know when I do."

John bites his lip.

He wants to believe. Fuck. He wants to believe so badly.

After a glance back to confirm that Fi's back is turned on her way to the car, John surges forward to kiss Simon's masked cheek.

"I'll hold ye to tha'," he murmurs against the fabric.

He turns and books it down the sidewalk as fast as his slightly wobbly brain will let him. He opens the door and falls into the passenger seat without looking back.

"Alright?" Fi asks as she pulls away from the curb.

"Aye," he breathes through his racing heart and jittery lungs.

And for the first time in weeks... no years... it feels like he might actually be telling the truth.

Art by Kiba (@kibagib on Tumblr and Twitter)

Chapter Text

John drops his phone on his desk and covers his blazing face with his hands. He cannot be thinking about this today. He's got an advanced seminar to plan, and Laswell texted this morning that she might have another job for him soon "without the quick turnaround this time."

But Simon's texts are putting ideas in his head that he's never allowed himself to entertain — and never thought Simon would be willing to entertain, as closed off as he's always been, even at the height of their previous time together.

"Steamin' Jesus," John whispers into his hands. "I'm so fucked."

They've been messaging fairly consistently since Saturday night. As John expected, though, the communication has dropped off sharply today. Knowing Simon has his phone out as he texts John in front of his subordinates, though, sends another wave of heat through his body. He can imagine Simon out there on the training grounds — covered head to toe in his usual get-up with his typical skull mask, looking like he's about to ruin everyone's Monday — pulling out his phone and casually sending innuendo-filled messages to his former sergeant while occasionally barking insults at the recruits.

He's going to need a cold shower if he doesn't stop that train of thought right now. And yet...

He picks up his phone, his face and chest still radiating heat.

He groans, leans over his desk, and drops his head into his arms as the text elicits a flurry of highly inappropriate fantasies. Another buzz taunts him, but he forces himself to breathe through the increasingly uncomfortable tightness in his jeans first. When he finally raises his head and checks his messages, he's both disappointed and relieved.

*

*

On Wednesday evening, John knocks on Belle's door. She opens instantly, making grabby hands at the bag he's carrying in one arm.

"Thank God. I'm so hungry I could eat my arm."

She steals the bag of take away and runs toward the kitchen, leaving him standing alone on her doorstep. He laughs and shakes his head as he follows her into the house and closes the door behind him.

They'd started the tradition of having dinner together when John was still recovering. Belle, Kyle, Price, and Alan — and Fi every few weeks — would alternate evenings to ensure he had proper food and company throughout the week. When he finally recovered enough to fully take care of himself, he and Belle had continued the tradition, especially after Belle agreed to Kyle staying on base during the week and coming home on weekends while he wasn't deployed. The company helped both of them feel a little less lonely.

Now, John keeps up the dinners as a way to gradually pay back his friends for going above and beyond during those first months of his recovery.

He hears Belle squeal from the kitchen and laughs again. He walks in and finds her standing in front of the open bag, her cheeks bulging and a half-eaten samosa clutched in her fingers.

"You absolute saint!" she mumbles through her food. "How did you know I was craving Indian?"

"Because yer always craving Indian?"

Belle hums a laugh but doesn't dispute it. They dish up the food and settle at the dining table. For a few minutes, they're both eating too fast to talk, but eventually, Belle swallows a bite of her tikka masala and sighs.

"Alright. I feel human again. We can attempt to talk while I continue to inhale my dinner."

John laughs through his next bite. He wipes his mouth and nods.

"Good, maybe now ye can tell me what Fiona said to Simon last weekend while Price and I were inside. Both she and Kyle refuse to tell me, and I'll only ask Simon as a last resort. The man is probably still recovering from the shock right now, and I dinnae want to make it worse."

"So that's why you got Indian," Belle teases with a twinkle in her eye. "Buttering me up?"

"Whatever it takes," he admits with his most charming grin.

She laughs. "Not sure why Kyle wouldn't tell you. Maybe he's too afraid of Fi? But it was basically the most intense shovel talk I've ever been awkwardly privy to. She let him know she's watching him and if he hurts you again, she'll murder him and bury him in an unmarked grave."

John's heart slams into overdrive, and he groans as he slaps a hand over his face. He doesn't know much about Simon's past, but he knows that, despite his dark sense of humor, Simon doesn't react well to jokes or threats about burials. He's never said anything outright; it's always been a subtle reaction — an uncomfortable shifting of his body and a worsening of mood — but enough that John picked up on it during their time together.

"Kyle tried to interrupt her rant, but Fi glared him into submission. I need to learn that trick," Belle says with a laugh. After a brief silence, she shrugs and adds, "If it helps, he didn't look upset. He's a difficult man to read, but he doesn't seem like the type to be scared away, even by someone as intimidating as Fiona."

John parts his fingers to look at her. "Nae. But the phrasing… Hells bells. I cannae believe he didnae say anything to me about it."

John takes a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart and starts eating again. It's true that Simon didn't seem upset when John joined him a few minutes later. Perhaps he hadn't taken Fi's ranting seriously?

Any fucker who hurts you doesn't deserve easy forgiveness.

Or maybe he had, just not in the way John expected.

"Alright, I answered your question," Belle says between bites. "Now it's time for you to dish."

John pauses with his fork halfway in his mouth and stares at her. She quirks a brow at him, but he finishes taking the bite despite her expectant look. His tongue burns from the spice, so after he swallows, he uses the excuse of a drink to delay his answer further.

Because he knows what she wants, and he doesn't really know what to say.

"About what?" he finally asks.

Belle gives him a withering look. "Oh, I dunno, maybe 'bout the big man following you around like a literal ghost on Saturday? The one your overprotective sister is threatening to murder?"

He can refuse to answer, of course — Belle's being nosy and knows it — but part of him wants to talk about it with the closest to an objective person as he's got in this fiasco. Someone who's not as connected with Simon as Price and Gaz. And someone who doesn't hate Simon's guts quite as much as Fi.

Still, John shrugs. "I told ye about tha' on Saturday."

"You told us you were taking things slow. I expected tension of the awkward kind not the sexu—"

"Och! Stop right there! We'll no' be talking about tha'."

"What? The way he took every opportunity to be near you and touch you? The way you let him?"

She waggles her brows at him, and he shoots her a dirty look. "It's... complicated."

Her expression instantly softens. "I know. I know it is. But... I've never seen Ghost like that before."

"D'ye remember him from before? Back when we all met?"

"'Course I do," Belle says with a scoff. "He hovered around you then, too, but at the time, it felt more like intimidation and possessiveness than the awkward adoration from Saturday... though I can certainly still see the hints of possessiveness. You've got him wrapped around your finger, Tav."

John's heart jumps into his throat before dropping back down in a burst of heat to thump wildly in his chest. He clears his throat in an attempt to hide the reaction, but unfortunately, he can feel the heat crawling up his neck. He's never considered that Ghost might've been hovering around him in a possessive way. That's just how it's always been with Ghost. But it fits with the so-called "Johnny privileges" that Kyle claims not to have.

Then again, none of them saw much of Belle after she left Credenhill to go back to Whittington — not until Kyle finally quit whining and asked her to try a long-distance relationship with him. Kyle would visit her there, and she'd come visit and stay at their flat in Hereford. But that was around the same time John was spending more nights on base in the hopes that Ghost would "visit," so he'd missed out on spending any significant time with her before his medical discharge.

And he realizes she might not know he and Ghost were a thing at the time.

"Simon and I..." He trails off and blows out a harsh breath before starting again. "Did Kyle tell ye we were sort of... together before the injury?"

"He told me you two were close — closer than anyone else on the team. So... you were in a relationship, then?"

A sigh slips past his lips even as the heat crawls into his cheeks. "Nae, no' the way ye mean. It was all... physical."

"Ahhh." She gives him a sad half smile. "Well, I get the impression things have changed."

Her tone isn't pitying, which he's glad for — he doesn't think he could take pity. But the sadness doesn't sit right with him. It sounds too much like she knows the truth: that it was a relationship to him.

And maybe she does know. She's always been too smart for the lot of them.

The embarrassment slinking under his skin intensifies.

"People don't change in a week," he snipes.

"No, but maybe the three years between then and now helped a little," she shoots right back.

"Aye. Three years of fucking silence."

Something in his tone must catch her attention. Maybe it's the bitterness. Or maybe it's the conflicting note of hope threading through his previously wrecked expectations. Whatever it is, she opens her mouth and then closes it before nodding.

They move on to other topics.

But Belle's words stick with him like a splinter under his skin long after he's gone home for the night.

*

*

Friday comes both too soon and far, far too late.

Simon has kept his word all week, texting throughout the day and even calling a couple of times to talk about all the mundane happenings on a military base that John forgot about after living so long as a civilian — the shoddy mess hall, the pranks and hijinks of soldiers with too much time on their hands, the half broken gym equipment...

Sometimes he can't believe he actually misses it.

He knows, though, that it's not the base he actually misses.

And this is how he finds himself pacing Belle's living room on Friday evening, waiting for Simon and Kyle to arrive. She's sitting on the couch, e-reader resting in her lap while she watches him wear a hole in her rug.

"Pacing won't get them here any faster, you know. Besides, aren't you making yourself dizzy?"

"No." Yes.

"Well, you're making me dizzy. If you're going to be up and about, at least be useful and make us some tea."

John snorts and gives her a sloppy salute. "Aye, ma'am."

She chases him away with a scoff, and he huffs a laugh as he makes his way to the kitchen. But his hands shake as he pulls out the sachets of green tea that Belle prefers, and his lungs won't quite inflate the way they should.

He wonders if he'll ever get used to it — the waiting around like he's some kind of army wife pining for his husband to come home from war.

The description is too apt, and he scowls at the electric kettle as it heats.

They aren't even together for fuck's sake.

Belle comes into the kitchen when the kettle beeps to carry their steeping cups into the living room, and they settle on the couch together. He takes a few careful sips, the earthy aroma and hot liquid spreading through his body and melting away the anxiety.

Or some of it, anyway.

They eventually begin chatting about what's happened since they last saw each other on Wednesday. John tells her what he can about his work, and she brightens up at the mention of his class.

"Oh, that's right. You're meeting Roach!" She reaches out and grasps his hands, their empty tea cups already discarded on the coffee table. "I know you've said before you don't want to meet him, but I really think you'll like him. He's quiet at first, but once you get to know him, he's a lot of fun."

Thankfully, John is spared from having to respond to her earnest declaration by the sound of a car rolling up the drive. Belle's face lights up, e-reader discarded next to the tea cups as she jumps up and runs for the front door. John follows, albeit at a slower pace, and watches as she runs outside and practically pounces on Kyle before he's gotten out of the car.

His nerves light up with anticipation, a swirling pit of anxiety opening up in his stomach. He forces a few shaky breaths in and out of his seizing lungs.

God.

Why?

Why is he so agitated?

It shouldn't be like this. He's been talking to Simon every day this week, both in messages and over the phone. And yet he feels like he might launch into the stratosphere and boke all over his shoes at the same time.

Then Simon gets out of the car, and his nerves, Kyle and Belle's chatter, and in fact the whole world disappears in favor of ogling the man approaching him with purposeful strides.

Fitted black jeans hug Simon's thick thighs, and a black button-up stretches with mouth-watering precision over his broad chest and shoulders. Just like at the wedding, he's only wearing a black fabric mask over the lower half of his face, and his hair is slicked back instead of the usual messy blond waves.

The pit in his stomach still churns, but at the same time, a blazing fire bursts to life in his chest as he drinks in the sight. No matter how often he's seen it, Simon's rugged, atypical beauty always steals his breath. He never thought he'd see Simon dolled up once, let alone twice now. Simon looks...

Fuck... he looks positively edible.

John's mouth actually starts watering, and he scrambles for any distraction.

The realization that he's underdressed in his regular jeans and the same fitted blue button-up he wore last weekend comes as both a relief and a bit of an annoyance.

Simon texted John the day before with an ETA for him and Kyle and also the suggestion that they all go out to dinner together. John hadn't thought much of it at the time, too preoccupied with not having an anxiety attack about seeing Simon again.

Now, though... Now, he's wishing he'd put a bit more effort into looking nice. They must be going to a fancier restaurant than he thought.

His thoughts are derailed yet again as Simon draws close, though he doesn't touch John. John grips his cane tighter as he meets Simon's gaze head on.

Then, to his shock Simon leans down and presses his masked mouth to Johnny's cheek.

"Turn about's fair play, yeah?" he quips in a low tone before straightening and searching John's face.

"Um..."

The fire in his chest rushes to his face as all coherent thought dissolves into the warm brown eyes gazing at him, crinkled at the edges in mirth. He clears his throat and drops his gaze to the hollow of Simon's throat visible between the unbuttoned collar of his crisp black shirt.

This is a bad move, however, because he now just wants to lean in and press his mouth to that stripe of pale skin, maybe dip his tongue into the hollow to taste—

"You two ready to go?"

John jerks the slightest bit at Kyle's voice; Simon notices and reaches out. His hand is warm on John's elbow.

John turns to give Kyle a firm nod, ignoring the teasing glint in his friends' eyes. "Yep. Let's go."

John ducks away to the car before he can let his thoughts run away with him any further, but he's out of luck there, too, as Simon joins him in the back seat. This time when their knees press together, it's because they have to fold their large bodies into the small car's bench seat.

Simon's warmth seeps through his jeans, and he clamps his mouth shut against any complaint about the cramped space.

Belle and Kyle try to involve him and Simon in their conversation on the way to the restaurant, but John can barely keep up considering the distraction of Simon's touch, not to mention the way their arms brush through the turns. Simon's hand rests on his own thigh, his fingers inches away from John's leg.

A mental image takes over of Simon's hand slowly sliding over the small gap to grasp John's thigh, the gentle rasp of callused hands on denim sending tingles through his leg and up—

"Everythin' alright?" Simon murmurs. "You're bein' quiet again."

"Just off in my own little world." Their eyes meet, and John cocks his head to the side. "What about you?

"Everythin's comin' up roses," comes the deadpan reply.

John snorts and turns away to talk with Kyle and Belle, making a few jokes as they drive along. Houses pass in a blur, not because Kyle is driving fast but because John's mind is focused on the way their bodies press closer together with every turn. Even with all the distractions, though, Simon's low tone reaches him, his belated, more serious answer stroking over John's nerve endings like the lap of gentle waves over the beach.

"Just... not used to havin' somewhere to go on a weekend."

The admission draws John's gaze, but Simon isn't looking at him. He's leaning toward John to gaze between the front seats and out the windshield. John takes the opportunity to study Simon's face — what he can see of it, anyway — in the afternoon light as he bites back the knee-jerk response that Simon could have had a place to go all this time.

"Well. Now ye do."

The simple reply catches Simon's attention, and he finally turns to look at John. Their faces are inches apart, and the urge to kiss Simon, mask or no, surges up from the depths like a torpedo.

It's a swift, dangerous sensation, but he's had a lot of experience resisting that urge, considering he wanted to kiss Simon all the time back when they worked together.

The worst moments were always during ops...

Soap peeks over the edge of the wooden crate, spotting all his opponents with a glance before ducking down again. He signals at Ghost, who's hidden behind another stack of crates.

Three for him on the left. Two for Ghost on the right.

Ghost nods.

Soap counts down with his fingers: Five, four, three...

Ghost is already moving, silent as the death he heralds. Soap adjusts his position based on memory and keeps counting. At zero, he pops up and sends a single bullet through two skulls before making a tiny adjustment and pulling the trigger a second time to take out his third target.

All three hit the ground before they can even touch their weapons.

Soft gurgles and choking to his right lets him know the other two enemies are down as well. He doesn't bother to look. Ghost has his six — or his three in this case — and that's all he needs to know. All the same, he strides toward the table and chairs in the center of the warehouse with his gun in ready position and all senses on high alert.

Even silenced bullets are loud enough to draw attention if anyone is nearby.

Only when he's close enough to start gathering up intel does he lower his weapon. He pulls out a camera as he shuffles through the papers and begins taking photos. He'll take the papers, too, but this intel is sensitive enough to warrant back-up copies.

Just in case.

"How long?" Ghost asks from his vantage point behind Soap.

Ghost is in the one spot where he can have eyes on both doors into the warehouse, but Soap knows the location offers little to no cover. He picks up the pace.

"Twenty seconds," he replies.

Ghost just grunts, but he can hear the impatience in his Lt's tone. They haven't cleared the whole compound — it's too big for that. Any moment, someone could find a body and they'd be proper fucked.

He's gathering up the papers and stacking them to shove in his vest when the door in front of them opens. Before he can react, a knife flies by Soap's head, a burst of air against his ear, and embeds in the eye socket of the man at the door. His falling body blocks the door, giving Soap the extra second he needs to shove everything into the interior pouch in his vest, flip the table, and crouch down for cover.

A shot echoes through the warehouse along with the thud of a bullet striking the table. Another knife flies above Soap's head, followed by a scream.

Then silence.

Soap leaps up from behind the table to find both enemies slumped over each other in the doorway.

A rush of arousal mixes with the adrenaline already pulsing through his veins. Before his brain's higher functions have a chance to come back online, he takes two long strides toward Ghost, grabs his face, and presses a wild kiss to his masked mouth. Soap pulls back, grin stretching his lips so wide his cheeks hurt.

"Fucking brilliant aim, Lt.!" A split second later, though, his grin twists into a grimace as his brain finally catches up. "Fuck. Sorry 'bout tha'. Just got excited."

Soap already knows his libido doesn't really operate by the same rules as most people, but he's usually better about keeping it under wraps. Even if he and Ghost are fucking behind closed doors, he shouldn't be letting it affect him during a mission.

He drops his hands from Ghost's face and prepares for his superior to push him away with a curse or a grumble about this not being the time or the place.

Instead, Ghost wraps an arm around Soap, lifts his mask, and utterly ruins Soap with the hard press of chapped lips to his own as the bodies of their enemies cool around them...

Sometimes the worst thing about memories is remembering how good things used to be.

And yet, John realizes, there were things missing from those moments, too, such as a conversation afterward. Or any acknowledgement at all of a relationship outside of sex. Back then, Simon barely allowed John to call him a friend.

Something something field manuals.

But now...

John holds Simon's gaze, letting his eyes speak for him and trying to read Simon's response in return. And the warmth in those whisky eyes does more to set John at ease than a thousand placating words.

Simon nods. John nods back.

And tentatively... slowly... a warm, callused hand slips onto John's thigh, all while his heart tries to break free from his chest.

*

They end up at a trendy gastropub west of Birmingham's city center. The decor is dark wood mixed with black and white accents, and though it's nice, it's not exactly "dress-up" nice. A thought niggles at the back of John's brain, but he doesn't have time to dig into it as they're led to a secluded wooden booth. Kyle and Belle slide into one side while Simon and John take the other side.

It isn't until they're left to look over the menus that the niggling thought finally resolves into realization. John watches Kyle and Belle snuggle into each other while they pore over a single menu, her arm around his back and chin resting on his shoulder as they softly murmur back and forth about options.

John slowly lets his gaze travel over the dark wood walls and table to stare at the side of Simon's face.

It's just the four of them: Kyle and Belle and him and Simon. Simon is wearing his equivalent of fancy dress clothes, and they're sitting in next to each other in a cozy booth as if—

"Is this a double date?" he blurts.

Kyle and Belle go quiet, but that only lasts until Kyle slaps a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt at covering an incredulous laugh. John doesn't take his eyes off Simon, though he does direct a particular finger at Kyle — which only makes Kyle laugh harder.

A faint hint of pink dusts the tips of Simon's ears as he sets down the menu he'd been reading. He keeps his gaze fixed on the table as he shrugs.

"Not if you don't want it to be."

"But tha's what ye meant when ye asked, aye?"

John reaches out to pluck at the sleeve of Simon's pristine black button-up. Simon looks down at John's fingers before finally glancing up, his gaze searching John's face like it's a mission map he needs to memorize in the next ten seconds.

"I planned for multiple outcomes," he says in a slow, hesitant tone.

"Don't be mad at him, Tav," Kyle interjects as he gets his laughter under control. "It was my idea to go out, though Ghost decided to get all dressed up all on his own."

"Shut it, Gaz," Simon hisses.

"What? As if he can't see it for himself?" Kyle reaches across the table and lightly bumps his fist against John's shoulder. "He's a 'braw' lad, as they say in Scotland. Right Tav?"

He slides an unimpressed look at Kyle before shaking his head. "I'm no' angry about it. Just... feel a bit like a numpty is all. I'd've dressed myself better if I'd known."

Kyle laughs again, and Belle lets out a little "awww," her grin as wide as Kyle's. He ignores them both as he once again locks gazes with Simon.

"This doesn't have to be owt but friends going out for a bite... or people tryin' to be friends, anyway."

"But ye want it to be a date," John states softly, unable to keep the awe and hint of disbelief from his tone.

Because there's no question about it. Simon's ears are now fully red with embarrassment, and his hands clench into fists on his thighs as he shrugs.

John would've literally killed for this four years ago.

"I..." Simon glances over at Kyle before leaning close to murmur. "I'll take whatever you'll give me, John."

John swallows down the lump in his throat at both Simon's proximity and the words now echoing in his ears. As Simon pulls back and their eyes meet again, John dares to reach over and cover Simon's fisted hand with his own.

He only hears Simon's quick intake of breath because they're so close.

Simon's hand slowly opens, like a flower unfurling in the sun, before wrapping around John's. At the same time, another band wraps around John's racing heart, stabilizing and reinforcing all those fragile pieces stitched together with gossamer threads of hope.

The warmth of Simon's hand chases away a chill that settled into John's bones three years ago, and the hope grows stronger.

*

The rest of the dinner goes smoothly, even if Belle and Kyle continue to wink, waggle their brows, or otherwise embarrass him with their commentary. Simon's glares and growled threats about a grueling training next week silence the worst of the heckling from Kyle, though it's clear from the wink he throws in John's direction that Kyle isn't shutting up out of any real sense of fear.

Through it all, Simon grips his hand under the table like it's a lifeline. He's fairly certain Kyle and Belle haven't noticed that bit (the heckling would be even worse if they did), but the general awkwardness between him and Simon is obvious.

He reminds himself that he's a fucking adult and should be able to behave like one.

It doesn't help.

His hand, and therefore his glass, trembles as he lifts it to take a drink.

John loosens his hold a couple of times to give Simon the opportunity to avoid touching his embarrassingly clammy hand, but Simon only holds on tighter. As if he's afraid to lose the point of contact.

As if he's afraid John is going to disappear on him.

Or maybe John is just projecting.

Once again, though, Simon's lack of denial or any sort of effort to keep his feelings a secret surprises John, and he isn't sure how to handle it beyond trying to act normal. Trouble is, he doesn't know what is normal anymore, especially not between him and Simon.

At least Simon doesn't seem to mind his slightly sweaty palms or his breathless laughter as he tries (and fails) to contain his nerves.

When their food arrives, Simon finally has to let go of John's hand to remove his mask and eat. Afterward, John is still eating, so Simon's hand finds its way onto John's thigh again.

John's not sure if that's better or worse.

His dick thinks it's better, but he's desperately trying not to think with that part of his anatomy.

Not yet.

Not. Yet.

His rational brain reminds him he could simply remove Simon's hand from his leg if he's that upset about it. His libido brain tells his rational brain to shut the fuck up.

Despite the anxiety and nerves, John eventually settles into the comfort of being with friends. The evening ends on a high note, and they head back to Kyle and Belle's house. It occurs to John on the way that he ought to offer Simon his upstairs guest room so Belle and Kyle can have their place to themselves.

And yet...

His chest constricts at the thought.

It's only been two weeks. How can he be sure Simon's affection won't fade?

So he lets the impulse pass as they confirm their plans for dinner tomorrow with the four of them plus Price. John gives Belle and then Kyle a hug, and then Belle drags Kyle into the house, leaving John and Simon alone outside. Simon stays where he is, gaze boring into John's, until the door closes behind their friends.

Simon removes his mask, baring his face, though the darkness hides his features. A light turns on in the house, and the dim glow filters outside, haloing Simon's blond hair. His mask turns him into Ghost, into someone to be feared, but John has always known better.

Long before he saw under the mask in Mexico, he knew Simon would be beautiful.

Even if he's the only one in the world who thinks so.

Simon takes a step forward, putting him right in John's space. Their eyes are still locked, but John struggles to maintain eye contact.

The conflicting feelings are still at war inside him, tangled up in his guts like a nest of snakes. Every moment he spends with Simon, though, the fear and anger fade a little more.

And the want grows.

His heart leaps in his chest as Simon reaches out and takes hold of his free hand.

"So. Tomorrow."

"Aye. What about it?"

"You gonna make me ask?"

"Maybe I like it when ye actually tell me what ye want instead of leaving me guessing."

A surge of embarrassment floods through John at the breathy quality of his voice. He clears his throat and tries to look down, but Simon's finger catches him under the chin and gently tips his head up even as Simon leans closer. Their faces are inches apart, and John is working so hard not to hyperventilate from the overwhelming need to lift up on his toes and press their mouths together that he almost misses Simon's reply.

"Tempting," Simon murmurs. "I want a lot of things."

Fucking hell.

He's not cut out for this kind of self denial anymore. Not when Simon is looking at him like that — an expression so soft and yet heated that John feels like he's going to combust. And especially not when Simon leans down and presses a bare-lipped kiss to his cheek.

John's mind goes blank as heat explodes like a charge in every cell of his body.

Fuck.

A simple kiss to the cheek shouldn't make him feel like he's dying. Like he can't quite get enough air in his lungs. He wants to wrap his arms around Simon, wants to kiss him properly, wants to take him home and never let him go...

But the cynical voice in the back of his mind reminds him he doesn't know if Simon will stay. Sure, he'll always have to go away — it's part of the job. John can get used to that. But he also needs to be sure Simon will come back if he can, and right now, the doubt is too great to overcome.

It's only been two weeks.

John needs to get himself under control.

So even though it's like ripping gauze off a wound, John forces himself to take a step back, out of Simon's reach.

"I know ye do. But let's start small, aye?"

"I overstepped," Simon says with a tightness to his tone John hasn't heard before.

It's not a question, but something glitters in the depths of those whisky eyes that makes John's heart thud in sympathy. He shakes his head.

"Nae. It's just... too much right now."

"Too much?"

John huffs a wry laugh and glances away. Perhaps it's time for John to take a cue from Simon regarding that brutal honesty.

"I want ye too much to be so close to ye, Simon."

Simon's eyes widen a fraction before a small smile curves his lips. He drops his gaze and nods.

"No need to look so proud of yerself," John quips as relief and regret tangle up in his chest.

The bastard has the gall to look up at John through those damnable blond lashes. His heart clenches, and he sucks in a deep breath as he rubs a hand over his chest.

"What time can I see you tomorrow?" Simon asks.

"I'm usually home from the gym by nine."

Simon nods. "See you after nine, then?"

John nods in return. Simon offers him a half-smile.

"Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight."

John can feel Simon's eyes on him the entire walk to his car.

*

Kyle grabs John as soon as he walks through the door for Saturday dinner, leaving Simon looking after them with a raised brow. John shrugs as he stumbles past Belle and Price, waving to both of them before Kyle pulls him onto the currently empty patio, closes the door behind them, and wraps him up in a fierce hug.

"Woah! What's this all about?"

Kyle laughs and pulls back, though he keeps his hands curled around John's upper arms. "God. You have no idea, do you? Of course you don't." Kyle gives John a mild shake, just enough to get his attention without messing up his balance. "I couldn't talk to you last night because Ghost was hovering the whole time, but I am over the fucking moon right now."

The wide grin stretching Kyle's face prompts John to echo the expression, but he's still beyond confused. Kyle is bouncing on his toes, practically vibrating with excitement, and it only takes a few moments of them staring at each other before John's jaw drops.

"Steamin' Jesus, Garrick! Did ye knock Belle up already?"

"Wha—" Kyle's eyes go comically wide. "Oh my God, no! I mean... I don't think so..." He shakes his head as if to clear it. "No. I'm talking about Ghost! I told you he was different around base the past three years, right?"

"Riiight," John says slowly, back to being confused by his friend's behavior. "All tactical and strategic. No funny business, aye?"

"Aye. I mean, yes. But guess what happened this week?"

Realization begins to dawn, but John presses his lips together, not daring to hope too soon. "He was different?"

"He's finally back to his old self! He actually went easy during drills, and I swear to Christ the man was smiling under that balaclava most of the time. I haven't seen it for years, but there's that look in his eyes—"

"Aye, the crinkles."

Kyle laughs and gives John a mild shake again. "Yes! I know you're still unsure. Still testing the waters. And that's brilliant, mate. Take however long you need." Kyle blows out a breath and shakes his head. "But you gotta know that this is unprecedented behavior from Ghost for most of the 141. They have no idea what to do. Of course, Ghost is having a blast fucking with them; it's kind of endearing in a fucked up way. Roach actually asked me if Ghost had gone through some kind of mental break over leave."

John's own laughter shakes him from his shocked state.

He figured Simon would be different on base this week, but it was good to know Simon wasn't trying to hide behind professionalism... though he supposes Simon texting him while overseeing training was his first indication that things were different.

Still, his chest expands with a relieved breath, and he can't hold back the wide grin this time.

"Thanks for telling me, mate."

Kyle's grin softens, and he throws his arm around John's shoulders as he turns to guide them back into the house.

"Any time, bruv."

*

*

*

*

John groans at the shrill sound of his phone ringing. A string of mumbled curses pass over his lips as he struggles against his blankets to reach for the phone on his nightstand.

He doesn't bother looking at the name before answering. Only five people can call through when his phone is on silent, and he wouldn't want to miss a call from any of them.

"Fuckin' Christ it's early," he complains when he finally gets the phone to his ear. "Somebody better've died."

"Dark humor at 0500. Just what I needed to start my day."

Simon's graveled tone sends a shiver down his spine, and he warns his libido to shove off. His libido, of course, doesn't listen — hasn't been listening since the moment Simon cornered him in that lavatory.

But it's more than the physical connection, now. Simon's continued attention is a balm to the hurt John's been carrying for years. Including the weekend before Simon's leave ended, they've spent three glorious weekends together now, not to mention the two weeks in between, texting and talking on the phone.

And bit by bit, all of John's remaining defenses have crumbled into ruins.

He's swaying above a bottomless cavern and holding on to his will power by the tiniest thread. His fingers itch to bury themselves in Simon's hair; his lips ache to taste pale, scar-silvered skin. With every interaction, the fear and anger and grief that's festered in John's soul for so long drains away, exposing parts of himself he'd thought long dead.

It's a resurrection of self, in some ways, and in the wake of his ebbing grief, hope puts down tentative roots, sinking deep into the silty remains in an effort to grow something new.

His dreams devolve into nightmares less often, and his caution is beginning to feel more like an excuse than a legitimate reason to stay away.

Still, he's managed to hold back — often due to vigorous chugging sessions before and after their time together — and Simon has respected his boundaries, even if John can tell he's eager to rekindle the physical portion of their relationship.

If he can call it that. He hopes to God he can call it that.

They should probably talk about it at some point.

"Happy to be of service. Shouldnae ye be leaving soon?"

"In thirty, but..." Simon sighs. "Price mentioned I shouldn't bring my phone for this one. Too dangerous."

John frowns, his sleep-addled mind still catching up. "Were ye planning to?"

"Wanted to keep you updated."

John opens his mouth, but nothing comes out — not because he's suffering from an episode but simply because he doesn't know how to respond. Simon fills in the awkward silence with another sigh.

"Just lettin' you know. I'll let you get back to sle—"

"Thank ye. Fer callin' and fer tellin' me all tha'. I wasnae expecting it, but I'm glad ye told me. Ye'll message me as soon as yer back?"

"I will. I... I should get goin'."

"Aye."

A long pause separates them. He can hear Simon breathing soft and slow into the phone. Words gather on John's tongue, but he can't seem to force them out.

"Goodb—"

"I'll miss seeing ye," John interrupts a second time as the words overflow.

"Yeah," Simon says. He clears his throat. "Me too."

"Take care of yerself, Simon. And... come back to me, aye?"

The breath that passes through the mic is a bit shaky. John bites his lip, his heart beating a mile a minute as he waits for a reply. And then...

"I'll do everythin' in my power, John."

More words bubble up — a relenting, a giving of permission to resurrect the man once drowned and buried at the bottom of a lake but now gasping his first, tentative breaths — but he bites them back.

He can't. Not yet.

Not yet.

"Alright. Alright then. Go kill some bad guys."

"It's what I do best."

After a quiet laugh and quieter goodbyes, the line goes dead. John holds the phone face down on his chest and tries to calm his thundering heart enough to sleep again.

After twenty minutes of racing thoughts and growing worry, he gets up and heads for the gym.

Art by Kiba (@kibagib on Tumblr and Twitter)

Chapter Text

A frantic clicking sound fills the room as John's thumb moves in rapid-fire motion over the end of a pen left in the classroom by a previous instructor. It's one of those shitty pens people buy in bulk to off-set the cost of printing a custom logo on the side — the kind that breaks if you look at it wrong. He would never use one to write or draw, but it's holding up pretty well as an outlet for the crushing anxiety sitting on his chest like a fucking tank.

He's spent the last hour setting up for the seminar, and now he has nothing to do but sit around and wait for his three students to show up.

One of whom is the man who replaced him in the 141.

He looks at his watch: 0742.

He breathes out in a slow, controlled stream of air before slowly filling his lungs again. His palms are sweating. His mouth is dry. The clicking matches up with his breathing, and he starts timing them together.

(In) Click click click click. (Out) Click click click click.

If he can't get this anxiety under control, he just knows he's going to embarrass himself by going non-verbal.

As if the previous month hasn't already tested his limited capacity for stress.

Not that it's a bad kind of stress. Mostly. But still... Simon barging back into his life has forced him to get used to a lot of change all at once. Back in his military days, it would've been a breeze to mentally pivot to a new situation, but as much as he might mourn the loss of his previous abilities, it doesn't change the reality that the working parts of his brain are not happy with the disruption to his routine.

Talking to Abby helps.

So do their Saturday night dinners.

The weekly time together has given the five of them — Kyle, Belle, Simon, Price and John — a chance to get comfortable with their old-yet-new dynamic. He and Price are easing back into their friendship, too, which has been a relief.

And then there's Fi.

She was grumpy that Belle told on her about the talk with Simon, but she also acknowledged she took things too far. Her apology was heartfelt enough to bring them both to tears, and after he extracted promises that she wouldn't do it again and would come visit soon, that was the end of it, at least for now.

He hasn't been brave enough to ask her to make things right with Simon — even he hasn't fully reconciled with Simon yet — but if things continue on, if Simon keeps in contact and keeps spending his weekends and leaves at John's side, there will have to be a truce of some kind.

But that's a problem for future John... and one that might never come to be.

Because despite his best efforts, the doubt keeps sneaking in to push and prod at his newly sutured heart with no regard for the tenderness of the wounds or the fragility of the repairs. He's stitched together with little more than gossamer threads, still in danger of breaking at the slightest hint of abandonment, and it makes it all the more difficult to trust a man who has admitted that he cut ties with John because of his traumatic past and issues with self-worth.

Issues Simon has yet to address, as far as he knows.

And yet.

John doesn't know how long it will take to fully trust Simon again, but just like the grief and anger that once held sway over his every emotion, the doubt ebbs a bit more every time Simon shows up with that spark of determination gleaming in his eye.

Which makes it all the more anxiety-inducing to watch Simon curl in on himself during the long, painful silences that have occasionally interrupted their conversations over the past few weeks. Simon has always been intensely guarded about his life before the 141, but now, when the topic comes up either naturally or because Simon brings it up himself, John can almost taste the panic in the air.

After a few minutes, Simon will shake his head and apologize while John reassures him it's not important. That he doesn't need to know anything if Simon's not comfortable talking about it.

He's curious, of course. Who wouldn't be? But a deep-rooted sense of fear — and perhaps a wee bit of self-preservation — far outweighs his curiosity, warning him away from prying up the boards holding back whatever renders Simon "Ghost" Riley speechless.

There are horror stories hidden under those creaking floors, and John isn't sure he's ready to hear them.

He inhales and exhales another series of breaths in time with the clicking pen. The fingers of his opposite hand tap out a counterpoint.

From the hall, the off-beat thudding of combat boots on vinyl tile interrupts his rhythm.

He drops the pen and looks up, heart rate spiking as a tall, lanky man with reddish brown hair walks through the door. He's dressed in regulation fatigues, and his features are rather unremarkable. But his jade green eyes and the broad smile that stretches across his face when he sees John transform his face into something close to handsome.

John doesn't recognize him from the Garricks' wedding, however, so this must be—

"Warrant Officer William Eisel," the man says as he approaches, hand outstretched, "but people call me Rizz. I assume you're our fearless demolitions instructor, John MacTavish?"

Rizz's voice carries a slight Irish lilt, though it's subdued, much like John's own brogue now that he's lived in England for so long. John stands and moves around the desk to shake Rizz's hand while keeping his other hand on the desk for balance.

"Aye. Good to meet ye, Rizz. Ye can call me either John or MacTavish." He flashes Rizz a warm grin as they drop the handshake. "And I'm gonna need the story behind tha' call sign before the day is over."

Rizz's grin turns sheepish. "Uh, that's classified?"

"What a load of shite," comes a female voice from the doorway.

They both turn. John is impressed that he didn't hear her approach at all, though she's wearing the same standard-issue boots as Rizz. She's of average height and solidly built — she looks like she could bench press Rizz in one hand and John in the other. Her honey blonde hair is pulled up in a ponytail and her large brown eyes stare at Rizz from under raised eyebrows.

In a word, she's stunning, and if John weren't already tangled up in Simon, he'd be doing his best to charm her pants off. As it is, he points a charming grin in her direction and nods.

"Sergeant Lori Barton, I presume," John says. "Or should I call ye Bone?"

"Bone is fine. And what 'Rizz' here isn't telling you is that the officers got tired of yelling out 'Jizz' during training, so they changed it for him."

John crosses his arms and presses his closed fist to his lips to hide his smile at the same time Rizz's shoulders droop. The man lets out a long sigh and shoots Bone a hard glare before turning back to John.

"It's a bird-watching term. I was apparently outside 'touching grass' too much to realize that the terminally online, porn-obsessed teens in bootcamp understood the term differently." He shot another glare at Bone. "Are you ever going to let that go?"

She shrugs. "Probably not. Besides, what are you complaining about? You got a much nicer name because of your so-called 'winning' personality. Don't fuck it up with our instructor now, you little twat."

"Except he never would've known if not for you. Besides, you're one to talk, Bone."

"You know exactly what that references, so shut your gob about it, eh?"

Rizz grimaces, and John can't quite cover his snort at their bickering. "I take it there's history between ye?"

"We went through boot camp together," Bone confirms. "And then got transferred to the same unit... and then decided to specialize in the same field..."

"I just can't seem to shake her," Rizz says with a put-upon sigh.

John raises his brows, but Bone just laughs as she pushes off the doorway and wanders over to them.

"Don't let him fool you. We haven't been in the same unit since this guy passed SAS selection eight years ago," she says as she punches Rizz's arm and then reaches out to shake John's hand. "Heard that's where you were, too, right? John MacTavish, youngest soldier to pass selection in the history of the British military?"

"Aye," John admits with a slightly less enthusiastic smile before gesturing to his cane resting behind the desk. "Had a wee bit of a rough time a few years ago, though. What's the saying? If ye can't do, teach?"

"Well, I'd say you've done quite a bit if the rumors are true," Rizz says with a sly smile. "So it's more passing on the lived knowledge, right?"

Despite the awkwardness of talking about his past, warmth spreads through John's chest. This is exactly what he misses about being on base: the camaraderie, the teasing, the shared respect of a chosen field. He can't ever go back to field work, but it's good to be among people who understand the job.

Who understand, if only obliquely, what he's done and gone through.

The sound of someone hurrying down the hall interrupts their conversation, and they all turn toward the door. John's blood pressure spikes with every footfall until a sturdy-looking man a bit shorter than him with light brown hair rushes through the door.

John's palms start sweating again.

Because he does recognize this man from the wedding.

"Sorry, Sergeant MacTavish," the man says in a quiet tone as he drops his bag at one of the tables and strides toward him, hand extended the same way Rizz had earlier. "We didn't get back until late last night, and the Captain wanted a debrief as soon as we landed."

John tries to swallow past the lump in his throat as he takes the man's hand. "Sergeant Sanderson, aye?"

"Oh! Yeah. That's me. Ha. Roach is fine, though."

Roach's pale cheeks flood with crimson. His palm is just as clammy as John's, and dark smudges mar the skin under his hazel eyes. He hasn't broken eye contact, but his shoulders are hunched.

And John realizes Roach is nervous, too.

The knowledge does more to settle him than any amount of breathing exercises ever could.

"S'alright. Yer lieutenant sent me a message, so I knew ye might be late." At this, Roach's gaze flicks up, a spark of what can only be curiosity igniting in his eyes. John clears his throat. "And ye can call me John. Or MacTavish if ye like. The sergeant part doesnae really apply anymore. As I'm sure yer aware."

The crimson deepens. "Uh. Yeah. Sorry."

Roach is even more soft-spoken up close. And though John isn't quite sure where it comes from, a strange sort of camaraderie pushes past his anxiety. He squeezes Roach's hand before letting go.

"No' a problem. Just cannae have the uppers accusing me of impersonating a soldier."

Roach doesn't verbally respond, but the corner of his mouth ticks up in a half smile. The other two take that as an opportunity to introduce themselves, and as they do, John glances at his watch.

It's five after. He needs to get the class started because he's got a lot to get through today — if he can keep his racing heart and jittering nerves in check, that is.

Meeting Roach went better than he expected, but he still feels raw, like skin being pelted by sand for hours on watch in the desert. Fine tremors buzz through his body like he just consumed enough caffeine to kill a horse.

He's standing in the presence of the man going out on missions with his old team.

The man watching Ghost's six instead of him.

John puts a hand over his mouth to cover a shaking inhale. The other three have moved toward the table where he's laid out the spiral-bound lesson book he spent the past three weeks writing.

Get yer shite together, MacTavish. Yer supposed to be a fucking professional.

With a silent exhale, he straightens his shoulders and follows them over to begin the lessons.

*

As John starts teaching, his nerves fade to the background. Last week's intermediate classes helped him get comfortable with the role of teacher, and though he's still new at it, he likes the way he can see people's minds working as he speaks.

It's all the more thrilling to work with a group of soldiers with real-world experience — people who understand what Simon calls his "technical talk." As he dives into the material, they give him their rapt attention and ask him tough questions.

It's everything he hoped it would be.

Even so, the rawness remains. He can forget about it while engaging with Rizz or Bone, but like coarse fabric rubbing over sand-burned skin every time he moves, the discomfort comes back all the stronger when he looks at Roach. Even worse, he often catches Roach watching him with that curious glint in his eye.

There's something happening behind those hazel eyes, but hell if John knows what it is. He tells himself he doesn't care.

After all, he's gotten very good at lying to himself.

The morning lessons go slowly, but he needs to get everyone on the same page before they get into the hands-on lessons. He tests their knowledge with questions and scenarios, and it comes as no surprise that the soft spoken 141 member gets the questions right the most out of all of them.

Price only chooses the best of the best, after all.

John swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and pushes onward.

*

By the morning break, he's sussed out the areas where all three lack training, though he's not surprised by the gaps in knowledge. He's had a lot more time on his hands to read up on new tech and reports on insurgent behavior (thank you, Laswell) than anyone else in the room.

It is his job now, after all.

As they come back together after the break, he reaches into his bag and pulls out the journal he bought specifically to make notes for the class. He pauses at the familiar feel of fine leather under his fingers while visceral memories flood through him — sitting in a dank safehouse sketching out sniper angles or calculations for his next demo; keeping himself awake in a long debrief by scribbling out his thoughts on the mission; locking Ghost's office door, coaxing the mask off, and trying to capture Simon's likeness on paper with his amateur drawing skills.

It's the first journal he's bought since the injury.

His fingers rub along the grain, and he takes a deep breath as a more recent and much more painful memory surfaces...

The box Fi pulls out from the closet under the stairs is one of those special file-folder boxes meant to hold paperwork. He's toted enough of them around on military bases for various officers to recognize the style, and a lump forms in the back of his throat.

"It's this one," Fi says softly. "Price handed it off tae me while ye were still in the hospital."

She's been staying with him for nearly five months now, and every time he looks at the bags under her eyes, the slump of her shoulders, or the sadness in her down-turned lips, guilt settles more firmly over his chest, like dirt settling over a fresh grave.

He knows he will never be able to repay her for all she's done for him.

The weight of the box is easier to deal with than the weight of his debts as she sets it in his lap. He tries to make his smile look genuine when she meets his gaze.

"Thank ye," he says slowly.

Spitting out words these days is like trying to pull taffy through his teeth, and that's after the supposed "progress" he's made during the speech and brain rehabilitation sessions. Some days are better than others, of course, and his new therapist suggested journaling again might have the double effect of allowing him to express himself on his non-verbal days and also practicing the fine motor skills that seem to have deserted him.

The old journals represent everything he misses. Everything he's lost. He's not sure he's ready to face what his past self etched on those pages, but at this point, he'll try anything to fix his broken brain.

He takes a deep breath and opens the lid.

A black leather-bound journal sits on top of a whole stack of others. Each of them contain a year or two of his thoughts and musings going all the way back to when Fi presented him with his first journal at eight years old. He picks up the one of the top and flips it open.

A rough sketch of Simon's face stares back at him, and a wounded noise slips past his lips as he runs a thumb over the jawline he never could quite replicate to his satisfaction. He doesn't have the energy to be embarrassed, though, as he stares at the crude rendering for far longer than he should with his sister sitting beside him.

The next page is almost worse: notes on the mission just prior to Makarov's jailbreak and a few scribbles of Price's beard in the corner. A huff from Fi catches his attention, and he turns to find her staring at the doodles.

"It should look ridiculous on him," she says.

"Aye, but he p... p... pulls it off s-somehow."

"A mystery fer the ages."

John snorts, which leads into an explosive exhale as he turns the page to find more notes. Memories bombard him from all sides. He can feel the walls closing in as he stares at the page and mourns all he's lost.

All he'll never have or be again.

He flips to the next page, and a lump forms in his throat as he reads the note to himself to buy Price some of his favorite cigars for some favor or another. But it's the full-page drawing of Simon that truly captures his attention. It's one of his best attempts. The lines are more careful than his previous drawings, and John remembers that night in Ghost's office, sneaking glances at his unmasked face and surreptitiously sketching his braw face in pencil before coming back later to carefully ink the lines.

Pain stabs through his chest like his heart is being squeezed in a vice.

"Who's he then?" Fi asks. "A friend? Boyfriend?"

"My Lt.," he whispers, and he hates himself for the stupidly reverent way the words pass over his lips. "And a friend... or... I h-hope so. He ha... hasnae been around s-since the injury, but things... things have been busy..."

"Price and Gaz make time," Fi says in that blunt way of hers. "Maybe he's got his reasons, but I'm not inclined tae like him much if he hasnae come around tae see ye in five months."

He knows she isn't saying it to hurt him, but he can't help the way he gasps like his chest has been cracked open by a wrecking ball.

Because she's right. Simon barely responds to the group messages, never visits, and doesn't answer his phone when John calls.

The signs are all there. He just hasn't wanted to see them.

"John?"

He growls as he slams the journal closed and launches it across the room. He snatches the box from Fi's lap, and it gets the same treatment, though he can't throw it very far in his weakened state.

Another thing to hate about his broken body.

Before Fi can react, he's maneuvering into his wheelchair and heading into the kitchen. He yanks open the junk drawer and claws through it, unheeding of the detritus falling to the floor in his violent search.

"What're ye doin', ye roaster? I thought ye wanted tae start writin' again?"

"I'm goin' tae b... burn 'em," he growls as the anger sears through his veins like the fire he wants to create. "Light 'em up. T-Turn 'em tae... tae ashes just like the w-wanker that used tae write in 'em before."

"Hey! Heyheyhey, stop."

Fi grabs his hands. He struggles to escape her grasp, but she holds fast.

He is so. Fucking. Weak.

"Look at me, love."

Heavy breaths saw in and out of his lungs, and a terrible burning sensation starts up behind his eyes. She knows him, though, and her patience knows no bounds. He finally glances up to find tears streaming down her face.

"Burnin' 'em willnae fix anything, John Callum. I'll put 'em away upstairs where ye willnae have tae look at 'em ever again. And when yer better, if ye still want tae burn 'em tae hell, we'll have a proper party and do it up in style. Aye?"

The black hole has swallowed his words yet again, so John can only slump back in his chair, swallow down a sob, and nod...

John clutches at the journal with a grip strong enough to indent the leather. He hasn't tried to journal again since that day, even in a new one, too scared of the memories surging back to drown what was left of him.

But now, with the ebbing of that ocean of grief, he finds he can let the memory wash over him and subside. Sadness still lingers, of course, for the loss of his past self, but it's not enough to prevent him from opening the book to the first page and putting his pen to the pristine paper.

Maybe when he gets home, he'll finally pull that box out again...

*

By lunch, he's filled ten pages with notes on all three of his students and their weaknesses and strengths. Every whirling thought that passes through his mind is penned down as it comes, from thoughts on additional reading materials to possible focuses for the next seminar to doodles along the sides of whatever bomb part he's explaining at the moment.

His mind hasn't been this clear in years.

A wry laugh bubbles up before he can contain it.

"Are we so bad at this that you're laughing at us now?" Bone asks, a teasing lilt to her voice.

"Oh, aye. Fucking hopeless, the lot of ye." He looks at his watch and finds it's already past noon. "And on that note, it's time for a lunch break."

"I planned to go down to the mess," Rizz says as he leans back in his chair and stretches. "Anyone else wanna go?"

Roach lifts his bag. "Brought my own."

John nods. "Me, too."

"Well, I guess that means it's just us, Rizz. Let's go before everyone takes the good stuff."

"What good stuff?" Rizz asks with a laugh as they stand from the table and head for the door.

"Be back on the hour," John calls after them. "We've still got a lot to cover."

Rizz promises they'll hurry back, and Bone whips around long enough to give him a lazy salute. He snorts and waves them out the door before carefully standing and walking to the desk where he left his backpack. As he pulls out a spoon and a container of the stew he made the night before, he glances over at Roach, who is busy pulling a plastic container out of his own bag.

Lunch alone with his replacement. Just what John's always wanted.

He briefly debates sitting at a different table, but that feels too pointed. He licks his lips and pulls in a long slow breath before heading back to sit in the same seat as before.

Without looking up, he opens the stew and digs in — he was in the military long enough to not mind lukewarm food. And the chewing at least covers up the awkward silence that's settled between them in the absence of the more talkative members of the group.

He remembers when the talkative one used to be him.

They're sitting a few seats apart — not close enough to be awkward but enough to make avoiding eye contact difficult. John opens his journal and takes a few more notes as a cover for not talking or engaging, but... it's weird. He might not talk much anymore, but he's also not used to being standoffish, even now, after the bullet so thoroughly fucked with his brain. He's usually still the one bringing people into the conversation, making connections or asking questions to put people at ease...

The silence lasts for as long as it takes them to eat their respective meals. With a soft sigh, John throws the spoon inside the container and closes it, watching out of the corner of his eye as Roach does the same.

The quiet is suffocating.

John's anxiety ratchets up another level.

And he breaks.

"So—"

"I know—"

Startled by speaking at the same time, they turn to stare at each other. A hysterical laugh rattles around in John's lungs, but he holds it back by clearing his throat instead. He motions toward Roach and tries to arrange his expression into something more inviting than the grimace he can feel contorting his features.

"Got something ye want to say, then?"

Roach shakes his head. Then he winces and nods as he looks down at where he's folded his hands on the table. His voice is the softest John's heard it all morning.

"Just that I know this is weird, and I'm sorry if me being here causes you any... problems. I didn't know this would happen when I approached Captain Carter about additional classes."

"S'alright. Price told me what happened," John says just as quietly before huffing a wry laugh. "And it's no' like I can blame ye for wanting to learn more and be better for the team."

Roach looks up at that, his grimace fading into a wary expression as he meets John's gaze. "I do. I do want to be better. I take my position in the 141 seriously, and I love working with the team."

"Aye, tha's not surprising," John whispers, his throat constricting with the press of too many emotions at once. "I loved it, too."

Their gazes hold. Roach nods, determination creeping into the set of his jaw. It's strangely reminiscent of Simon, and in the wash of bittersweet emotions that follows, he nearly misses Roach's next words.

"I wish I could give it back to you. But I can't, so I'll do the next best thing." Roach licks his lips, his hands clasped so hard his knuckles have turned white. "I'll learn everything I can from the best demolitions expert in the UK so I can keep them safe."

John huffs a disbelieving laugh, his mind a whirling cloud of contradictions. The part of him that still mourns his old life wants to shut Roach out, to push him away and refuse to get to know him. Listening to that earnest voice promising to do what should have been his fucking job is like taking a knife repeatedly to the chest.

He should be the one protecting his team. The one keeping them safe.

And it guts him to know he can't.

He can't.

John stares down the soft-spoken man and sees that glint of steel in his gaze — a steel that betrays a different kind of person hidden beneath the "socially acceptable" front every special ops team member learns to present to the world.

He reminds himself that Price doesn't choose losers.

And maybe it's time John stops blaming an innocent person for something neither of them could control and starts doing what he can to make sure Roach has the tools he needs to keep their team safe.

"No' sure about the best," he rasps, "but I'll do everything I can. Tha's what ye came here for after all, aye?"

"Yes. That, and... Well..." Roach shrugs. That same half smile plays over his lips for a moment, shyness mixed with a spark of boyish excitement. "I love explosives. The thrill of getting it just right? Of making something that powerful do exactly what I want it to? It's heady stuff."

John lets a small smile break through as an echoing spark of excitement burns in his chest. "Aye, tha' it is."

"It's truly an honor to be learning from you."

John nods in awkward acknowledgement of the comment, unsure what to say. Roach doesn't seem to mind the lack of response. He turns his body toward John, the determination in his expression giving way to that spark of curiosity once more. He opens his mouth.

Before snapping it shut and shaking his head. He turns away again to stare at his lunch container.

Part of John wants to leave it. To let them settle back into silence.

But his own stupid curiosity gets the better of him.

"I think we're past the point of pulling punches, mate. Ye got something to say, say it."

Roach hesitates a moment more before grimacing and glancing at John out of the corner of his eye. "This is probably going to ruin any good will I've built up, but... if I'm being honest... it hasn't been easy joining the 141 after you."

John's smile drops. Roach lifts his hands in supplication, a rush of crimson flooding his face all over again.

"Fuck. I knew this was a bad idea. I don't mean it how you think, though."

"Then what the fuck do you mean?" John asks through gritted teeth.

"Just that..." Roach sighs and drops his hands to pick at nonexistent lint on his pants. "Price is welcoming, and Gaz is a great friend. But Ghost... Ghost is impossible to get to know." Roach glances up, his gaze still wary but also assessing, as if he's looking for something in John's expression. "Sure, he's tactical and efficient. A decent CO in that way, but... well... until three weeks ago, I'd've called him a soulless military machine."

"I was told ye were a quiet one," John grouses as a sudden pain shoots through his eye. He reaches into his bag for a pain killer while grumbling, "I'm beginning to think tha's a lie."

"And you're dodging the question."

"Cannae dodge something ye never asked," he gripes.

"Okay," Roach acknowledges with a slight quirk of his brow. "How about this: Gaz said whatever's going on with Ghost right now is fine. As in... it's not unexpected behavior. And not that I don't trust Gaz, but I just wanted to know... How did he act when you came on the team? Was he actually nice to you back then?"

With a sigh and a glance at the empty doorway, John pops the pill, washes it down with a gulp of water, and readjusts to get more comfortable in his chair. Not much chance Bone and Rizz will save him from having to answer — it's still too early — so he tries to be as vague as possible.

"No' at first. We started out tactical and mission-oriented, too. I had to peel back the layers. Once I did, though, we were... friends for a time. We fell out of touch after I was medically discharged."

It's the kindest possible spin on all the shit that went down — practically an outright lie — but he's not about to tell someone he just met his sob story. Especially not the one about his superior officer regularly fucking his subordinate into a mattress and then ditching him when he was injured.

Roach blinks. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, confusion written plainly across his face.

John taps his fingers against the tabletop and sighs. Because he knows what Roach wants. And he really doesn't want to have to say it.

Looks like he doesn't have a choice, though, if he ever wants this conversation to end.

"Ye want to know what changed, aye?"

Roach nods emphatically. John huffs a bitter laugh.

"Well, then, the short answer is me and Si— Yer lieutenant and I revived our friendship at Kyle's wedding."

A blink followed by a series of confused expressions is all the reply John receives. As he sits back and watches Roach process the information, he takes a moment to appreciate the outside confirmation that Simon has been a proper fucking mess for more than three years. Not that he didn't trust Price and Kyle, but like Roach, he doesn't think either one of them can be truly impartial with something like this.

Once again, a conflicting sense of vengeance mixes with sadness, though this time, John feels more sad than justified. What a fucking waste of three years. Just thinking about it is almost enough to reignite that volcano in his gut.

He pulls in a long, slow breath. Then another.

The heat dissipates, leaving behind a deep and abiding ache.

"That's... that's all?" Roach finally asks, his brows still furrowed in confusion.

"If ye wanna know more, ye'll have to ask Ghost."

And... the call sign just slips out. John blinks, his eyes unfocusing as he processes the moment. Even with Kyle using "Ghost" all the time, it's been years since John casually dropped the name in conversation.

Somehow, though, being on a military base with a member of the 141 at his side, it feels right. Like an acknowledgment of the present instead of a descent into a painful past.

He decides not to dig into it any deeper.

That's how a man buries himself — something he knows from experience.

"Right," Roach sighs. "I'll never know, then."

John laughs. "Ye might be surprised."

"After the past few weeks, I'm not sure anything would surprise me about the Lieutenant."

"Famous last words."

The plod of Rizz's boots interrupt their moment, but Roach reaches out to John as he's about to stand. He doesn't touch, but his hand hovers in the air as he breathes out a huff through his nose.

"Sorry if this was difficult. I didn't mean to get so personal, but Gaz is right. You're easy to talk to." It takes John a moment to realize his mouth is hanging open. Before he can think of a response, though, Roach adds, "I appreciate you answering my questions. I just want to be the best I can be for the Price and the team."

Roach's earnest words and expression draw a small smile from John, even if it is a bit wry. As the others walk through the door, he reaches over to tap Roach on the shoulder with his fist.

"Then let's get to it, aye?"

*

When they come back from their afternoon break, John finally brings out the hands-on materials. They've read and quizzed and talked through scenarios, but John's brain is starting to fuzz out — not quite black hole levels, but enough that he doesn't dare risk more talking than necessary. The over-the-counter painkiller he took isn't quite doing its job on the headache, either.

So, for the final hour of their time together, he hands out the play dough.

"So this wire could go here or here or here?" Rizz asks as he moves a wire around the bomb parts John provided. "Why would they do that?"

"Because they want to make it confusing," Bone supplies. "Multiple configurations means less chance of someone diffusing it before it blows."

"And because it allows for more shapes and sizes," Roach adds. "If you're working in a tight spot or you want to hide the bomb, having multiple places to connect gives you more options."

"Got any stories for us," John asks, though he knows the answer well enough before the words are out of Roach's mouth.

"That's classified, and you know it," Roach says with a snort. "Besides, you've probably got better stories than me."

"Now we're talking!" Bone says with a hint of glee in her tone. "Give us a big boom story, MacTavish!"

John laughs at the familiar glint of joy in her eyes, and another pulse of camaraderie floods through him. If the four of them have nothing else in common, they have this: the joy of blowing shite up.

He presses his lips together and looks toward the open door.

Bone's eyes widen.

Before he can speak a word, she's out of her seat and closing the door. She rushes back over, and instead of going back to her fake bomb, she puts her chin in her hands and looks at him like she's a kid sneaking out of bed on Christmas night and he's just come down the chimney. A glance around the table proves the others are eyeing him with equal amounts of curiosity and anticipation.

"Alright, then. One very vague and not at all identifiable story coming up. If any of ye repeat it" —he points at Roach— "you especially, I'll make ye regret it. Copy?"

"Solid copy, sir!" the three say in unison before glancing around and bursting into laughter.

A moment later, though, Bone shushes them. "Shut your gobs! I wanna hear this before we have to go."

John laughs and shakes his head. "Okay. So. We were on the hunt for a terrorist—"

"Like the 141 does," Roach offers.

"Right," John agrees with a half smile and a nod at him. "And like so many of those bastards, he was a wily fucker, slipping the noose and sending us running in circles. During one of those missions, though, we found out he managed to steal actual long-range ballistic missiles—"

"How the fuck—" Rizz starts in a loud tone before Bone smacks him upside the head. He clears his throat and lowers his voice. "How the fuck did he get those?"

John snorts. "Answering tha' would take us out of 'vague' territory. Ye'll just have to use yer imagination. So. As I was saying, we recovered some of them, but we knew he had more. Through a bit of deception on my part, we captured a co-conspirator and found out he was planning to launch one of the missiles at their chosen target from an off-shore oil rig."

"No fucking way," Bone whispers.

She glances at Roach, who shrugs as if to say "just part of the job."

John hums an affirmative and then gives an exaggerated grimace. "But we didn't get there in time to abort the launch."

"No fucking way," Bone repeats, more denial than awe in her tone now. "We'd have heard about a ballistic missile strike!"

"Well, it launched, but we... we were able to reprogram the destination."

"To where?" Rizz asks in a breathless tone.

All three are hanging on his every word, and he acknowledges he's having way too much fun with his very illegal storytelling hour. He reminds himself to keep it short as a feral grin replaces his grimace.

"The oil rig."

Rizz and Bone break into shouts and hollers. They're so loud, he almost misses Roach's reaction.

"I bet it was beautiful," Roach says in a soft, dreamy tone.

"Pure d... dead brilliant," John agrees before frowning.

The words are starting to jumble in his head, and he sighs. At least it's almost the end of the day. He should be able to make it.

"That one was you and Ghost, right?" Roach asks.

"Aye. And a few others. Ye know of tha' one, do ye?"

"Not the missile part, but the basics of the person involved. It was one of the missions they briefed me on for... another one in the same vein."

John smirked. "Classified?"

Roach laughed. "Yeah."

Bone waves her hands to get their attention. "Okay, so that was pretty cool, but it wasn't a bomb story."

"A ballistic missile is definitely a type of bomb," John says with a laugh. "And ye only said 'a big boom' story. Tha' oil rig going up in f-fla... a ball of f-fire is one of the biggest booms I've ever seen in person."

"One of? What're the others?" she asks, excitement still glinting in her eyes.

John's amusement fades, though, as memories of Verdansk loom large in his mind. It's vivid — the vision of fire and destruction from the air.

And fucking Makarov's smug fucking face.

He wishes... God, he wishes he'd shot the bastard then and there, rIght through the head. Would've been poetic fucking justice. Maybe he would've lost his place in the 141, but at least that tadger would've been dead.

A band tightens around his chest as he continues to spiral. He shakes his head, trying to clear the memories, but before he can change the subject, Rizz chimes in.

"My SAS unit was deployed a few years ago for a potential bomb threat in the Channel Tunnel. Did your team have anything to do with that? A friend with more clearance than me said it was..."

John loses the rest of Rizz's comment under the sound of blood roaring in his ears. The band around his chest becomes a vice, squeezing all the air from his lungs. Lights and sounds flash in his mind: Price's shouting, Konni coming out of the fucking walls like cockroaches, bullet wounds bloodying his hands as he worked with Price to save their lives, the deafening explosion of a gun at near point-blank range—

A hand on his shoulder brings him back.

And he realizes he can't breathe.

He can't fucking breathe.

His chair flies backward as he bolts for the door. The hallway is blessedly empty, and he paces a few steps away, puts both palms flat against the concrete block wall, and leans forward, letting his head hang between his hands. The band around his chest loosens the tiniest bit as he forces himself to count through his breaths.

He's been here before. He knows what to do.

Doesn't make it any less humiliating.

Fuck.

Frustration burns through him like wildfire. He hasn't had a fucking panic attack in almost a year, and of course — of course — it has to come back today.

He wants to scream.

Instead, he curls his hand into a fist and slams it against the wall with a muffled grunt. His knuckles split, and pain radiates through his hand and up his arm, ironically serving to ground him.

The band loosens a little more, and he sucks in a deep breath.

At least it's a good day for balance. Small favors.

A derisive laugh wheezes past the lump in his throat. The whole thing is his own god-damned fault. He never should've brought up those old stories. When will he learn to leave the past in the fucking past? When will he get the message that those days are over? That he's nothing but a useless, washed-up—

He catches movement from the corner of his eye and turns to glare over his arm at whoever has interrupted his melt down. Roach peeks his head into the hallway, and shame and embarrassment get mixed in with his frustration and growing anger.

"You alright?" Roach asks.

John opens his mouth to tell him to go fuck himself...

But nothing comes out.

The rage that erupts inside him is utterly devastating. He reels his hand back to slam it against the wall again.

Roach grabs his wrist before he can land the hit.

"Woah! Woah there. It's alright. You're alright."

John violently shakes his head as he rips his arm from Roach's grasp. He desperately wants to hit something, and Roach is right there.

But the violent movement is a mistake. Because of course it is.

He stumbles, and his shoulder slams into the wall. It brings back all those moments during his recovery when the injury stole his voice, robbing him of his ability to communicate. Out of sheer frustration and habit, he signs, "Nothing's fucking alright, you utter twat. I can't fucking speak!"

"You can't speak?" Roach takes a step closer, expression dropping into worry. "Do you need to go to medical?"

John blinks. The rage sputters out as he tentatively signs, "No. It's part of the TBI."

"Ah. Okay. That's good." Roach winces. "I mean, not good that it happens. But good that it's not an emergency."

The blush appears again, and Roach whispers a curse under his breath before muttering an apology.

John huffs an incredulous laugh. He tries again to speak, but the block is still there. The stress of the day combined with a panic attack have drained his ability to focus and pull words out of that inexorable well of gravity. He shakes his head.

"How well do you know BSL?"

"You could say I'm fluent," Roach says before shrugging and giving John that half smile that's quickly becoming familiar. "My dad and sister are deaf."

John nods. "Sorry about all this. It's not what you signed up for."

"Eh, I get it. And..." Roach glances behind him and raises his hands. "Being reminded of that mission probably doesn't help."

And Roach would know about that mission, wouldn't he? He was the one supporting the team as they hunted for Makarov. He would've been briefed on the whole mission since the jailbreak.

On what happened the day Soap died, leaving just John behind.

Or so he thought.

"Not really, no," John answers. "But I brought it on myself telling those stories."

"You couldn't have known Rizz was deployed there, too. Or that he'd bring it up."

The dizziness has receded enough for John to push himself off the wall. He rubs his hands over his face and then signs, "Thanks."

"No problem," Roach watches him shuffle back toward the room. As he's passing by, Roach says in a quiet tone, "Do you want me to translate for Rizz and Bone?"

"Do you mind?"

Roach shakes his head.

"Then lead the way."

As Roach walks back into the room, Bone's voice wafts into the hall to greet him.

"So did Rizz stick his foot in it again?"

"I didn't mean to!" Rizz says in a defensive tone.

John huffs another weak laugh even as embarrassment makes him want to shrivel up like a spider playing dead. The images conjured by Rizz's words still linger like malevolent shadows in the corners of his mind, but it's not Rizz's fault. He didn't know. And John needs to fucking get over it.

Time to finish up class.

And hope he still has a fucking job after they report him for this cluster fuck.

*

*

Art by Kiba (@kibagib on Tumblr and Twitter)

Chapter Text

Incessant ringing pulls John into wakefulness like the need for air pulls a diver toward the water's surface. With limbs heavy and uncoordinated, he smacks at the nightstand in a desperate attempt to silence the god-awful noise. His fingers drag over smooth plastic, and he curls them around...

His phone.

His phone is ringing.

A jolt of panic wakes him up further, and he pries his crusty eyelids open as he brings the phone toward his face. The brightness of the screen and the familiar name blazoned across it aren't quite enough to clear the fog clouding his mind, but it's ingrained in his subconscious to always answer his phone. He manages to swipe the answer button just before the phone slips out of his clumsy hands, thuds onto the mattress, and gets lost in a mess of blankets.

"Mmmphhhfff," he grunts into his pillow.

The grunt was supposed to be words, but apparently his mouth is as uncoordinated as his hands right now. A muffled, disembodied voice answers.

"MacTavish? You there? You better not be fuckin' dyin' on me."

The worry in Simon's voice finally drags John out of that liminal space between waking and sleeping. His head is full of cotton, which always happens with the hard core pain meds, but at least the sledgehammer crushing his skull has dimmed to a vague twinge.

He feels like he's been run over by a tank. Repeatedly.

Situation normal, then.

He struggles to sit up, but his head is spinning like a merry-go-round. He flops back down and finally answers Simon, his voice dragging through his throat like sandpaper.

"'M no' dyin'. Sorta feel like it, though. Fuck. What time is it?"

"Just past 2100. Where are you?"

"Mmm... home." John blinks as Simon's words register. "Wait. S'it still Tuesday, then?"

The hint of worry in Simon's tone turns into full-out panic. "I'm calling Belle."

"Nae!" John blinks the sleep out of his eyes and starts searching for his phone among the blankets. "Dinnae bother 'er so late. 'M'alright, Si."

"It's either her or me on your doorstep. Make your choice."

"No, Simon. I dinnae need anyone to check on me. I'm fine."

There's a hum followed by a long pause before Simon blows out a breath. "Alright then. But next time answer your bleedin' texts. What were you doin', anyway?"

John makes another attempt to sit up and manages to drag himself up enough to lean against the headboard. "Sleepin'. It's the only way to get rid of the headaches when they get tha' bad."

As he settles, a flash of light catches his attention. He plucks his phone out of the mess of blankets and realizes Simon has actually video called him. Despite the way his spinning head tries to blur the image, John greedily soaks in the details of a soft skull-printed mask rolled up to Simon's nose and a plain black t-shirt that leaves his tattoo on full display as he rests his crossed forearms on what looks like a wooden desk. A mug of something — probably tea — sits in front of him. The background is nothing but white walls.

It's probably Simon's on-basing housing, but John wouldn't know. He's never been there.

He shoves down the bitter thought — one more in a long line since today's disaster of an advanced demolitions class — and reaches over to flip on the light. He pauses, though, when he swipes down to check his notifications.

11 messages

"Ye texted me?"

Simon snorts a wry laugh. "Thought that was obvious, what with me tellin' you to answer your texts and all."

"Shite. Sorry."

Simon's panic becomes a bit more understandable as he reads through the notification previews and gets an idea of how long Simon has been trying to contact him. He expands his notifications to read them in full but pauses when another name catches his eye.

The sharp inhalation that follows doesn't go unnoticed.

"Everythin' alright?" Simon asks.

"Yeah. Yeah. Just... a long day."

A prickle of unease dances over his skin at dodging Simon's question, but it's erased a moment later as he reads Alan's text. He lets out a quiet breath, tension easing from his body.

He might not lose his friend after all.

"Why is it so dark?"

"'Cause I havenae turned on the light, ye dafty."

"How was I to know that, you git?" Simon says with a twinge of his familiar dry humor.

And in spite of his spectacularly fucked up day, John can't help the giddy grin that spreads across his face as he finally reaches over and switches on the bedside lamp. It's dim on purpose to accommodate his headaches, but it's enough light for his camera to pick up his darkened image from the chest up. That paired with Simon's soft inhale reminds him he's not wearing a shirt.

In fact, he's not wearing anything but a pair of boxer briefs, all his clothes thrown to the floor in a rush to collapse in his bed as soon as he made it home from Kineton. He ended up pulling over twice on the way home to boke. By the time he got home, he had enough energy to dry heave one last time, swallow down the high-powered pain meds with a glass of water, and pass out.

The upside of a skull-splitting headache is not having energy to feel sorry for himself after majorly fucking up his life. The downside is... well...

Everything else.

Simon clears his throat and looks down at his mug. "Roach said your class went well."

Huh?

"Ye talked to him?"

Simon looks up at that, a frown marring the corners of his mouth. "Yeah? Saw him at the mess. He seemed in good spirits, so I asked him how things went."

John frowns as well. Surely his meltdown left more of an impression than all his nattering earlier in the day. And that's not even taking into account the way Roach basically taught the final hour of the class.

The whole thing was an abject fucking disaster, so why...?

"Tha's... all he said? Tha' it went well?"

Simon is quiet, his gaze direct and penetrating even through the video call, and John realizes he's given himself away. Apparently Roach truly didn't say anything negative about the class.

John can't wrap his mind around it.

"Should he have?" Simon finally asks.

"Nae... Well..." John pauses as he considers what to say, and he can feel Simon's gaze narrowing with every second he holds back an answer. Finally, he shrugs. "One of the other students is SAS, too. We were talking about big bombing incidents, and he mentioned his squadron was deployed in London three and half years ago for a Tunnel threat." John shrugs again as he rubs a hand over his face. "Might've had a wee panic attack."

Simon's eyes widen before he briefly closes his eyes and curses. "Roach didn't say owt about it."

"Probably just trying to help me save face with the 141. He seems... he seems like a good lad tha' way. He'll report it to Carter, though. And he'll be right to. I'm clearly in no shape to be teaching a class like tha'."

"That's a load of sh—"

"I had a panic attack and went nonverbal, Simon," John interrupts in a deadpan tone. "Roach is the only reason I could finish the class. Apparently he knows BSL, so he translated for the others."

"Didn't know you knew it, too."

John hesitates. He doesn't want to pile guilt on Simon's head, but at the same time, it's also just a fact of John's life.

One that likely cost him a job he was beginning to enjoy.

He swallows down the sick feeling trying to crawl up his throat as he answers, "Couldnae talk to people any other way for a long time."

Saying the words out loud feels like lifting a shroud from a decaying body they haven't quite managed to bury. It's half sunk into the ground, but the gory details are still visible to those who dare to look.

Simon's hands curl into fists as he nods and looks down. John sighs, his mind too scrambled to feel properly angry or sad about much of anything. Maybe someday the pain will recede enough for them to openly talk about that particular piece of their past, but it won't be today.

The silence lingers until John sighs and scratches at his chest, which draws Simon's attention. After a few seconds of intense staring, Simon blinks and flicks his gaze back to the camera.

"But you're..." Simon trails off and clears his throat before trying again. "You're alright now?"

John sways his head and hand together in a so-so motion and regrets it when it makes the dizziness worse. "Tomorrow willnae be fun. Probably another wheelchair day with the way my head's wobbling. But I'll make it through. Always do."

Simon hums and taps his fingers on the ceramic mug. "Sent a text 'bout this weekend. Think you'll be up for the shootin' range?"

"Definitely." Alan's text comes to mind, and John clears his throat. "I, uh... I have plans for Saturday morning, but other than tha', I'm free."

"Fiona comin' down?"

"Nae, just meeting up with a friend."

He isn't sure why he's avoiding Alan's name. If things go the way he hopes, Alan will be joining them again for Saturday dinners, and Simon will have to get used to having him around.

But it feels... too tender, too raw to talk about, especially not knowing what "moving forward" might mean to Alan.

And especially knowing Simon is part of the reason he might've lost Alan in the first place.

Simon seems to pick up on John's mood — and that there's something he's not saying. His gaze narrows, but instead of the interrogation John expects, he only tilts his head in acknowledgement.

As the conversation dips into a lull, John can't hold back a massive yawn. The pain is still prowling around in the back of his skull like a panther pacing its cage, and he knows the only reason he can even have this conversation with Simon is because the pain meds are still pumping through his system at full steam.

"You should sleep," Simon says, though it sounds more like an order.

"Tha's what I was doing before ye called," John retorts with a grin once the yawn dies down.

Instead of laughing with him, Simon's mouth turns down in a deep frown. "Just... you usually text back right away at night, so..."

John can hear the "I was worried" as if Simon said it out loud. Even after years apart, even without the words, he can read between the lines.

Before the injury, it was all he had — unspoken implications buried in trembling hands and desperate kisses, in inappropriate banter and a looming presence at his side. Now, he has Simon's hand in his during their outings and Simon's body draped around his during evenings spent at home. He has calls or texts almost every day and soft, halting words that almost speak the truth.

It's so much more than he ever expected, even in his wildest fantasies.

Still, he hopes someday Simon will learn to be free with his words instead of keeping it all locked up inside. Until then, he'll keep translating.

"Didnae mean tae worry ye," John says in a softer tone. "The pain meds knock me on my arse. I usually text Belle and Fi if I'm takin' 'em, but it was too bad by the time I got home. I'm lucky I made it to my bed before I collapsed."

"'Cause of the panic attack?"

"Makes it worse, aye."

After yet another nod and a short silence, Simon sits up a little taller. "Oh. Meant to tell you last week, but I saw the base shrink. She passed me along to someone in Birmingham, so I'm meetin' with 'em on Friday afternoon."

John's mouth drops open in shock.

And then his lips slowly curl into a wide grin as warmth bubbles up in his chest.

A part of him — the same part that voices those cynical thoughts in his head — can't believe Simon actually did it. The other, larger part of him is celebrating like a footballer who just made the winning goal.

"Simon! Tha's great! I'm so proud of ye."

The small, almost shy smile that pulls at the corners of Simon's mouth is worth being woken from a medicated sleep. Simon finally pushes the mask up to his forehead, showing the rest of his braw face, and huffs a wry laugh.

"She said the same fuckin' thing."

"Ye mean Dr. Alice?"

"Yeah, she's stuck around base longer than most, so I've... sorta gotten to know her a bit."

"Always liked her," John says. "She never made me feel like a monster no matter what I told her."

"S'pose she's alright," Simon relents. "For a shrink."

Their eyes meet. John's smile widens, and Simon's smile grows along with it.

Fuck. A man with the call sign Ghost, who strikes terror into the hearts of his enemies with just a mask and a few wickedly sharp knives, has no right to be so fucking adorable. John wants to kiss him even more than usual.

Maybe... Maybe...

"I hope Friday goes well," John says, "though if they arenae a good fit, dinnae hesitate to tell Dr. Alice."

"Right." Simon's mouth moves but nothing comes out for a long moment before— "Can... Can I tell you 'bout it, too?"

"'Course ye can. Ye can tell me whatever ye want. Or not."

Simon blows out a slow breath. "Okay."

"Tha' mean ye'll be here early on Friday?"

"Yeah. Unless the other shrink locks me up for bein' a psychopath."

"Dinnae even joke about tha', ye bawbag."

"You're right. Much more likely to nab me for bein' a poltergeist."

John groans at the absolutely horrible joke, but he can't seem to hide his grin. Simon's smile widens into a full grin, too, and that tiny dimple John loves but rarely sees appears in Simon's left cheek. John's chest fills with a warmth and happiness he hasn't felt in years, and it grows more effervescent the longer they grin at each other.

Eventually, though, they're interrupted by another yawn from John.

"You need sleep. We'll chat more tomorrow, yeah?"

"'Course."

They say goodnight, and John falls asleep with a heart full of joy and visions of dimples dancing in his mind.

*

(An open journal sits on a desk on top of piles of blueprints and schematics. The black leather bound pages show a dated entry on the left page and a sketch of a building support structure cross section on the right page. A small heart containing the initials "S.R." in the lower left-hand corner has been violently scribbled out. Next to it, barely legible words read, "You're 31 fucking years old MacTavish. What in the ever-loving fuck is this shite?")

17 June

Laswell came by today. Unannounced, of course. Was good to see a familiar face after I crashed and burned so hard on Tuesday, but I wasn't fooled by her calmly sipping tea on my back porch and talking about the weather. I said as much, and she gave me that look — the one she used all the time during briefings when I was being, in her American phrasing, a "little shit." But sure enough, she sighed and got down to business, and long story short...

I've got official passes to enter and leave Credenhill when needed on "official Task Force 141 business."

Had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Even if it's only in a support role, only as a voice in their ear, I can't wait to get back into the thick of it.

Had to tell her about Tuesday, of course. She took it seriously — didn't wave off my concerns or tell me it was nothing. Said they're implementing my role on a trial basis, so they'll have time to evaluate my readiness. No idea if I am. Ready, that is. Honestly, the idea of working with the 141 again never crossed my mind.

Yeah. "A dream" just about covers it. Feels like I'm floating.

I passed off the schematics for the job Kate sent around a couple of weeks ago as well. She's apparently headed to Credenhill next to meet with Price and wants to take them with her. I can't help thinking it's all connected. Guess I'll find out soon enough. She says she'll be in contact within the next few days, and I should be ready to bolt as soon as she calls. Guess it's time to refresh the old go bag.

Makes me think, though. If I'm gonna be on the radio with the lads again... if we're gonna be on a fucking mission together again, even from a distance...

Might be time to resurrect a dead man.

*

John curses under his breath as he stands in the queue at the local cafe, wondering if he and Alan will have to find somewhere else to go for their talk. The shop is busier than usual as people linger at tables or bustle in and out between errands like bees buzzing from flower to flower. Luckily, one of the lingering couples leaves just as John finishes ordering, and he hurries over to squeeze himself into a chair built more for a waifish twenty-something than an ex-military man.

His palms are clammy with anxiety, so he curls them around his mug and inhales a waft of herbal-scented steam. A sip of tea further soothes his frayed nerves, and as the drink settles warm in his belly, he blows out a slow, controlled breath as if he can exhale all the tension in his body with a single gust.

It's been a long fucking week.

After the disaster on Tuesday, a painful recovery day on Wednesday, and Laswell's exciting but overwhelming visit on Thursday, John had looked forward to his Friday evening with Simon. Unfortunately, Simon's therapy appointment left him completely wrung out. Being well acquainted with the post-therapy emotional crash, John had taken him by the hand, led him to the couch, and encouraged him to put his head in his lap, remembering how Fiona's hands in his hair always helped ground him. It took a whole evening of gentle petting, a bit of tea and dinner, and a few chapters of the Hound of the Baskervilles read out loud for Simon to finally perk up.

John isn't complaining, of course. He wants to be there for Simon.

But it's hard to see him struggling so much after just the first session. The therapist can't have dived too deep into Simon's issues yet, and John hates to think how much worse it might get before it gets better.

It took every last drop of John's will power to send Simon off to Kyle and Belle's place last night. The only reason he was able to hold out was because he knew he'd be meeting Alan this morning.

A fact he couldn't bring himself to mention when Simon was already so miserable.

Afterward, he promises himself. Right now, he doesn't know if Alan even wants to stay friends. This whole thing could blow up in his face.

He's not sure what he'll do if Alan decides to cut ties. The idea makes his chest ache.

John blows out another, shakier breath and takes a longer sip of his cooling tea just as the bell over the door rings. He looks up, and a soft pang of appreciation echoes through him as Alan steps into the cafe. With those stormy gray eyes and a jawline like young Prince William (but with better hair... and a far better personality), Alan truly is the full package, especially considering he's also something of a saint. It reminds John why he agreed to go on that first date with him months ago.

It also reminds him why he hesitated for so long before that.

Alan is far too good for the likes of him.

John raises his hand, and their eyes meet from across the room. John's heart thuds with nervous anticipation. It's not the soul-wrenching anticipation he gets when Simon walks into a room. Or calls. Or even just texts. But when Alan breaks into a smile, regret slams into him like a HET truck, crushing every justification he's built up in the weeks since their last tearful meeting.

Yes, the beautiful, normal man walking toward him deserves far better, but John can't help but echo Alan's smile — can't help but be incredibly grateful for Alan's continued presence in his life, even if only for today — as he rises from his seat to greet his friend.

Or at least the man he hopes is still his friend.

The arms that catch him around the waist in a gentle hug are familiar and warm. John wraps his arms around Alan's shoulders and holds on for a bit longer than he should.

"It's good to see ye," John murmurs into his hair.

"You too," Alan backs away, eyes scanning over John's face before softening. "You look good."

"No' looking too bad yerself."

They grin at each other before John waves him to his seat. Alan's expression softens further at the drink and pastry waiting for him — John made sure to order his favorites. They ease into small talk, testing the waters and catching up on things they've missed in each others' lives. Alan is so easy to talk to, it takes longer than expected for the conversation to turn serious. Still, with Simon being such a big part of John's life lately, it's impossible not to mention him eventually.

Just from the way Alan narrows his gaze, John knows to brace himself for whatever comes out of Alan's mouth next.

"So, you've still got a ghost haunting you, then?" Alan asks in a surprisingly light tone.

John forces out an awkward laugh before joking back, "Aye. Like a second shadow. Cannae seem to get rid of him."

"And that's... good?"

"Mostly. Much better now than when we first started. But... it's complicated," John says with a shrug as he looks down at his tea. "We still havenae talked about everything, but he's... He's trying hard to make up for past mistakes. And I need to give him tha' chance. A little for him, but mostly for me. I need to know if we can make it work."

"I bet Fi is taking that well."

"Like a fuckin' champ. Even went for the KO a few weeks ago."

Alan's brows shoot toward the ceiling, a small smile curving his lips. "I hesitate to guess who came out the victor."

"Neither, really. Fi was looking for a fight, but Simon wouldnae give her one. She blames him for... well. Ye know all about tha'."

"I'm not going to lie. I feel about the same. I know I'm biased — there was a time I wanted you for myself." Alan shrugs and gives John a sheepish smile. "Perhaps I still do, to a degree."

John's face goes hot. He's never been good at this part of relationships. Or with any part of relationships, really. He and Simon make quite the pair: two emotionally stunted eejits dancing on the edges of codependency.

John snorts and shakes his head.

"Never understood what such a braw lad like you ever saw in a scarred up, broken man like me."

"Then you need to get your eyes checked," Alan says with an indelicate snort. "You're a catch, John MacTavish — kind, funny, loyal, beautiful — and don't let anyone, especially that man, tell you differently."

"Ye say 'man' like it's a curse word," John deflects with another awkward laugh.

Alan reaches out and covers John's hand where it's tapping out a frantic rhythm on the table. "That's because I care about you. It doesn't matter if we're together or not, I will always be your friend, John, and I will always tell you the truth."

John swallows and looks up from staring at their joined hands. "Ye mean tha'? Ye still want to be friends? Even after everything?"

"Of course. I told you, you can't get rid of me so easily."

"I dinnae want to get rid of ye. I... I missed ye. And I hated no' being able to call ye."

"Well, you can now. Any time."

"And if it gets to be too much, ye'll tell me? I dinnae want to be a burden. No' anymore."

Alan's expression cracks at that, a hint of sadness creeping into the slant of his brows. John shakes his head to stave off the words he knows are rattling around in Alan's head.

No matter how much Alan — or Price or Gaz — might want to deny it, John knows the truth. He is a burden to his friends, or at least he has been up to now.

And it's time for a change.

He adjusts his grip to hold Alan's hand more firmly, sliding their palms together. The cafe has filled up even more since they started talking, but John shoves it all to the back of his mind — the chatter, the ringing of the bell above the door, the tapping of glasses and utensils — as he holds Alan's gaze.

He sees the exact moment Alan gives in.

"You could never be too much, and I hope someday you'll work on believing that. But... I promise to let you know if I ever need a break."

"Tha's all I'm asking. I just want ye... to... be..."

John trails off as someone steps up to their table and blocks the light. John frowns and looks up... and up to find a large man in a black hoodie staring down at where John and Alan's hands are clasped in the middle of the table.

A large man wearing a black balaclava.

"Ghost! Why're you over here bothering this nice cou—"

Kyle cuts off as he steps up beside Simon, his eyes blowing wide. He zeros in on John and Alan's joined hands before flicking his panicked gaze to John, his expression screaming "what the fuck?"

John looks over at Alan, who is looking nervously between Kyle, John, and Simon. Despite the deluge of dread pouring down his spine, John catches Alan's eye, smiles, and squeezes his hand before slowly letting go.

"Thank ye, Alan. I'm glad we could clear the air. I hope this means ye'll be coming back to Saturday dinner sometimes. Kyle and Belle would be glad to see ye. Right, Kyle?"

"Oh! Yeah!" Kyle exclaims and turns to Alan as if he's just now seeing him. "It's so good to see you, mate."

As Kyle pulls Alan up and into a bear hug, John stands as well. He grabs his cane with one hand and his coat with the other.

Only then does he look up at Simon.

And it's just as catastrophic as he feared. Chilled whiskey eyes stare back at him, shuttered and dark. John's heart threatens to fracture, a few of those new sutures straining in warning, but he clenches his teeth and fights against his tendency to fall into a downward spiral.

This is nothing but a misunderstanding. Easily explained and completely fixable.

If Simon will let him.

He lets out a quiet sigh and motions toward the door with his chin.

"Let's talk outside, aye?"

Simon doesn't respond or look at him, but when John moves, he moves too. The cafe is crowded, and it takes a bit of maneuvering to reach the door. Simon trails along behind him, hands shoved in his pockets and eyes cast downward.

As soon as they're outside, though, Simon takes a few long strides around John to reach a small alley between buildings. Now it's John who follows behind, heart racing and hand clenched into a fist. Only once they're both hidden in the shadows of the building does Simon turn around and cross his arms over his chest. His voice is cold — almost as cold as the night he destroyed John's world with a few words over the phone.

"Were you gonna tell me you're back together with him?"

John straightens his back and frowns. "We're no' together."

Simon scoffs and looks away, and John's nerves recede as a spark of anger flares to life. Yes, he should've told Simon about the meet up, and yes, he's sure it looked... compromising with them holding hands. But Simon should know John wouldn't lie to him about something like that.

"Steamin' Jesus! We're no'!" John huffs out a breath and shoves a hand through his hair, the long strands catching and pulling in his fingers. "Alan wanted to talk about how we move forward after what happened at the wedding. Ye remember tha'? The night where ye cornered and kissed me while I was there with someone else? So when he asked to meet up, I wasnae about to say no. He's a dear friend, and I want it to stay tha' way."

Although his body remains rigid, a bit of emotion seeps back into Simon's gaze. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I wasnae sure it would work out — if Alan would even want to be friends after... everything." John lowers his voice and takes a step forward. It feels like a victory when Simon doesn't take a step back. "Yer the reason I broke things off with him, ye bampot. Why would I go back on tha' now? Especially when things... Things are good between us, aye?"

The icy gaze melts into hesitance as Simon takes a halting step forward. He drops his arms and reaches out to brush a hand over John's — the same one Alan was holding moments ago.

"You were holdin' hands."

"Because he's important to me. In the same way Kyle and Price and Belle are important to me."

"You haven't fucked any of them."

John chokes out a surprised laugh. "Frankly, Simon, it's none of yer business who I've fucked before now."

When Simon only lowers his head to stare at the ground, John sucks in a long breath. He holds it in... and then breathes out the last bits of lingering flames.

He and Alan had only been dating for a few months by the time the wedding rolled around, but they'd been friends long enough that the physical part happened pretty quickly. Or rather, immediately. And it was nice. Comforting. Alan's care and attention made John feel attractive and wanted again after so long feeling like a shell of a man.

But even if it only took one fraught kiss in a reception hall lavatory to blow their romantic entanglement to hell, Alan is still incredibly important to him. He won't give him up just to placate Simon's insecurities.

"Alan was there for me," John says in a firm tone. "He saved my life, fer fuck's sake. I willnae cut ties with him, so if ye want tae be in my life, ye'll need tae get used tae having 'im around."

A curt nod is all the answer John gets, and sour note pangs in the back of his mind. Is this all it takes to make Simon run again? Will he throw away all the work they've done to rebuild their relationship over a fucking misunderstanding?

He takes a shaky breath, pushes down the surge of panic, and asks instead, "Are ye still coming over today?"

Simon jerks his head up at that, eyes narrow and assessing. "You... still want me to?"

"'Course. This doesnae change anything for me. Does it for you?"

All at once, Simon relaxes, his shoulders drooping like a marionette whose strings have just been cut. He shakes his head and reaches out again, this time taking hold of John's hand instead of just brushing over it.

John's panic ebbs with the comforting warmth of Simon's hand in his.

Until—

"You said it wasn't my business 'before now.' What about after now?"

A thundering rhythm starts up behind John's sternum as he realizes Simon is right. His subconscious apparently tacked on those words onto his reproach without his brain's input. The panic roars back like a tidal surge, and his instincts scream at him to backtrack. Or at least deflect.

And yet.

Pausing his instinctive reaction to search the deepest corners of his once-hollow chest, he has to admit... it doesn't feel wrong. Or too fast.

In fact, it feels like it's been a long-fucking-time coming.

Still, he exhales a nervous laugh and scratches the back of his neck, which is warmer than it should be — and no doubt bright red. He has to take a steadying breath before he can force the words over trembling lips.

"I suppose..." He clears his throat and glances up at Simon through his lashes. "S'pose it could be yer business. Now. If ye want."

Simon tilts his head forward, bringing their faces closer together. His eyes are like molten gold.

"I want."

Giddy relief floods through him, bubbling up as yet another nervous laugh that's far too close to a giggle to be dignified. It feels like passing selection all over again. Or like the first time Simon made him come so hard he almost blacked out.

He tries and fails to hold back a grin as he grips Simon's hand and begins to pull him back to the cafe.

"Come on. I want ye to introduce yerself to Alan. Proper this time."

"John..."

John pauses outside the cafe door and squeezes Simon's hand. "Do it for me?"

Another curt nod, though this time Simon holds his gaze. His eyes are dark, the pupils nearly swallowing his irises, and there's a new tension in his shoulders that reminds John of the days before his injury.

The days when Simon would randomly haul him into a side room to blow his mind.

The bell above the door rings, and without breaking eye contact, John shuffles them out of the way of someone exiting the cafe. Goosebumps erupt over his arms and chest as Simon uses the movement to step in close, boxing him against the outside wall. The brick is rough and catches on his jacket the same way his breath hitches in his lungs as Simon tilts his head down again, all his attention focused solely on John.

Impulse overtakes John, exploding in his gut like a rocket, and before he can stop himself, he pulls up Simon's mask just enough to brush their lips together.

The electricity humming in the air between them coalesces into a lightning storm the moment their mouths meet. His lips tingle with the soft touch, and his heart beats like hummingbird wings, so fast he thinks he might be having some kind of cardiac episode. And when Simon's eyes flutter closed... when he leans forward, following John's retreating lips...

John lets him. Their mouths meet again, this time in a longer, deeper press that sends a surge of syrupy desire through his veins. Warm lips chase away the chill of fear still clinging to John's heart, and warm fingers cup his jaw, holding him in place until their lips softly part.

They hold there, lost in the moment.

Until the bell chimes again.

"We shouldnae keep the others waiting," he murmurs against Simon's lips.

Simon seems to come back to himself at that. He steps back and slips his mask down, but not before John catches the broad smile curving his lips.

*

Much to John's gratification, Simon does introduce himself and even shakes Alan's hand, though after the exchange of names, he moves back to stand silently behind John. Alan takes everything in stride because he's a literal saint, but John can see the strain in his smile when large hands come to rest on John's waist, half slipping under his jumper.

He's already panicking a wee bit about the impulsive kiss outside the cafe, and his heart leaps into his throat as Simon's fingers dig into the thin layer of fat over his oblique muscles. The grip feels more possessive than stabilizing, which brings to mind his conversation with Belle a few weeks ago. Another rush of heat crawls up his neck, and he's not sure if it's the thrill of having Simon's hands on him while still feeling the phantom pressure of their kiss...

Or if it's the discomfort in Alan's face as he watches Simon's obvious display.

Conflicting emotions batter him about like a weed in a parched riverbed holding on for dear life as the monsoon rolls through. He can barely keep up with the conversation, but thankfully Kyle wraps things up with a wide smile and another half hug for Alan. As they part ways, though, Alan sends John a significant look and promises to see them all later that night.

Apparently Kyle convinced him to come to dinner while John and Simon were outside.

Fantastic.

Not that he doesn't want to see Alan, but fuck if things aren't getting complicated. And he's to blame for half of it.

Christ, what was he thinking with that kiss? Is he really ready for this?

Unable to stand the crush of the cafe, John excuses himself to wait outside while Simon and Kyle grab the take-away breakfast they'd come for in the first place. Simon tries to join him, but John shakes his head and pushes Simon toward Kyle.

"Give me a moment, aye?"

Simon's jaw tenses under the mask, but John reassures him he'll be right outside and pushes out the door before Simon can object.

He sucks in a lungful of morning air. It's not cool enough to need a jacket anymore, though John still drapes it around his shoulders just to free up his hands. He stacks them on top of his cane while leaning back against the building and just...

Breathes.

In. And out.

The succession of deep breaths feel like a boulder slowly rolling off his chest. It's all he needs. Just one fucking moment to breathe and process everything. As Abby reminded him on Friday during their conversation about his panic attack: Your mind no longer deals well with stress. You need to give yourself time to work through your feelings instead of bottling them up.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in deep.

And exhales a string of Scottish curses under his breath.

Fucking feelings. He used to be so good at compartmentalizing. Not anymore, though.

But he supposes that's the point.

The compartmentalizing wasn't really good for him back then, either. At the time, though, he had a built-in outlet in the form of a gun or an explosives trigger in his hand. He survived through the sympathetic release of tension in a pin dropping from a grenade or a timer counting down to zero.

Through potential energy turned kinetic with the flare of fire.

Always fire.

Since the injury, he's been an explosion waiting to happen, the smoldering embers of a life reduced to ash but never quite snuffed out. Warning tremors came in the form of rash words and actions over the years, a signal to anyone that might get too close: Do not disturb.

And then Simon came back. The fire and pressure found direction. Found a new outlet after years of being bottled up.

Like a match in a room chock full of accelerants, he exploded.

But it didn't matter. Simon kept coming back until John burned himself out. Until the fire eased and the healing began.

As John watches people pop in and out of other shops and restaurants in the small commercial district, his lips still tingling from the kiss he shared with Simon not ten minutes ago, memories begin to surface — memories of when his day-to-day interactions with Simon were easy and familiar, if limited. When John could get away with leaning on Simon when no one else could. When, on their rare nights out with the team, Simon would box John into a booth or casually rest his arm along the back of John's chair. John never minded those small actions that, under the guise of 141 solidarity, gave him a small taste of what he never thought he'd have.

Namely, a Simon Riley who lets John kiss him in public and kisses him back. Who gets jealous and possessive.

And who walks up to him with warmth in his gaze, one hand full of take-out and the other stretched out for John to hold.

Maybe he was right in that alleyway after all. Maybe it's time to take a risk.

John lets his soft smile grow. Reaches out. Twines their hands together.

Simon's answering smile is hidden beneath his mask, but John can see it in the crinkle of his eyes.

Kyle sighs loudly.

"God. You two are going to be insufferable now, aren't you?"

"Sod off, Garrick," Simon says without malice and without taking his eyes off John, his smile still clearly in place.

"As if we didnae have to endure you and Belle being gross for years," John adds. "Still do, really."

Kyle just laughs as they all fall in step. John moves closer to Simon, their arms squishing together as they walk. They banter about mundane topics — the neighborhood, politics, football — until they reach the house. Belle is waiting for them at the door, and she laughs and gives John a warm hug before stealing the food from Simon's hands.

Spending time with Kyle and Belle is warm and comfortable as usual, but John is restless. As the others finish their meal, he leans forward and brings Belle up to speed.

"Alan is coming to dinner tonight."

Belle's face lights up, and she clasps her hands together... until her gaze lands on Simon. She blinks, and her smile dims a little.

"Oh, that's lovely. I'll make sure we have enough food."

John nods. "I'll bring something, too. But... I was thinking..."

He trails off and glances at Simon, who gives him a perplexed look. John shrugs and turns back to look at Kyle.

"I was thinking... yer man Roach seems like a good guy. Maybe Price could bring him along when he comes? Having another person around tonight wouldnae hurt."

It's Kyle's turn to give John a bright smile, though there's a hint of something else, too. Something a bit like worry. John pretends not to notice.

"Brilliant idea, mate. I'll give Price a call."

John glances at Simon. Their gazes hold. And then Simon shrugs.

"If you're alright with it, it doesn't bother me."

"He doesnae know about... us, though. Ye sure yer—"

"I'm not embarrassed if that's what you're on about."

Simon sounds genuinely offended, and John would be worried if he weren't so amused. "I didnae mean it like that, ye bawbag. I just know ye prefer yer privacy."

"Worried I won't be able to keep my hands to myself?"

"Will ye?"

Kyle clears his throat. "I'm... gonna go make that call. You two staying here oooorrr?"

John snorts and shakes his head before standing. "Nae, we'll see ye tonight."

This time, it's him who offers a hand to Simon. Simon huffs, but his mask is still pulled up to his nose from eating, so John catches another flicker of a smile just before he pulls it back into place.

Simon takes his hand and allows John to pull him up before following him out the door.

*

The walk back to John's place is quiet, and with so much happening in a single morning, he's content to leave it that way. He'll take any extra time he can get to process the thoughts and emotions swirling around in his head like a hurricane.

It helps to have Simon's hand coiled so tightly around his own.

Simon seems to be in a thoughtful mood as well, his head down and brows furrowed as they stroll down the sidewalk. If John could see behind the mask, he's sure he'd find a little frown turning down the corners of Simon's mouth.

It makes him nervous, but it's not surprising. As much as he regrets that Simon and Alan had to meet that way, he's glad things are out in the open. Although... if Simon's possessive grip on his waist at the cafe was anything to go by, they still have some talking to do on the subject. He won't stand for Simon making Alan more uncomfortable than the situation already warrants.

John lets go of Simon's hand to unlock the door, leaving it open as he moves inside, props his cane against the wall, and strips off his jacket. He hears Simon come in behind him and close the door.

They're finally alone.

And suddenly, the kiss outside the cafe is all he can think about.

His lips tingle with phantom pressure. Nerves buzz under his skin, and he finds himself desperate to fill the silence in a way he hasn't felt since the injury.

"Steamin' Jesus, what a morning! I feel as wrung out as a new recruit on the first day of training. At least the weather's nice, if a bit warm. Speaking of, d'ye still want to go to the shooting range this afternoon? We should have plenty of ti— Mmphf!"

The sudden, hard press of lips — Simon's lips — against John's freezes him in place. Shock loosens his grip on his jacket. It hits the floor with a muted thud, but he barely hears it over the rush of blood in his ears.

Simon grabs his waist, trembling fingers pressing into his skin just the way he likes — hard enough to leave bruises — and heat explodes in his gut. His breath hitches so hard it feels like he's been punched in the chest, and Simon steals the gasp from between parted lips with a deft swipe over John's bottom lip.

A shudder rolls through him at the rough, hot slide of Simon's tongue and the malty taste of black tea and sugar on his lips.

And then John is moving again, shoving his whole body into Simon's space and ravishing his mouth with a desperation so all-encompassing he can't think straight. He digs a hand into Simon's jacket collar to pull him closer, happy to drown himself in the scent of leather and spices he's been missing for so long. Thick arms slide around his waist and wide hands slip under his jumper, rough calluses and blunt fingernails dragging up his back.

The neediness in those questing fingers sends another shudder through his body, a hot rush of desire clouding his thoughts even more. Waves of longing overtake all rational thought, leaving only a growing need for more. For everything Simon will give him.

He slides his other hand up into Simon's hair and tugs.

Simon gasps, his head following the tug just enough to break the kiss. Their chests are pressed together, heaving breaths mingling in the sliver of space between their lips. The mask is long gone, and Simon looks wrecked already, his mouth parted and eyes half-lidded with lust. His hands never stop moving, sliding over every inch of John's bare skin he can reach. Shaking, grasping fingers dip down to skim along John's waist, teasing at the dimples on his lower back. The touch sets his skin on fire, and another gasp punches out between his lips. Simon leans forward, presses their foreheads together, and...

It's everything.

Everything he's been missing.

All he's ever wanted.

And now... now it's truly his. Not some stolen moment in a lavatory or a distraction from fear and despair. The hollow space in his chest, once a makeshift coffin for a shattered heart, is now full to bursting with the adoration he sees reflected back in whisky-colored eyes. Gossamer threads harden into steel, all the broken pieces fitting snugly together to form the outline of a whole heart, beating madly with desire.

Doubt still lingers in the dark crevices not quite healed by Simon's attention, but the sensation of big hands dragging over his skin, hot as brands, no longer makes him hate himself.

It just makes him want more.

So he lets the tide take him. Lets himself feel the joy of being wanted so desperately without all the grief and anger to drown it out.

Because between all the regret and loss, all the hope and moments of joy, he knows it could never be like this with anyone else. Not even a saint like Alan could satisfy.

John needs a sinner. Needs it to hurt just a little.

He needs Simon fucking Riley.

And so he takes.

He surges forward just as Simon dives back in, and they crash together in an explosion of pure need. His body buzzes, drunk on Simon's touch, and he can't hold back the moan when Simon licks into his mouth, devouring him like some kind of wild beast.

Heat builds between them with a ferocity so familiar John aches with it. It's half pleasure, half torture to remember how things used to be and know Simon's rough hands and hot, greedy mouth feel just as good — maybe better — than they did three and a half years ago.

Simon's fingers dip under his waistband to skim over the curve of his ass, and John's half-hard cock twitches in his jeans. A deep moan resonates from Simon's chest, and John swallows it down, stroking his tongue against Simon's as he shifts the hand tangled in Simon's hoodie to wrap around his neck instead.

Those roving, maddening hands press against John's lower back, plastering their bodies together. They both groan in unison when their hips meet, and sparks of pleasure dance down John's spine. Heavy breaths fill the air as they break apart and come back together again and again.

Simon walks them backward and gently presses John against the front door, rocking his hips forward and making them both gasp at the sudden friction. One of those large, perfect hands slides up John's side, over his shoulder, and up his neck to dig into his hair, gripping at the long strands at the base of his skull and returning his earlier tug with one that lands just on the right side of pleasure pain.

John's eyes roll back in his head. The moan rumbling in his chest is nothing short of pornographic.

Christ on a bike.

Simon breaks away from John's mouth to kiss along his jaw and down his neck. Every nip and suck sends jolts of electricity down his spine and straight to his cock. As Simon's teeth drag along his skin, a restlessness builds in his gut.

God. God. He's wanted this for so long.

He arches his back, pressing his hips into Simon's.

"Please, Si," he gasps. "Need ye, love."

Simon tenses. Breathes out hard against John's skin. And then bites into the sensitive muscles between John's neck and shoulder.

John gasps again, hips thrusting forward on instinct at the sharp pulse of desire that rockets through his body. His eyes flutter closed, stars bursting behind his eyelids as they grind together. The tide of want sweeps him further into the moment, his body on fire for the man who has been lost to him for so long.

It feels like a dream.

But he doesn't let himself linger on the thought. Can't, really. He's too busy arching his neck and exposing more skin to Simon's vicious mouth for any coherent thoughts to take hold. The sting of teeth on his collarbone only makes him dizzier, every remaining ounce of blood rushing south.

He slides his hand out of Simon's hair to cup his neck, brushing a thumb over jaw and cheek, savoring the first hint of blond stubble against his skin.

His thumb comes away wet.

John blinks away the haze of desire. Swipes again. Collects more wetness.

And then he hears it. The slightest hiccup in Simon's heavy breathing.

"Love," John murmurs again, this time with increasing concern as he pushes gently at Simon's jaw. "What's wrong?"

A full body shudder works its way through Simon. He resists John's push, but the kisses slow until he's just pressing his whole body hard against John's and panting into John's neck. Both arms drop to wrap around John's torso, and a warm wetness begins to soak into his jumper. John inhales a shaky breath and rubs his hands over Simon's back, unsure of what happened or what Simon might need.

And then Simon suddenly drops to his knees, his arms crushing John with the strength of his embrace as he buries his face in John's sternum. A shudder of hot breath passes through the fabric of his jumper. He kneads Simon's neck with one hand and returns the other to Simon's hair, petting the wavy strands and murmuring Scottish endearments.

The broad shoulders under his hands heave with sobs so fucking quiet that it's almost worse than the way he sobbed so openly into John's lap when he was drunk. Because Simon is clearly not drunk right now, and it's obvious he's trying to hide what's happening. Sympathetic tears fill John's eyes, and he can't help wondering if this is a delayed reaction to yesterday's therapy session.

He isn't sure how long they stay that way, but it ends as quickly as it began with Simon standing abruptly, his face turned away.

"Need the loo," he rasps as he leans over to rip off his boots.

John doesn't stop him or even say anything in return, though he does lay a gentle hand on Simon's shoulder blade. Simon's movements grow less erratic, but he still keeps his face averted as he strides away and down the hall.

John lets his head thud against the door. He stands there as long as he dares, just letting himself be in the moment, letting the conflicting emotions settle, before huffing out a long breath and going through the same motions. He takes off his shoes and hangs up their coats, being sure to pick up Simon's mask from the floor and tuck it into his jacket pocket.

Once that's done, he heads for the kitchen. His hands shake as he goes through the familiar motions of making tea: flick on the kettle, pull out the mugs, pick out a tea. Concern for Simon still weighs heavily in his mind: The man is usually so calm and put together, so watching him break down like that again is a little disturbing.

At the same time, though, it's oddly encouraging. Instead of holding everything in, Simon is letting his emotions take shape and bleed out in tears.

It shows John that Simon trusts him enough to let go. To be vulnerable.

A new kind of warmth simmers in John's chest at the thought. The sensation is so far removed from the volcanic anger he's been carrying for years that he forces himself to pause and truly process the feeling. As the tea steeps, he presses his hands into the cool stone countertop, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

The warmth expands to fill his chest as he acknowledges how far he and Simon have come since that fateful wedding day. Things aren't perfect, of course. It's only been a month, and they still have a long way to go. But looking back, John can see the steady trajectory — a jagged line with plenty of setbacks to be sure, but a line moving ever upwards nonetheless.

Fear still lurks in the crevices between all that hope has built, and he knows that, just like during his conversation with Simon outside the cafe, his mistrustful mind will probably default to assuming the worst of Simon for some time. He's sure they'll continue to have set backs and detours, but for now, the path they're traveling is one he's excited to explore with Simon at his side.

John is sitting on the couch with two steaming cups of tea on the side table when Simon finally comes back down the hall. He stops just before entering the living room, his arms crossed over his chest and gaze focused on the floor. His eyes are rimmed with red, though it's clear from his damp hairline that he splashed water on his face in an attempt to hide it.

Instead of commenting on any of that, John waves a hand toward the side table. "Made us some tea."

Simon perks up at that, gaze snapping to the cups. He flicks a glance at John before shuffling across the living room and sitting beside him on the couch. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and rubs his hands over his face.

"You're probably wonderin' what the fuck is wrong with me. Too bad I have no fuckin' clue."

"Tha's alright. We dinnae need to talk about it."

"I..." Simon glances back at John and swallows before facing forward and admitting, "I want to."

"Okay."

A rush of air escapes Simon, and he clears his throat. "Started when you called me 'love,' I guess. You used to do that when we were together... before."

"D'ye not want me to say it now?"

"No. I want... I want it. It just reminded me of what I talked about with the therapist — Dr. Asher. She got my files from Dr. Alice, but she wanted to start at the beginnin' to make sure we covered everythin'."

"Your childhood?"

Simon nods. "Before you, my mum was the only one who ever called me 'love.'"

And. Oh. John's heart breaks a little at the revelation. And yet it makes sense.

But Simon isn't done.

"My father, though... it's just the usual sob story, I guess. The abusive twat who fucks up his whole family..."

As he listens to Simon describe his childhood with halting, almost monotone words, his heart aches. His own father is no prize, but he's a saint compared to the wankstain that was Simon's father. John can only rub his hand over Simon's back as he speaks and hand him his tea whenever he pauses to catch his breath.

And Simon doesn't stop with his childhood. As horror after horror spills from Simon's lips, John finds himself leaning closer, grasping at Simon's waist, pressing his face into his shoulder.

He was right to be afraid of prying up these floorboards.

And yet, it explains so much. Pieces of the puzzle that is Simon Riley snap into position, bringing his life — and his faults — into sharp focus.

I was scared of losin' you like I lost my family.

When the last of Simon's gruesome tale falls from his lips, John slouches back into the couch and pulls Simon down with him. He guides his head to rest on his chest, petting through his hair and daring to press his lips to Simon's crown. Simon is deathly still for a long time, but eventually, he moves his arms to wrap around John's waist, his grip gradually tightening until John reaches over with his free hand to rub up and down Simon's arm.

The tension ebbs. Simon slumps deeper into the couch.

John's lids grow heavy, but he perks up when Simon shifts in his arms and then pulls John down until they're both stretched out on the couch side by side, facing each other with their bodies entwined. Simon presses his face into John's neck and slips his hand up into his hair to stroke through it as well. And just like the night Simon held him as he cried, Simon's fingers brush over the scar, following the puckered skin of the exit wound.

John shudders, and Simon pauses.

"Does it bother you?" Simon asks in a soft tone barely above a whisper.

"I hate them," John admits. "They feel like a tribute to all I lost."

"Well... I like 'em."

John huffs out a surprised laugh. "D'ye like yer own scars?"

Simon is silent a moment, his fingers now playing in the long strands at John's crown. "Guess they are a reminder of bad times," he finally says. "Can't say I like 'em, but I don't hate 'em, either"

"Why not?" John asks in a whisper.

"'Cause they're proof I survived. Proof I'm a better, faster, stronger motherfucker than all of them combined." He shrugs. "'S'why I like yours, too. Means you're still here. Not fuckin' dead, right?"

John blinks at the call back to his words to Simon when they first reunited. He pulls back enough to slip his hand down to Simon's face, and Simon's eyes flutter closed as he traces his fingers over the scars carved into pale skin. He's always thought they enhance Simon's attractiveness, but he's never thought to apply the same logic to himself.

His fingers slip down lower, playing with the chain around Simon's neck. The jingle of too many silver discs cuts through the soft sounds of their breathing.

John swallows and nods. "Tha's right. And a good way of looking at it, I suppose. Dr. Asher willnae have much to teach ye there."

Simon opens his eyes and tips his head up to look at John. His gaze is soft but assessing, as if he wants to say more.

The silence lingers.

John swipes gentle fingers under Simon's eye, and his lids flutter shut once more.

"After such a stressful morning, I think we could both use a nap. What d'ye say?"

Simon doesn't respond, though he does pull John close again. Hot breath wafts over John's neck, fingers once again brushing through his hair. He lets his eyes fall shut as he basks in the moment of softness.

It's only mid morning, but it's already been a long fucking day.

And that's after his long fucking week.

He's beginning to drift when Simon's voice pulls him back to the present.

"Maybe it's too much for an already fucked-up day, but I was hopin' you could tell me more about..." Simon pauses, and John hears him swallow. "You said it wasn't my fault that you tried to off yourself. But it happened the night I called..."

"What d'ye want me to say, Si?" John asks with a sigh. "It wasnae yer fault in the same way the straw that broke the camel's back wasnae a single piece of straw's fault."

"But... how did it happen?"

"Ye really want the whole story?"

Simon nods, jostling John's head with the motion. John's heart kicks into a fast beat, but after everything Simon just told him, it does feel like the right time.

Like a final purge. A lancing of the last wound. It's messy and painful, but necessary to heal. For both of them.

And so he tells the story — what he remembers himself and the parts others told him about afterward. He talks about Kyle's diligence, Alan's quick action, and Fi's guilt in the aftermath. He talks about his own path to recovery in a mental health ward while also still recovering from the brain injury.

He talks about the thoughts that led him down that path and how they stemmed partly from his situation, but also partly from the brain injury and his inability to regulate his emotions, especially back then.

By the end, he's choking back his own tears. Simon's hands are a steady comfort in his hair, even as they brush over the scars with soft reverence. He tightens his hold on Simon and presses a kiss to his temple as he makes his final plea.

"I dinnae approve of yer reasons or methods, but I know ye didnae intend to send me into a spiral. Just..." He pauses to swallow back a sob. "If yer gonna leave again, have the fuckin' bollocks tae tell me tae my face, aye?"

Simon jerks back and shifts to lean over John as he cups his jaw. His eyes are red-rimmed again, but his expression is almost war-like in its fierceness.

"Never," he rasps, his voice like crunching gravel. "Never again, John. I've made too many fuckin' mistakes in my life to count, but leavin' you was the worst of 'em. You're fuckin' stuck with me now, so get used to it."

Simon dips down, and as their lips meet in a hard press, John lets his anger and grief fade. He's sure he'll have to remind himself of this moment a few times before things truly settle, but for now?

For now, having Simon in his arms is enough. Having his attention and jealous devotion is more than enough.

Their lips part, and John laughs more out of relief than amusement. His lips turn up in a broad smile that only grows wider when Simon — his beautiful Simon — smiles back.

This time it's John who leans up and presses a soft but brief kiss to Simon's lips. The fresh stirring of desire is strong, but the heaviness of the day and the comfort of the couch is stronger. He lets his head fall back to the cushions and closes his eyes as the new and powerful warmth floods his veins once more. And it's then that he recognizes the feeling, so rare in his life since the injury.

Joy.

Pure, unfiltered joy.

"How about that nap?" he suggests with a contented sigh. "I think we've earned it."

John's smile grows into a grin as Simon settles beside him, though it falls into slack contentment as he falls deeper into the comfort and warmth surrounding him.

The last thing he feels as he slides into oblivion are lips pressing against the side of his head, right over a three and half year old scar.

Art by Kiba (Give them love @kibagib on Tumblr and Twitter!)

Chapter Text

They wake up a few hours later, groggy and sticky with the sweat of two high-metabolism men plastered together for too long. John's bladder is demanding attention, so he extracts himself from the couch, though not without Simon's hands following him the whole way, steadying his hips until he can reach his cane, helping him stand... and then cheekily copping a feel.

"Oi! Tha's my arse yer squeezing."

Simon snorts. "Gotta make up for lost time, don't I?"

Simon reaches for him again, and heat ignites under John's skin, no doubt turning him bright red as he barks a laugh and dances away. He stops his momentum with hand against the wall while the world spins around him for a few seconds and tries to glare at the massive man still stretched out on his couch like a lazy jungle cat, but he can't quite hide his smile. Simon has the grace to mumble an apology. John just huffs another laugh and waves it off.

"My fault for spinning around too fast. I know better." John tips his head to the side and shrugs. "A little playing around is alright as long as ye dinnae sneak up on me, ye spooky bastard. And as long as it's not a bad day."

"Like Wednesday."

"Aye."

Simon's expression turns serious. "Sorry I couldn't be there."

"I'm used to it. Belle or..." John pauses, licks his lips, and holds Simon's gaze. "Or Alan is usually available if I need something."

He doesn't say that it's mostly Alan. Belle often works on the opposite side of the city, whereas Alan lives and works close by — the nearness to the hospital and physical therapy is one of the reasons Fi chose a house in this area, after all. John tries not to bother Alan any more if he can help it, but in the early days, Alan would often come over on his lunch breaks of his own volition, just to check in... and then scold John for trying to do too much on his own.

John really does owe him a lot.

Simon turns to stare at the ceiling. The silence thickens like obstacle course mud baking in the summer sun. John almost turns away to heed the insistent call of nature, but this might be his only opening to talk about Alan before dinner. He taps the wall where his fingers rest against it, catching Simon's attention.

"I clocked what ye were doing in the cafe, ye know? And I need ye to control yerself at dinner tonight. This is already hard for Alan, and I willnae have ye making him more uncomfortable. Understand?"

Simon stares at him before returning his gaze to the ceiling. "Affirmative."

"I'm serious, Si."

Simon lets out a huff and sits up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He looks up and pins John with one of his lieutenant stares.

"So am I. He's..." Simon's swallow echoes in the silence. "I owe 'im. When you said he saved your life... I didn't understand you meant it fuckin' literally."

John can't hold back his snort of wry amusement. "What did ye think I meant?"

"Dunno. That he got you groceries during recovery or somethin'."

Another laugh bubbles up. "Eejit."

"How was I supposed to know?"

"I dunno. Maybe by no' bein' a lavvy-heided numpty who ditches his friends?"

Simon drops his head in his hands. "Fuckin' hell."

"Och, dinnae fash yerself. Just having a laugh. Make us a brew, will ye?"

John turns and leaves Simon pouting on the couch, his heart beating wildly, hand grasping at his jumper and clenching into a fist over his heart. A wide grin stretches across his face, though it's not Simon's guilty reaction that has him wanting to laugh aloud — not like it might have a few weeks ago, anyway.

No, it's the fact that he was able to mention it — even joke about it — and not immediately explode with the usual anger and despair.

The volcano still rumbles deep down, the edges of the caldera flickering bright red with cracks of molten rock — it'll take more than a few weeks to bleed out all the sulfur and fully cool the lava still churning in the depths. But the wound has crusted over, well on its way to going dormant.

It feels like a beginning.

*

They're late for dinner, but as John stands in front of his bathroom mirror trying to arrange his hair into a semblance of neatness, he can't quite bring himself to care.

He's lighter than air. Would probably float away without Simon's heavy gaze on him right now from where he leans against the bathroom door jamb, arms and ankles crossed.

Renewing the romantic side of his relationship with Simon has dredged up a part of him he'd thought long dead, extracting fully-preserved thoughts and feelings from the silt and sand, pristine as the day Simon sank them into the abyss with a harsh phone call. They fill the hollow spaces in his chest as if they'd never been ripped out in the first place.

He's giddy with it.

That deep-down sulfurous part of him still wishes it weren't like this. That all those feelings decomposed in the depths instead, leaving him free to move forward with someone like Alan. And maybe if Simon had taken a bit longer to act or if John had loved him with less of his soul, he could have laughed in Simon's face that night after the wedding and sent him packing for good.

Perhaps in another life, in another world, John MacTavish is free from Simon Riley.

But in the here and now, the thought leaves him colder than sitting in the Siberian snow for hours waiting for a target to move. All the things he knows now — all Simon's history and the trauma, all the dark secrets hidden in the depths of his soul — bind them together in a way he never experienced before the injury. He's grateful that Simon is opening up to him.

They still have their fair share of problems, of course, both separately and together. But they're also actively working toward getting better.

For themselves. For each other.

"What's the issue?" Simon asks in a slightly exasperated tone as John continues to play with his hair.

"It willnae lay right," John grumbles.

"What?"

"Here. See?"

John points to the where the larger scar on the right side of his head is slightly visible through the long strands. Usually, he applies enough product to keep his thick hair in place, but Simon has ruined the style by running fingers through John's hair — and over his scars — throughout the day.

Not that John is complaining about the touching.

Or the kissing.

Christ almighty. So much kissing.

And every moment of it has been amazing. He feels like a fucking teenager — this time without all the Catholic guilt weighing him down.

After their long nap on the couch, they made lunch, which took twice as long as usual because they kept distracting each other with touches and lingering kisses. Eventually, their growling bellies demanded attention, and they ate out on John's back patio, Simon twining their fingers together as they sat in the lounge chairs and enjoyed the warm day. A couple of hours before dinner, they moved into the bedroom under the pretext of watching a movie. John had been hoping for a repeat — and perhaps a bit more — of their moment by the front door. But before they could get anywhere, John fell asleep with his head pillowed on Simon's massive chest, lulled by gentle fingers yet again combing through his hair.

Hair that now won't quite stay in place.

If he adds any more product, he'll look like a giant grease ball who hasn't taken a shower in two weeks. Which he's done before on really long ops, but he'd rather not—

"You're spiralin'."

John blinks and looks away from the bathroom mirror to stare at Simon. His standard black t-shirt is a bit wrinkled, and his hair is sticking up in all directions due to John's hands returning the favor by carding through his hair at every opportunity. It reminds him that his own jumper is as wrinkled as a wadded-up newspaper. He sighs and whips it over his head, throwing it toward the laundry hamper in the corner and heading for the chest of drawers in his room.

Simon's warm hand pressing against his bare chest stills his body as well as every whirling, untethered thought in his head. He blinks up at Simon, who is in turn staring down at his chest.

"Oh. It's for your mum. Saw it on our video call and wondered what it was."

John blinks again and looks down... and everything clicks into place. "Oh. Aye. Got it a couple of years ago." He traces his gaze over his mother's name, a quote in gaelic and the years of her birth and death written over his heart before lifting his right arm to show his SAS tattoo. "Went in to get this one removed in one of my low spots. Couldnae stand looking at it anymore. But when I got there, I saw a section for memorial tattoos."

He shrugs and tries to hold back a shudder as Simon's hand traces over the lines of the tree of life surrounding the lettering. "What's the quote? Somethin' Gaelic?"

"Mmhmm. Means 'there isn't a flood which will not subside.' My mam used to say it all the time when things would get rough at home. It was true for the two of us. Not so much for me and my father."

"Still a prick, then?"

"A right twat."

They grin at each other. Simon's fingers burn against his skin where they pet through his chest hair over the tattoo. A flash of pink tongue as Simon licks his lips sends a bolt of heat between John's legs.

He huffs out an awkward laugh, steps around Simon, and retrieves a dark blue t-shirt from the chest in his room. "We'll be really late if ye keep touching me like tha'."

Simon follows him into the room, leaning against the door frame once again. "Hmm, maybe later, then?"

It's John's turn to lick his lips. He pulls the shirt over his head, looking down to make sure he's smoothed out all the wrinkles as he nods and adds, "Ye should bring yer things over here t'night."

A large shadow blocks his light, and a crooked finger under his chin forces him to meet Simon's gaze. His expression is unreadable, but he searches John's face for a long moment before sliding his hand over to cup John's jaw.

"Stay the night?"

It's a question. An offer for confirmation or retreat. John shrugs even though his heart is trying to pound through his ribcage.

"Just... stay," he whispers.

And Simon kisses him, slow and almost reverent. It's so different from the desperation of their earlier kisses that it leaves John reeling, eyes closed as he sways forward to chase Simon as he pulls away.

Goosebumps erupt over his chest and arms at Simon's low laugh. He opens his eyes and locks on whiskey brown.

"Walk or drive?"

The words coming out of Simon's mouth are certainly English, but John's brain is too busy leaking out his ears to process them. He blinks rapidly. Another huff of laughter brushes over John's face as Simon leans forward to press a kiss to John's cheek before trying again.

"You good to make the walk, or should we drive?"

"Oh. Uh... Walking is good."

"You sure?"

John shakes off the last of the hazy moment, though his heart is still doing somersaults in his chest. "I'll make it. And if I cannae walk back, Price and Roach can drop us at the house on their way back to base."

"Then we'd better get movin', hmm? Already late 'cause of your primping."

John jerks back and makes an over-exaggerated and very Scottish sound of offense. "Ye like it when I look pretty. Dinnae deny it."

A slow smile spreads over Simon's face as his gaze rakes over John's face. "Wouldn't dream of it."

*

Despite the calm evening and Simon's warm hand clasped in his, anxiety plagues John on their walk over to Kyle and Belle's. Logically, he understands why Simon struggles to accept Alan and why Alan doesn't like Simon — he has good reason, after all — but it's frustrating to know two people he cares about likely won't ever get along.

He tries to imagine Simon and Alan as friends and almost snorts out loud.

Good fucking luck.

Then again, he's been wrong about things before. Simon being one of those things.

The unease falls away, however, when Belle opens the door and wraps him up in one of her warm hugs. How can he be worried in the face of all that cheerfulness?

"Everyone else is here," she says, "but we saved two seats for you. Together."

Belle lets John go and winks at Simon before leading them inside. John fights the rush of heat crawling up his neck as he enters the dining room and finds that there are indeed two free chairs at the far end of the table. Belle presses a quick kiss to his warm cheek and murmurs how happy she is for him.

The heat burns the tips of his ears even as a round of greetings fills the air. To make things worse — or better? — Alan stands from his place at the corner nearest to them and pulls John into yet another long hug.

Beside them, Simon stiffens.

Roach, God bless him, calls out a cheerful greeting and invites Simon to come sit in the open seat next to him, but Simon doesn't move. John holds his breath, mentally preparing to diffuse an awkward situation—

Finally, Simon jerks into motion, moving around the table to sit in the seat next to Roach.

John lets out a quiet sigh of relief just as Alan pulls back from their hug. His expression is serious but holds a hint of teasing at the edges as he cups his hands around John's shoulders and utters the most absurd nonsense John has ever heard.

"I didn't get a chance earlier to apologize."

"Yer ridiculous," John replies with a fond huff. "What th' fuck would ye need to apologize for?"

"For causing trouble between you and Simon."

"None of tha' was yer doing. And we talked it out. Talked about a lot of things, actually."

"Things are good, then?"

John presses his lips together, the blush still burning under his skin, and nods.

"Good. That's good, John. I'm... I'm happy for you."

Fucking saint of a man.

John pulls him in for another quick hug, patting his shoulder before taking his place at the table — John, Simon, Roach and Alan on one side. Price, Belle and Kyle on the other.

Once John is settled, Roach leans forward and gives John a tentative wave. John rewards him with a nod and smile.

"How are you feeling," Roach signs.

"Not too bad today. You?" John signs back.

"Glad you're feeling better. I'm doing great! Excited about having you on the mission."

"Mission?" Alan interrupts out loud. The other conversations at the table come to an abrupt halt. Alan grimaces as he realizes what he's done and leans forward to send John an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I didn't mean to uh... eavesdrop. I just... I didn't know you were doing things like that again?"

John clears his throat and nods. "It's new. The first one, actually. Maybe the last, too." He gives Price a tight smile and shrugs. "We'll see how things go. But I willnae be going anywhere. I'm just helping out over comms."

"It's not something we should talk about in detail," Price says with a raised brow directed at Roach, who ducks his head, before turning back to John. "But I think it's safe to say we're all excited to have you back in the saddle, even just as a voice in our ears."

"Here, here!" Kyle calls out, raising his glass. "I can't wait to have the whole team together!"

The others raise their glasses in a toast. Simon, who has his plain black balaclava pulled up to his nose, smirks at him as he takes a drink, and John blushes yet again, his neck and cheeks burning. The fire reaches the tips of his ears when Simon's hand grips his thigh under the table.

"Thank ye all. I'm nervous. But I'm excited, too." John glances at Roach before looking back at Price. "I just hope I can keep my head."

"You'll do fine," Price affirms with a nod.

John nods back, warmed by his former Captain's unshakeable faith in him. He can only hope it's justified.

The hand on his thigh squeezes in silent affirmation, and the conversation begins to flow around them again.

*

Dinner flies by with surprising ease. Food and drink are plentiful, and laughter fills the room with brightness. Even Simon manages a few dry comments, a few smiles and laughs, though he never takes off his mask. John understands — it's as much for Simon's comfort as it is to keep his identity secure. Maybe someday when they all know each other better, Simon will feel like he can take off the mask. For now, though, John just enjoys the touches, the warm looks, and the reassuring presence at his side.

Half-way through dinner, Alan begins telling Belle and Roach a story about one of his coworkers. John met the woman in question, an older woman named Susan, during his time in physical therapy with Alan, so he leans forward to listen. Alan is a fantastic storyteller, knowing just how to build tension and when to pause for comedic effect, and he manages to catch the entire table's attention.

It's then that John notices the slight flush on Roach's cheeks.

Maybe it's the one beer they've had with dinner. Maybe it's the temperature in the room, though it feels fine to John. Or maybe...

He expects the possibility to bother him, but after the initial twinge of surprise, all that remains is tentative hope. From the little he knows of Roach, the man is caring and attentive — just the kind of person Alan deserves.

Although...

It takes a special kind of person to deal with the rigors of being in a relationship with someone in special ops. Belle and Kyle broke up over it a couple of times before they figured things out, mostly when Kyle would come home injured. Or when he didn't come home at all because he was in a hospital somewhere halfway across the world.

Even having experienced the risks up close and personal, John still finds it difficult to watch Simon leave each Sunday, knowing it could be the last time they see each other.

John resolves to keep an eye on things. As they clean up the table and head outside for another evening around the fire pit, he hangs back to surreptitiously watch Alan and Roach's interactions...

Which is why he misses the shadow stalking behind him until he's being pulled back from the door, hand covering his mouth to muffle his surprised grunt. The shadow kicks the door closed and presses him against the nearby wall.

Familiar lips crash into his.

John melts.

Simon tastes like beer and curry take-away. His mouth is hot and welcoming, and though the desperation has mellowed throughout the day, his hands still shake as he wraps one arm around John's torso and cups his jaw with the other.

The door opens. John is too slow to react, and Simon doesn't bother to slow his assault on John's mouth in the least.

"Oi, Tav, wh— Ah, shite! Sorry! Carry on!"

Kyle slams the door closed again, but the mood is broken. John laughs as Simon pulls away.

"This feels familiar," John murmurs with a smile before pressing another soft kiss to the mouth he's missed for years. "Pure gaggin' for it, eh? Couldnae wait a few hours?"

"Woulda kissed you in front of everyone just to get a rise out of the others," Simon says against his lips, "but I'm tryin' to be nice to your ex boyfriend. Y'know, the one you kept starin' at all dinner."

And that... wasn't what he expected. His smile turns into a wide grin.

"Steamin' Jesus. Belle warned me tha' ye gave off possessive vibes, but I never expected ye to be this bad."

"Shut it and let me fuckin' kiss you while I still can."

Simon takes his mouth again, wilder and harder this time. Their lips meet and part, heavy breaths rising between them... among other things.

It takes all John's will power, but he manages to break the kiss. "I'll need a cold shower if ye keep this up. Save it for later, love."

Simon grunts and buries his face in John's neck, hot puffs of breath skating along his overheated skin. "We're leavin' early, then."

"I'll make it worth yer while. I promise."

A shudder works its way through Simon's body. "Gonna hold you to that."

John snorts as he takes Simon's hand and drags him out the door. He doesn't realize until he glances up at the group that perhaps he hasn't been the only one keeping tabs on potential relationships throughout the evening.

Roach's owlish gaze flicks to their joined hands, then back to John's face, then to Simon's half-revealed face.

He blinks. His eyes grow impossibly wider.

There's an open seat next to Roach, so John takes it. Simon scoots his chair closer as usual, bumping their knees together. Roach watches every movement like a hawk before a half grin curves his lips.

He leans toward John and whispers, "So that's what you meant by 'reconnected.'"

"Haud yer wheesht," John whispers back, though the words tremble with laughter. "It's a work in progress."

"So... were you together back then? You know... before?"

John leans back to judge Roach's expression. It's open and a little eager, but there's no hint of malice there.

"In a way," John admits slowly. He glances over at Simon, who is now talking with Belle, his bare arms crossed over his chest and his thin black t-shirt stretching over his biceps. "Nothing like this, though. This is far better."

As if he can hear them — and maybe he can because John's hearing isn't what it used to be after hundreds of explosions, a bullet at point-blank range, and a variety of inner ear issues — Simon presses his knee more firmly into John's. Heat boils under his skin, likely visible even in the wan evening light and the dancing flames of the fire pit.

"Damn," Roach whispers, appreciation clear in his tone. "Didn't think anyone could crack him. But you really did it."

Eager to change the subject, John turns back and jerks his head toward Alan, who is on the other side of Roach talking to Kyle and Price. "Speaking of, do I spy a bit of interest on yer part for Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome over there?"

Bright crimson floods Roach's face. He splutters for a moment before licking his lips and risking a glance toward Alan.

"Kyle says he's your ex, but... you were together at the wedding, right?"

John's brows shoot up. "Noticed him at the wedding, did ye?"

"Thought he might be single at first. Then I saw him with you."

"Aye. That was the night we broke things off."

Roach turns to face him again, the owlish gaze back in full force. "You broke up at the wedding?"

"A lot of things, good and bad, happened at tha' wedding," John murmurs with a wry laugh, "though it mostly felt bad at the time."

"That's recent," Roach says softly, seemingly talking to himself more than John. He bites his lip as he glances at Alan again before pinning John with a questioning look. "Are you okay with me... ummm..."

John snorts. "I cannae begrudge him moving on when I already have, can I?"

"Still..."

"It doesnae bother me, Roach. Ye seem like pure class, and Alan deserves a good man. Maybe give it some time — it's recent as ye say — but dinnae hesitate to shoot yer shot when ye feel the time is right."

Roach studies John's face as if he's an enemy to crack, and John lifts a brow in silent question. Roach blinks, and then his expression solidifies into determination.

"Thanks. I know it's... uh... weird? And maybe nothing will come of it. But still... I don't want you and me to get off on the wrong foot."

John reaches across his body and taps Roach on the shoulder with his fist. "Dinnae talk pish, mate. We're good."

"Look at 'em," Price grouses a bit too loudly to be anything but a purposeful call out. "Thick as thieves already. I told you this was a mistake, Gaz."

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger," Kyle says, holding his hands up in surrender. "It was John's idea to invite him along."

John and Roach grin at each other before John turns to Price. "Gotta get to know each other before the mission, aye? Willnae be able to banter over comms properly if we don't."

Price groans and rubs a hand over his face. "Oh fuckin' hell. I forgot about the banter. I take it back. The op is canceled."

"Och, yer bum's oot th' windae!"

"English, MacTavish," Simon rumbles from his left.

John bursts into manic laughter and leans into Simon. "Dinnae ye start, too!"

"I mean, I'm sort of with Ghost on this one," Roach — the absolute traitor — says. "I only understand about half of what you say at any given time."

Alan leans over to Roach and taps his shoulder. Roach goes deathly still, his cheeks turning that same rosy hue he'd had at dinner.

"The trick is to just nod and smile. That usually works."

John stands in mock outrage and points at each of them in turn. "Och! Traitors, the lot of ye! Where's Fi when I need her?"

The others burst into laughter. John tries to hold on to his angry expression, but he breaks within seconds, his world wobbling a bit at the edges as he laughs as well. A hand appears at his waist to steady him. John covers Simon's hand with his own before plopping down in his chair, and when Simon tries to pull his hand away, John is feeling too much warmth and camaraderie to let him go. He laces their fingers together.

"Well, I for one think it's nice to have both new and returning faces tonight," Belle says with her thousand-watt smile before turning to John. "And don't worry, Fi has promised me a visit in the next few weeks. I assume she's told you?"

"Aye, probably next weekend, actually. She's busy with a big case, but it's in the final stages."

"Well, I'll look forward to the day when maybe I can finally fill up my table with all the people I love."

"Aww, Belle, ye big softie," John coos, only half joking as he reaches his free hand out to her.

She grabs it and squeezes as Kyle leans over, wraps his arms around her, and presses a kiss to her cheek.

"That's my lovely bride. Maybe someday we can get Farah and Alex to finally come visit and have an excuse to use the leaf that's still wrapped in plastic in the hall closet."

That sets Price off on a few old stories about Farah — heavily redacted, of course — from before the formation of the 141, and from there the conversation flows like normal.

All the while, John continues to sneak glances at Roach and Alan.

The trouble with Alan, though, is he's so good and kind to everyone that it's hard to tell when the kindness spills over into something more. Alan's coworker Susan often calls him a 'Jane' — a joking reference to his kind nature and a play on his full name, James Alan Bennett. She had to explain the reference to John at first, but after being goaded into watching one of the adaptations with Alan, he had to admit it fit pretty well.

John snorts to himself. Maybe Alan has finally met his Bingley in Roach. He's proven himself a true gentleman all evening, eagerly running to grab more drinks when Alan finishes his and keeping him entertained with several non-confidential military stories. Roach isn't a bad storyteller himself, occasionally grabbing the whole group's attention, though John can tell he's not fully comfortable with that kind of audience. Alan seems to notice, too, and starts leaning closer when Roach tells a story so they can keep it between them.

Even if nothing romantic comes of it, John is comforted knowing that Alan will at least end the evening with a new friend.

Things are beginning to wind down, Price making the first of his usual round of comments that he should head out, when his phone rings.

Everyone goes silent.

"Price here... Copy that, Kate. We're on our way."

Price doesn't even need to give the order. Kyle, Simon and Roach all stand as one. Price gets up and walks toward the house carrying his empties in one hand. His other hand slaps John on the shoulder as he passes by.

"You, too, MacTavish. Kate wants you there for the briefing. Pack a bag for a couple of days, yeah?"

John blinks. Looks up at Simon, who holds out a hand to help him up.

"Oh... I see," Alan says with a little smile. "Mission time?"

Roach is about to follow Price but hesitates. "Uh, yeah. Listen... I know maybe this is weird and fast, but can I give you my number?"

Alan smiles. And John smiles as well, because there it is. A recognizable sign of interest, though likely only John and Belle know it.

If nothing else, Alan is definitely flattered.

Things are looking up.

John lets Simon pull him out of his chair and lead him toward the house. He's still solid on his feet, but he lets Simon wrap an arm around him anyway. Kyle and Belle are already in the kitchen with Price.

"I'll take Roach and Ghost if you can take John with you..." Price is saying as they pass by.

Simon doesn't stop to chat, though. Not until they've walked down the hallway to the guest room. Simon's bag is sitting on the bed, and that's about all John gets to see before Simon has him pressed up against the closed door yet again, his massive frame blocking the view.

"This is becoming a habit," John teases even as he's curling his arms around Simon's neck to bring him closer.

"Yep. Better get used to it," Simon murmurs against his lips.

"Didn't say I minded," John mumbles back.

Simon deepens the kiss, and there's no more talking.

At least not until Price pounds on the door a few minutes later to break them apart. "Come on love birds, let's move!"

John groans. "Tha's also familiar but in the worst way."

Simon huffs a laugh and presses a final kiss to his mouth before leaving John against the door to fetch his already-packed bag. John blinks back into focus and then frowns.

"You knew it would be tonight?"

"Suspected. But I hoped it wouldn't. You made me promises. I'll expect you to keep 'em."

John smiles and lets Simon lead him outside.

*

(Calculations for a set of explosions are strewn all over the left page of the journal open in John's lap. He scribbles out more numbers before moving back to add a few sentences to the entry on the right-hand page as he sits in the passenger seat of Kyle's car. A few verses of an old song run along the edge of the page, circling the entry: Like a river flows, Surely to the sea, Darling, so it goes, Some things are meant to be...)

19 June

Mission time. I'm fucking shaking in my boots. But I also feel more focused than I have since the injury. Maybe it's the journaling. Maybe it's being part of the 141 again. Maybe it's just having Simon at my side, so damn attentive... and vocal about it. Whatever it is, I'm praying to the God my mam believed in that the focus — and Simon — stays with me.

Laswell called a few minutes ago to check in and let me know exactly what she wants from me in the briefing. I was right. It's the job I passed off to her earlier this week. That helped with the nerves because I'm already familiar with the demo job. She's always so matter-of-fact and blunt, it's hard to accuse her of babying anyone, let alone me, though I do think I get more leeway than some of her operatives.

Gotta admit, though, as exciting as it is to be back on the team, I'm a little miffed that it happened on the night I was finally gonna have my way with Simon. Fucking hell. Feels like I might have permanent blue balls after all the times he got me going today.

Bastard.

I love him.

I know it's stupid to write it out like that. Like I'm a teenager with my first crush. But I've loved him for so long and never felt like I could admit it to myself let alone write it down.

I feel like I can now.

Saying it out loud... that's a whole other mess. Even with all the progress we've made, I'm not ready for that. But maybe someday.

Suppose it's time to get my head in the game. This isn't some simulation or class. It's the real fucking deal. And if I mess this up, it could mean the lives of the people I care about most. So, time to put on my big boy pants and do my job.

Let's fucking go.

Chapter Text

"You ready for this?" Kyle asks.

Or rather... Gaz asks. John supposes he should get used to using call signs again, especially if the op goes well. The thought doesn't make his gut clench and his palms sweat the way it did three years ago, though melancholy still twinges in his chest.

They've been rolling down the road toward Credenhill for about forty-five minutes with only the soft murmur of music and road noise for company. Gaz has been stuck in his own head until now, no doubt bummed about losing time with Belle. The silence works out fine for John, though, because it gives him time to prepare for the mission ahead. Since Gaz picked him up from his place — after Price, Roach and Ghost dropped him off there to pack — he's been focused on quadruple checking his calculations and updating his journal.

The closer they get to Credenhill, the more real everything feels. And if he's going to bite the bullet and resurrect his own ghost, now seems like the perfect time to start.

"Still feels surreal to be back, but I'm ready." He takes a deep breath before adding, "Also, I was thinking... it'll probably help over comms to call me Soap, aye?"

Gaz turns to stare at him. One second.

Three.

Five—

John curses through a laugh as he grabs for the steering wheel. "Keep yer eyes on the road, ye numpty!"

Gaz whips his head forward and makes a quick turn to pull off the road. He throws the car in park, and grabs John, and wraps him up in a tight hug.

"What the fuck, bruv? You can't do that to a man while he's driving!"

"Fuckin' do what?" John laughs into Gaz's shoulder

"Are you serious right now?" Gaz's voice trembles, and John is shocked to realize Gaz is on the verge of fucking crying. "Do you know how hard it's been to see you hurting all these years and not be able to do a damn thing about it? To watch you struggle and not know how to help? Fucking hell. We should've forced the issue with Ghost a long time ago."

"I'm sorry?" John says in a small voice, the sudden emotional outburst throwing him off guard.

"Don't... don't be sorry, you wanker. Just keep getting better. And let us be there for you, alright? With or without Ghost."

"I will." John pushes Gaz back enough to grip the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders and shake him a bit. "Of course I will. Fuckin' Christ, Gaz. Yer the reason I'm alive as much as Alan. If ye hadnae realized something was wrong..." John trails off and shakes his head, moving his hands to grip the sides of Gaz's face. "You and Price... ye stayed with me through thick and thin, and ye've done more for me than I could ever repay. Yer my family — better by far than most of my blood relations. So, yes, Gaz, I'm gonna let ye be there, just like I wanna be there for you now tha' I'm able."

Gaz blinks away the moisture in his eyes and breaks into a grin. "Okay, Soap."

They laugh together, and John pulls Gaz back in for another tight hug. Tears pool in his eyes, but he doesn't let them fall.

The name still doesn't quite fit. His seams stretch, like pulling on a pair of pants a half-size too small.

But if John knows anything, it's how to fake it 'til he makes it.

*

As they show their identification and pass through the gate, a wave of nostalgia rolls over John like a tank.

Credenhill looks exactly the same — at least from what he can see in the dim light of late evening. Perhaps they've painted a few buildings and changed up the obstacle courses since he last set foot on base, but everything still lines up perfectly with his memories, like an old movie superimposed over reality. The deeper they drive onto base, the more visions of old Soap rise up like a specter — standing on that corner waiting for Ghost, running across that street on his way to train FNGs.

John floats along in the passenger seat, weightless, both himself and not himself as past and present clash in an amalgam of memory and anticipation.

Or is that dread?

Hard to tell.

Gaz parks near the barracks, and the familiar stone buildings resurrect visions of a life beyond training and ops. Friendship and loss. Frustration and fucking. A flush crawls up his neck from a rush of illicit memories, and he turns away to follow Gaz toward the administrative buildings. Overhead lights flicker weakly, the summer twilight not quite dark enough for them to fully engage but dim enough to glaze everything in sepia-tinged remembrance.

The old movies play in his head at every corner, and the feeling of weightlessness grows.

It shouldn't feel like this. Not really. Some of the toughest and most harrowing moments of his life occurred during his time at Credenhill — the loss of friends and subordinates, missions gone wrong, the fucking betrayals and politicking...

And the call from Fi late on a Tuesday night to tell him his mam had finally succumbed to the cancer that had been slowly draining her life for more than a year.

But some of the best things happened here, too. And he'd be a fucking liar if he didn't admit that the pride he felt in working with his team often overshadowed the downsides.

They turn the corner from the barracks, and the main office building comes into view. It's an unassuming building made of crumbling cinder block and held together by little more than blistering paint and prayer, but the front doors are a portal to the past — drab gray walls, stained drop ceiling, buzzing fluorescent lights, and dingy carpet squares that mute the tap of his cane as he follows Gaz down the hall.

He spent far more time than strictly necessary inside these broken down walls, annoying Price in his office or doing improper things to Si- to Ghost in his office.

But this dusty time capsule could also be the path to his future... if he can fucking hold himself together for the duration of the mission.

No pressure.

He exhales a slow puff of air to calm his racing heart. He's here for a job with the 141. The best of the best. And he won't let his misplaced longing for a past that's probably more rose-colored than real affect his performance.

This is where he belongs. Where he's always belonged.

Now he just needs to believe it and claim it.

When he and Gaz arrive at the familiar briefing room, the others, including Laswell, are gathered in a knot toward the back. It looks exactly the same as the last time he was here: a large wooden table, nicked and carved by decades-worth of bored soldiers with questionable access to sharp knives (himself included); a smattering of chairs, half of them broken or too flimsy to hold a regular soldier's weight; an old overhead projector, shoved in the corner because no one has used it in twenty years; and a line of boot scuffs along the wall where soldiers have rested their feet to ease the discomfort of standing for hours at a time.

How many briefs and debriefs has he sat through in this very room? Hundreds? Maybe thousands?

Price, Ghost, and Roach have already changed into their mission-ready clothing, although Ghost is still wearing a soft mask and hasn't donned his tactical vest yet. He nods at John in greeting but doesn't approach.

Keeps things tactical.

John is glad for it. He needs to hold himself apart until he feels less like a hot air balloon floating into the sunset. Or like a kid playing dress up with grown-up clothes. He's not sure he'd be able to do that with Ghost hovering around him.

If he's honest, his relationship with Ghost also feels a bit like one of those sepia colored dreamscapes. Using the man as a grounding technique probably wouldn't be helpful. At least not yet.

Laswell greets John and Gaz with one of her subtle smiles. As Gaz joins the others, Laswell puts a gentle hand on John's shoulder and pulls him to the side.

"We've had a slight change in plans. I'm setting up camp at the local base nearest where the op is taking place, and I'd like you there with me."

John's mouth drops open. "You mean... traveling with you all?"

"Yes. I have some new tech I want to try out, but it's most accurate when used at short range. And from what I understand, accuracy is important in demolitions."

"Oh, aye. Life or death, ye might say." He pauses to wipe a hand over his mouth. "Can I... Can I call Fi?"

Kate grimaces. "Everything about this needs to stay confidential, including the fact that you're leaving the UK. You can tell her you're working, though, and won't be available by phone for a couple of days. And then you'll need to leave your personal phone on base."

"Of course. That makes sense."

Laswell pauses, her expression deadly serious even as she gently squeezes his shoulder. "If it's too much, I need you to tell me right now."

"Nae! It's not too much. I'm just surprised. I never thought..." John shakes his head to clear it and gives her a genuine smile. "I'm good to go."

"Good." With a smile and a pat to his shoulder, she jerks her head toward the briefing table. "Now let's give the boys the rundown."

With that, reality settles around John's shoulders like a weighted blanket, and he slowly sinks back to solid ground.

He's got a job to do. No more time for flights of fancy.

John and Kate step up to the table, and though he's led plenty of ops in his career and even briefed the 141 on the demo portions of missions similar to this one, there's something wild about standing in front of his former teammates again. He takes a quick glance around the room, and a smile pulls at his lips when he finds everyone already smiling at him. He nods at them, takes a deep breath, and turns to Kate, who nods back and begins the brief.

"Alright boys, here's the deal. We've got a building full of insurgents with Ultranationalist ties, and we need to know what they're up to."

"Konni makin' a comeback?" Ghost asks.

"Rumors say yes, but there's no way to know until we get in there and gather as much intel as we can. Price?"

Price walks over to stand on Kate's opposite side and points to a ten-story building on the large map spread over the table. "This is our target, an abandoned high-rise project taken over by rats. According to our sources, the main communications hub is on the eighth floor — here. Gaz and I will infiltrate the building and gather the intel as quietly as possible. The goal is to get in and out without being detected, but we need to make sure as many of the operatives remain in the building as possible. We'll be shooting for midday infil. Ghost, you're on overwatch here."

Price points to another high-rise building across the street before handing Ghost a folder. From experience, John knows the folder is full of floor plans and photos of the building. Ghost will study it during the plane ride before catching a couple of hours of sleep. It's not ideal, but they're both fairly well rested after all the napping they did earlier in the day.

"Roach, you'll infil with me and Gaz, but after that, you'll be on your own. I've given you the details, but I want everyone else to hear the plan, too. MacTavish?"

John moves to the building schematic at the end of the table, and everyone shuffles to gather around him. His palms are sweating, but as he begins talking through the plan, a familiar calm washes over him.

All the superimposed emotions and memories coalesce and merge into one.

Soap clicks into place

And it feels like coming home.

He bends over the building plans and points to the bottom floor.

"The charges need to be set in specific locations on the lower level to bring the building down on top of itself. This is important because of the civilian buildings surrounding the target, including a hospital across the street. Once Roach makes it downstairs, he'll need at least fifteen minutes to set up all the premade charges. It'll be a remote detonation, so we'll have more control over when it blows, but it's important no' to alert the occupants until it's too late for them to escape."

Kate steps up and hands a small black case to Roach. "Roach, you'll be wearing some new tech for this mission that will send us encrypted bodycam footage of what you're doing. That way, if anything goes wrong, MacTavish can assist. With any luck, you won't need him, but he'll be in your ear and watching you work just in case."

"Sure. No pressure, then," Roach murmurs before shooting a sheepish grin at Soap. "You and me blowing up stuff together — who would've guessed?"

Soap snorts a laugh. "Cannae go wrong bonding over big booms, can we?"

Roach shakes his head, his smile brightening. Soap gives him a pat on the back before turning back to the others.

"And on that note," —Soap glances at Gaz, who gives him a nod and a broad smile— "I thought it might simplify things over comms if everyone called me Soap. Feels like..." Soap licks his lips and shrugs. "It just feels right."

There's a moment of silence. He looks around to find everyone staring at him with varying degrees of surprise. Laswell's hand is pressed over her mouth, and Price...

Price is the first to move. He takes two strides around the table and pulls Soap into a warm hug — a long squeeze and two hard pats as he pulls away to rest his hands on Soap's shoulders. His eyes are suspiciously glossy, but he doesn't break eye contact as he leans forward, his smile broad under that ridiculous mustache.

"It's good to have you back, Soap."

Gaz laughs as Kates pulls Soap into a hug next, her tight embrace unexpected in the work setting but not unwelcome. Roach offers a handshake, and Soap pulls him in for a brief one-armed hug. And of course Gaz grabs him for another long hug.

"So proud of you, mate," Gaz says in a low tone, just for Soap. "Just fuckin' brilliant."

Ghost meet's Soap's gaze over Gaz's shoulder. And though he doesn't approach, Soap can see the warmth in those whisky eyes, even behind the eye black. He nods. Soap grins back.

"Alright, let's wrap this up," Price says, calling them back to order with a double rap of knuckles on the table.

Soap and Gaz pull apart, though they remain standing side by side with their arms over each others' shoulders. Ghost steps up on Soap's other side. Soap glances over and winks. Ghost rolls his eyes, but Soap can see from the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that he's still smiling under the mask.

"The next part is, hopefully, simple," Price continues. "Once Roach is done setting the charges, he'll go out the same exit and head for the RV point. Gaz and I will radio when we're clear of the building, which is when Ghost will book it to the RV point and Roach will detonate."

Kate steps up and points to the map. "Your extraction from the city is the same truck you'll go in with. Get to the exfil point outside the city, and a helo will arrive for RTB and debrief. Any questions?"

At the resounding silence, Price claps his hands together. "Alright then. Wheels up in one hour. You can sleep on the plane. Dismissed."

Ghost moves instantly, tapping Soap's shoulder on the way out. "On me, Soap."

Gaz waggles his eyebrows, mouthing Ghost's words with mirth in his eyes. Soap laughs as he extracts himself from Gaz's hold.

"See ye in a bit."

By the time he makes it out of the room, Ghost is halfway down the hall. Soap places his free hand on the wall for extra balance and picks up the pace.

"Och, Ghost! Yer gonna have to slow down for yer decrepit co-worker."

Ghost halts mid stride and turns his head. "Sorry. Forgot."

Soap catches up and then gasps when Ghost wraps an arm around his back and propels them forward. Soap doesn't even bother trying to keep up with his cane, holding it up in one hand while reaching around to grasp at Ghost's opposite shoulder with the other.

"What's the rush? I thought ye already packed."

"I did."

"Then—"

"Less questions, more hustlin'."

And Soap gets a good idea of what he means when, as they exit the building, Ghost squats down, throws Soap over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, and starts off again in a smooth jog. It happens so fast, all Soap can do is laugh.

"Ye wee radge shite! Put me down!"

"Sorry, Soap. We're on a time crunch."

"What time crunch? D'ye mean time 'til wheels up?"

Ghost hums an affirmative. Despite his obvious efforts to keep his gait smooth, the ride is bumpy, and Soap groans out his disapproval.

"My body is gonna be black and blue from all this jostling."

"Quit your whingin'. You're softer than a new recruit."

Before he can think better of it, Soap takes advantage of their position to reach back and smack Ghost's ass in retaliation. He realizes his mistake a moment later when Ghost returns the favor. Heat pools in his gut at the slight stinging sensation, and he takes as big of a breath as his position allows. Now is not the time to get himself worked up.

His head is spinning a bit from the angle, so he closes his eyes. As they pass through the bright spot from an overhead light, though, he hears a few murmurs off to the side. He can't make out what they're saying, but Ghost must be able to hear.

"As you were!" he shouts, and Soap lifts his head in time to see a couple of corporals turning and hurrying away.

"This'll be all over base by tomorrow morning," Soap says, a bit of warning in his tone.

"Good thing neither of us will be here, then."

"Ghost... Simon."

With much slower movements, Ghost leans forward to drop Soap on his feet. He's barely recovered his balance, head still spinning a bit, when Ghost lifts the bottom of his mask, grasps Soap's chin, and presses a hard kiss to his mouth.

Soap reels all over again for a very different reason.

"What are ye doing?" he hisses when Ghost pulls away. "Yer gonna get yerself in trouble."

"No trouble to be had. You're not my subordinate anymore. And if I wanna fuckin' kiss you in public, I fuckin' will."

"But what about yer reputation?" Soap wheezes, still reeling.

"All the better to scare 'em into shuttin' up, right?" Ghost kisses him again, though a bit softer this time. "Now come on. We've only got" —Ghost glances at his watch— "Fifty one minutes until wheels up, and I've got plans for you."

Ghost brings out a card to swipe into the building that Soap is just now noticing.

It's the officers' barracks.

"This is... we're going to yer place?"

"Want me to find a storage room instead? Got fond memories of a few of 'em."

Soap snorts. "Those were the days — my scary not-boyfriend accosting me all over base."

"Not-boyfriend, eh?"

"Well... we weren't. No' at the time anyway. Not even friends according to some."

The last part slips out, and Soap winces. He hadn't meant to bring it up, but his visions of the past are dredging up a bit of the bad along with the good.

Ghost glances over at Soap before fixing his gaze forward as they walk down the long hall. "Whoever said that was a fuckin' twat."

Soap offers a weak laugh, but before they can speak any further, Ghost stops at a nondescript door in an alcove at the end of the hall. There's no room number, though the slight discoloration of the wood in the shape of a door sign leads Soap to believe there used to be one.

Ghost keys into the room, and Soap looks around with equal parts curiosity and apprehension.

It's a corner room, and though there's no bedroom proper, a wall jutting three-quarters of the way into the room nicely divides the space. The front area holds a worn-down leather couch, a small table with two chairs, and kitchenette, and the end of what looks to be a larger-than-regulation bed peeks out from behind the divider wall. A door to his right is partly open to reveal a tiny bathroom.

"So I finally get to enter the lair of the Ghost."

Ghost snorts as he closes the door behind them, but instead of responding he whips off his mask with one hand, takes Soap's hand with the other, and leads Soap around the wall into the sleeping area.

"Sit," Ghost orders as he turns on the bedside lamp.

Soap does as he's told, bouncing a little with the force of dropping so suddenly onto the side of the bed. It's almost ingrained at this point — in Ghost's room, where he's never been before, with Ghost dressed in his tactical clothes and using his lieutenant voice, Soap is as close to defenseless as he gets.

Ghost led him here. To his most private space. A place Soap always wondered about but never got to visit... until now.

What would he have given to be invited here four years ago?

He licks his lips and lets out a shaky breath.

And then Ghost drops to his knees and reaches for Soap's belt. His already reeling mind screeches to a halt, hands shooting out to grasp Ghost's wrists.

"Simon? What are ye doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"Um..."

"No?"

"..."

"Tell me no, Johnn— John. I can take it."

Looking down into warm eyes, he feels the heat rise up again. Even wearing tactical gear and eye black, the man looking up at him from his knees isn't Ghost anymore.

This is Simon, his face open and...

And hungry.

Isn't this what he was hoping for earlier in the day? An escalation of their moments by the door? He bites his lip and gently lets go of Simon's hands.

Instead of immediately reaching for John's belt, though, Simon rubs his big hands along the tops of John's denim-clad thighs in slow strokes. The friction creates a pleasant warmth against his skin, and John leans forward to cradle Simon's face, just holding him there and studying the open expression of the man so clearly and desperately trying to fix what he broke.

A man on his knees offering up his heart to John.

Finally.

Fucking finally.

"No more running?" he asks softly, thumbs stroking over Simon's cheeks.

"No more runnin'," Simon agrees. "Told you, didn't I? You're fuckin' stuck with me."

John bends down and kisses Simon softly. Slowly. Like he would if they woke up together on a lazy morning and decided to spend it in bed. Their lips slide together as he deepens the kiss, and Simon raises up on his knees to slip his hands around and grip at John's lower back, pulling him closer to the edge of the bed.

John has to open his legs wider to accommodate the movement, and heat pours like honey down his spine, slow and languorous. His world spins, but for once it's not because of his vertigo.

Simon's hands steal under his shirt, the rough skim of callused fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake. The sensation of skin on skin sends want pumping through his veins as those clever fingers slide to the front.

The clanking of his buckle is loud compared to their elevated breathing.

John's breath shudders in his lungs at the release of his button, and blood rushes south at the slow descent of his zipper. Simon breaks the kiss to nip at his throat instead.

"Lean back and lift your hips," Simon orders.

And John can't hold back the desperate, breathy sound that spills from his lips as he does what he's told.

Simon yanks his jeans down to his ankles in one motion.

"Steaming Jesus, Si!"

"Time crunch. I'll be all gentle and sweet for you next time."

Next time.

The words ring in John's head even as he thrills at Simon's low groan as he surges forward and presses his face against John's cock where it's nestled in his boxer briefs. If he weren't fully hard already, Simon's lips mouthing against him would do it. As it is, he's light-headed and buzzing from head to toe with anticipation.

He's missed this so fucking much.

So has Simon, it seems. When he finally tugs down John's briefs to take hold of his cock, he's breathing like he just ran a 10k in full gear.

"Missed me, did ye?"

"Shut it, MacTavish."

And he does. Because instead of easing him into it, Simon swallows him whole. John arches his back and lets out a shout, fingers shoving into Simon's hair just for something to hold on to as his hips stutter through an aborted thrust.

But Simon doesn't choke. The cock-hungry bastard just moans and pushes deeper, swallowing around him. In a smooth motion, he pulls off to breathe — the hard suction and rough glide of Simon's tongue causing John's hips to fully lift off the mattress — before going down again. His hands wrap around John's hips to hold him steady as he presses his face into John's pelvis. John curls forward, panting with the influx of sensation.

"Fucking Christ. I'm no' gonna last if ye keep doing tha'."

The admission only makes Simon move faster, bobbing his head and using that wicked tongue to catapult John into the stratosphere. His whole body tenses like a bow string as the pleasure gathers almost too fast to enjoy. The sound of heavy breathing fills the otherwise quiet room, echoing off bare walls.

He gasps Simon's name as fingers dig into the soft flesh of his ass hard enough to leave bruises. John hopes for it. Hopes he finds purple marks littering his hips and sides from how hard Simon is holding on to him.

That they last until Simon can leave more.

Next time.

The wet slide of Simon's mouth and throat over John's achingly hard cock is a lewd accompaniment to Simon's increasingly desperate moans. Simon slides his hands away from John's hips, one disappearing below the mattress while the other dives under John's shirt, rubs over his clenched abs, and skates up his pec to tweak his nipple—

"Oh, fuck."

Pleasure crashes over him in a wave, leaving them both gasping and moaning as Simon works him through it, not pulling off until John is lying flat on his back on Simon's mattress. He doesn't even remember falling backward, but here he is, still gasping for breath as he stares up at the military-white ceiling.

His first coherent thought is that he should be embarrassed by his lack of stamina. Then again, Simon knows him like the back of his hand, knows all the tricks to get John going. His second thought is that he should reciprocate. But his limbs are jelly, weak as a newborn wean. He lifts a hand, and then lets it flop back to the mattress with thud.

It's not until he feels Simon tucking his cock back into his pants for him that he manages to rise up on his elbows. His head is spinning a little from the previous lack and sudden return of blood flow as well as the mind-blowing orgasm, but it's already fading as he locks gazes with Simon.

"Come 'ere and lemme do ye, too."

Simon shakes his head. "No need."

The familiar, throat-fucked rasp in his voice sends shivers down John's spine. He reaches out and wiggles his fingers in a come hither motion.

"I want to."

"Next time.

Simon pulls up John's jeans, and John dutifully lifts his hips. There's a softness to the moment that he doesn't want to ruin, but he really does want to get his mouth on Simon, too. He sits up and gently tangles his hands in Simon's hair as Simon pushes forward and rests his head on John's thigh.

"Si—"

"It's already done, if you gotta know. And we don't have time to wait for me to get it back up." He turns his head and looks up at John without a shred of self-consciousness. "So, next time."

John lets out a put-upon sigh. "Promise?"

A faint smile spreads over Simon's lips. John snorts.

"If ye told me ten years ago I'd be complaining about having a lover who's obsessed with sucking my cock, I would've told ye tae get tae fuck. But here we are."

"Fine, you fuckin' child. I promise I'll let you suck me off when we get back. That better?"

"Aye," John responds in a lofty tone. "Thank ye, Simon."

Simon snorts and then promptly grimaces as he stands. "Fuckin' hell. Took nowt more than a few tugs and a cock in my mouth to come in my pants like a teenager, but my knees are remindin' me I'm old as fuck."

"I'd make fun of ye, but I dinnae have room to talk."

"When's that ever stopped you before?"

John grabs the backs of Simon's thighs and grins up at him. "S'pose tha's fair."

They stare at each other, and John's grin softens as Simon cups the back of his head, threading fingers through his long hair. He closes his fist and softly tugs his head backward.

"Gotta get cleaned up. Then we should head to the hangar."

John presses his face into Simon's stomach. Breathes in the scent of gunpowder, musk and sex. Simon's fingers loosen, stroking down the back of his head a few times before stilling, pressing firmly on the back of his head as if he knows John needs his grounding touch.

Probably does know, actually.

For all their terrible miscommunications and lack of talking things through, they still know each other. Backward and forward. Men like them, trained to observe and catalogue information in their sleep, can't maintain that kind of distance from a trusted teammate. Even if they'd stayed platonic, the innate understanding of moods and needs would still be there to a degree.

John pulls back and lets go of Simon's thighs. It takes Simon a moment longer to let his hand drop away from the back of John's head before he goes to change clothes.

*

"John Callum, are ye pished and wakin' up yer big sis tae tell her how much ye love 'er?"

John snorts as he falls back on Simon's bed and drags his fingers over the fleece blanket beneath him. It's barely past 2200 hours. There's no way she was already asleep.

"No' quite, but maybe next time."

"What's got ye callin' so late, then?"

John takes a deep breath and bites the bullet. "Tha' mission I told ye about, the one with the old team? Laswell is insisting I stow my phone for the duration of the mission. Could be a couple of days."

A harsh breath crackles over the phone. John swallows.

He's not a fool. He knows this will be hard for Fi. But at some point, they're going to have to deal with all that fear left behind from his job, his injury, and his subsequent actions. Might as well start now.

He opens his mouth to say as much, but Fi beats him to it.

"Aye. Alright. I want tae be angry, but I know it's just because I'm scared of bein' out of contact with ye."

"I swear I willnae be in any danger. And I promise tae call again as soon as I'm able."

"Alright. Thank ye fer tellin' me."

There's a loaded pause, full of unspoken words and emotion. John doesn't let it linger.

"Still on fer next weekend?"

"So far as I know. Although I suppose yer gonna have tha' big bastard stayin' with us, aye?"

Heat burns up his cheeks. "Erm... Aye? How did ye...?"

"Price keeps me up tae date on the things ye fail tae mention during our chats."

"It only happened today, ye rocket! Maybe ye should invite Price over, too, and we'll make it a party. Just keep the noise down. My innocent ears couldnae take overhearing whatever unholy things the two of you get up to. Activates my gag reflex just thinkin' about it."

"Och! Ye wee radge shite!"

"What? Yer no' subtle, Fi. Neither of ye are."

As Fi is grumbling in John's ear, Simon walks into his peripheral vision, duffle in hand. He lifts a brow. John sighs as he sits up, glancing around for his cane.

"Sorry, but I've got tae go now. Try no' tae worry too much."

"Easier said than done... but I'll try. Love ye, numpty."

"Love ye back, ye weapon."

*

The plane is nicer than he expected. A row of four reclining seats along one side of the fuselage faces a matching row on the opposite side, giving them plenty of legroom — no small feat for men their size. The chairs are wide, the cushions plush, and the lighting dim. He could almost mistake it for a private jet except for the bare metal floor and the huge cargo area below them full of their gear.

He supposes that's the perk of traveling with Laswell. Not that she demands high class things per se. She can get just as down and dirty as the rest of them. But she also doesn't say no to any perks of the job that might pass her way.

"We've got a four-hour flight ahead of us," she says as they load in. "You'll have infil transportation waiting when we arrive, so try to get some sleep, alright?"

Ghost throws his tactical vest into an empty seat and sits down beside it. As Soap passes by, Ghost grabs his belt loop and directs him into the seat next to him. Soap lets out an indignant huff and shoots Ghost a glare.

"Stop manhandling me, ye oaf."

"You like it."

"And that's enough of that, yeah?" Gaz pleads from his spot across from them, his hands clasped like he's praying. "I don't think I can take you two flirting for the next two days."

"You're lucky you'll be goin' dark for most of the op," Ghost drawls. "I've got three years of jokes in the mental queue."

Gaz groans. Price lifts a brow as he takes the seat between Laswell and Gaz.

"You're not threatening to muddy my comm traffic, are you Ghost?"

"Never dream of it. We'll keep it on a private channel, eh?"

"The only private channel will be the one between Soap and Roach, gentlemen."

Laswell doesn't even look up as she says it. Soap snorts and winks at Ghost.

"Aye, ma'am. And here's my comm buddy now."

Roach gives a little wave and plops down next to Soap. The airfield crew close the hatch while Laswell and Price put on headsets. Within minutes, they're in the air, climbing to cruising altitude. Gaz and Roach lean their chairs back into nearly horizontal positions, and Roach dons ear plugs and an honest-to-god sleeping mask. He blindly gives the plane in general a lazy salute and settles into his seat. Soap huffs a laugh before glancing at Ghost.

"Should we get comfortable?"

Ghost shrugs as he leans his chair back a few inches. "Already slept a lot today. Probably won't be able to on the flight. Besides, I got this folder to go through," he says as he lifts the folder Price handed him earlier.

"Aye, I'm not sleepy, either. I'll probably journal a bit."

Ghost nods as he opens the folder full of specs and photos to start memorizing the layout. The hum of the plane is quiet compared to what Soap is used to from their many flights in what amounted to cargo bays, but even still, it's enough to serve as white noise. Soap pushes the armrest back out of the way and leans his chair back to match Ghost's before snuggling against his side.

"Gonna use me as a pillow?"

"Maybe in a bit."

The snort from Ghost is barely audible over the noise, but Soap catches it and sends him another wink. As the plane levels off, Soap reaches into his bag under his seat, pulls out his journal, and opens it to his most recent entry to begin a sketch of Price stretched out in his chair, boonie hat tipped forward to cover his eyes.

*

19 June, pt. 2

Update — Everything finally feels real. I'm here. With the 141. Traveling with them to an op. Only to the forward base with Laswell, but still. I was surprised when she wanted me to come, too, but I gotta admit, I feel better knowing I'll be able to see what Roach is seeing during the mission.

There's a wee bit of a curdled feeling in my stomach. Can't seem to shake it no matter how many of Abby's affirmations I do. I know it's just my brain amping up my already outsized paranoia, but I'll probably go over the numbers again before trying to catch a couple of hours of sleep.

Ghost is sitting beside me, our sides pressed together. I used to dream about this. Well. Not quite this exactly. But something close — going on an op with a Ghost who doesn't care about who sees us or who knows we're together. Completely unrealistic, and yet here we are.

He's still a horny bastard. That hasn't changed. But so many other things...

It's all so different from what I imagined. Not bad. Just... different. My life has changed so much in just a few weeks, but it's a good change. And I have to believe things are only going to get better...

*

When Soap tucks his journal away after scribbling down a new set of the same calculations along the right side of the page, Ghost has already put away his folder, slouched lower in his seat, and is on his way to sliding into Soap's space. As Soap settles back in his seat, he lets it happen, Ghost's head coming to rest on his shoulder.

He holds in a fond huff of laughter. So much for not being able to sleep on the plane.

Then again, without Soap around to force him to sleep, Ghost is probably more sleep deprived than ever. It feels good to be a positive influence on those self-destructive behaviors, not least because it helps him check his own destructive behaviors as well.

Ever the dutiful soldiers, Price, Gaz and Roach are also sleeping or at least resting their eyes, though Laswell is still on her laptop, headset in place. He hopes she'll try to get little sleep before they land, but experience has taught him that she's as much of an insomniac as Ghost.

It's reassuring in a way. A familiar thing he can hold on to. And another person he trusts implicitly to protect him when his guard is down.

He gently tips his head to lean on Ghost's and closes his eyes. Whether or not the sleep comes easy, he should at least try.

Because when he wakes, the real work begins.

Chapter Text

The rumble of the plane touching down wakes Soap. He's warm and comfortable, so it takes a gentle squeeze to his thigh for him to grudgingly open his eyes. Gaz's wide, teasing grin greets him, and he shoots his friend a dirty look. A glance to the right proves Price is also watching him with a smirk and a cocked brow.

"Is sleeping beauty finally awake?" Price asks when their gazes meet.

"Awa' an bile yer heid," he grumbles.

Price and Gaz chuckle in response, but it's good natured. And familiar. It feels like coming home, which is an ironic thing to think as they taxi toward the foreign base close to the Russian border where he and Laswell will set up their support operation, but it's never been more true. Here with his team, on a mission, part of the action — or at least as much a part of it as he can be — he's back where he belongs.

He and Ghost are sitting opposite from how they started, John's head now leaning on Ghost's shoulder with Ghost's arm tucked securely between them, hand resting on Soap's thigh. Soap lifts his head, and they both adjust their seats upright as they taxi down the runway. When he looks up, Ghost is already looking at him, that now-familiar warmth pouring from his gaze and covering Soap in a blanket of affection.

Ghost's hand remains firmly planted on his thigh.

It's one of the many changes he's still getting used to. Ghost has always been closed off on ops. An island in the storm. Keeping things tactical. But Soap wouldn't trade this new openness for anything, even when Roach outright laughs at them from John's opposite side.

"Ghost, I'm disappointed. I thought you of all people would always maintain professionalism on a mission."

"Fuck off, Roach," Ghost says without looking away from Soap.

Everyone laughs at that; even Laswell cracks a smile from where her gaze is glued to her computer screen. Soap and Ghost grin at each other, though Soap only knows it from the way Ghost's eyes crinkle. The plane slows to a halt, and a thud followed by a clicking latch breaks up the mood. Laswell and Price stand together.

"Alright team, grab your gear, and get moving," Price says. "We've got a helo ride to our infil vehicle and then a drive to get into position. I want us strapped in and ready for lift-off in thirty."

A round of "yessirs," follow Price as he disembarks. Before Soap can stand and get out of the way of the others, though, Ghost lifts his mask and plants a kiss on his open mouth. Soap manages to react just before Ghost pulls away, gripping his jaw and holding them together.

When he pulls back, he sees Gaz and Roach heading for the door. Roach throws him a cheeky wink and a thumbs up before pulling a neck gaiter over his mouth and donning a pair of sunglasses as he steps off the plane.

Into the dark of night.

Daft man.

Speaking of...

"Dinnae do anything I wouldnae do," Soap says, shaking Ghost's face a bit.

"Open season, then?"

"Ye mad melon... Just keep yerself safe, aye?"

The corner of Ghost's mouth kicks up in a smirk. "Aye aye, sir."

"Ghost!" Price calls from outside, though the thud of gear being moved from the cargo bay nearly drowns him out.

"Comin'!"

Ghost presses one last kiss to Soap's mouth, pulls down his mask, and jogs off the plane. Laswell pats him on the back as he goes before coming over to sit in the seat Ghost just vacated. She leans her head back and shoots him a sidelong glance.

"Still good?"

"Aye, ma'am."

"Good. We'll need to set up our equipment, but there will be time to catch a few more hours of sleep if you need it." Soap opens his mouth to deny it, but Laswell holds up a finger and adds, "I mean it. If you need to step away any time before the mission to grab a nap, do it. I need you at your best for this."

Soap closes his mouth and blows out a breath through his nose. It chafes to know she's right. There's no room for bravado here. Not if he wants to be in top form.

"Alright. I'll let ye know if I need to step away."

She gives him a curt nod. "Then let's go."

*

Thanks to their eastward travels, a hint of the coming dawn paints the horizon as he and Laswell exit the plane. Their guide is a local corporal who shows them the essentials of the small-but-efficient US army base as she leads them off the airfield and to a surprisingly nice room on the second floor of an administrative building. A bank of windows opposite the door reveals the slow creep of dawn across the sky, stars winking out with the threat of the coming day. He gets a brief look as he steps into the room before Laswell begins closing the blinds.

The room itself is nondescript: A rectangular gray table sits in the middle, surrounded by several equally gray chairs. The gray wall to his left holds one the one bit of color in the room from an abstract painting that looks like it came from a cheap furniture website and an open door leading into a dark room. A giant, wall-mounted screen takes up most of the gray wall to his right.

It's the epitome of utilitarian — something else that makes him feel a bit more at home, if only because it's familiar in its blandness.

He dismisses their guide with a word of thanks and a friendly smile before closing the door. When Laswell is done with the blinds, she grabs a headset from the table and hands it to him before settling herself in a chair facing the screen. As she digs in her bag and begins laying out schematics on the table, he sits beside her and puts on the headset.

It's like being thrown back in time.

"—didn't even know Ghost had a heart," Roach is saying over the comms.

"Just locked it up where prats like you can't find it," Ghost snipes back.

"Owww!"

Soap imagines Roach with his hand over his heart, making staggering steps like he's been shot. He huffs a laugh at the mental image before pressing the talk button.

"Fortunately, I've got the key," Soap chimes in, heart beating fast and furious. "Suck it, wankers."

"Somebody's gonna be suckin'—" Ghost starts before Gaz drowns out the rest with a prolonged shout of "noooooo!" in the background.

The line is quiet for a few seconds before someone clicks back on — likely Roach if his loud laughter is any indication. In the background, sounds of gear being loaded into a plane and Gaz's vaguely threatening tones waft through the open connection, but Soap can't make out any words.

"Soap, what the fuck have you done to him?" Roach finally asks through peals of laughter. "I've never laughed this hard on an op without being sleep deprived. Please, never leave us, oh Great Ghost Whisperer."

Warmth ignites in Soap's chest, and he has to swallow down the sudden lump in his throat. "I'm no' going anywhere as long as I have anything to say about it."

Gaz clicks into the comms, his pleading tone only making Roach laugh louder, even from a distance. "Do not encourage this, Roach! I'm begging you, mate."

"But it's so fun!"

"Yeah. Fun. Until you have to listen to those two badly flirting over the comms for hours at a time," Gaz grumbles.

"You wanna stop me, Gaz, hurry up and get that promotion. Otherwise, I'll say whatever the fuck I want, and there's nothin' you lot can do about it," Ghost says in that graveled, nonchalant tone Soap remembers so well.

It's odd to hear Ghost's voice now compared to the softer tone he's gotten used to over the past few weeks. He hadn't realized Ghost put on so much of a tough affect in the field, but as he thinks about their time in Las Almas, he remembers that softer tone over the comms, too, as he fought his way through the city — the voice of someone resigned to inevitable defeat but desperate to try and save Soap anyway.

And they made it. Because of course they did.

Soap and Ghost. All the way.

Until it all ended with a bullet to the head... in more ways than one.

"Laswell, this is the real reason you told Soap and Ghost they couldn't have a private channel, isn't it?" Gaz asks. "You're punishing us for something."

"You boys needed some bonding time. Can't do that with private channels."

"Except for me and Soap!" Roach crows as another loud thunk echoes over the comms.

"Well, yeah," Soap replies. "Gotta keep the explosive duo contained."

"Truth!"

Price's tired voice clicks through. "Alright, you three. Time to stop messing about and get in the helo. You can gossip in the air."

"Aye, Captain," Gaz says in a cheeky tone before adding, "Catch you later, Soap!"

Roach and Ghost echo the sign-off, and the comms go quiet.

The mission has begun.

Soap sighs and rubs at a sudden twinge in his chest. He's more involved than he ever thought he'd be again, and he's satisfied with his role. Mostly. There's still a small part of him that longs to be on the ground for the real action. He takes a deep breath to clear away the tightness and focuses on Laswell as she clicks through on comms.

"Roach, this is Watcher-1. How copy?"

"This is Roach. Read you loud and clear."

The helo noise in the background is familiar and grounding. Soap takes another breath, and a bit of tension drains out of his muscles.

"Good," Laswell says. "Turn on your camera. I want to test it."

After a few seconds, the screen in front of them lights up, and a view of the inside of the helo appears.

"Is it working?"

"Affirmative. Tell the boys to wave hello."

Soap cackles when, as one, Gaz and Ghost give the exact same one-fingered salute. Laswell shakes her head, but Soap can see the subtle uptick of the corner of her mouth. Price does a half salute, half wave off the edge of his boonie hat.

"Alright, we can see them. You can turn off the camera. Watcher-1 out."

The screen goes black again, and Laswell removes her headset. Soap follows suit and helps her set out the rest of the maps and building plans on the table.

"How are you feeling?" she asks without looking at him.

He licks his lips. Stares at the table. The plans he gave Laswell earlier in the week roll out in front of him, calculations he's redone dozens of times written out along the edges.

He could recheck his math while they're waiting...

"Guess I should get a couple more hours of sleep," he says instead.

"There's a cot in the room behind us. I'll wake you in time to be ready for the mission."

As usual Laswell has thought of everything. His cane thuds against the industrial carpet squares as he picks up his bag and heads for the darkened room he'd noticed earlier. He's not actually tired, but anything is better than sitting around and fretting.

Even if all he can do is stare into the darkness and try not to think about all the ways the mission could go wrong.

*

20 June

I'm sitting in a three by two meter room that was probably chair and table storage before this mission and will likely be again when we leave. There aren't any windows, so I'm writing by the sliver of fluorescent light coming in through the cracked open door. Laswell is quiet, but I still ended up putting in my earbuds just to have something to focus on other than the quiet tap of her fingers on the keyboard and my own, too-loud thoughts.

The curdled feeling is turning full on sour as I stew in my anxiety. I know they're professionals. I know they've done jobs like this a hundred times and more. It's just... different seeing it all close up again. I've gotten out of practice letting the worry slide off my back.

I need to get these nerves out of my system, or I'm gonna choke if things go wrong. Guess it's time to pull out those meditations Abby sent me again.

I can't fuck this up.

*

Soap curls his hands into fists and presses them into his thighs as he sits beside Laswell and watches the team... his team creep through a dirty alley between two highrise buildings. Roach's camera catches the blurred movement of vermin scuttling between piles of garbage around rusty dumpsters as the team moves forward, keeping to the darkest shadows of the narrow alley.

The detritus gives them plenty of cover, but Soap bites at his lips as they approach the cross alley where the run-down fencing circles the target building. The bright, sunny day works in their favor to create deeper shadows, but it can also act like a spotlight if they choose the wrong route. And despite the industrialized, run-down condition of the area, there's still a hospital on the opposite side of the building and a busy commercial district beyond it.

There are a thousand ways this mission could go wrong, and Soap is imagining them all.

Near the end of the the alley, Ghost sheers off from the group, jumping up to catch a fire-escape ladder and pull himself onto the stairwell of the empty office building where he'll be providing overwatch for Price and Gaz. The other three keep moving, cutting across the wider alley to line up along the fence. They don't have the benefit of darkness to hide them from cameras, so they keep low, taking cover near the corner where abandoned construction materials block them from view of the building as Gaz cuts into the rusty chain link fence. Once inside, Price leads them through the construction yard, using the piles of material and equipment to cover their progress.

When they're close enough to the building, they pause behind a stack of old steel beams to let Roach infiltrate the camera systems using another fancy, short-range tech gadget from Laswell. They record several minutes of footage and loop it, leaving them free to approach the building without being seen.

Not by those inside, anyway.

By the time they make it to the west stairwell door, Soap's nails are cutting into his palms. He takes a few deep breaths and reminds himself that he's watching the best of the best. Roach does a fancy bit of hotwiring to the door lock, and then they're filing into a dim stairwell. Price's voice, so low it's almost a whisper, breaks the tense silence.

"Bravo 0-6 to Watcher-1 actual."

"This is Watcher-1. Send traffic."

"Watcher-1, Bravo team in place. Confirm go?"

"Bravo 0-6, you are confirmed to engage. Good hunting."

"Bravo 0-6 going dark."

Price and Gaz break away to head upstairs while Roach heads down, and Soap's gut squirms. If things were starting to feel real in the briefing and on the plane, this is hyperrealism. Even in the poorly-lit beige stairwell, the camera feed is practically technicolor — a necessity for seeing wire colors in dark spaces but all-the-more disorienting as Roach clears corners with a speed that rivals Soap's memories of his own movements.

Roach is good. Not that Soap thought he wouldn't be, but it's impressive watching him work. It's like following along with a pro in a first-person shooter game... except for the harrowing knowledge that any bullets coming at Roach are deathly real.

That reality lands like a grenade when hostiles come out of the door at the bottom of the stairs.

Soap barks a warning before remembering he needs to click into comms for Roach to hear him. Luckily Roach doesn't need the help. He launches forward, and with a few blurred, jerky camera movements, both hostiles are down, one with a gushing stab wound to the throat, the other with their neck turned at a very unalive angle. Soap doubts they even knew what hit them.

"Hell's fuckin' bells," Soap whispers off comms.

"Price sure knows how to pick 'em, doesn't he?" Laswell murmurs.

Soap can only nod as he watches Roach clear the doorway. While Roach is focused on pulling the bodies back into the basement to avoid detection, Soap studies the glimpses of the open basement to get his bearings.

Which is why Soap sees the major fucking problem before Roach does.

He stands from his seat so fast his chair flies back and thuds against the carpet. Laswell's hand lands on his forearm as he clicks through on comms, but he's too focused on the screen to acknowledge her.

"Roach!" he growls. "Leave the bodies and get to those two barrels along the far wall. Now!"

Like the perfect soldier he is, Roach does as he's told, sprinting around and leaping over mechanical pipes and machines like a damned gazelle to get to the far wall of the open basement. Soap has to look away for a moment to prevent the wave of dizziness from the jerky video.

And to fight back the sour sickness of foreboading churning in his gut.

"Fuck! These are explosives, Soap!"

"Affirmative. Can ye see the detonation device?"

"Negative. Or. One second."

Roach moves around the barrels, and finally comes across the device attached to the far end. A small LCD readout shows a countdown.

<<47:32>>

"It's Konni," Roach croaks over the comms.

"You're sure about that?" Laswell barks.

"Yeah. I mean yes, Ma'am. Studied their previous tactics. It's... fuck... it looks like the same kind of device they used in the Channel Tunnel."

A high-pitched whine bursts to life in Soap's head, drowning out Laswell's response. His chest tightens. This moment, this scenario... it's every horror show from his nightmares come to life. His vision darkens at the edges as panic crowds out rational thought.

But he knows.

He knows what has to happen. And he can't afford to have a breakdown.

Not here. Not now.

He sucks in a deep breath. And another.

Fucking pull yourself together, MacTavish. This is life or death. The timer is counting down.

<<47:12>>

"We need a second person in the basement," he says, not even bothering to cover the tremors in his voice. "Or that thing is gonna blow."

"Soap," Laswell murmurs, her hand still on his arm.

The room feels darker, like someone has blotted out the overhead lights with a gray filter. Reality hits him fast and hard, and he grits his teeth against the sure knowledge that this is a set up.

Because of course it is. Why would the person who decided to resurrect the Konni be any different than Makarov? The wankstain might be dead, but his ideology certainly isn't.

"Soap, look," Laswell says in a sharper tone as she taps the building schematic.

He shakes off his paralysis and looks toward where she's pointing, blinking to clear away his blurred vision.

And his chest turns to ice.

The bomb is set up against the east wall of the building. From that position, the explosion will send the ten-story building toppling over... directly on top of the hospital across the street. He leans over the table, trying to keep the bit of lunch he'd eaten in his stomach instead of all over the maps.

"Price and Gaz," he rasps, "they know—"

Roach's voice over comms cuts him off. "Wait! Soap... look! I think it's only meant to look like the other bomb. There's no secondary box I can find, and this circuit board is one of those new ones we worked on in class, right?"

Soap looks up at the screen in time to see the camera moving closer to the bomb and Roach's hand holding a pen light up to a section of the detonator device he's carved open, the mad lad. Soap squints as the camera shakes a bit, but when Roach stabilizes it, Soap lets out a sharp breath.

"Oh... fuck." He remembers to click into the comms. "Aye, Roach. Tha's one of those with the multiple tie-in points."

"So what's the plan?" Laswell asks in a quick tone, a reminder that they're working on borrowed time.

<<46:08>>

"Roach, ye remember what to do?"

"Affirmative. One wire at a time starting with the wire to the left of the blank side, all in succession."

"Aye, and then remove the detonator."

Roach's fingers begin moving almost too fast to see as he cuts into the first wire bundle and singles out the correct ones to clip. "Roger. Are we aborting our op?" he asks as he works. "If we plant our charges, the extra explosives will majorly fuck with the calculations."

"You worry about stopping that countdown and let me worry about the calculations. Radio back when you're done. Soap out."

Soap rights his chair, sits back down at the table, and pulls out his journal. His pen flies over the page as he attempts to integrate the new explosives...

But it's an impossible task. He's ninety nine percent sure they didn't bring enough of their own explosives to counter the enemy's bomb, and even if they had, the location of the bomb would cause too much additional structural damage on that side of the building to prevent a sideways fall.

"We need to start a timer in sync with the bomb," Soap instructs Laswell as he calculates force trajectories with a shaking hand. "There's no guarantee they don't have a back-up with a remote detonator somewhere in case the timer fails. And we don't have time to look for it."

"On it."

Soap nods, but his mind is already back on his calculations. If they place their own explosives all on the exact opposite side... Fuck. That won't work either. The north and south walls would be left to break at weak points instead of blow out properly, and who knows where the fuck the building would land. Likely still mostly on top of the hospital.

He works the calculations every which way he can but...

<<41:52>>

"It's no use," he says as he cradles his head in his hands and stares at the numbers while the timer Laswell put on the screen counts down in his peripheral vision. "If I had more time, maybe I could come up with something, but as it is... We have to move the bomb. It's the only way to distribute the force of the explosion properly." He looks up and catches Laswell's eye. "Roach is going to need help."

Laswell nods and clicks on her radio. "Watcher-1 to Ghost, how copy?"

Soap doesn't have access to their private channel, so he strains to eavesdrop through Laswell's headset. After a short pause, Soap can hear the faint rumble of Ghost's voice, though he can't make out any words thanks to his poor hearing.

"Need you in the basement with Roach ASAP." Laswell pauses for more rumbling before replying, "Affirmative. When you're close, switch to the private channel for a sitrep with Soap and Roach."

Soap listens with half an ear while Laswell signs off with Ghost and switches to the emergency channel to update Price on their loss of overwatch. Price's voice is louder and more distinct over the radio than Ghost's, and Soap overhears him inform Laswell that they haven't encountered any resistance so far, which just confirms for Soap that the whole thing is a set up. He doesn't bother saying anything, though, because he's sure Laswell has already figured that out.

Laswell gives Price the timer countdown, and they agree Price and Gaz will continue to search for intel until ten minutes remain on the timer. After that, they'll book it out of the building.

The hope is that Roach and Ghost will be clear by then, but there's so little time left...

<<38:24>>

He tries to ignore the voice screaming in the back of his head that there's a giant bomb in the building and things could go tits up at any moment.

If he fucks up the calculations...

If the terrorists have a secondary device and decide to engage it when the initial timer fails...

If Ghost or Roach make even the smallest mistake...

Almost everyone he loves is in that building, and they could all die from a split-second wrong decision.

With increasing difficulty, Soap shakes off the creeping anxiety trying to grow tendrils around his heart and continues to adjust his calculations as quickly as possible. He distracts himself with petty thoughts about how his previous calculations were fucking perfect — and he ought to know from how many times he redid them — but of course, those Konni-wannabe bastards had to come along and fuck everything up. Now he has to settle for a shoddy, half-assed job because he doesn't have time to do better—

"Soap, this is Ghost. Sitrep."

Ghost's voice shakes with his footfalls as he runs. Soap growls at the numbers swimming in front of his eyes and rubs a hand over his face before clicking through on comms.

"This is Soap. Need muscle to move a payload. It's gonna be tricky."

"How tricky?"

"Possible-fiery-death-for-everyone tricky."

"Fuckin' hell."

Soap glances up to check on Roach, but his teammate is doing everything perfectly so far. Soap adjusts a few of the locations for the extra charges and does the math again, this time trusting his brain to fill in the gaps instead of double checking his work. It's not perfect, but... it's pretty close if he does say so himself.

He glances at the timer visible in Roach's camera.

<<34:33>>

As he's watching, the timer stops. Roach backs away from the bomb and his voice comes through a moment later.

"Soap, this is Roach. Enemy detonator disabled and replaced with our radio detonator."

"Good work, Roach. Ghost is en route. Gonna need you two to move the bomb to the middle of the basement as fast as you can."

"Fuck. Really?"

"No time to fully dismantle. And no manpower to sweep the building for a secondary remote device."

Roach is no slouch. He picks up on the implications immediately, and Soap watches through the camera as he sets the countdown on his own watch. He's only a few seconds off, so Soap doesn't waste time correcting him.

"The bomb's gonna be heavy," Soap says instead, "so ye need to find something to help you move it."

Roach starts moving immediately, though his voice is uneasy. "Did you figure out another way to safely bring down the building?"

"Affirmative. Gotta move the payload first, and then I'll tell ye the pattern of corner charges to make sure the destruction is even."

"Shite, your brain works fast," Roach says.

The words go off in Soap's chest like his own personal explosion, blowing all the insidious fears festering inside him sky high — that he'll never be good enough, that he's past his prime, that he's only putting his friends in more danger by playing soldier behind the scenes.

He can do this. He can still do this.

His brain might be fucked up, but the inherent way his mind processes the math and the way he can think in three dimensions when working out force trajectories is intact. And better yet, he can still do it under pressure.

Will he need a couple of days to recover from the stress of this op? Probably.

Is it worth it?

Hell fucking yes.

His eyes burn, though he refuses to allow more than that. He watches Roach search for a moment and then glances at the timer before returning to his calculations.

<<31:02>>

No use getting cocky.

Less than a minute later, a familiar — if slightly out of breath — voice comes back on the comms, along with the sound of a door opening and closing.

"Soap."

It's the softer voice. The Las Almas voice. A shudder runs down Soap's spine.

"Ghost."

"What did the clock say to the bomb with performance anxiety?"

"Dunno, what?"

"Don't worry, it's only a matter of time before you blow their socks off."

Soap groans into the comms. Unfortunately, he can't hold back his grin, and he's sure Ghost can hear it in his tone. Roach doesn't seem to have the same appreciation for comedy, though.

"What the fuck was that?"

"A joke, Sergeant."

"Says who?"

"Says your Lieutenant."

"My Lieutenant appears to be delusional."

"Cheeky fuck. Why does Price always give me the sassy sergeants?"

Roach is digging through a pile of discarded office furniture as Ghost appears in the wide angle lens of the camera. They greet each other off comms, and it's like watching a silent film. Roach turns and points at something in the pile, and together, they begin shoving and throwing things out of the way. His view from Roach's chest-height camera is limited, but he gets a nice look at Ghost's biceps bulging under his long-sleeved tech shirt. Soap blinks once to refocus as Ghost lifts a hand to his comms.

"What do you call a pony with a sore throat?" Ghost rumbles in that low tone.

"Oh, I know tha' one. He's a little hoarse!"

"Oh, God. Is this really how you two flirt?" Roach asks with a laugh. "Gaz was right."

The jokes cut off as Roach pushes a final desk out of the way, and Soap finally sees what Roach saw from his taller vantage point — a bunch of office chairs. Roach pulls out two, and he and Ghost run across the basement to another corner where a bunch of boards lean against the wall.

<<27:10>>

Soap clicks into the comms. "Ye'll need to make sure the board is sturdy, and ye might want two chairs per side for extra support. Dropping this thing is not an option, copy?"

"Roger," Ghost affirms. "There's a hardwood desk top here that should work."

Ghost clicks out, and Soap is back to a pantomime show. Ghost points back where they came from. Soap has to look away as Roach runs back to the pile and rolls two more chairs over to where Ghost has laid out the desktop on the floor beside the bomb.

"Soap."

"Roach."

"I'm thinking there are two tanks and two of us. Lift simultaneously and don't jostle things about. Yeah?"

"And don't drop anything unless ye've got a deathwish."

"We got that the first time, thanks," Ghost says in a voice as dry as the Sahara.

Soap snorts but doesn't respond over comms as the two of them dart into place. His joviality drains away, anxiety ramping up as he watches them slowly lift the tanks, shimmy over...

And gently set the tanks on the board.

Laswell lets out a small breath of relief, but Soap keeps himself contained. Getting the bomb onto the board is one thing. Lifting it up and settling it safely on some rickety office chairs is something else.

<<25:38>>

"Fucking hell," Soap grumbles as he glances at the timer. "If they have a secondary device hidden somewhere, this is gonna be close."

Laswell just hums as they watch the two arrange the chairs side by side facing each other and then move back to the bomb. The high-definition camera picks up even the slightest movements in the dim light, and it's comforting to see Ghost's eyes, narrowed in concentration, as they bend down to carefully lift the board.

Soap holds his breath.

The board rises.

Ghost's gaze is fixed on the canisters—

A sudden jerking motion turns the visual blurry.

Soap shoots to his feet yet again. A wave of dizziness accompanies the movement, and he curses under his breath even as he lets out a sigh of relief when the video — and the board — stabilizes. With slow, deliberate movements, the men lower the board onto the chairs.

"Don't move it too fast now."

"Not plannin' on it," Ghost assures him.

Laswell pulls the plans and Soap's drawing closer to her as she joins the conversation. "The ideal spot is there to the east of that yellow tangle of pipes. Center it with that red and white warning sign."

"Affirmative," Roach says.

Once more, they watch with bated breath as Ghost and Roach roll the bomb to the middle of the room. As soon as they have it in place, Soap sits down again, relief cascading through him.

<<21:15>>

"Just leave it there for now," he says into the comms. "If ye have time to pull it off the chairs later, do it, but for now ye need to set up charges in the corners. Three each. One on the corner pillar, and one each on the pillars two down to the left and right. Copy?"

"Affirm," Ghost replies. "One on the corner pillar. One on the pillar two to the right. One on the pillar two to the left."

"Roach, ye know how to do this in yer sleep. Give Ghost the camera and supplies for another corner, and I'll walk him through it."

"Rog," Roach says.

"How much time left?" Ghost asks.

Laswell clicks on. "Twenty minutes."

"Bloody hell."

Soap blows out a long breath as Roach hands over three pre-made charges and detonators from his pack and then detaches the camera. The swinging motion sends Soap into a dizzy spell, and he closes his eyes.

In the darkness behind his lids, flashes of disaster await. Creeping dread tries to grow up his spine like a strangling vine yet again, but he shakes it off just as Ghost's voice comes through the comms.

"Soap, what now?"

"The detonator is already wired up. Just push the end into the hole in the container."

"Here?"

"Aye. Now, comes the fun part. Dinnae blow yerself up."

"Stop laughing, Roach," Ghost says, his voice lowering into a growl.

In the background before Ghost clicks off, Soap can indeed hear Roach cackling. It puts a smile on his face in spite of the tense situation.

"Sorry, sir. Just... never thought I'd hear anyone but Price talk to you that way."

"Get back to work, Sergeant."

"Sir yes sir!"

"Traded one smart-mouthed sergeant for another," Ghost grumbles.

Soap almost replies, but Laswell taps her finger on the timer.

<<18:44>>

He quickly walks Ghost through the process of arming the charge. Ghost moves to the second pillar out, and he instructs Ghost where to place the charge. By the third pillar, Ghost is moving more quickly. When he's done, he runs back toward Roach.

Soap only catches the movement because the lens is so wide.

"Ghost! Hostiles at four o'clock!"

Ghost dives for cover, and Soap once again has to look away from the shaking screen, though he can't help glancing back every few seconds. The scene steadies, and he watches with his heart in his throat as Ghost draws his pistol and leans out of cover to take a few shots at the enemy. Unfortunately, due to the placement of the camera, all Soap can see is Ghost holding his pistol and the metallic side of some kind of mechanical box.

Soap's anxiety skyrockets. "Do they have a fucking deathwish?" Soap growls to Laswell. "There's a fucking live bomb in the room!"

Laswell sucks a breath through her teeth.

"Roach! Sitrep!" Ghost calls out over the gunfire.

"Working on the last pillar of the third corner. Still need to set up the fourth."

The fourth corner. Which is just to the right of where their enemies are shooting at them. Of course.

<<11:23>>

Laswell reaches over to switch her radio to the emergency channel.

"Watcher-1 to Bravo 0-6."

Price answers, and the high pitched popping sounds between Price's shouts tells John all he needs to know. The terrorists noticed that their people never came back from setting up the bomb and have come to finish the job. If there wasn't a secondary device before, there bloody is now.

Soap's lungs clench, his chest heaving. A spike of pain lances through his head, and he curls his hand into a fist, nails digging into his palm.

He can't lose it. Not here. Not yet.

"Roach, can ye use the pillars for cover?" Soap asks.

"Uh... yeah, yeah that might work. Ghost?"

"I'll go left and see if I can draw their fire away from you and especially that fuckin' bomb."

Ghost leans out to shoot off several rounds. The camera dips out just enough to see two hostiles on the ground and two more go down under Ghost's barrage. The shaking returns as Ghost dodges to the left and rolls behind one of the heavy wooden desks they'd moved away from the wall earlier.

The camera front view is still obstructed, but from the wide angle, he can see Roach darting between columns in the dim basement light. Roach reaches the first pillar, and Soap's brows shoot up as Roach sets up and arms the bomb within seconds.

Beside him, Laswell is directing Price and Gaz to evacuate. Soap wants to stand and pace, but he's pretty sure he'd fall on his face. The creeping anxiety threads tendrils around his heart and squeezes.

"Soap."

"Ghost."

"What has ears but can't hear?"

Soap let's out a high-pitched laugh into the bland room. Jokes. Of course. When lives are in danger, what's better than a terrible joke?

"This had better no' be a joke about my bad hearing," he says through a shuddering voice, determined to play along.

"Nope."

"Then what?"

"A corn field."

Soap groans, but his anxiety eases a bit. Until he looks at the timer.

<<07:42>>

"Ghost, you and Roach need to get out of there."

"Almost there. Just a few more seconds!" Roach says.

Ghost moves further away from Roach, dropping his mag and loading a new one with impressive speed. Dust fills the room as bullets blast chunks of concrete off the pillars Ghost is hiding behind. Ghost darts out, and even with the movement Soap can see the hostile trying to get an angle on Roach. Their body jerks with the force of Ghost's rounds.

Roach is just finishing up the final bomb when Ghost leans out of cover. The doorway is littered with the bodies of their enemies, but no living soldiers remain.

"They stopped shooting," Ghost says. "I know there were at least two more."

Soap blinks.

And everything clicks into place.

"MOVE!!!" Soap booms into the comms. "Run now!

Ghost darts out from cover. The camera shakes with the power of his strides. Another fast-moving object comes from the right — Roach — and then they're through the door, racing up the stairs.

To Soap's right, Laswell is talking to Price and Gaz. Her voice is strained, though she keeps her words slow and steady.

Soap can't say the same. His whole body is flashing hot and cold. Phantom footfalls echo in his mind with every shudder of the camera.

The door at the top of the stairs opens, and Soap nearly collapses in relief as the bright flash of light reveals Price and Gaz. Gaz darts through the open door as Price's voice comes over the unit-wide comm channel.

"Move it, boys! Or I'll have you running laps around base until you pass out when we get back."

Price stands in the doorway beckoning. Soap leans forward as if he can propel them along with the power of his mind. Price backs out of the door, though he's still holding it open.

Ten steps to go.

Seven.

Four—

The screen goes black.

<<04:06>>

In the corner of his eyes, the timer on Laswell's screen continues to count down, those four minutes left on the clock taunting him with the horrifying knowledge that he was right.

There was a secondary device. And finding the 141 in the building convinced them to trigger it early.

Soap's chest lurches, breaths sawing through his lungs, ragged and uneven in the deathly silence. Beside him, Laswell's voice shakes as she clicks into the comms on the unit-wide channel.

"Bravo team, how copy?" The sound of her swallow echos like a gunshot through the room, accompanied only by Soap's increasingly panicked breathing. "Bravo 0-6, this is Watcher-1. Do you copy?"

"Bravo 0-7. Ghost." Laswell's voice breaks, and she quickly clears her throat. "Ghost, do you copy?"

Darkness encroaches on the edges of Soap's vision. The tendrils squeeze his lungs until he's gasping. He clicks into the comms before Laswell can.

"Ghost, ye'd better no' be fuckin' dead," Soap rasps through his hiccuping lungs. "I'll resurrect ye just tae kill ye again myself."

Silence.

Soap falls to his knees, the darkness spreading with every panicked breath. The world narrows to the black screen in front of him, the slow ebb of Laswell's voice into static, the furious beating of his heart.

Surely the universe wouldn't be so cruel to give him everything he's ever wanted and then steal it away. Again.

Yet how many families of lost soldiers has he watched break in front of his eyes as he passed over a letter and his condolences? How many times has the 141 slipped the noose against impossible odds?

Maybe a person can only cheat Death so many times before they run out of luck.

A hand on his shoulder breaks him from his spiral, and he looks up to find Kate standing over him, her face a study in forced passivity. But as she crouches down, her lower lip trembles. She pulls him close.

Wraps her arms around him.

Murmurs a soft, "I'm sorry."

And he breaks.

Chapter Text

Soap is drowning — plunged into darkness with no sense of which way is up; exhausted and helpless against the waves of heaving sobs ripping from his lungs so quickly he can't catch his breath. He wants to scream. To shout obscenities at God or the universe or whoever is to blame for the gaping hole in his chest and the shattered, bloody remains of a recently-repaired heart.

But his thoughts are too fragmented, his brain pushed far beyond capacity. No words can escape from the black hole sucking him into that suffocating pit of darkness.

All he knows, all he feels, is that they're gone.

Simon is gone.

A fresh wave of agony washes over him. Another sob tears from his raw throat, this one so powerful he almost gags. Kate holds him through it all, her strong arms supporting him even as he shatters.

"I'm sending in the helo," Kate murmurs into the side of his head. "They could just be unconscious."

But he can tell from the way she says it that she doesn't believe it. He violently shakes his head as reality slams into him, shoving the blackhole aside long enough for him to spit out the truth.

"Th-th-th..." A half growl, half sob passes over his lips. "They're de-dead—"

"Hey. No. We don't know that. They could—"

"Bravo 2-6 to Watcher-1 actual. How copy?"

Gaz's rasping voice sends Laswell and Soap frantically scrambling for their comm buttons. Laswell gets there first, her voice shaking as she answers.

"This is Watcher-1. Sitrep, Gaz."

"The building—"

Gaz interrupts himself with a series of hacking coughs and cuts out, but it's enough to shock Soap out of his misery. His body is shaking from the emotions pummeling him like a raging storm, lungs hitching and gasping with aftershocks, eyes and head aching from crying so hard. As he calms down, though, his brain begins to come back online.

Gaz was the first one out of the building. It's possible he's the only one who survived.

But if he made it, then maybe...

Soap shuts down the thought before it can take hold, unwilling to hope and lose yet again. At least he still has Gaz. At least he won't have to look Belle in the eyes and tell her the love of her life is gone mere weeks after their wedding.

"The building is leveled," Gaz rasps when he clicks back into his comms. "Cap is down but clear of the rubble. Doesn't appear to have been hit. Probably thrown back by the blast. Heading for him now."

"Is he bre-br-breathing?" Soap asks, fighting against the black hole still hovering on the edges of his consciousness.

"Can't tell yet... wait..." Gaz clicks out and then back in, his voice bouncing like he's running. "He's moving!"

The comms go silent again, and hope dawns whether Soap wants it or not. His brain still isn't firing on all cylinders, but he's aware enough to pull himself off the floor and back into his chair in spite of his spinning head.

The wait is tortuous, but eventually, they both let out a deep sigh of relief as Price's rasping voice fills their headsets.

"Watcher-1 this is Bravo 0-6. Gaz and I are on the move."

"Roger that, Bravo 0-6. Good to hear your voice. Med evac is en route."

There's a short pause before Price clicks through again.

"ETA?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Roger. My ears are fucked from the blast. Gaz is signing to let me know what you're saying. Otherwise we're solid." There's another pause, and when Price clicks back in a moment later, his words pierce Soap like a knife to the heart. "Ghost and Roach didn't make it out before the building came down. We've..."

Soap doesn't hear the rest. He slumps forward onto the table, covering his head with his hands as everything crashes down again.

The fall is deeper this time — so deep not even sorrow can escape. He's suspended in heavy gravity, his body crushed with the weight of his own grief. He'd thought losing Ghost's presence in his life was bad the first time, but this...

There's no coming back from this.

The knife twists and pushes deeper.

He won't survive it.

His eyes glaze over. A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, but his mind is too far gone to truly comprehend what's happening. The black hole crushes him, grinding any words he might have spoken to dust, and all the things he's dredged up from that ocean of grief, all the parts of himself he's resurrected, fall away in the face of profound loss.

He should have known better than to think he could have this. To think he would get even one successful mission before it all literally blew up in his face. Voices warble in his ear like he's underwater—

And then come into sharp focus as he hears Roach call out under the clipped narration of Gaz's voice.

"Roach!" Soap gasps, remembering to click into his comms at the last minute. "Do ye h-hear him?"

"Affirmative," Gaz's muffled voice cuts through a flurry of background voices and the sound of rubble being moved around. "Locals are here as well."

"What locals?" Laswell asks, a sharpness to her tone.

"EMTs and medical personnel," Gaz responds through muffled, heavy breaths, "from the hospital Soap saved."

Soap freezes. His head is pounding, and he still feels like he's mostly under water. But the words penetrate the fog like a sharp knife through butter.

His calculations worked. They saved the hospital. It would feel like a hollow victory except for the fact that the medical staff just might be Ghost and Roach's saving grace.

"If local medics are there, I'm calling off the med evac until we know if Roach and Ghost need emergency care."

"Roger that," Gaz says. "Roach is talking to us. Says his leg is stuck under rubble and the blast knocked him about but he's otherwise solid."

"And Gh-ghost?" Soap asks in a trembling voice.

"Unknown. Roach's radio is broken, and it's pitch black. He can feel Ghost's leg next to him, but... he's not responding to physical or verbal prompts."

A sharper lance of pain stabs through the throbbing ache in John's head, blurring his vision. He pulls two over-the-counter painkillers from his bag and swallows them dry, even as his stomach churns from the pain of the building migraine. Shivers wrack his body like he's been out in the cold too long.

But he ignores it all.

He just needs to hold on a little bit longer — long enough to know for sure if he's lost Simon.

The screen flickers. Soap jerks his head up and immediately regrets it as his world spins off its axis. He grips the table for balance and closes his eyes before attempting to focus again.

Through the dizzying haze of his vision, he sees it — shafts of light resolving into silent hands scrambling to pull away chunks of rubble. From what he can make out in the dim light, an intact portion of the stairwell wall seems to have caught on the door frame, making a small triangle of space on the landing just inside the doorway.

It was nothing but pure luck that the building didn't crush them to paste, and even then...

The sound of ragged breathing fills the room. He knows it's coming from him. Knows he should try to calm down. But he can't focus on anything but the screen as afternoon light pours into the space. The wide camera angle reveals a slab of concrete crushing Roach's leg at the back of the small space, and as the gap in the rubble widens, the light reveals his teammate's pained-but-alert expression.

Yet the camera itself — and the person attached to it — hasn't moved at all. Soap begins pounding on his forehead with the side of his fist, anything to distract from the pain of the oncoming migraine as he continues to watch, hope dwindling with every frantic movement Roach makes with his hands...

His hands.

John smacks himself harder on the forehead when Roach's hand movements resolve into flurry of familiar words.

"Soap, if you can see this — Ghost is alive. Unconscious and with rebar sticking out of his shoulder, but he's breathing. I can see him breathing. Repeat..."

And with that, Soap laughs and bursts into tears all over again.

*

It takes ten more agonizing minutes for the rescuers to widen the opening enough for someone to shimmy inside. Gaz and Price have been careful about using the radios since the locals arrived, not wanting to draw attention to themselves, so it takes Soap and Laswell a moment to recognize the man wearing a heavy-duty dust mask and holding what looks like a specialized power saw as he crawls down the pile of rubble toward the camera.

"'Solid' my ass," Laswell murmurs off comms as she shakes her head.

Soap huffs a laugh. He has to agree — Price looks like shite. Blood covers the left side of his head, and dust has turned his clothes and skin into a sickly gray monotone. As he comes closer, though, Soap recognizes the familiar determined glint in the pale blue eyes of his former captain. After a minute or so of sawing, Price stuffs a few pieces of identifying gear from Roach and Ghost down his shirt and shimmies out again. A backer board is pushed inside, and someone else in full emergency gear appears. The camera moves for the first time, and though John knows it's just the first responder moving Ghost onto the board, he's relieved that Ghost is now in the hands of medical professionals.

The last thing Soap and Laswell see is Price grabbing Ghost's tac vest as the medical staff cut it off to get to Ghost's injury. As he turns off the camera, he quietly tells them he and Gaz are working on getting Roach out next, and he'll keep them posted via comms.

Without the visuals to keep him centered, Soap's headache flares. Laswell notices, of course, and orders him to lie down before he collapses. He doesn't argue. If he can't get the headache under control soon, Ghost and Roach won't be the only ones headed to the hospital... or whatever passes for a hospital on base. With one hand on the wall and the other white-knuckling his cane, he shuffles into the blessed darkness of the back room.

He takes the wireless headset with him.

The cot cradles his wrecked body while the meds take effect, but it's Price and Gaz's voices that soothe him the most as they narrate Roach's rescue in short, quiet bursts. He listens in a stupor, the physical pain stunting his emotional reactions, as Gaz describes using a car jack someone had on hand to gently lift the concrete slab and slip Roach out from under it.

At the sudden rumbling sound in the background, Soap's eyes shoot wide open, his heart rate skyrocketing. Before he can click in to ask what the fuck is going on, Price's strained voice cuts in.

"The stairwell collapsed, but Roach is out. Repeat, Gaz pulled Roach out before it came down."

The last dregs of tension seep out of Soap's muscles as he finally allows himself to accept that everyone is alive. A few more tears squeeze past his eyelids, but he's too worn out to cry anymore.

There's still plenty to worry about — neither Ghost nor Roach are out of the woods yet — but it's more than he expected after such a devastating mission.

As his body sags into the cot, he lets his mind drift. He's thoroughly wrung out from the anxiety, the crying, and the increasingly sledgehammer-like pounding inside his skull. Thanks to the painkillers, he's able to fall into a fitful doze while still listening to the rumble of familiar voices in his ear.

When he wakes, it's to a much milder headache and Price giving an update on Ghost.

"He needed emergency surgery," Price reports from what Soap guesses is the hospital lobby by the sounds coming through the comms. "He's unconscious but stable after a blood transfusion. Had to remove the rebar and stitch up a nicked vein, and they've treated him for a probable concussion. Broke his arm, too, though luckily it was a clean break. Roach's leg on the other hand... They've patched him up, but we'll need to get him back home for surgery as soon as possible."

Soap blinks into the darkness. The words pour out of him before he can stop them.

"Fucking hell, Cap. Ye keep losing operatives like this and no one's gonna want to join yer tea party anymore."

"Watch it, Soap."

Soap grimaces at his lack of a filter — a problem since birth that has only gotten worse since the injury. Luckily, Price knows it, and his voice carries enough of a teasing lilt to set Soap at ease.

The extra gravel in Price and Gaz's voices, however, still concerns Soap. Price has assured them it's nothing urgent: The medics provided the dust masks early on during the rescue, and they've since received treatment for dust and smoke inhalation. In addition, Price has a bump on the head from landing on the concrete after the blast and, most concerning, a burst left eardrum, though the hearing in his right ear has already come back enough to understand them over comms. Beyond that, the two of them got away with shockingly few injuries.

Another wave of relief fights off the tendrils of anxiety still trying to squeeze all the air out of his lungs. He repeats his mantra — everyone is alive — and clears his throat.

"Sorry about tha', sir. I'm sure Roach will be back in action soon."

Price huffs a laugh and grunts his acknowledgement, and Soap lets Laswell take over, her urgency in arranging exfil as much about keeping them hidden from any remaining Ultranationalists as getting them home for more intensive treatment. He falls in and out of a light doze as he listens to their preparations: The helo is waiting outside the city until Price receives clearance from the doctors to move Ghost and Roach. In the meantime, Price has collected the gear they're taking with them into a nondescript duffel while Gaz is heading back to the demo site to collect the identifying gear and weapons they'd hidden before the locals arrived on the scene.

"Local police have the site cordoned off," Gaz reports over comms, his voice low and intense.

"Can you still get in and grab the gear?" Laswell asks.

"Nothing so easy," Gaz replies.

He entertains them by narrating his progress collecting the gear like he's some sort of super spy, and Soap finds himself smiling for the first time since his early morning kiss from Ghost.

He desperately wants more of those kisses — and thoroughly curses himself for waiting so long to claim them in the first place — but he has a feeling kissing will be on hold for at least a couple of days.

He'll just have to be patient.

Sadly, patience has never been one of his virtues, even before the bullet to the head. Good thing he brought his journal along.

By the time Gaz stows their heavy gear in the infil truck for Laswell's contacts to pick up and redistribute, the helo has received permission to use the hospital landing pad to pick up Ghost and Roach. Price explains the doctors' concerns with moving either patient, which Laswell relays to their medic on the helo.

Finally, as all four members of the 141 file on board, the comms go silent. Soap removes the headset and finally lets himself fully relax. In spite of the pain and adrenaline still pumping through his system, exhaustion pulls him into a fitful doze. His last conscious thoughts come to him softly, like a whisper of a breeze on a warm summer day.

Everyone is alive.

Everyone is safe.

Simon is coming back to me.

*

Soap waits on the tarmac beside the plane, fingers dancing over his thigh in a frenetic rhythm. The sinking sun sets the skyline on fire, but he barely notices. He wants to pace, but it's out of the question — he's lucky to be standing at all considering the stress and emotional upheaval he's been through during the past twelve hours. Instead, he grips his cane like a lifeline as waves of dizziness come and go.

It will get worse before it gets better. It always does. He'll likely need a wheelchair by the time they land in Birmingham. He just hopes he can hold off the coming collapse until he sees with his own eyes that Ghost is alright.

The sun slips past the horizon, and darkness overtakes the airfield. Laswell stands at his side, her serious expression only visible in the semi darkness due to the plane's navigation lights. The green tinge highlights the deep bruises under her eyes from lack of sleep and stress, especially after discovering that the contact who had passed her false intel for the mission suffered a similar fate as Soap... just without the miraculous survival part.

Soap finds, however, that he's glad this particular revelation is beyond the scope of his duties. He probably shouldn't even know that much. But Laswell didn't bother to secure the call, so he didn't bother pretending not to listen.

At the first faint sound of helo blades in the distance, they both perk up. Soap huffs a little laugh, and Laswell graces him with a wry smile.

The minutes drag on as the blades grow louder, and Soap's fingers turn into a fist bouncing against his thigh. The helo finally lands ten meters away, the dust churned up by the blades sending fine grains of sand lashing over their exposed skin.

Soap doesn't care.

He knows Ghost is alive and stable. He knows Price wouldn't lie to him about something like that. But he can't seem to rip out those last tendrils of anxiety.

He takes an uneasy step forward.

They're wearing their headsets, but when the door of the helo opens, Laswell just puts a hand on his shoulder to hold him back. Light floods onto the tarmac as the medics pull two gurneys out of the belly of the aircraft. The first gurney holds a barely conscious Roach, his eyes fluttering and expression slack from the cocktail of drugs pumping through him from the attached IV drip. He's got a few cuts and bruises, but the real star is the massive soft cast encasing his left leg from ankle to thigh. Soap swallows hard at the hint of blood seeping through the gauze and flicks his gaze to the second gurney.

Ghost is still unconscious, his head strapped down to keep it still. The top and one side of Ghost's head is covered with bandages, and any patches of visible skin not covered in bright red-pink bruises are sickly pale even in the dim light. As the gurney passes by Soap, the heavy bandages around his shoulder come in to view, as well as the cast on his arm.

It should be alarming, but instead, the tendrils of anxiety squeezing his battered heart finally wither away. He's seen Ghost in worse shape before. As long as he's breathing, that's all that matters.

Price and Gaz follow behind the gurneys, still dressed in their dust-covered clothes. Soap gives them both hugs anyway, trading brief greetings before following the gurneys and Laswell up the ramp. He tries to stay out of the way as the medics secure the gurneys to the plane, but it's hard to have Ghost so close and not touch him. He wants to sit next to him, hold his hand, and be there for him when he wakes.

All the things Ghost never did for him.

Soap blows out a long, slow breath. The vindictive part of him whispers that he should just leave Ghost to recover on his own and give him a taste of his own medicine, but he squashes the feeling before it can take hold. If this mission has reminded him of anything, it's that, no matter what happened in the past, their time together now is precious. The hurt and anger served him well when he was unsure if Ghost was truly committed, but now those emotions feel more like a place to hide than a self-defense mechanism.

Besides, how many times has Ghost already recovered from injuries in solitude because he refused to let anyone to take care of him?

Despite the faint ripples of hurt still disturbing the surface of his calm whenever he thinks about the past, he can't stand the idea of leaving Ghost alone. Not anymore.

Abby's words during one of their recent sessions echo in his mind: He can choose to perpetuate a cycle or end it. Which one is up to him.

In the end, it's an easy decision.

Soap takes the seat closest to where they've strapped the lowered gurney to the wall. Ghost's head is facing toward the seats, so Soap buckles up and then reaches down to gently cup the uninjured side of Ghost's face.

The sensation of stubble under his fingers is like a benediction, the warm skin a promise of salvation.

As the plane takes off and starts climbing, however, a low groan draws Soap's attention, as does the quickened pace of the attached heart monitor. Soap moves his hand to rest on Ghost's good shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"It's alright, Simon. Yer alright."

"S'p?"

Ghost's eyelids flutter. He tries to move his head, but it's still strapped down to the gurney. Only the floor lights and Laswell's overhead light cut through the darkness in the cabin, and Ghost eyes seem to pass right over Soap as he leans over the seat. The heart monitor beeps faster, and Soap begins lightly rubbing Ghost's good shoulder.

"It's alright. I'm here, love. We're on our way back to England. Ye jus' rest now."

Ghost seems to pinpoint Soap's location through his voice, and he lifts his good arm in a clumsy attempt to reach for Soap. It flops back to the mattress, and Ghost growls low in his throat.

Soap curses under his breath. The medic moves to check on Ghost, but Soap waves them off as he pops off his seatbelt and stumbles through his dizziness to kneel on the floor beside Ghost. The moment he comes closer, Ghost's gaze latches onto him, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

Ghost reaches for him again. The second attempt is less coordinated than the first, but Soap is there to grab his hand this time. His skin is clammy and cooler than normal, no doubt because of the medications running through the IV drip next to them.

But there's warmth there, too. Blood flowing under the skin, pumped by a still-beating heart, oxygenated by working lungs. Soap lets out a shaky breath as the reality of how lucky they were hits him all over again.

"Coulda lost ye today," he murmurs as he leans over Ghost, holding his gaze in the midst of slow blinks. "Not sure I could survive tha', to be honest."

A sudden, strong pull from Ghost's hand — stronger than it should be after being buried under a building's worth of rubble — tips Soap forward, his balance already precarious due to his spinning head. He manages to catch himself before falling into Ghost's bad shoulder. The medic hisses something at him, but Soap is too busy grumbling at Ghost as he plants his hands on either side of Ghost's shoulders, both to better resist Ghost's pulling and minimize the likelihood he'll fall.

"Ye daft bastard! Stop it! I could've hurt ye."

"Cl'ser."

"I'm as close as I can get with all those bandages, love. Cannae risk damaging tha' shoulder any more than it is. Price said ye almost bled out on us."

Despite the strap, Ghost manages to shake his head and then quickly halts with a grimace. A huff of laughter escapes before Soap can contain it.

"Ye also got yerself a concussion."

"W'nt y' cl'ser."

"I know," Soap whispers, lifting a hand to cup Ghost's unbandaged, if bruised, cheek. "When the docs release ye, we'll spend all that medical leave of yers lounging in bed together. How's tha' sound?"

Ghost leans into Soap's hand, his eyes closing on a much longer blink before half opening them again. "Mmmm... good."

"Okay. Ye gotta rest to get better, though, so try to sleep for me, aye?"

"Stay," Ghost whispers.

Soap clenches his teeth to fight back the burn behind his eyes. Ghost eyes remain closed, and as his face slackens into sleep, Soap dares to press a gentle kiss to the uninjured side of his brow.

"Always," he whispers back.

Ghost's mouth curls into a soft smile.

*

Fi comes barging into the hospital waiting room in the early hours of the morning, her hair pulled up into a haphazard ponytail and her navy blouse half untucked from wrinkled gray trousers. He makes a note in his reminder app to properly thank Laswell for arranging to have his personal belongings, including his phone, delivered to the MoD unit in Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham — the same hospital where he went through most of his early recovery.

It's unnerving to be here again, even as a visitor instead of a patient. Fiona's tired smile when she spots him is a comfort he hadn't realized he needed.

"Ye wee shite," Fi exclaims as she leans down to envelop him in a hug. "Just cannae stay out of trouble, can ye?"

"What did I do?" he asks even as he hugs her back. "I wasnae even in the field! And ye didnae have to come. I'm no' hurt."

"No, but yer man is, and as much as I still detest the sight of him, yer gonna be worryin' about him instead of takin' care of yerself. Tha's why I'm here."

She emphasizes her point by tapping a finger to the wheel of the chair he's borrowing from the hospital until Gaz and Belle arrive with his personal chair.

As soon as they landed in Birmingham, Price and Laswell headed to Credenhill for a debrief with the general in charge, while Gaz headed home with a promise to be back as soon as possible. Knowing Gaz and Belle would need some time to themselves, John encouraged him not to hurry, assuring everyone that he would keep vigil for their injured members.

Simon was still out cold when the nurses finally kicked John out of the room, so he didn't fight them, though he did leave his jacket on one of the chairs in case Simon woke up and thought everyone abandoned him.

He's been waiting to hear about the results from Roach's emergency surgery for a couple of hours now, and though he's trying not to show it, the length of the surgery is making him nervous. He decides to distract himself by picking on his sister.

"Ye sure yer no' actually 'ere to check up on Price?"

Fi scowls at him even as her face turns red. "Wheesht!"

"Tha's no' a no."

Fi narrows her gaze, and John presses his lips together to suppress a smile. To his dismay, however, her expression falters. She settles on a nearby chair, her hands rubbing up and down her thighs as she avoids his gaze.

"I know ye werenae in any danger, but I just... I needed tae see ye with my own eyes."

John softens and reaches out a hand, well aware of how much more he would have needed her if Simon hadn't survived. "I'm glad yer here, Fi."

She squeezes his hand and then smiles and nods. "Tha's more like it. Now, tell me what's happened? Is anyone permanently damaged?"

"Well... ye know I cannae tell ye the details, but Price and Gaz are mostly fine. Ghost... err... Simon is gonna need at least six weeks of medical leave, mebbe more. Roach..." John shakes his head. "Last I heard, they didnae know if he could be fixed. It's too soon to tell, but he should be coming out of surgery any time. His family is over there."

John tips his chin toward a man and woman, both with graying dark blond hair, and a sandy-haired young woman huddled in the corner. When they arrived an hour ago, they introduced themselves as Robert, Helen, and Gwen Sanderson. John signed and talked with them a bit, assuring them Roach's injuries weren't life-threatening, before letting the nurses take over. Now, Robert sits with his arms around both women as they wait, Helen wringing her hands in her lap while Gwen dozes restlessly on father's shoulder.

As if sensing John's gaze, Helen looks up and gives him a tired smile before glancing at Fi. "Family?" she asks and signs.

Helen and Roach are the hearing members of the family, but they sign as well as speak all the time out of respect for Robert and Gwen. Robert notices her signing and looks up, though he doesn't remove his hands from around his family's shoulders.

"Sister," John says and signs in response before introducing them.

Fi waves. Helen waves back and Robert nods.

"I haven't met your Gary, yet," Fi says and signs, her accent dropping into something more neutral, "but I've heard good things. How are you all holding up?"

"Okay. The surgery is taking a long time. It makes me nervous."

Robert squeezes Helen tighter around the shoulders, and she turns to kiss him on the cheek. John waits until they both look over again before responding.

"They're just doing their best to make sure Roach can get back into fighting shape."

She huffs a wry laugh. "Is it bad to say I hope he can't?"

John's chest tightens. His hands falter, and Helen blinks before her eyes drop to his wheelchair. John watches as understanding — and then embarrassment — dawns in her expression.

"I'm so sorry," she says and signs quickly. "I meant no offense."

Although his chest aches, John waves her words away. "Don't be. It's natural for family to feel tha' way, especially after a close call."

Fi puts her hand briefly on John's should before pulling back to say, "If he's anything like my brother, he'll be sad if he can't do his job anymore. He'll need a lot of support either way."

Helen nods, but before she can respond, the door to the waiting room opens. Price, Gaz and Belle walk in, Gaz pushing John's wheelchair in front of him. Fi helps John keep his balance as he switches to his own chair while Price goes over to talk with the Sandersons.

As soon as John is settled, he smiles up at his sister and friends.

"Now all tha's done, who's gonna help me sneak back into Simon's room?"

*

21 June

Can't believe it's only been a day since all this started. Simon is on the mend, nothing irreparably damaged that they can find, though it's still early. Roach is finally out of surgery, and the prognosis is... unclear. They're hopeful that he'll regain full use of his leg, but at the very least, it'll take quite a bit of physical therapy.

Good thing I know a good PT. If anyone can get Roach in fighting shape again, it's Alan. Just a bonus that Roach already has a giant crush on him.

Speaking of, we decided to call Alan this morning, just to let him know what happened. He came after work and spent a few minutes visiting with Roach. According to Gaz, it was an incredibly sweet moment where Roach, high as a kite on meds, insisted on telling Alan how beautiful he was and how much it meant that he came to visit.

Poor Roach. He'll never live it down. Gaz couldn't stop laughing when he told me.

And I'm stuck with the grumpy lieutenant. He was awake a few times today, but pain meds always make him loopy. Between that and the concussion, he's awake but not really "there." Every time he wakes up, he tries to get out of bed because he's "late to overseeing training." He acknowledges me but also seems confused by my presence and gets flustered when I call him "love" in front of others — seems to be stuck in the pre-Tunnel days right now. He calms down faster when I'm around, though, so the nurses let me stay tonight, even when visiting hours ended. They just rolled in a padded reclining chair, gave me a wink, and shut the door behind them.

It's not a half bad little bed, all things considered. I've slept in far worse places. And I'm only a few steps away if Simon needs me.

It's fucking shite that it happened at all, but... I'm glad I can be here.

*

22 June

Fi and Price forced me to go home this morning for a shower and a nap in a real bed. Price promised to stay with Simon or have Gaz take over if he got called away, so I didn't feel so bad about leaving. Simon is still loopy with pain meds and sleeps most of the time, but I don't want him to wake up alone. They're planning to reduce his meds this afternoon to see how he does. He hasn't really acknowledged me in a coherent way, so I let myself be bullied out of the hospital mostly because the dizziness is sticking around longer than normal and I'm annoyed with it.

Also, according to Gaz, I smelled like "unwiped arse."

I visited Roach on the way out, and Alan was there, too, visiting before heading to work over at the PT building. It seems he and the Sanderson family have hit it off beautifully, helped along by the fact that Alan is fluent in BSL, of course.

Score one for the future son-in-law? Only time will tell.

Fi is upstairs in her room, hopefully taking a nap, too. She's been mother henning me, Price, Gaz, and even Belle since she got here, so it's about time for a recharge. She promised to take me back to the hospital later today, so I guess I should try to sleep a little bit.

I want to be there when Simon wakes up for real.

*

Gaz is snoozing in the reclining chair when John finally makes it back to the hospital, so it takes an extra moment for him to notice the sharp brown eyes tracking his slow movement across the room. After a few hours of hard sleep, the dizziness has finally died down enough to use his cane, but he's leaning on it heavily, taking slow steps to make sure he doesn't keel over.

He smiles at Simon as he approaches. The mass of bandages around his head and shoulder has been reduced to a small patch over his temple to cover stitches that stretch back into his hairline and small patches over the puncture wounds in his shoulder. The bruises on his face and neck have darkened to a vicious purple, making him look like he went ten rounds with the Hulk, but even so, he looks healthier, his pale skin no longer ashen but pinkish in the light of the afternoon sun pouring through the window.

"Sorry I was gone for a wee bit," John says as he sidles up to the bed and perches on the edge of the mattress near Simon's hip. "Price and Fi ganged up on me and made me go home to take a shower."

"How long?"

John raises his brows as he locks gazes with Simon and realizes that, for the first time since the building came down, Simon is completely lucid. He tilts his head to the side.

"How long what?"

"How long have I been out?"

"Not long. The op was two days ago."

"You were... you were here that whole time?"

John blinks but keeps his smile in place. "'Course I was. Came straight here with ye, and today is the first time I've left. They must've reduced yer pain meds earlier than they said they would. If I'd known, I would've come back sooner."

Simon's gaze falters. A painful-sounding swallow echos through the room followed by a dry cough. Simon squeezes his eyes shut, the convulsing in his lungs obviously jostling his shoulder and causing him pain — the downside of reducing meds.

"Water?" John asks.

Simon nods, though he doesn't open his eyes.

The table holding a plastic, lidded cup of water is just out of reach, so John pushes himself back upright and wheels the castered table over. Perching back on the edge of the bed, he picks up the mug and taps the straw against Simon's lower lip. Simon quickly leans forward, his good hand coming up to grip the cup as he swallows down several gulps.

"Tha's it. Dinnae go too fast, now."

Simon lets his head fall back and then groans, his good hand coming up to touch his temple before he lets it flop back to his side. John holds back a smile.

"How many times am I gonna have to remind ye about tha' concussion before it sticks?"

Simon doesn't laugh. He opens his eyes and exhales long and slow.

"You shouldn't be here," he finally says.

Hurt stabs through John, but he pushes it aside. He knew this was coming. Has known it since the moment he decided to stay.

"Why's tha'?"

"Because..."

Simon swallows again. The unspoken words hang between them like a guillotine, threatening to sever the nascent trust they've built over the past few weeks.

Well fuck that.

John puts the mug back on the table, this time within Simon's reach, and takes Simon's hand, holding it between both of his own. Scars litter knuckles and fingers, pale white marks on pink skin, and he can't help wondering: Of all the sacrifices Simon has made, how many were out of a misplaced sense of guilt or lack of value for his own life and happiness? How many times has he placed his own needs and wants aside for someone else?

John knows he can't "fix" Simon. The damage runs too deep, like a trench cut into the deepest ocean, the depth and pressure hiding a myriad of secrets from the cold light of day. But John can do his best to support Simon, to reinforce how much he is loved and appreciated. If he has to tell Simon every day, every hour, that he is worthwhile, that he is valuable just as he is, then that's what he'll do.

He lifts Simon's hand to his lips and presses a kiss into scarred skin. When he looks up, he catches and holds on wide brown eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"I know what yer trying to say, but you can get tae fuck with that shite. Ye promised ye wouldnae run away from me again, so I need ye to keep tha' promise not just physically" — John gently taps Simon's forehead — "but in here, too."

"I'm not runnin'. I'm still in this. But I don't want... When you were injured, I didn't—"

"No," John interrupts, "I'm tired of letting the past dictate our future. Ye deserve to have someone be there for ye, and I want tha' person to be me. Everything else... we can figure tha' out as it comes, aye?"

Simon blinks and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He gently shakes his head and tries to blink his tears away. They streak down his face instead.

"Ye need to rest," John murmurs before pressing his lips together. He's not sure how Simon will react to what he's about to say next, but he figures he should bring it up sooner rather than later. "The faster ye heal up, the sooner ye can come home with me."

Simon's mouth falls open in shock. "What?"

"Ye seemed keen on the idea on the plane ride back."

Simon half scoffs, half sniffs. "Takin' advantage of an injured man? Didn't know you had it in you."

"Dinnae talk pish. We both want it, and it's a logical solution. What's stopping you?"

"Don't need your pity. I can get by on my own."

His low tone is probably supposed to be growl, but the tear tracks staining his cheeks and the hope hiding behind the fear in his eyes ruin the effect. John wants to smack him upside the head, but he figures that would be bad for the concussion. Instead he lifts a brow.

"Of all the eejit things... of course ye can. But I'm telling you ye dinnae have to. I want to take care of yer stubborn arse, and tha' has nothing to do with pity, ye weapon."

"But... why?"

John just shrugs and lets the words drop from his mouth in spite of the way his heart races with pent up anxiety. "Because yer mine."

Simon stares at him, a hint of shock in his expression. John stares back, putting everything he has into his best impression of brick wall. If anyone can out-stubborn Simon Riley, it's John MacTavish.

The only sound in the room is the faint hum of the medical equipment as they hold gazes, each waiting for the other to break. All their staring contest really does, though, is remind John why he loves brown eyes — the whisky brown eyes in front of him in particular, flecked with gold and faint bits of dark green. He could spend hours just staring into Simon's eyes.

Would, if Simon would allow it.

God, when did he become such a fucking sap?

Something of his thoughts must show on his face because Simon finally looks away... and gives a small nod.

"Fine. You win."

"Aye. And I'll take my prize now."

John smirks as he lifts Simon's hand to kiss it again. The room seems suddenly brighter, the flower arrangement he'd picked up in the gift shop downstairs more colorful. A smile — wry and somewhat exasperated, but a smile nonetheless — curves Simon's lips in return.

John leans forward and brushes his mouth over Simon's, his lips tingling with anticipation—

Gaz clears his throat.

Simon and John both jerk apart at the noise, and Simon groans as he jostles his shoulder and head at the same time.

"Bloody hell, Gaz," Simon growls. "Couldn't have waited another minute?"

"Sorry, but I'm not pretending to sleep through a make out session. I have standards, and they begin and end with not creeping on my mates."

"Thanks, I guess," John says with a smothered smile.

Gaz stands from the chair and takes up position on Simon's other side. "Good to see you awake and coherent. How's the pain?"

"Not too bad," Simon rasps.

"They said if you don't show signs of infection in two more days, they'll consider discharging you."

"Thank fuck."

Simon stares down at his and John's joined fingers where they rest on John's thigh. When he looks up at Gaz again, there's a strange gleam in his eye.

"You and Price pulled us out, right?"

"Us and a bunch of others," Gaz affirms, glancing at John before looking back at Simon. "The building still fell slightly toward the hospital because of the secondary explosive, which put a lot of the debris in the street in front of the hospital. It also meant we barely had to move any debris to get to you out because the stairwell was on the opposite side."

Another wave of gratefulness rolls over him. "We got lucky."

The full force of Gaz's sardonic look lands on John. "Sure. Luck. That's what allowed us to reconfigure an entire demo in less than forty-five minutes and save a hospital full of people."

A wave of heat floods up John's neck. He shakes his head.

"Gaz is right," Simon says. "You saved all those people and us, too. Take credit where it's due, Soap. Not many people get to make such an explosive reentry—"

John and Gaz cut Simon off with dual groans.

And yet, for some reason, none of them can stop smiling.

*

Chapter Text

24 June

Simon comes home today.

Or... home with me, I should say. He hasn't actually got a flat of his own. Apparently he stays at Price's house in Hereford whenever they force him off base for leave.

Hopefully that's a thing of the past, though. If Simon is staying off base, I want him with me. I'd feel weird about even writing that if I didn't know he felt the same. Since our little talk a couple of days ago, he's started asking about bringing stuff to the house. It's mostly things like extra clothes and toiletries, but apparently the knife obsession also extends to kitchen cutlery, so—

"I meant to tell you earlier, but good job on the mission, Soap," Laswell says as she enters Simon's hospital room.

John scoffs quietly and lays his journal on his lap with as little movement as possible. He's been serving as an unofficial pillow since Simon pulled John into his bed earlier that morning. His arm has officially gone numb, but it's worth it to have Simon's head nestled into the crook of his shoulder, to hear the soft snores and feel the warmth of a recovering and very alive Simon at his side.

Still, Laswell's words dredge up a swirling mess of insecurities that even the soft breaths wafting over his neck can't calm. His successes — if they could be called that — were far too reliant on luck for him to be proud.

"Standards must be pretty low these days," he snarks before pinning her with a deadpan gaze. "I broke down on a conference room floor, Laswell."

Laswell has the audacity to roll her eyes at him. "If you'll recall, I was on the floor right beside you. Losing a whole team like that, especially when one of them is... well..." She moves to stand at the end of the hospital bed and gestures between him and Simon. "If I thought Sophia was dead, I would absolutely lose my shit."

The comparison is apt. Still, it takes John by surprise.

"I... I guess tha's fair."

"Besides, you hung on even when things were dicey. You got the job done in a high-stress situation, and you saved a hospital in the process. Can't ask for a better outcome than that."

"So...?"

"So, I've gotten approval from the Generals to bring you on as a permanent strategic consultant with the Task Force. You'll have full security clearance for any missions where we need your expertise. I also happen to know the British Military will be offering you a permanent position as an instructor at Kineton, but how or if you want to juggle between the two positions is up to you." She gives him a smile and a quick wink. "As you know, contractors make a bit more money, but you'll get your rank back as an instructor, even if it's just a formality."

John can feel his eyes widening and his mouth dropping open, but his mind is frozen at the word "permanent" — not once, but twice.

Three years ago, he couldn't speak, could barely walk, and had no idea when or if he'd ever stop feeling like a burden. Even now, every day is a battle to unlearn a lifetime's worth of conditioning that he's only valuable for the things he can do — a lie both his father and later the British Army were happy to reinforce. Despite Abby and his friends' constant encouragement, it's been a tough mental shift to make, and he often fails. Stress makes it worse, pulling him down into old, destructive thought patterns, just like during Kyle's wedding... and maybe a little bit like right now, he realizes.

Which makes it even more of a shock to realize that he's got options.

Kate's smile grows as she settles into the recliner next to the bed. "Did I break you?"

He swallows. The conversation has taken a turn so far from his expectations, he can't find his bearings. He knows it's just the old thoughts nagging at him, but Kate's warm smile seems to extract his insecurities like poison from a wound.

"I guess I just expected you to let me down easy after my poor showing."

"Poor showing?" Kate furrows her brows. "If you think that was poor, maybe your standards are too high, at least for yourself."

"Listen to the woman, Soap," Simon grumbles into his shoulder. "You did good."

Simon straightens as he speaks, blinking and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Kate leans forward, her sharp smile softening.

"Sorry I didn't come visit sooner," Laswell says when Simon looks her way. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got impaled by rebar."

"Fair enough. Still on schedule for an evening release?"

"I fuckin' hope so."

Kate laughs, and they move on to chatting about the rest of the 141: Price and his ear injury, poor Gaz being the only one still working at full capacity — a bit of tinnitus notwithstanding — and Roach's chances of a full recovery. The last one leaves them feeling a bit morose, John not least because he knows exactly what it's like. At least Roach will have his whole family to help him, and John resolves to do all he can to help his new friend, too.

As the conversation winds down, Laswell tells them she's going back to the States while everyone heals up, but she'll be in touch. The part about digging into the bad intel and sifting through lies to find any grains of truth is left unsaid.

They all know.

It's a never-ending cycle. But they play the game because the alternative is ballistic missiles launching from oil rigs or bombs blowing up the Channel Tunnel.

After Kate leaves, John says, "I should visit Roach before leaving, too."

"We should," Simon corrects as he leans his head on John's shoulder once again.

"Alright then. We will."

*

"Ghost! Are you getting out already? Lucky. I'm stuck here for at least another couple of weeks of intensive rehab with this bum leg."

John wheels Simon up to Roach's bed, feeling rather smug about getting him to actually agree to use the chair. It required a few hard questions about why Simon wanted to refuse and what he thought about people who used wheelchairs, but once again, the real answer was buried in Simon's insistence on punishing himself because he thought he didn't deserve the help.

John has no intention of humoring those kinds of thoughts. Not from Simon. And not from himself, either... though he can admit it's a work in progress.

It's a good thing they're both in therapy now.

"Gotta let the doctors do their work, bug," Simon says as he rests his good arm on the side of Roach's bed.

Roach blinks, and his eyes widen in surprise. When his smile returns, it's bright enough to light up a football stadium.

"Bug? Ha! I like it. And I will get better. So much better that I'll beat all your records when I come back."

"Lookin' forward to seein' you try."

As they continue to chat and bluster, John finally notices with some surprise that Roach is alone in the room. When a lull in the conversation pops up, he nods toward the empty chairs.

"Where's the family?"

"Mom and Dad were here until a few minutes ago, but I finally convinced them to go spend a night on a real bed."

Ghost frowns. "They goin' back to London?"

"Oh, no. My aunt lives near here, so they're staying with her," Roach shrugs. "Gwen's around — she insisted on staying with me — but she ran out to grab some dinner."

"Well, tell 'em I said hello." John pauses a beat before adding, "And Alan, too, next time he comes to visit."

Just as he hoped, Roach's cheeks turn a lovely shade of scarlet.

"He's come every day," Roach whispers in awe. "And he's so damn kind. And beautiful. And just... I'm trying to be cool, but I am so not cool."

"What th' fuck are you talkin' about? We're SAS. Special fuckin' forces. Doesn't get any cooler than that. We can land the prettiest blokes we want." Simon waves up at John. "Just look at me."

Roach laughs at this, so it takes John a moment to realize Simon is complimenting him. His heart leaps as a grin stretches over his face.

"Did ye just call me pretty?"

Simon snorts and twists around as much as his wound allows to look up at John, brow raised. John can tell he's smiling even with the medical mask in place.

"As if you didn't know."

And... maybe John does know it in a general sense. But it's something entirely different to know that Simon thinks so. John leans down to press a solid kiss to Simon's masked lips before pulling back to whisper, "Sweet talker."

"Ugh, Gaz was right," Roach cuts in. "It's like watching one of those cheesy romance movies."

"And on that note, we'll leave ye to it," John says with a roll of his eyes. "Take care, Roach. We'll be back to visit when we can."

John gives Roach a hug. Simon opts for a firm handshake. And with that, they head out.

As they move through the hospital, Simon's anticipation is palpable. He leans forward in his seat as if he's trying to move the chair faster through sheer willpower. Pain is etched into the lines around his eyes and the grimace he probably doesn't realize he's wearing, and John speeds up as much as his tipsy brain and aching knee will allow. A few nurses send him warning glances, but he's going just slow enough that no one tries to stop them.

Thankfully, the doctors have already signed Simon's release papers, sending him home with a giant bag of pain medications along with a litany of instructions for wound care. The wound doesn't worry John. He's had enough bullet and stab wounds of his own during his time in service.

He sometimes can't remember what he did fifteen minutes ago, but the instructions for taking care of puncture wounds are burned into his brain forever.

Go figure.

What does scare him a little bit, though, is the idea of having Simon so wholly in his space. Will they mesh like they used to? Or will they drive each other up the wall?

Anxiety claws at him, but he manages to shake it off. He can't afford to doubt himself right now.

Not when things are going so well.

Besides, Simon promised he'd stay. And in spite of everything — or perhaps because of it — John trusts him.

The thought rings in his mind, and heat unfolds in his chest. The threads binding the shattered pieces of his heart melt away, leaving it scared but whole, beating like a drum in the place that's been hollow for so long.

The repair is fragile. His heart could easily be broken again. And fear still lingers in the darkest corners, whispering caution.

But if he doesn't trust Simon now, what's the point in trying to build something new? The words he spoke to Simon two days ago ring truer than ever: He's tired of letting the past rule his present and potentially ruin his future.

It's time for a fresh start.

When they reach the lobby, late afternoon sun is streaming through the glass exit doors, the golden light nearly blinding him. Between the brightness of the afternoon and his joy at leaving the hospital behind, he almost misses Fiona standing just outside the doors. She's got her arms crossed, a cool expression plastered on her face as she sets her gaze on Simon.

She's been working on being civil, though John can tell it's taken every ounce of her "professional facade" to manage it. She might be warming to Simon in spite of herself, though, as she actually nods as they stop beside her. Simon nods back. After another tense moment, Fi clears her throat and leads them to the car.

It's a bit of a process to get Simon settled in the back seat without jostling his arm and shoulder too much. Simon grumbles at him, but John just peppers the masked and unmasked parts of his face with light kisses until he subsides, leans back against the headrest, and closes his eyes as John continues to adjust the seat belt.

"Not a child," he says in an adorably petulant tone.

"Thank God for tha'," John snarks back. "I've got plans for ye tha' are definitely not child appropriate."

Simon cracks a critical eye open, and John winks. Simon rolls his eyes before closing them again.

The back seat is just big enough for the two of them, so John straps in as they wait for Fi to come back from returning the wheelchair. When she gets back, she snorts as she slips into the driver's seat.

"Makin' me play chauffeur?"

"I gotta take care of the invalid," John says in a serious tone. "He's helpless without me."

Simon groans, though he keeps his eyes closed. "P'raps it would be best if you dropped me in the nearest ditch, Fiona. I have a feelin' you'd enjoy it, and I wouldn't have to deal with John's fussin' anymore."

To John's surprise — and perhaps her own from the look on her face — Fiona lets out a single bark of laughter. She clears her throat again.

"Much as I would enjoy it, John would skelp me into next week. He seems tae like ye fer some reason, so ye'll have tae deal with 'im on yer own."

"Cruel woman," Simon grumbles as they pull out of the parking lot.

The exhaustion wins out a moment later, though, and his face has gone slack by the time they turn onto Bristol Road. The hospital isn't far from John's house, Fiona having bought it for that very reason, but it still takes a good twenty minutes with traffic to finally pull into the drive in front of the house. Fi turns off the car, but Simon doesn't wake up. John unbuckles his belt and scoots forward, dodging the headrest to put his chin on Fi's shoulder.

"Did ye find time to grab those extra pillows?"

"Aye. Yer bed can be officially labeled a pillow fort."

"And yer sure ye willnae stay with us?"

Fi blows out a breath, and as expected, a small blush appears on her cheeks. "I've been... invited elsewhere."

John wiggles in his seat and meets her eyes in the rearview mirror. "I knew it!"

She reaches back to slap a hand against his grinning face and push him away. "Haud yer wheesht! It's just a few days."

"Be sure no' tae scream in his ear too much. It's already damaged."

Fiona twists around to gape at him, her eyes widening in a horrified expression. Her mouth opens and closes several times before she finally huffs, gets out of the car, and slam the door behind her. John muffles his cackle, pressing his lips together as he exits his side of the car and walks around to open Simon's door.

Simon cracks an eye open. "Is it safe?"

"Aye, she's inside already, packing her things for a few days at Price's place."

A hum is all he gets from Simon, but John's mind races with the implications. He knows Price. He knows Fiona, too. The two of them have been dancing around each other since that fateful call three and half years ago, and he knows — much to his chagrin — that they've had a physical relationship ever since those tense months of John's early recovery.

But Price is married to his job, and Fiona is not one to be satisfied with second place. It makes him wonder if this last mission had more of an effect on the team, and on Price in particular, than he first thought.

Even so, he can't imagine the two of them moving at anything other than a glacial pace, at least when it comes to an actual relationship.

Besides, he's got someone of his own to worry about right now.

By the time they shuffle inside, Fi is already coming back down the stairs, bag in hand. John settles Simon on the couch and turns to give her a hug and a kiss on her cheek.

"I'm proud of ye for taking the leap, Fi," John says into her hair.

A derisive snort is her only response.

"I'm serious," John insists. "I know his job makes ye uneasy, but yer good for each other. Many have tried with Price, but yer the first to get him to try back."

She makes more vague Scottish sounds of denial until Simon's tired voice cuts in.

"John's right. He's mad for you. Thought somethin' was different with him these past few years. Now I know what it is. I've never seen him so gone on someone."

Fi looks down at Simon where he's slouching into the couch, his head thrown back against the cushions and eyes half closed as he looks at them through his lashes. John finds it adorable, but he's fairly certain Fi won't be so moved.

Sure enough, she leans over, hands on her knees, and stares him down.

Simon blinks. His Adam's apple bobs with the power of his swallow as he slowly sits up straighter.

"I appreciate the insight," Fi admits before raising a brow. "But what I want to know is... are ye gonna overtax my baby brother? Are ye gonna wear him out fussin' over ye?"

Simon shakes his head a little more forcefully than necessary and winces as the concussion objects to the strong movement. With a hand pressed into his temple, Simon looks Fiona in the eye.

"No ma'am."

"Tha's good. Because if I find out he's makin' himself sick while takin' care of ye, we'll be havin' words, aye?"

"Quit trying to intimidate an injured man," John says with a sigh.

"Not intimidating. Just making sure he doesnae try to take advantage of the situation."

"He's the least likely person I know to do tha', Fi. And anyway, dinnae ye have an invalid of yer own to take care of?"

Fi cracks a smile at that and leans up to face John. "Alright. I'll get out of yer hair. Just—"

"Call if I need anything. I ken, ye rocket."

"Bawbag."

"Ye love me."

She smiles, kissing his cheek. "And ye love me back."

With that, Fi makes her grand exit. Quiet settles into the space vacated by Fi's larger-than-life presence. John sits down next to Simon, and places a tentative hand on his knee.

"Can I get ye anything?"

Exhaustion is apparent in Simon's expression as he slowly leans forward and into John's space. John meets him halfway, gingerly curling an arm around his shoulders, careful of his injury. As Simon's forehead comes to rest on John's cheek, he breathes out his modest request.

"Would fuckin' kill for a proper shower."

*

Luckily, John is well set up for showering while injured. Once he's settled Simon on the shower seat, he removes the hoodie they'd wrapped around him for the ride home. The bandages need to be changed before bed anyway, so he removes them from both sides of Simon's shoulder and replaces them with taped-on plastic to protect the wounds. The process is slow, and John is as careful as possible. Still, the quick flashes of pain as he presses the tape into Simon's skin make John wince in sympathy.

The cast cover is next. More pain follows as John carefully removes the sling and tapes on the plastic cover. The break was to his forearm, so the cast luckily only goes up to his elbow, but without the sling, his arm hangs heavy on his shoulder.

At the pinched look on Simon's face, John asks, "Are ye sure about this?"

"Yeah. Wanna be clean."

John just nods and begins removing the rest of Simon's clothes. He helps Simon cradle his cast as he stands to keep pressure off his healing shoulder. It's not exactly erotic to pull down Simon's pants in this context, but warm appreciation still curls in his gut at the sight of the sculpted hips and thick thighs he hasn't seen in years. He sets the feelings aside for now, stoking the heat into a warm glow of affection as he cajoles Simon back into the shower seat.

With a deep breath, John strips off his own clothes and steps inside as well, standing behind Simon as he grabs the hand-held shower nozzle and turns on the water. He expects Simon to balk at being washed, but he just leans his head back as John gently rinses his hair. John is careful to keep the water and shampoo away from the stitches near his temple and takes his time scrubbing Simon's scalp. Small noises of appreciation layer over the sound of running water, and by the time he rinses Simon's hair, the poor man is nearly asleep.

John takes the opportunity to lather up a cloth and tenderly clean Simon's face, neck, shoulders, back and chest. It's perfunctory and not terribly sexy with how exhausted and injured Simon looks, but there's an intimacy to the act that he's never experienced with anyone before.

A chill drips down his spine as he thinks about how close he came to never experiencing this with Simon. He grits his teeth as a lump forms in his throat.

This wasn't Simon's first brush with death. It likely won't be his last.

John takes a deep breath. And another.

Simon's eyes remain closed, his consciousness clearly drifting, so John stops fighting the emotions and lets the tears flow. They mingle with the water already splashing over his face.

The lump in his throat eases, as does the tightness in his chest.

He's just finished washing Simon's feet and legs up to mid thigh when Simon perks up. He makes John help him stand again so he can clean the rest of his body. In the meantime, John quickly washes himself and then uses the handheld showerhead to rinse them both before directing Simon back into the seat.

The heavy hand on his waist startles John, but Simon just smiles at him. His blinks are slow as John turns off the water and reaches outside the shower door to grab a clean towel. As he gently dries Simon's hair, Simon looks him up and down, fingers digging into his side as he squeezes.

"Still just as beautiful as I remember," Simon murmurs.

John huffs a laugh, "Getting sentimental on me? Or maybe tha's the concussion, pain meds, and exhaustion talking."

"Just... appreciatin' how lucky I am," Simon says with a shrug and... yep, that's definitely a loopy grin.

"Yer bein' awful nice to me today," John teases. "Callin' me pretty and beautiful. If I didn't know better, I'd think ye were just tryin' to get in my pants."

At that, Simon's grin widens. "You're not wearin' any pants."

His warm hand skims over John's hip toward his crotch. John barks a laugh as he grabs the handrail and dances out of reach. The laughter echoes off the tile and overtakes the sound of running water.

"Dinnae start what ye cannae finish," John warns on the end of his laugh. "Yer already about to pass out. I can see it in yer eyes."

Simon huffs but doesn't argue. "Tomorrow?"

"We'll talk about it. Gonna have to be careful."

Simon nods, though his hand finds its way back to John's hip when he starts to clean and rebandage Simon's wounds. John helps him put on a fresh sling, gets him into a clean pair of jogging bottoms, and settles him in bed, propped up with an abundance of pillows, without getting felt up any further, but it's a near thing. He can't even be mad when the sight of Simon's bare, muscled body keeps playing in his head on repeat.

But Simon's shoulder and arm injuries are still in the early stages of healing, and the concussion has left him muddled and more fatigued than the injuries alone would warrant. John is no stranger to TBIs, and he's not about to do anything that might make things worse.

So he gently kisses Simon's forehead, promising to be back once he's cleaned up the place a bit. Simon only hums and closes his eyes.

He's fast asleep before John even turns out the light.

*

"How's Colin doin'?" Simon asks the next morning as they eat their breakfast in bed.

"Alright. He's a talkative one."

"Must run in the family."

John opens his mouth to argue, pauses, and then shrugs. "S'pose I cannae argue with tha'."

"He's what? Fourteen? What can he possibly have to talk about?"

"Mostly friends and school... and family stuff," John says in a carefully neutral tone.

Simon pauses. It's something John notices now that they're spending more time together. In the days before his brain injury, John would've filled the silence with the first thing that popped into his head. Now, he simply waits, knowing Simon needs time to pull his thoughts together, especially with the concussion muddling his head and the pain meds flowing through his system.

"Is it hard to hear about? The family stuff?"

John shrugs again. "I already hear some of it from Fi, so it's not much different."

Except that it's wildly different because now he's got Colin sending him pictures all the time, which he both loves and hates.

Because it's his family.

Who shut him out of their lives and call him an abomination to God.

And he gets to see photos of them having a picnic at the park. Or taking their dogs for a walk. Or watching a junior league footie match...

He's never felt so close and yet so incredibly far from his family, even after being kicked out of his childhood home at fifteen. All these years later, his father's hate still scrapes through his memory like shards of glass.

John's phone buzzes, and he shakes off the bad memories. It's Colin, of course, sending him some sort of meme. John laments his lack of context even as he sends back a series of question marks. He's slowly adapting to the humor of the younger generation, but it doesn't help that Colin is the only kid he actually knows.

After a few back and forths, Colin signs off with the excuse of school, and John goes back to his breakfast. It's nothing special, just a bit of eggs and cheese on toast, but like the intimacy of their shower the evening before, the shared morning routine is comfortable in a way he's never experienced before.

As much as he's trying to keep his expectations low, he can't help relishing the way Simon has so easily settled into his space. The way it's already starting to feel like their space.

And he could definitely get used to waking up every morning next to a warm, sleepy Simon.

"Need to use your laptop this afternoon," Simon says as he finishes his last bite and wipes his mouth. "Gaz is bringin' my stuff when he comes back from base tomorrow, but I've got one of those virtual appointments today."

"Dunno," John says with a teasing grin. "D'ye have proper security clearance?"

Simon snorts. "Better than yours."

"When is the appointment?"

"1400 hours," Simon says before reaching up to scratch around his wound. "It's... with the shrink."

John pauses his chewing and blinks at Simon before swallowing the bite almost whole. He coughs a bit before giving Simon a wide smile.

"Aye, I suppose I can part with it for such a good cause."

Simon's answering smile is small but genuine, and John counts it as a win. He discards their trays in the kitchen and comes back to sit beside Simon in bed. For lack of anything better to do, he flicks on the TV, scrolling through a few channels. He should probably go to the gym, but he doesn't want to leave Simon alo—

A hand on his thigh scatters his thoughts like chaff in the wind.

"So... it's tomorrow."

Simon's suggestive tone makes John's heart race. He answers Simon's smirk with one of his own.

"Oh, aye? And I suppose ye'll be wanting to get into my pants now?"

"Hopin' for more of a mutual gettin' into each other's pants."

John snorts a laugh. He grabs Simon's hand, lifts it to his lips, and savors the splotches of red that appear on Simon's cheeks as he kisses scarred knuckles.

"We can only do this if ye promise to tell me if yer in pain or start feeling too fatigued. The doctors said ye'll be feeling the effects of that concussion for at least another week."

"A little pain never hurt anyone."

"Wrong answer, Simon."

"Fine. I promise."

John lifts a brow at Simon's unusually petulant tone. "If I find out yer lying..."

He lets the threat trail off as he carefully maneuvers to his knees and straddles Simon's thighs. The action alone is enough to bring back all the spine-tingling nights spent in this exact position, testing the limits of his narrow bed on base as Simon moaned under him.

Blood rushes southward, leaving him lightheaded. He's been chugging to the thought of Simon for weeks, and the reality of straddling familiar, meaty thighs sends shivers down John's spine. Simon rests his good hand on John's ass and squeezes, jolting a laugh out of him. He shuffles forward as close as he dares, lifts his hands, and cups Simon's jaws.

In the soft glow of the morning light streaming through the window, he studies the face that was lost to him for so long. Thumbs skim over stubble broken into patches by silvered ridges of old scars. Eyes rake over blond lashes and thick brows. Fingers dig into warm skin, a racing pulse thundering under his touch.

Beautiful as ever.

And all his.

Finally.

Simon gazes back with half-lidded eyes, a well of emotion whirling in their depths. Behind the naked lust, John finds hard-won trust, blind loyalty, and—

His lungs catch at the obvious affection in Simon's expression, and he leans forward to kiss Simon with a gentleness he never dared to show all those years ago. Despite the urgency buzzing between them, the slide of their lips evolves into a slow back and forth, the lazy morning and Simon's concussion- and medication-induced lethargy combining into simmering heat as their lips meet again and again like waves lapping at the shoreline.

They breathe each other in. Heat rises like the sun on a summer morning, gradual but unrelenting. His body pulses with desire as Simon's fingers dig into the meat of his ass, pulling him closer.

"Careful, love," John murmurs as he rests a hand on the wall beside Simon's head to steady himself. "Cannae risk sending ye back to the hospital when I've finally got ye all to myself."

Simon doesn't respond, but he smiles against John's lips before capturing them again, more impatient this time. His hand moves under John's shirt to skim up the hard planes of his back before dipping down again to play with the waistband of his jogging bottoms. John's skin tingles everywhere Simon touches, a syrupy rush of pleasure soaking through his skin down to his marrow.

Anticipation shortens their breaths into little huffs between kisses. He's already half hard, and a glance down confirms Simon is in the same condition, cock pressing against the thin material of his sleep pants. John dares to lower himself until he's fully sitting on Simon's thighs, watching Simon's face for any sign of discomfort. Instead, the hand at John's back presses him forward into a clumsy thrust, and their clothed cocks rub together.

They both groan into the kiss.

"What do ye want?" John pants into Simon's mouth, his lips buzzing with the rasp of day-old scruff.

"Me?" Simon asks with a little huff of laughter. "You're the one in control of this operation."

John laughs as well and presses another kiss to his mouth before retorting, "Aye, mebbe I am now. But it wasnae me in control when ye would sneak into my room and fuck me silly without even taking off the mask. I know what ye like."

It's meant to be a joke, but Simon jerks back like he's been slapped.

John reflexively moves the hand behind Simon's head to keep him from banging his recently concussed skull against the wall. The air is thick with tension, like black smoke after a detonation, and they stare at each other in mutual shock before John finally drops his hands and leans back with a heavy sigh.

"I didnae mean it as a bad thing. I just meant I know ye like it rough," John clarifies before daring to shoot Simon a sheepish smile. "And I wouldnae have come so hard I nearly blacked out every time if I didnae think it was hot."

Simon blinks... and the tension dissolves as he huffs a laugh. His gaze falls to John's chest, and he grips John's waist hard enough to bruise. When he looks up again, the hesitance is gone, replaced by that familiar determination.

"I want more with you than quick fucks in the middle of the night," he says. "Wanted it back then, too, but I was too much of a coward to say it."

"Me too," John says with a rueful smile before sucking his lower lip into his mouth and squinting at Simon. "But maybe ye can still fuck me quick and dirty with the mask on sometimes? Ye know... for old time's sake?"

Simon's laugh is loud and genuine this time. His smile brightens the room like the dazzle of sunlight off a precious stone. John can't resist leaning in to feel the warmth of that smile against his lips, which grows into a grin as John kisses Simon's lower lip, the corner of his mouth, and his cheek before dragging his lips over stubble to sink his teeth into Simon's earlobe.

They've both flagged a bit through the conversation, but the sharp gasp and stuttering of Simon's hips sends a zip of pleasure through John. He rocks forward again, and the simmering heat returns, earning him another gasp from Simon. He grips Simon's chin and leans back, offering a smile like a secret shared just between the two of them.

"I do like the mask off, though. Like to see this braw face of yers."

A shudder runs through Simon's body, and he dips his hand under John's waistband to grab his bare ass. "Good to know. And to answer your question, I don't much care what we do as long as I can see your pretty face when you come."

It's John's turn to shudder as Simon pulls him forward into another searing kiss. The waistband slides down under the pressure of Simon's hand to rest below his ass, and a low growl rumbles in Simon's throat. The heat builds, their kisses growing wet and desperate. John breaks away long enough to pull his shirt over his head before diving back in, hands cupped around Simon's face.

The memory of nights spent in aching anticipation for Simon to sneak into his room and fuck him hard and fast leave him hungry in a way he hasn't been since...

Well, since that fateful last night together before the injury.

Instead of the usual rough fuck, Simon took him apart slowly and gentle that night, their hands intertwined and bodies moving in perfect unison. John likes to believe that was the beginning of something deeper between them — despite the unfortunate three and a half year hiatus — but the best part, of course, was the hope that came with waking up next to Simon the following morning.

It's what he's always wanted. And now that he has Simon back, he doesn't plan on letting go.

He'll fight the world and death itself if it comes to that.

John deepens the kiss, pouring years of affection and yearning into every movement. Simon responds to the change, his hand grasping at John with increasing desperation.

"Just let me take care of ye," John murmurs through heavy breaths as he pulls back.

Simon licks his lips and hesitates. The hand on John's backside trembles a bit, and John presses another kiss to Simon's parted lips, drinking in his panting breaths like fine wine.

"Please? Wanna make ye feel good."

Simon swallows and finally nods. John gives him a wicked grin and one more hard kiss, before rolling away to rip his bottoms and socks off in one go. The world spins... but today is a good day. The dizziness doesn't last. He's on his knees a moment later, and Simon helps by lifting himself up on his good arm while John pulls off his bottoms as well. Then, only the sling and bandages are in the way of the perfect image of Simon lounging naked in his bed, ruddy cock standing at attention.

John's mouth waters at the sight.

"Steamin' Christ, Simon. Yer fuckin' beautiful."

He wants to kiss every inch of pale skin laid out before him like a banquet. Wants to draw out all the lewd sounds hiding under Simon's calm, watchful facade.

And why not? It's his turn after all.

"Here, scoot forward a wee bit so I dinnae bump yer arm."

John adjusts the pillows to help Simon slouch down a little more, and then, before he can second guess himself, he darts in to press a kiss to the center of Simon's chest. It's something Simon never would have allowed before, and John nearly pauses at his shaky inhale.

But as he trails kisses downward, the gasps turn into sighs. John presses his lips to muscled abs, to fingertips visible beyond the edge of the cast, and to fluttering stomach muscles until he can scoot back and settle between Simon's legs.

"Got something in mind, then?" Simon asks in a low tone as he reaches out to cup John's cheek.

His hand trembles as he cradles John's face, and John frowns. "Mebbe I do, but... yer sure yer alright?"

"Just waitin' on you. You gonna do somethin' with that mouth or just gape at me all mornin'?"

"Och, shut yer pus. Someone promised I'd get to suck him off after the mission, and II'll take my time with it if I please."

Simon's laughter turns into a guttural moan as John leans down to lick a stripe up his cock from base to tip. The heady scent of clean skin and Simon's musk fills his nose, and he wastes no time wrapping his lips around the tip, sucking and laving his tongue over hot skin.

Simon's cock twitches in his mouth. The salty tang of precome coats his tongue. It's familiar in all the best ways, and the memories that once left him in despair now leave him desperate for more.

Simon's cock is hard as steel and soft as velvet against his lips, and John pulls off to admire the sight before swirling his tongue around the ruddy head. Another moan falls from Simon's lips, and his fingers slide from John's cheek into his hair. The brief but tender brush of fingertips over his scar sends shivers down John's spine, but those thick fingers quickly move to his crown to take hold of his hair and tug. Sparks of pleasure lick over John's scalp, and his cock twitches where it's trapped between his body and the blankets. He swallows Simon deeper, hollowing his cheeks and relaxing his throat as he begins to bob his head.

"Greedy thing," Simon pants.

He doesn't bother to stop and deny it. He is greedy — for Simon's time, his attention, his affection.

And yes, for his body.

John looks up at Simon through his tear-filled lashes and finds whisky eyes staring down at him with something that looks a lot like awe. They hold gazes as he sinks deeper, opening his throat and swallowing around the thick head. Simon's hips and breath stutter in unison.

"Always loved that mouth of yours," Simon groans.

John shudders at Simon's rasping tone as much as the words themselves. He moves faster, sucking hard on the way up before sinking down as far as he can go while trying not to choke. Soft words of praise drip from Simon's lips, his head thrown back, neck straining and chest heaving.

"S'been too long since I had your mouth on me. 'M not... fuck... not gonna last," Simon huffs.

Fingers tighten in his hair. Every exhale is rife with need. The praises become less coherent the faster and deeper John bobs his head. His own cock is leaking all over the blankets, the sights and sounds of Simon falling apart enough to bring him close to the edge. He pushes down until his nose is buried in Simon's pelvis, swallowing around Simon's cock once. Twice. Three times.

Simon's hips jerk, his raw shout filling the room. John pulls back as salt floods over his tongue, and he takes it all, working Simon through the waves of pleasure until he sags, boneless and panting, into the pillows.

"Bloody hell," Simon murmurs as John pulls off. "Forgot how good your mouth feels."

John coughs a little as he laughs and says in a rasping tone, "Well, I'm happy to remind ye any time ye like."

"Might just take you up on that." Simon blinks and then frowns. "Did you...?"

John shakes his head. "Nae. It's fine, though. We've got plenty of time, and ye look worn out."

Simon trails his fingers over John's scalp, once again lingering over the old scar covered by thick hair. His gaze is a bit glassy, and the tremble in the hand is more pronounced. John frowns and opens his mouth to ask again if Simon is alright, but Simon speaks first.

"'M fine. And besides, what kind of person would I be if I didn't offer you a hand in return."

John half groans, half laughs at the terrible pun. Something whispers in the back of his mind to slow down, but he's so close to the edge that his need overwhelms his caution. He crawls back onto Simon's lap, and Simon wastes no time taking hold of John's cock, tugging just the way he likes, even if the rhythm is a wee bit off.

John leans forward to kiss Simon, the taste of his mouth the best kind of aphrodisiac. His body sings under Simon's touch, the desire simmering under the surface bursting to life again.

A too-hard tug surprises him, but the rhythm resumes a moment later. John moans into Simon's mouth, his eyes squeezing shut as the tide rises—

Simon's mouth goes slack under John's lips.

His hand motions become more erratic, as does his breathing.

John pulls back to find Simon's eye closed and his face taut as if...

Fuck.

He curls a hand around Simon's wrist to stop his motions. "Si... Simon, look at me, love. Are ye in pain?"

"Told you 'm fine," Simon says through gritted teeth as he tries to keep moving his hand. "Let go."

"I dinnae think I will until ye can look me in the eye and tell me the truth."

Simon opens his eyes, his glare vicious enough to send recruits crying to their mothers. John, however, just stares back. Waiting.

It only takes a moment for Simon to break. He looks aways as he admits, "I'm... tired."

"And the pain?"

"Manageable," he says with a one-shouldered shrug.

John sighs and gently loosens Simon's grip on his cock. Simon just transfers his hold to John's hand instead.

"Wait," Simon orders.

"If you're in pain—"

"Just... wait a minute, alright?"

John's heart jumps into his throat at the raw anguish in Simon's tone. "I'm no' going anywhere," John assures him as he twists their hands so their fingers interlace. He leans to the side to catch Simon's gaze. "What's this about? Truly?"

"It's just..." Simon huffs out a breath before speaking through gritted teeth. "I can do this. Just need a fuckin' minute."

"Aye, 'course ye can," John acknowledges. "But I dinnae want ye to be in pain or do anything that might worsen the concussion."

Simon curses quietly before finally sinking back into the pillows and squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm fuckin' things up already."

"Yer no'—"

"What fuckin' good am I if I can't even do the bare minimum for you?"

"The minimum is being alive and present, Si. Things were touch and go last week, but I'd say yer doing alright now."

Instead of laughing at the admittedly terrible joke, Simon frowns and opens his eyes. To John's horror, tears pool in Simon's lower lids, and when he blinks, they streak down his cheeks unheeded.

"But... that's how we are. The physical stuff is... even when everythin' goes to shite, it's the one thing we always have... right? And I'm fuckin' it up."

John's mouth drops open. The world slows, and puzzle pieces click into place as he thinks back on all their interactions, even before the injury: The physical intimacy used as a crutch for expressing emotion. The desire that so easily sparked between them used as a distraction from conflict. The distance in everything but sex used as a way to keep John at arm's length...

And now, used as a way to keep John close.

Even that day in the lavatory at Kyle's wedding, Simon used their physical connection to try to salvage things when the conversation didn't go the way he hoped.

The sound of increasingly panicked breaths pulls John from his frozen state. He lifts their entwined hands and places the back of Simon's hand over his chest.

"Simon, I need ye to listen and listen well, aye? As long as yer here — as long a ye stay by my side — I dinnae care if we never fuck again."

Simon's lungs hitch. "But..."

"Just because I'm pretty doesnae mean I'm shallow."

All he gets for his half joke is a wheezing grunt as Simon turns his head away. John sighs and moves to sit on Simon's good side, keeping their hands against his chest as he breathes deeply.

In. And out.

Simon takes the cue, gradually syncing his breathing with John's. When only the soft sounds of their inhales and exhales remain, John speaks.

"Yer already doing everything right just by being here," John says again. He bites his lip as he reaches out to wipe the tear tracks from Simon's face. He wants to reassure Simon, but experience tells him this isn't a one-and-done issue. "Not trying to be a therapist — ye've already got one of those — but this sounds a lot like what I went through after the brain injury. I still struggle with it, but Abby helped me see my worth isnae in what I can do, but in who I am."

"That your subtle way of saying I should talk to my therapist about it?"

"Didnae think it was all that subtle, actually."

Finally, he gets a laugh for his troubles. Simon inhales long and slow before looking at John again.

"I'll put it on the list," Simon says before raising a brow. "With as long as it is, it might be a couple years before we get there."

They share a laugh this time, rueful as it is on Simon's part, and John scoots closer to press a kiss against Simon's good shoulder. "I cannae make it magically better, but I can reassure ye tha', as much as I love being naked with ye and all that comes along with tha', it's not why I lo—" John clears his throat, blood rushing to his cheeks at the word he nearly let slip. "It's not why I care about ye so much."

The words feel woefully inadequate, but when he looks up, Simon is staring at him with an expression somewhere between disbelief and shock. He licks his lips and curls his hand tighter around John's as he whispers, "I... I care about you, too."

The admission lands softly between them, and John finds it's not so much a shocking revelation as it is a culmination of everything they've been through. Maybe the words aren't quite the truth. Maybe the feelings are a little (a lot) stronger than either of them are willing to admit.

Maybe they both know it.

But it's enough for now to take those first steps in acknowledging their feelings and let the chips fall where they may.

Progress doesn't always come in leaps and bounds, after all.

*

After a long nap, Simon is more at ease, relaxing into a slow routine of eating and resting. In the afternoon, John goes to the gym while Simon has his therapy appointment, and John comes back to find Simon out cold, tear stains drying on his cheeks. He curls around Simon and holds him until he wakes up.

John fixes them tea. With each sip, Simon gradually returns to his relaxed state.

They don't talk about it.

They don't need to.

On Friday, they discover the joy of John lying perpendicular to Simon as he blows him, which puts his cock within Simon's reach. A bit of added stimulation is more than enough for John to find his release, though the exhaustion that comes with Simon's concussion definitely rules out anything more vigorous.

For now.

On Saturday, the group collectively decides to cancel Saturday dinner until the following week at the earliest, so John and Simon spend the rest of weekend lazing about the house. John catches up on emails and confirms with Captain Carter that he'll be back to his regular schedule for the intermediate classes on Tuesday. Price is on medical leave for another week, so he offers to come stay with Simon when John is in Kineton.

All in all, it's comfortable in a way John didn't expect, though he's certainly not complaining.

On Monday, they go to Simon's first check-up appointment for his concussion and shoulder wound. The doctors poke and prod him until he's grumpier than usual.

And then it's time for physical therapy.

There are dozens of physical therapists who put in time at the MOD wing of the hospital, but it's Alan's coworker, Susan, who ends up assigned to Simon. By the second exercise, Simon is cursing at her like he would a troublesome recruit.

"Dodged a bullet with that one, I think," Alan mutters as he steps up to stand beside John.

John snorts and reaches out to pat Alan's shoulder. "Aye, poor Susan."

"Oh no. She actually gets a kick out of the grumpy ones. Look at that smile."

And indeed, Susan is all smiles as Simon lets loose another barrage of curses. John shakes his head.

"She shoulda been a drill sergeant."

Alan laughs. "I'm pretty sure she was in a past life."

John side-eyes Alan but decides against teasing him about Roach. The wounds left by their aborted attempt at a relationship seem to have healed, but that's no reason to poke at tender skin. And anyway, something tells John he won't lack for gossips to spread the news if something more concrete developes between Alan and Roach.

They chat until Alan has to head off for his next appointment, and John goes back to watching Susan extract increasingly creative swears from Simon. Sweat is pouring down his face by the time she's finished with him, and his stormy expression doesn't bode will for a peaceful evening.

Yet, after a shower, a dose of pain meds, and a long nap, Simon is back to his relaxed self. The negative emotions don't seem to stick to him as easily anymore, and John breathes a sigh of relief at this small proof that Simon's mind is healing along with his body.

It will take time, but already their edges and corners are being filed down to fit more securely with one another. To ensure they don't cut each other in the process of melding their two separate lives into one.

And as they lounge on the couch later that night listening to an audiobook together, the final shards of worry needling the back of John's mind dissolve under the weight of Simon's head in his lap.

Art by Kiba (Give them love @kibagib on Tumblr and @kibagib.bsky.social on Bluesky!!!)

Chapter Text

By the time Price comes over on Tuesday, John and Simon have developed a solid morning routine. Meshing their preferences has been a bit like stretching sore muscles — uncomfortable at first but necessary — and they both occasionally have nightmares, which sometimes fucks with the schedule. But as Simon heals, the routine becomes more solid: wake up, fool around, shower, and have breakfast before moving on to whatever that day might bring.

As agreed, Price spends the day with Simon while John goes to teach his class in Kineton. The familiarity of the classes and students has eased much of the initial stress of teaching, and John revels in seeing his students learn and improve. The day's schedule calls for the students to make their first live bombs — not enough explosives to do any permanent damage, even at close range, but enough to make a bit of fire and smoke. The students all ace the exercise, and John is flying high on endorphins all the way home. Price sticks around for dinner, and both he and Simon listen and smile as John babbles about his day.

It would feel almost like old times if not for the way his words occasionally desert him. But Simon and Price leave space for him to rest and try again, and...

It's good.

On Wednesday, they visit Roach before Simon's PT session with Susan — or the Taskmaster as Simon calls her — and learn Roach is scheduled for yet another surgery on his leg at the end of the week. Roach is hopeful that this will be the one that gets him back on track for a full recovery.

John and Simon share a doubtful glance while Roach is mooning over Alan but say nothing out loud. The injury is different, but the acidic fear of a medical discharge that hovers under the surface of every conversation hits a little too close to home for John. He knows all too well what doubts lurk in the corners of the mind when a person's body fails them and the threat of losing everything looms large on the horizon.

Still it's a good visit, and they leave feeling hopeful for Roach's future. Simon has a good day at PT, too, pushing through a few of Susan's challenges he's failed in past sessions. They end the day with another quiet evening of John reading to Simon on the couch.

Everything is going well... until Thursday morning.

Simon's injury is on his right side, so John insisted he sleep on the right side of the bed — where John normally sleeps — to make sure John doesn't accidentally hit his arm in the middle of the night. This means John has to scoot to the end of his bed to get in and out.

On a regular day, it's not a problem.

But today is not a regular day.

John wakes to a foggy brain, a pounding headache, and a roiling stomach. He sits up in an attempt to settle his stomach, which is how he discovers his head is also spinning out of control.

Fuck.

His wheelchair is still on the right side of the bed, and his stomach is not interested in waiting for him to get to it.

He scrambles to the end of the bed, stumbles to his feet, and half lunges, half falls into the far bedroom wall. The vertigo is so severe, he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from boking on the spot. Simon stirs, but John doesn't have time to check on him. His shoulder and arm scrape against the wall as he leans against it and feels his way toward the bathroom as fast as his rebelling body allows.

"John? What's wrong?"

Bile surges up John's throat, and he slaps a hand over his mouth. He can't answer, or he'll boke all over the floor. His shoulders slam against the door jambs of the bedroom and then bathroom like a pinball. His hip slams into the sink counter, but it doesn't slow him down. Finally losing the battle for balance, he lunges for the toilet, his hands and knees slamming on the tile floor. His bad knee screams at him for the extra abuse, but it's nothing compared to the sledgehammer currently cracking his skull in two. He nearly collapses but manages to crawl the last few feet just in time to heave up what little is left in his stomach from the night before.

"John? What's happenin'? Should I call someone?"

Simon's warm hand settles between John's shoulder blades. John shakes his head as his stomach convulses, snot and tears rolling down his face. The sounds echo in the small bathroom, sending him through another round of heaving before his stomach finally settles.

"Pill," he finally rasps. "Top right drawer, blue case."

"Just one?"

John nods, and Simon disappears from his side. The sound of rummaging and then the tap turning on comes from just behind him. John's headache is still pounding away, and he knows he's got a criminally short window before the nausea starts up again. If he can get a pill down right now, though, it'll knock him out before the next round hits.

When he's sure he's done, he grabs at the toilet paper like a drunken man, unrolling too much at once. He grasps at it more by feel than by sight, blows his nose, and cleans his face the best he can. By the time he's done, Simon is back with the pill and a glass of water. The world is spinning too fast for John to hold the glass straight, so Simon helps him drink. When he's drained the glass, he crawls away from the toilet and lies down on the bathroom tile in front of the roll-in shower, curling up on his right side.

The tile is cool against his sweaty temple. He closes his eyes and breathes a little sigh of relief as the pain dulls, just for a moment.

"John—"

"S'alright. Just need to lie here for about ten minutes until the pill starts to dissolve. It's fastest if yer lying on yer right side, did ye know tha'?"

"Couldn't have told me that a week ago?"

John huffs a laugh. "Wouldnae do ye any good, ye rocket. Tha's yer injured side. Sitting upright only takes twice as long, though. It's yer left side ye really want to avoid. Takes up to five times longer."

As they talk, Simon moves around at John's feet, but his head is too muddled to think much of it. When he hears the snap of the disinfecting wipes lid, though, he realizes Simon is cleaning up after him. He peeks an eye open, but squeezes it closed it again as the glare of the overhead light sends an extra stab of pain through his eye.

"Ye dinnae have to do tha'," he says. "I'll get it later."

"We've both dealt with far worse than a bit of vomit," Simon says in the midst of a few more soft whooshes of wipes being pulled from the package. Before John can respond, Simon returns to their previous conversation. "You're full of useful medical information this mornin'."

"It's my best party trick these days. Fun medical facts. Did ye know that yer body can actually create new brain cells?"

"Know a lot about that, do ya?"

"Aye, I still go to brain rehab now and again to juice up on neurons."

John doesn't have the energy for it, but Simon laughs as he washes his hands. The soft slide of drawers is followed by the sound of water again...

And then he's jerking his eyes open at the sensation of a cool cloth gliding over his mouth and chin. The independent side of him that never really died — even when his sister was feeding him and helping him wipe his ass for those first few weeks out of the hospital — wants to snap at Simon that he doesn't need coddling. It's a brief impulse, though, and he quickly closes his eyes again as Simon goes back to the sink to rinse the cloth and comes back to place the cool, wet rag over his eyes and forehead. The residual light filtering through his eyelids darkens, and he lets out a soft sigh.

"My mum used to get bad headaches," Simon murmurs. "Said cool and dark helps."

"Aye, it does," John murmurs. "Thank ye."

Simon doesn't answer, but John can hear the pad of feet on tile, a soft click, and then the rustle of clothes as Simon settles on the floor beside him.

Minutes pass in comfortable silence — or as comfortable as lying on a tile floor while a sledgehammer tries to split his skull open can be. Gradually, the pain dulls, and he dares to remove the cloth, roll to his back, and open his eyes.

The bathroom is dark; only the daylight streaming through the window blinds brightens the space. The spinning has died down enough that he can make out Simon's expression, and the worry he finds there surprises him. He reaches out to pat Simon's knee.

"Dinnae worry. It's a bad day, but it willnae last."

Simon nods slowly. "So this... just happens?"

"Sometimes."

"Need me to call anyone?"

John blinks. "Oh... I'd normally text Belle and Fi, but..."

"Fiona's close. I'm sure she'd come if you wanted her."

"Oh, aye. She'd come whether I wanted her or not," John says through a rueful laugh. "But yer here, so I dinnae think it's necessary... unless you do. I mean... if ye dinnae want tae deal with... all this."

Simon shakes his head, his expression doing something John's never seen before, but it's there and gone before his muddled mind can parse it. He doesn't have time to dwell on it, though. He's on borrowed time as it is.

"Alright. The pain is dying down, which means I've got to get back into bed before the meds fully knock me unconscious."

Simon is up and back with the wheel chair before John can sit up. Between the two of them, they manage to get John into the chair, and Simon helps push with his good arm in the center while John steers them back to the bedroom.

As he flops back onto the bed, he gives Simon a wan smile. "Thanks again for the help. I can usually manage it myself, but sometimes I end up on that tile floor for longer than I'd like."

"Should get you a plastic bin to keep here at the bed and move some pills to the nightstand. Won't have to get out of bed at all that way."

John laughs, though it turns into a groan as his throbbing skull reminds him the migraine is only dimmed, not gone. "That would be the smart thing to do, aye? But... I guess I wanted to prove I didnae need it. S'pose I can be just as stubborn about accepting my limitations as you are sometimes."

"Maybe if I'd been here all along, we coulda knocked sense into each other sooner," Simon says in a subdued tone as he shuffles his feet at the side of the bed. "Too bad I fucked off like a right twat for so long."

John catches Simon's hand and waits until he's looking down at him before saying, "It's like I told ye the other day. All I care about is that yer here now. All I want is to have ye by my side. So far, yer doing a bang up job. Try not to dwell on the past too much — just enough to not repeat it, aye?"

Simon responds with a rueful smile and a nod. "I'll make us a brew."

"Probably won't be awake long enough to enjoy it, but I'll be ravenous when I finally wake up."

"That a hint?" Simon asks with a snort.

John only smiles in response, his brain already winding down from the powerful drugs pumping through his body.

Simon sits on the edge of the bed and holds his hand until he drifts away.

*

2 July

Yesterday was a fucking mess, no two ways about it, but thanks to Simon, it wasn't as bad as it could've been. He kept me hydrated and fed (when I could stomach the idea of food again) and...

I don't know how to explain it, but letting Simon take care of me felt different.

I know everyone says I'm not a burden. They seem to believe it, and I try to believe it, too.

But with Simon... I truly don't feel like a burden. Maybe there's some vengeful part of me deep down that thinks he owes me, but I think it's more that we're falling back into an ingrained habit. Before all this injury shite, we took care of each other, both on base and in the field. No matter how hard and distant he tried to be, he always made sure I was solid — after leaves, after missions, after injuries. This feels like an extension of that.

We're going back to the way we used to care for each other. The way it was always supposed to be. Only this time, it comes with an openness and honesty I could only dream about back then (and did on the regular).

I don't know why it doesn't feel that way with Gaz or Price. Maybe because they've been here all along? Maybe Simon will stick around long enough that I'll start to feel like a burden to him, too.

Wouldn't that be something?

Somehow, though, I don't think it'll ever happen. He's a part of me. Taking care of him comes natural. And yesterday proved that taking care of me comes natural to him, too, no matter how hard he tried to fight it before.

I'm his.

And he's all mine.

*

Friday passes in a blur, the fog of the migraine and the remnants of his spinning head keeping him bound to the wheelchair, bed or couch for most of the day. Price and Fiona come over, and Price takes Simon to his PT appointments while Fiona stays with John. She doesn't speak as she bustles about the kitchen, putting away a load of groceries they'd picked up on the way, but there's a stiffness in her shoulders he knows all to well.

"It wasnae because of him. Ye know as well as I do tha' sometimes the bad days just happen."

She pauses and turns to glare at him where he's sitting in his chair in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen. The room spins a wee bit, but he manages to hold her gaze. She gives him a doubtful grunt and goes back to putting the groceries away.

"Fi."

Her shoulders slump, and she grumbles, "I ken, ye eejit. Ye look better than when I left, even with the bad day."

"Been sleeping better than I have in a long time," he admits.

"Tha's great."

John snorts at her sarcastic tone. "Are ye mad tha' Simon isnae actually bad fer me?"

She makes a face at him. "Nae."

"Liar." She doesn't respond, so he pokes the proverbial bear. "How're things with Price?"

Fi leans back against the counter and presses her lips together before shrugging. "We're... talkin' things out."

"And?"

She throws her hands up in the air. "He's considerin' a promotion, alright? Dinnae tell the others."

John blinks. "A... promotion? To Major? But tha' means..."

"Less field work, more paperwork."

"And less danger," he says carefully.

She nods. "Tha' too."

"Would ye... move closer to him?"

Fi sighs and motions him to follow her into the living room. He moves from the chair to sit on the couch next to her, and she takes his hand. She plays with his fingers for a few moments before admitting, "He asked me to. Move in with him, I mean."

John short circuits. He stares at her, and from the way she rolls her eyes, he can only imagine what his face is doing.

"He... Fi, be serious."

"I am!" she insists. "He asked, and I said maybe. If the promotion goes through. And if I can figure out the job situation."

"Holy fuckin' hell." John finally thaws enough to laugh. "I cannae believe it. My sister cohabitating with the wily Captain Price."

"Thank fer the vote of confidence, ye bawbag."

John laughs again, this time out of pure relief. He wraps his arms around Fi and pulls her into a tight hug.

"I just meant I never thought anyone would pin him down. Yer good fer each other, Fi. Dinnae let fear hold ye back."

Fi wraps her arms around him in turn and squeezes his shoulders. "Could say the same tae you."

John doesn't respond. But he doesn't let go, either.

*

On Saturday, John wakes early to a warm, humid breeze from the open window and the sensation of fingers in his hair. The fingers brush back and forth in a now-familiar glide over the ridges of the scar on the side of his head. His lips curve into a sleepy smile as he realizes the slow, heavy thud in his ear is Simon's heartbeat.

"Morning," he mumbles into Simon's sleep shirt.

Simon hums, sending vibrations through John's cheek. "Mornin'."

The fingers move away from the scar to drag over his scalp, down his nape, and across his shoulders before repeating the motion in reverse. His skin tingles in the wake of Simon's touch, the warmth and comfort of the moment edging him deeper into the haze of his usual morning arousal. He turns his head and presses a kiss to the thin cotton covering Simon's plush pec.

"How're ye feeling?"

"Pretty good, considerin' I was buried under a building a couple weeks ago."

John snorts, able to laugh at Simon's dark humor now that the danger has passed and recovery is going even better than the doctors expected. At Simon's appointment the day before, he was given permission to ditch the sling, and according to Price, he did it with relish right there in front of the doctors. Then, before bed, the two of them threw the abundance of pillows to the floor, sleeping normally for the first time.

Now, he's glommed on to Simon's side like a barnacle, leg thrown over his hips and arm clamped tight around his waist. His head is tucked into the crook of Simon's good shoulder, while Simon uses his good hand to make another tingling stroke across John's back.

John retaliates by sliding his hand under Simon's shirt and skimming fingers over his sleep-warmed stomach. The low simmer of arousal flares higher, and John adjusts his lower body so his already hard cock presses against Simon's hip. Simon hums again, this time in obvious interest.

"Forgot to ask... did the doctors say anything about the concussion?" John murmurs.

"Cleared me for light activity, though they warned that I shouldn't knock my head around any time soon."

"Well... tha's good news," John says as he rolls his hips.

Simon pauses, his fingers gripping John's hair and pulling. John gladly looks up, revealing his wide smile in the process. They stare at each other for a heartbeat before Simon's lips curl into an answering grin.

"What're you waitin' for, then?" Simon goads.

John is up and straddling Simon's thighs an instant later. He leans over, hands braced on either side of Simon's head, and eagerly presses their lips together.

The kiss is electric. Their lips move in perfect unison, a dance learned years ago and perfected over the past couple of weeks. John's body hums with anticipation, the fire in his gut that once meant pain and anger now simmering with the easy warmth of affection.

Of forgiveness.

Of love.

Simon breaks through John's haze of love-sick musings by grabbing his ass and squeezing. John bursts into laughter.

"There's tha' one-track mind," he teases between kisses.

"Fuckin' right. Been missin' this for years."

"My arse?"

"That," Simon agrees with a grin before it softens into a fond smile. "And... Just... You. Us. Everythin'."

John's breath catches as faint words echo through his mind: There is no us.

The taunting words would've sent him spiraling only a few months ago, but now, he easily shoves them away. He can't... He won't let the past torment him anymore. Not when he's got a soft Simon lying under him, looking up at him like there very much is and always was an "us."

Instead, John smiles and says, "Yeah, me too."

The next kiss is hotter and sloppier as John rolls his hips again. Simon moans into his mouth and then breaks the kiss to pull impatiently at the hem of his shirt.

"Help me get this off."

John helps Simon sit up and gingerly removes his shirt. His shoulder is still healing, and John is determined to be careful. Simon seems to have other ideas, though, pulling at John's sleep clothes like he's a horny teenager about to see someone naked for the first time.

"Too many fuckin' clothes," Simon grumbles as he tugs at John's shirt.

John laughs and helps him remove the rest of their clothes, kissing Simon at every opportunity to distract him from trying to help with his broken arm, the daft bastard. As soon as they're both naked, John encourages Simon to lay back against a stack of pillows and resettles on his lap.

When John leans down to kiss him again, Simon breathes out a soft, "Finally."

As if they haven't been naked together most days during the past week.

As if he's just as desperate as John to extract this one final thing out of their troubled past and incorporate it into their new and improved present.

This time, when John rolls his hips, there's nothing between them. The friction of their bare cocks rubbing together sends shivers down his spine, and he breaks their kiss to look down, his whole body tensing with a rush of pleasure at the sight, even if his head does spin a bit. Simon adds to it by reaching between them to curl his hand around them both.

The first stroke is pure bliss.

They moan together, and John's eyes flutter closed as he kisses Simon with renewed passion. Pleasure sparks through his body, his cock twitching and beginning to leak in Simon's firm grip.

It takes a few strokes to remember he has a plan and a few more after that to break the kiss and pull supplies from the nightstand. He sits up, snaps the cap open, and pours a bit of lube over his fingers. After brief consideration, he pours more over where Simon is still working their cocks as well.

The slick slide ramps up the pleasure, and they shudder together.

He clicks the bottle closed and throws it to the side. It lands with a thud on the other side of the bed, but John isn't paying much attention, too focused on the way Simon's gaze burns his skin like fire as he reaches back to slide a finger between his cheeks. His head falls back as he strokes over his sensitive rim. Combined with Simon's hand stroking his cock, it's enough to make his eyes roll back in his head.

"Stop," Simon orders, his hand stilling on their cocks.

John's eyes fly open, and he straightens, concern seeping into the mind-melting pleasure. "Wh—"

"Turn around. I wanna see."

The gravel in Simon's tone sends shivers down John's spine, as does the idea of putting on a show. A flush works its way from his chest up to his ears as he carefully turns his body until he's straddling Simon's legs in the opposite direction. Leaning forward on one arm, he reaches back again.

"Fuckin' gorgeous," Simon praises.

Goosebumps race over John's skin, and he lowers his body to press his forehead against Simon's leg. He's been indulging in moments like this for the past month, imagining Simon fingering him open. But teasing himself while Simon watches is somehow even better.

He slowly presses a finger inside. A breathy moan bursts past his lips at the same time Simon exhales a low groan. John pushes in deeper, chasing his own pleasure while also arching his back to give Simon the best show possible. A big hand lands on John's ass, thumb digging in to spread his cheek wider.

Raging heat burns John's chest and face. They've never done this before. Never had the time or leisure to truly enjoy the sensuality of the act, always rushing through to avoid attracting attention... and to avoid showing too many real emotions.

Except their last time before it all fell apart. But even then, they had to be careful.

Now, there's nothing and no one holding them back — not even themselves.

Simon's ragged breathing sends more heat sliding through John's body, and as he begins to gently press against his rim with a second finger, soft praise streams from Simon's mouth. The words wash over him, pushing the pleasure higher, and he closes his eyes as he slowly sinks two fingers as deep as he can, moaning as he finally hits the right spot.

Warmth floods his body. He speeds up, pushing as deep as the position allows to feel that rush of pleasure with every press. It's lewd, really, the combined sounds of their panting breaths, slicked up hands and fingers, and guttural moans. John revels in it, arching his back just a little more as his leaking tip brushes against Simon's thigh.

The next time he rocks back onto his fingers, he feels the blunt prod of a finger that's not his own. He groans as he pulls out, and Simon doesn't hesitate, sinking two thick digits inside him. John exhales another lewd moan when Simon starts working him over, two fingers pressing down at a much better angle than he could get with his own hand.

"Fuck yes... jus' like tha', love."

Simon murmurs breathless praise in return as he works John open, and John moans his own encouragement each time those thick fingers prod deep enough to send warm floods of pleasure through his body all the way to his toes. Soon, he's panting and moaning in earnest as the tide rises, and he leans out of Simon's reach to turn around.

Simon's expression is completely blissed out. "Thought maybe you'd ride me like that," he rumbles, the words flowing from deep in his chest.

John smiles. "Maybe next time. Right now, I wanna be able to kiss ye."

With a slow blink and an even slower smile, Simon wraps a hand around the base of his cock. It's shiny with lube and still hard as a rock, the tip leaking over his stomach. He gives it a slow stroke before tilting his chin up in a beckoning motion.

"Come 'ere, then."

Without hesitation or an ounce of shame for his eagerness, John shuffles forward, lines up, and slowly sinks down on Simon's cock.

"So good," Simon pants as he watches with half lidded eyes. "Always so fuckin' good for me."

John throws his head back and savors the feeling of being filled. The slight burn is delicious — familiar and yet completely new. After so much time and with all the things that have changed between them, it's almost like their first time together.

And yet also so much better than that.

John's chest heaves, and tears track down his face at all the powerful thoughts and emotions vying for attention: the bittersweetness of all the time they lost, the closeness and heat of their bodies moving together, the wild abandon of their mutual pleasure...

And the pure, unfettered love flowing through him for the man who finally came back to him.

He'd be embarrassed except for the fact that Simon is also gasping for breath, the bright glisten of tears limning his lids as John bottoms out.

Art by Kibagib

Like a wave, the burn recedes, and the pleasure rushes in. John lets himself drown in the familiarity and the fullness. He leans forward, pressing his hands into the mattress, and Simon is there to meet him, their mouths sliding together in sloppy kisses. They moan into each other's mouths when he begins to move, rolling his hips slowly, getting used to the sensations. Simon grabs his ass again, encouraging his movements, and with each roll of his hips, he adjusts the position until—

"Oh, fuck," he gasps.

It's perfect like nothing else ever has been in his life — the way Simon matches his rhythm with thrusts that send jolts of pleasure up and down his spine, the way their bodies seem to remember each other and fit together like a mag sliding into a pistol, the way Simon's eyes only grow more adoring and desperate with every thrust. The warm light of the summer morning bleeds into the perfection, allowing him to see every minute change in Simon's expression.

Which is why he catches the faint twinge of pain flash over his face.

John stops immediately, but before he can ask about it, Simon groans. "Don't stop. Was just a shoulder twinge. Please, Johnny. I need it. I need—"

Simon freezes.

His eyes widen as he meets John's gaze.

And then he's stuttering out apologies like sharp tacks spilled over the floor.

"'M sorry. Fuck. I didn't mean... I wasn't thinkin'—"

John cuts him off with a passionate kiss, his heart bursting with a rush of joy. The tension in Simon's body bleeds away under John's assault, lips and tongues clashing as Simon's hips stutter, driving into him with renewed fervor.

John matches his rhythm as the pleasure of the present takes the place of the pain he once associated with the name. Instead of all he's lost, it reminds him of how far they've come. Of how much they've grown.

And of the man once buried in an ocean of grief who is now free to trust and love again.

It feels good to hear it on Simon's lips. It feels right.

It feels like finally coming home.

As they move together, the desire rises to a fever pitch. His mind is fuzzy with the anticipation of pleasure, and he breaks the kiss to press their foreheads together.

"S-say it again, Si. Please?"

Simon's breathing kicks up another notch as he exhales a reverent, "Johnny. My Johnny."

John's climax roars through him, goosebumps erupting across his arms and back. He gasps and moans as the wave crashes down, his cock painting streaks of white over Simon's chest. He doesn't stop moving, though, even as the pleasure begins to shift into overstimulation. He leans back and rides Simon hard, letting the final pulses of his orgasm squeeze around Simon's cock until—

"Oh fuck. Johnny... I'm... fuck!"

Simon arches his back, his eyes squeezing shut as John grinds down. Simon shudders and pants in time with his final thrusts, his body tensing tight as a bowstring.

Finally, he falls limp onto the bed. They're both breathing hard as John leans forward to rest their foreheads together while a deep joy spreads through him in the afterglow.

There's peace as well as a settling sensation, as if everything is finally clicking into place, all the hollow parts filled and all the broken pieces fitted together... if not entirely healed.

The quiet returns as their hearts calm and their breathing slows. Simon looks like he's fallen asleep, but a moment later, his eyes flutter open.

"You'll be the death of me someday."

"But what a way to go, aye?"

John waggles his brows. Simon huffs a laugh and gives his ass a squeeze.

"Not too bad, I suppose."

"Generous of ye."

Simon tilts his head up, and John obliges with a soft, slow kiss. His arms are a bit weak after everything, but it's more than worth it. When they finally pull back, Simon moves his hand up to squeeze John's waist.

"So..."

Simon trails off, and John lifts a brow. "So?" he prompts.

"Was that an all-the-time thing? Or just a sex thing?"

John blinks. "Huh?"

Simon licks his lips, his gaze flicking off to the side. "Callin' you Johnny."

It shouldn't be funny. Not with how they got here in the first place. But John can't find it in himself to be angry or resentful. The volcano has finally burnt itself out, the sulfur and poison draining away to leave a clean slate.

"It's a whenever-ye-want thing," John says softly, leaning forward again to kiss Simon.

Simon kisses back with gentle lips before pulling back to shake his head. "Don't feel like I've earned it, yet, but I can't say I'm not relieved. It's been hell havin' to call you John."

John laughs. "Poor you."

"No," Simon says in a softer tone. "Lucky me."

And John has nothing to say to that. So he busies his mouth with kissing the daylights out of the man he loves.

Maybe one day he'll even tell him so.

*

It takes four weeks for the doctors to clear Simon's shoulder, but it doesn't change much. He can now do exercises that don't involve putting pressure on his forearm, but the rest of his routine is still limited by the broken arm. They offer him a pass for light duty — at least one of the doctors is clearly familiar with Simon "Ghost" Riley's inability to take a proper leave, even the medical kind — but Simon surprises them all by declining.

"Would rather stay home with you," is all John hears before he's pushing Simon into bed.

And the sex is glorious.

He supposes the strength of their physical connection has never been in question, but at least now it's much less fraught with John's self doubt and Simon's desperate need to please — though both do flare up on occasion. They have, as Fiona would call it, defiled most of the furniture and a couple of rugs over the past two weeks. If the trend continues, the rest of the house will soon follow.

Fiona has, of course, used this as an excuse to move her things from the rooms upstairs to Price's house in Hereford. Her excuse was not having the patience to share a house with Simon Riley, but with the way Fi and Simon have been sniping and bantering at the last two Saturday dinners, John suspects she's mad at herself for not being as mad as she thinks she should be.

It's not even that Simon is trying to charm her. But the eldest and youngest MacTavish siblings are similar enough in their likes and dislikes that she didn't really stand a chance against his deadpan humor and wry practicality.

He decides not to tell her that in the interest of keeping the peace.

Simon's therapist increased his sessions to three days a week the instant she heard he was cleared of the concussion. It's been rough to say the least, but Simon never takes it out on him, even if it's a particularly bad session. He usually sequesters himself in the bedroom for an hour or so, often taking a nap before joining John for a quiet evening.

That's why he's surprised when Simon comes out of the back room right after his latest Friday session and sits on the couch next to John. He's tense, that much is clear from his posture — leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together as much as possible with the cast.

He doesn't look at John. So, of course, John's anxiety spikes.

He fights it back, well aware that he's often a topic of conversation between Simon and his therapist. The silence thickens, but before John can convince himself to break it, Simon speaks.

"I haven't been fair to you."

It's such a broad statement that John is unsure how to respond. He clears his throat of the dregs of vitriol that try to bubble up and asks, "In what way?"

"I keep doin' it. Keep relyin' on you to be the voice of reason when I go off the rails. I did it again in the hospital, and you had to talk me down. Didn't even realize it until..." Simon swallows and stares down at his fingers. "I always think I'm doin' the right thing, but I'm really just... lettin' the fear decide. Or so Doc says."

It's a loaded topic — one that goes all the way back to why Simon left in the first place. John slouches back into the couch.

The silence lingers.

John wants to break it, but he's still not sure what to say that wouldn't be a lie or just vindictive.

"'M not sayin' this to get sympathy," Simon continues. "Just want you to know I... I see it. Better than I did before, anyway. And I'll try not to do it again."

"What, exactly?"

At that, Simon nods. "Fair question. I won't make a decision that involves you without talkin' to you first about what you want. And... I'll trust that when you tell me somethin', you mean it. Or... I'll try."

"I appreciate tha'."

"And if you want to call me out when I do it, you should."

John exhales a bark of laughter and shakes his head. "I can if ye like."

Simon frowns. "I thought... thought this would bother you more."

"It does," John says with a shrug, "but yer telling me yer working on it. I cannae ask for more than tha'. Maybe if it doesnae get better, we can talk about it more, but I'm happy with how things are going right now."

Simon huffs out a long breath. Opens his mouth and then closes it again. Finally, his shoulders slump as he leans to the side and lays his head in John's lap.

"Okay, Johnny."

Even after weeks of hearing it, the name still sends pleasant tingles down John's spine. He smiles fondly at Simon, who closes his eyes and curls up on his side facing John's stomach.

"Touch okay?" John asks.

Simon exhales a soft, "Yeah."

Simon's cheek is scratchy with day-old stubble, but his skin is warm. A soft lullaby of old pop songs plays in the background, and a warm breeze slides through the open window along with the last rays of sunshine. Simon's hair is soft between his fingers.

Later, they have supper and then fall into bed. Simon is always gentlest after his sessions, as if he's afraid John will break into a thousand pieces in his hands. And the soft glide of his hands or the heat of his mouth always leaves John a trembling mess afterwards. It's as if Simon has reached into John's mind and determined to play out every soft, sappy fantasy he's ever had.

And who is John to complain?

*

John disentangles from Simon, soothing him back to sleep when he half wakes, and slips out of bed. His conversations with Colin have changed in the past few weeks, and this late-night request is something John has been expecting. He's not exactly sure what's wrong, but whatever it is, he wants to be there for his nephew.

Once he's in the living room and settled on the couch, he hits Colin's contact. The phone gives a half ring before Colin picks up.

"Hey, Uncle John."

From the tone of Colin's voice, it's clear he's upset. Perhaps even crying. John takes a deep but silent breath to quell the surge of anxiety and forces a smile, hoping the expression carries over into his voice.

"Hey Colin. How's it going?"

A long pause ramps up John's anxiety another notch before Colin's rough voice cuts in again. "Not... not good. I mean... I dunno."

"Can I help?"

"Maybe. I mean... I sort of asked Aunt Fi about ye because... because I thought ye might have some advice. I've just been too scared tae ask ye about it."

John blows out another silent breath and gently asks, "Because tha' makes it feel real?"

"Yeah," Colin murmurs before exhaling a harsh puff of air. "I guess... I just wanted tae know how ye dealt with everything back when ye... When ye figured out ye were... uh..."

"Gay?"

"Yeah. Uh... yeah."

John pauses. He doesn't want to cause more strife between his family, but maybe it's already too late for that. If Colin is implying what John thinks he is, he needs to know the real story. He needs to be able to prepare himself for how the family might react.

"It took me a while to accept it. I struggled for a couple of years before I figured out the feelings werenae going to just go away. What d'ye know about what happened between me and the family?"

"Not much. Grandfather willnae talk about it. Da just says ye were 'disrespectful' and 'flaunting' yer ways. And Aunt Fi said tha' she's never been more ashamed of the MacTavish family than the day she had tae come get ye because Grandfather kicked ye out."

"Well. Tha's a short version, I suppose, though not sure what yer da is on about when he wasnae even there."

Colin gasp-laughs, and John clears his throat awkwardly. He's been trying not to drag his bitterness into their conversations, but this... It's one of the most formative events of his life. It's the reason he joined the army, the reason he still struggles with the word "family"...

And likely the reason Simon's desertion created such a gaping wound that even three years couldn't repair it.

"It's okay if ye dinnae want tae talk about it," Colin says softly when the silence stretches.

"No. Ye need tae know," John says, and with a deep breath, he exhales the most concise version he can manage. "At fifteen, I got caught kissing a boy at school. Instead of minding his own fu— minding his own business, the headteacher called our parents. When I got home, yer grandfather was waiting for me, and he gave me one opportunity to promise I'd never do it again. By that time, I'd mostly come tae terms with who I was and didnae want tae hide anymore, so I refused. He kicked me out without a backward glance."

The pain flares up like an old would, aching to his very bones. John takes a moment to swallow down the anger and hurt — and makes a note to finally talk to Abby about it later.

"Thankfully," John continues in a lighter tone, "yer Aunt Fi came tae the rescue. I think the whole neighborhood could hear her giving yer grandfather a piece of her mind. Tha's why yer Aunt Fi is my fuckin' hero." John pauses and then grunts in frustration. "Och. Sorry about the cursing."

Colin exhales a quiet, teary laugh. "I'm fourteen. S'no' like I havnae heard it before." It's quiet again for a moment before Colin speaks in the softest voice John has ever heard from him. "If I wanted to leave or... if I got... k-kicked out, would ye... could I come live with ye?"

"I hope it won't come tae tha', but ye'll always have a home with me if ye want it, Colin MacTavish. I'll probably have tae fight Fi for the honor, though."

And gods above if John's heart doesn't break right along with the quiet sob that bursts from Colin. "Can I come now?" he asks through tears. "I dinnae want tae be here anymore. Dinnae want tae hear the hateful words they say. Why do they have tae be like this? Why can't they just accept people fer who they are? Why—"

A muffled sound comes through the speakers, and John sits up straight as Colin curses under his breath. The line goes static-y for a moment before Colin's voice comes back, distant and utterly distraught.

"No! Wait! It's no' what ye—"

"And just who th' fuck are ye to tell my boy he can come live with ye, eh?"

John freezes, heart thundering in his chest as a panicky, sick feeling rises up his throat. He hasn't heard his brother's voice since his mam's funeral, and even then, it was only from a distance when Liam spoke a poem in her honor.

The hateful tone rakes down his skin like sandpaper, a tone so like their father's.

He manages to choke out a soft, "Liam."

His brother doesn't hear it.

"Whoever ye are, know tha' I will hunt ye down and skin ye alive if ye ever contact my son again. In fact—"

"Liam."

"—ferget again. Once is enough. I'll find ye and send ye tae the—"

"Liam."

The short pause lets him know his brother has finally heard him, but apparently it's not enough.

"How d'ye know my name? Who are—"

"Dinnae even recognize my voice, do ye?"

There's a long pause this time. In the background, Colin's voice is little more than a murmur, but John hears his name in the midst of tearful words. A sharp intake of air cuts across the line before Liam speaks again, and to John's shock and confusion, all the hate drops away, leaving only a soft, hesitant murmur of his name.

"John?"

"Aye, ye bawbag," John gripes to cover his confusion. "Quit makin' my nephew cry."

"Why are ye... who—"

"I asked Aunt Fi fer his number, Da! It's no' his fault!" Colin yells in the background.

"Alright! Alright," Liam calls back. "I'm gonna talk tae yer uncle, and then we'll have a talk, too, aye?"

A bit of shuffling and the sound of a door clicking closed follows. But Liam doesn't hang up. Doesn't start cursing at him again. He breathes into the phone line — something stuttering and hesitant — before letting out a long sigh.

"I heard... Fi told me and Becca about the injury. How... how are ye?"

It takes John a full five seconds before he can push down the shock enough to respond. "I'm... better. I have more good days than bad now. How is... everyone there?"

"We're okay. It's... things arenae the same without mam."

A dull ache pulses through John's chest. He lifts a hand to rub over the tattoo inked over his heart.

"I miss her," he admits.

"Me, too," Liam murmurs. "She... before she died, she asked me tae contact ye. I promised her I would."

"But ye didnae do it."

The line goes quiet, and John's heart sinks. Is Liam only talking to him now out of a sense of guilt? Or worse...

"I dinnae need yer pity, Liam," he says in a harder tone.

"It's no' pity, John. I swear it."

"Guilt then."

"Maybe, but no' in the way ye mean." A heavy breath follows. "I willnae stop ye from talking tae Colin, but... will ye tell me why he was greetin'?"

"Cannae do tha'. Ye'll need tae talk tae him yerself. And dinnae be hard on him, aye? Growin' up is tough."

The next pause is long enough that John thinks Liam has hung up. Just as he's about to disconnect, though, Liam speaks is a rush.

"I'm sorry. For no' being there. For takin' da's side. I'm not... I still struggle with things, but... what happened was wrong. I understand tha' now. I'm no' askin' ye tae forgive me, but I wanted ye tae know. And it shouldnae have taken my own son callin' ye behind my back tae get me off my arse, but here we are. I guess..." He stops to huff out a sigh. "I guess I was just ashamed of myself. Already nine years too late when mam died. And now, what? Sixteen? Christ Almighty. I'm a right wankstain and willnae blame ye if ye tell me tae fuck aff."

Liam blows out a breath. John opens his mouth, but he's too shocked to speak at first. Tears fill his eyes, but he blinks them away and clears his throat.

"One apology doesnae make everything okay, Liam."

"I know," Liam breathes. "I know tha'."

John grits his teeth against the burn in his eyes as he adds, "But it's a start."

*

"Roach! You made it!"

John grins as he holds the fence gate open for Roach and Alan to pass through. Although it's been six weeks since the mission, Roach is still in a cast and using crutches due to the additional surgeries. But his smile is brighter than the sun riding high in the August sky, and warmth fills John's chest as Roach pauses to grip his shoulder.

"Couldn't miss out on another Saturday dinner. I heard Ghost got the all clear from the doctors?"

"Aye," John confirms as he pulls Roach in for a gentle squeeze. "Finally got rid of tha' boggin' cast yesterday. And not a moment too soon for my sanity. If he breaks something again, I'm sending him to Fiona."

"Harsh," Roach says with click of his tongue. "Careful or it might end up like that movie with Kathy Bates."

"Except Fi will be trying to axe him, not keep him around."

They share a laugh as Gaz calls out a greeting and jogs over to join them. John steps back to let Gaz take over the hug.

"We heard the good news, mate!" Gaz says as he pulls back to grin at Roach. "Congrats on skating past that medical discharge. I was worried we were gonna lose you."

"It was touch and go for a while." Roach looks over his shoulder at where Alan is standing behind him, a fond smile pulling at his lips. "But I made it through thanks to the best PT ever."

"The very best," John agrees as he pulls Alan into a hug next. As they embrace, he lowers his voice to ask, "Are those fond glances and bashful smiles I'm seeing, Mr. Bennett? Have ye found yer Bingley?"

Alan scoffs, but when John pulls back, a soft blush paints Alan's pale cheeks pink. John does his best not to laugh, letting Gaz dive in to hug Alan, too.

It's enough of an answer to know they'll be seeing a lot of both Gary and Alan... together.

Gaz ushers them all over to the patio to join Belle and Simon. It's too warm for a fire, but there's a sun shade overhead and a cooler of drinks off to the side. As Gaz makes sure Roach and Alan have a place to sit and their preferred beverages in hand, John glances out at the street to watch for Fi and Price.

They moved up the dinner to early afternoon, something about Belle having an evening work event she couldn't get out of, but Belle gave them all plenty of notice about the change in time...

A warm hand presses into the small of his back. "Alright, Johnny?"

John turns away from the road to smile up at Simon. "Aye. You?"

"Never better, though I can't say I'm lookin' forward to tomorrow night."

Tomorrow. Their last day of leave together before Simon goes back to Credenhill with Gaz.

John's chest tightens at the reminder.

The past six weeks have been a learning experience to say the least. Things haven't always gone smoothly — they're both far too stubborn for that — but it's also been easier than John anticipated to meld their lives together. Simon has agreed to stay with John for future leaves and any weekends he isn't deployed, which soothes the anxious beast pacing in his chest whenever he thinks of the future. Leaving is part of the deal for as long as Simon is with the military, but after John's career-ending experience and the near misses of the 141's most recent mission, he's never been more aware of how easily it can all slip through his fingers.

"So, are you excited to get back on base, Ghost?" Belle asks as she approaches, beers in hand for both of them.

Her smile is soft in the way that means she's either genuinely curious... or she already knows the answer to her question. This time, John suspects it's the latter. As they take the offered beers, Simon shrugs and glances at John before reaching up to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

"A bit. Not as much as usual."

"Oh? Why's that?"

Yeah, she definitely knows the answer. And the glint in Simon's eyes means he knows she knows, which is why John is surprised when he still answers her question.

"Mostly 'cause I haven't been bored outta my mind this time. And... it's nice to be around you all, I guess."

"A heart-felt confession if I ever heard one," Gaz teases from his place on the far side of the patio.

John tips his beer at Simon and smirks. "Simon's all heart. Nothin' but a big teddy bear."

"Maybe for you!" Gaz says with a laugh.

To John's surprise, Simon huffs a laugh, too...

And leans down to give John a brief kiss and murmur "just for you" against his slack lips.

John isn't the only one shocked. Everyone goes quiet for a moment before Roach and Gaz break into simultaneous cat calls. It's enough to bring out Simon's lieutenant voice.

"That'll do."

Everyone laughs.

And in the midst of all the noise, another voice calls out.

"Uncle John!"

Without thinking, John spins around. Thankfully, when his body stops but his head continues spinning, Simon is there to take the bottle from his hand and steady him with an arm around his shoulders. As his brain adjusts, the world slowly resolves into blurry figures walking through the fence gate — Fi, Price, and a tall, gangly boy with dark hair and bright blue eyes...

"Colin?"

The world stabilizes enough for him to get a good look at his nephew before Colin breaks from Fi's side to jog up to John.

"Hey," Colin says with a tentative smile as he comes to a stop in front of John. "Surprise?"

John bursts into laughter as he lets go of his cane and grabs up his nephew in a strangling hug. Simon's hand settles on John's waist, a steady pressure holding him firm as he looks over Colin's shoulder to lock gazes with Fi who's stopped a couple of meters away. Tears stream down her face, the big sap, while Price hooks his arm over her shoulders and nods at John with a smile.

"How?" John manages to ask through his own welling emotions.

"By car, mostly," Fi snarks through her tears.

John scoffs. "Aye, tha's definitely what I meant."

"Da wasnae ready tae come," Colin answers in his ear, "but he said yes when Fi asked tae bring me along fer the weekend. He knew it would mean meetin' wit' ye, and he still said yes!"

The impromptu conversation with Liam two weeks ago has led to several more calls, sometimes with Colin and sometimes just the two brothers hashing things out. Liam still struggles with letting go of his ingrained beliefs, but he seems genuine about wanting to stay in contact. And willingly letting Colin meet with John in person is far more than he expected, especially so soon into their tentative reconciliation.

Fi is skeptical of Liam's staying power, especially when their father inevitably finds out. John has his doubts as well. He's already warned Liam that he stopped being ashamed of who he was a long time ago, and he's not about to start again — or allow anyone in his life who acts ashamed of him.

But for now, he'll try not to rock the boat too hard. Not at first, anyway. Colin is still mulling things over, talking with John and working through what feels right for him. John has assured Colin that he doesn't have to tell the rest of the family if he doesn't want to, even Fi, that it's okay to try out labels and then change his mind if he feels differently later, and mostly importantly, that John will do whatever it takes to make sure Colin doesn't have to go through what he did as a kid.

John keeps his hands on Colin's shoulders as he finally pulls back from the hug, and his chest constricts as it hits him full on: It's not just him and Fi anymore. After sixteen years of being pushed out of the family, he's got Colin, maybe Liam, and if Fi is to be believed, their sister Becca might be coming around as well.

He doesn't dare hope too hard. There's a lot of bitterness sewn up in their family tapestry, and it will take a long time, if ever, before John fully unravels the hurt and distrust woven into the way Liam and Becca have treated him for the past sixteen years.

But he can't help nurturing the flicker of a flame that perhaps most of the fractured MacTavish family might heal one day.

The spot where his mother's name is etched over his heart aches with something that feels a lot like longing. His throat tightens, and he desperately claws back the urge to cry. He can tell from the way his eyes burn and begin to blur that it's a losing battle.

"Och... Colin! It's so good tae finally meet ye in person."

"Aye," Colin agrees as he wipes his eyes with his sleeve. "Never thought it would happen, if I'm honest."

"Yer taller than I imagined."

A wobbly laugh bursts from Colin and he nods. "So are you."

They smile at each other for a moment before Colin's watery gaze flicks over John's shoulder. His eyes widen, and he looks away quickly, clearing his throat trying to better wipe his face. Fi hands him a tissue, for which he mumbles soft thanks.

The hand on John's waist squeezes once before Simon dips down to grab the cane from where it fell.

"Thank ye, love," John murmurs as he takes it and then reaches back to encourage Simon to stand beside him. "Colin, I'd like tae introduce ye to my... uh... Simon."

"Yer Simon, eh?" Fi teases.

John huffs and wrinkles his nose at Fi before and glancing up at Simon through his lashes. "We havenae talked about it."

Luckily, Simon seems to think it's funny, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a faint smirk. He reaches out, and Colin's eyes widen further as he grasps and shakes Simon's hand.

"Been hearin' a lot about you from your Uncle John. Nice to meet you, Colin."

"Oh! Aye. I mean, you too. Uncle John's told me about ye. Should I call ye Simon... or uh... maybe I could call ye Ghost?"

Simon's mouth twitches into a full smile. "Ghost is just fine."

*

The early dinner goes off without a hitch, the nine of them enough for Belle to finally pull out the leaf to her dining table. They do their best to keep the talk appropriate for a fourteen year old, and John delights in the way Colin's eyes dart around the table, watching when Alan brushes a hand over Roach's shoulder or especially when Simon occasionally leans in to murmur in John's ear or press a kiss to his temple.

It's clear Colin is struck by the normalcy of it all, and it leaves him quiet and more contemplative than John's seen him before. Fi doesn't seem concerned, though, so he chalks it up to their limited conversations and digital-only interactions.

John also watches Fi and Price. They've been freer with their affection over the past few weeks, and though Price is back on full-duty, Fi doesn't show any signs of regretting her decision to spend more time at Price's place. In the end, though, she decided to keep her house in Glasgow for when her job needed her to be there in person and for visiting with family. It's not a perfect arrangement, but it's clear Fi is happier than she's been in years. And Price...

Well...

"Who knew Cap was such a fu— er... flippin' sap," Gaz goads as they catch Price watching Fiona with heart eyes for the umpteenth time that afternoon.

Price doesn't bother to deny it, though he does let out a prolonged sigh. "Not the only sap at the table, Garrick."

"Guilty as charged," Gaz admits as he wraps both arms around Belle's shoulders and kisses her on the temple.

Belle closes her eyes and smiles at the affection before looking over a Price. "Don't mind his teasing. It's only because it's new for you."

"What do you mean? What's new?"

"The besotted look," she says with an innocent smile as she circles her finger in the general direction of his face.

Price opens his mouth to reply, but Fiona darts in to press a kiss to his cheek and murmur something in his ear. John is frankly glad he can't hear it. It's one thing to be happy for his sister's happiness. It's quite another to be privy to the details. He's had enough of accidentally overhearing them to last ten lifetimes.

Still, the soft smile that spreads over Price's face is proof enough that he and Fiona have found equilibrium after years of strife. Maybe someday John will even get a brother in law out of the deal.

Price nods at whatever Fiona has said and clears his throat. "Before we all head our separate ways today, there's something I need to say."

John glances at Fi. A nod confirms that this is the talk he's been anticipating.