Chapter Text
The days had grown shorter, the air colder, and the city had wrapped itself in a glittering embrace of Christmas lights and holiday cheer. Every corner, every shop window, every street lamp was adorned with twinkling lights, garlands, and the constant, cheerful hum of festive music that followed you everywhere you went. People bustled around with shopping bags and bright smiles, planning parties and exchanging gifts. It was all...perfect.
But not for Simon.
Sure, Halloween was fun this year, especially with you and his teammates, but for Simon, Christmas was a time he’d rather skip. It was the season that brought too many memories, too much pain. He didn’t talk about it, ever. Not to you, not to anyone. All he ever said was that Christmas wasn’t his thing, that he preferred to stay busy during the holidays. Which usually meant volunteering for deployment. It was easier that way. Out there, he could pretend Christmas didn’t exist, that it was just another day in the life of a soldier.
But this year, things were different. Simon hadn’t been deployed for Christmas. In fact, he hadn’t left for weeks. For reasons you didn’t know, he had opted to stay back, which, honestly, felt like a small miracle. But as December rolled in, you could sense his discomfort growing, the way he recoiled from the decorations and the holiday spirit that seemed to be everywhere you turned.
It was painfully obvious. Simon hated Christmas.
The first time you broached the subject, it was early December, and you were sitting in your apartment, sipping hot chocolate while watching the snowfall outside. Simon had come over to help you with some repairs, but you’d kept him longer with the promise of dinner. He had obliged, though now he sat at your kitchen table, staring at the steam rising from his own mug of hot chocolate, his face impassive.
You bit your lip, watching him for a moment. “So...what’re your plans for Christmas?”
Simon’s grip on the mug tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he shrugged. “Don’t have any.”
His response was flat, almost dismissive. You could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, but you couldn’t help yourself. “Nothing?”
He shook his head, his gaze focused firmly on the table in front of him. “No. Never been a fan of Christmas,” he muttered, his voice colder than usual.
The words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you weren’t sure what to say. You’d always known Simon wasn’t big on holidays, but this felt different. His entire body was tense, like he was shutting himself off from the conversation, from you.
You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Well...you don’t have to spend it alone,” you said softly, barely above a whisper. “I mean, if you want, you could spend Christmas with me. We could just...hang out. Watch movies. Eat food. If you want.”
Simon didn’t respond right away. His jaw tightened, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a brief moment before he looked away again. You could see the battle raging inside him, the way he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he let out a low sigh, leaning back in his chair as if the weight of the conversation was too much.
“I don’t do Christmas,” he said gruffly. “Just...not my thing.”
You frowned, your heart aching at the way he was closing himself off. You didn’t know the details of why Christmas was such a sore spot for him, but you could sense that it went beyond just not liking the holiday. There was pain there, buried deep, and he wasn’t ready to share it.
“Okay,” you said gently. “But...if you change your mind, the offer’s there.”
Simon’s expression softened for a brief moment, but he quickly looked away, hiding it behind that familiar wall of stoicism. He hated saying no to you, hated the way your shoulders drooped ever so slightly despite your best effort to hide your disappointment. Yet, the thought of Christmas, the lights, the ornaments, the festive joy, it all brought back memories he wasn’t ready to face. The flashes of that night came flooding back. Blood-stained floors, shattered ornaments, his family...
No. It didn’t matter anymore. He’d come to terms with it, or at least, he thought he had. But still, avoiding the holiday was the only way he knew how to protect himself from the grief that lingered just beneath the surface.
A week passed, then two. You busied yourself with work, visiting friends and family, as well as granny Aisha and little Rascal, as the days crept closer to Christmas. You gave Simon space, understanding that whatever he was dealing with wasn’t something you could fix, at least not by pushing him. You remembered that one Christmas photo you found in his apartment, the one of him surrounded by his family, happy, smiling, before he shoved it away into a box, as if trying to squash it along with the other memories.
You wanted to respect his boundaries, but you couldn’t shake the sadness that clung to you whenever you thought about him spending Christmas alone. It was supposed to be a time for being with loved ones. And while Simon might not have been a fan of the holiday, you knew he deserved more than isolation.
On Christmas Eve, you decided to take matters into your own hands, but carefully. You didn’t put up any decorations, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate the festive display. Instead, you focused on making a nice meal, something simple but special.
The smell of roasted vegetables and baked bread filled your apartment as you stood in the kitchen, your thoughts drifting to him. Even if he didn’t show up, you would be okay with it. But part of you still hoped, hoped that he’d come, that he’d let you in.
You glanced at your phone, hesitating. Should you text him? Call him? Or just leave him alone and wait?
Deciding to keep it casual, you sent a simple message.
“Hey I made some food if you feel like coming by. No pressure”
It was straightforward, no expectations. You set your phone down and went back to the kitchen, keeping yourself busy as the minutes ticked by. You didn’t want to get your hopes up, but it was hard not to. Simon was your partner, and even though he wasn’t one for grand gestures, you knew he cared about you in his own quiet way.
The apartment was warm and inviting, even without the festive decor. It felt right, the two of you, spending time together in a way that didn’t need the flashing lights or the Christmas tree. It wasn’t about the holiday; it was about being there for each other.
As you stirred the gravy on the stove, your phone buzzed, and your heart skipped a beat. You wiped your hands on a dish towel before grabbing it.
“Be there soon”
Your heart swelled with relief and nervous anticipation. He was coming. You glanced around the apartment, making sure everything was in order. It wasn’t about impressing him, but you wanted him to feel comfortable, to know that he could let his guard down, even if just for tonight.
A knock on the door broke through your thoughts, and you hurried to open it. Simon stood there, dressed in his usual black jacket, his face partially obscured by the hood pulled up over his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. There was no mask this time.
“Hey,” you greeted, stepping aside to let him in.
“Hey,” he replied, a hint of vulnerability slipping through, one that you can hear, one that makes your chest hurt.
He shrugged off his jacket and hung it by the door, glancing around the apartment. The lack of Christmas decorations seemed to ease the tension in his shoulders, and he gave you a small nod, as if silently thanking you for being considerate.
“You didn’t have to do this,” Simon said, his eyes flicking to the dining table where the meal you’d prepared was laid out. He didn’t sound irritated, more...conflicted.
“I wanted to.”
He didn’t respond, but you could see the shift in his expression. Caring about a man like him without any expectations, was strange for him, but not unwelcome. He had grown used to the kindness you showed him over the past year or so, even if it was more difficult than he expected, to let his heart out there. But you made it easy, you with your sweet smiles and cosy laughs, ones that wrapped around him tightly.
You both sat down to eat. You didn’t push him to talk, didn’t ask him about the past or why he hated the holiday. Instead, you let the quiet stretch between you, allowing him to take what he needed from the moment.
You couldn’t help but steal glances at him while you chewed. He looked tired, worn down by whatever demons haunted him, but he still looked at you with the same warmth that came from being here with you.
After you’d both finished your meal, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused on the floor as though lost in thought. His fingers tapped lightly against the side of the table, a rare sign of restlessness. Then, after a moment, he broke the silence, a quiet tone, just for you to hear.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. The sincerity in his gaze made your heart tighten.
“For what?” you asked softly, tilting your head to one side as you studied him.
Simon’s hand gestured vaguely, encompassing the room, the meal, you. “For...this,” he said with a rasp, as if it was hard for him to find the right words. “For putting up with me, looking after me.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Simon,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
Simon’s eyes held yours for a moment longer before he gave a small nod. You stood up, intending to clear the table, but then a thought popped into your mind.
“You know,” you said, glancing at one of the kitchen cabinets. “I never did try that bourbon you gave me when we first met.”
Simon’s eyebrows raised slightly, his curiosity piqued. “Why not?” he asked, a hint of teasing. “Didn’t think it was any good?”
You chuckled as you walked over to the cabinet and pulled out the bottle. “No, I’ve been saving it. For a special occasion.”
“This special enough for you?” he asked, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips.
You turned to face him, holding the bottle in both hands, and nodded. “Yeah, I think it is.”
As you set the bottle down on the counter, you suddenly had another idea. “Hey,” you said, glancing over your shoulder at Simon. “Do you want to watch something? I mean it doesn't have to be anything crazy but–”
Before you could finish, your face lit up with excitement. “Wait, I know! Let’s watch Die Hard Two! It’s your favourite, right?”
Simon blinked. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he closed it again, and a quiet laugh escaped his lips. “You remembered that?”
“Of course,” you replied, grinning as you began to gather the dishes from the table. “How could I forget your love for cheesy action sequels?”
Simon shook his head, still looking a little amused, but he stood up and moved to help with the dishes. “Alright, but only if we stick to one cup each of that bourbon,” he teased. “We don’t need a repeat of the last time you got tipsy.”
Your cheeks flushed at the memory of that night, the way you had rambled and giggled a bit too much, how Simon had helped you back to your apartment with his large jacket draped over you. You gave him a playful glare, nudging him as you washed the dishes. “That was one time, and you’re never going to let me live it down, are you?”
Simon’s smirk widened just a bit as dried a dish you handed him. “Nope.”
Once the dishes were done, you hurried over to set up the movie, excitement bubbling in you. You poured a small glass of bourbon for each of you, careful to heed Simon’s teasing warning about keeping it to one cup. As you placed the glasses on the coffee table, you glanced back at Simon, who was now sitting on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him, looking more relaxed than you’d seen him in days.
You sat down beside him, close enough that your knees brushed. You handed him his glass, and he gave you a nod of thanks, his eyes flicking to the TV as the movie began to play.
The familiar sounds of Die Hard 2 filled the room, and as the action kicked off, you couldn’t help but glance over at Simon. He was watching the screen intently, but there was a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You took a sip of the bourbon, the warmth spreading through your chest, and found yourself smiling too.
“Happy?” you asked in a hush, not wanting to break the comfortable silence between you.
Simon glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” he replied. “I am.”
The movie played on, but the dialogue and action were just background noise, a hum that neither of you really paid attention to. The room felt small, relaxing, wrapped in the light of the TV and the warmth of bourbon lingering on your tongues. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t need filling, where every little movement, Simon adjusting his arm on the back of the couch or you tucking your legs underneath you, felt natural, easy.
But even in the quiet, you could feel Simon.
Simon wasn’t as good at hiding as he thought he was. His mask slips in small, almost unnoticeable ways around you. The soft twitch of his lips when you said something that amused him, the way his fingers tapped a rhythm against the cushion when he was deep in thought.
When you glanced up, his gaze was already on you, looking down at you with those dark eyes, his light lashes a veil over the yearning deep within them. The way he looked at you felt like a secret, something he didn’t quite know how to say aloud but couldn’t keep hidden.
“Simon...” you started, not even sure what you were going to say.
His hand moved, his fingers brushing against yours. The calluses on his skin felt rough, grounding, and when you didn’t pull away, he shifted closer, his muscular thigh pressing lightly against yours. His movements were slow, like he was giving you every chance to back away.
The world narrowed, the movie forgotten, the buzz of the outside world fading into the background. His eyes dropped to your lips, and you could feel the pull, the moment drawing tighter, ready to snap. His breath mingled with yours and his lips were so close now you could almost feel them.
Then the sharp buzz of his phone shattered the stillness.
“Fuckin' hell,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the phone with an irritated scowl. When he saw the name on the screen, his frown deepened. “It’s Johnny.”
You couldn’t help but smile at the annoyed look on his face. “You should answer it,” you said, nudging him. “It could be important.”
Simon rolled his eyes but swiped the phone screen to answer the call. “What d’you want, Johnny?” His tone was flat, though there was a hint of fondness in it.
Johnny’s voice was loud and cheerful on the other end, enough that you could hear his thick Scottish accent even though Simon hadn’t put the phone on speaker. “Oi, ye grumpy git! I’ve got news for ye.”
Simon rubbed a hand over his face, already regretting picking up the call. “Johnny, it’s late. Can this wait?”
Johnny wasn’t deterred. “Nah, it’s about Christmas, mate. My mum’s throwin’ a big dinner this year, proper family get-together. And ye’re bloody invited. Gary and Kyle are coming, even the cap! It’ll be great.”
Simon stiffened beside you, his posture going rigid at the mention of Christmas and a family dinner. His expression darkened, and you could feel the shift in his mood immediately. You reached out instinctively, placing a comforting hand on his arm.
“Not interested.”
But Johnny, being Johnny, didn’t seem to pick up on Simon’s discomfort. “Oh, come on! It’ll be fun. And ye can bring yer missus too, aye?”
You blushed at that, feeling Simon’s eyes flick to you as Johnny continued to talk. You could see the tension in Simon’s jaw, the way his grip on the phone tightened.
Johnny’s voice kept going on, talking about how his family would love to meet Simon and how they’d have a grand time. You leaned closer to Simon, your voice soft as you tried to offer some reassurance. “Simon...it could be nice. We don’t have to stay long if it’s too much.”
He looked at you, uncertain. You knew how hard this was for him, letting people in, being around family, especially around the holidays. But you also knew that Johnny meant well, and it might be a chance for Simon to create new memories, ones that weren’t tied to the pain of his past.
Johnny’s voice rang through the phone again. “Come on, Lt.! We’re a team, a family of sorts. My mum makes the best roast ye’ll ever taste. And trust me, ye dinnae wanna miss Isla dancin’ ‘round the Christmas tree.”
Simon sighed heavily, clearly torn. He didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Johnny...”
You squeezed Simon’s arm gently while he stared at you, searching for an answer as his throat went dry, his breath stuck in the middle of it.
“We’d love to come, Johnny,” you said, heightening your voice slightly so he could hear you on the phone. You rubbed Simon's arm when he sighed, clearing his throat.
Johnny let out a whoop of victory on the other end of the line. “Bloody brilliant! I knew she’d talk some sense into ye. Ye’ll love it, Simon. It’ll be good for ye.”
Simon shot you a half-hearted glare but didn’t argue. “Fine,” he muttered, clearly not thrilled about the idea but unwilling to fight it anymore. “We’ll be there.”
Johnny’s laughter rang through the phone, full of joy and excitement. “Lookin’ forward tae it, mate! I’ll see ye both soon.”
Simon hung up the phone, his shoulders slumping in resignation. He glanced over at you, his expression conflicted, gratitude and reluctance.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly, his voice softer now, as though he was trying to hide how much it meant to him that you’d stepped in.
You smiled, leaning into his side. “I know. But I think it’ll be good for us, like Johnny said. We’ll get through it together.”
He reached a hand to your cheek and you looked up at him. For a brief second, it felt like the moment was returning, that closeness from before the phone call. His thumb gently stroked your skin as he closed the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was hesitant at first, but quickly deepened as his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in, the taste of bourbon still lingering on his lips.
When you finally pulled back, Simon’s forehead rested against yours, his hand still cradling your neck.
You smiled, his kisses always getting you into some sort of high as you sighed in relief, held close by him. “I'm glad you’re mine,” you whispered.
Simon closed his eyes for a second, cherishing your words before pecking the corner of your mouth as if to say, me too.
The next morning, you woke to the sound of Simon’s deep voice cutting through the stillness of the room after he entered your apartment with the spare key you gave him long ago. “Pack light,” he said, standing at the foot of the bed with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
You blinked up at him, eyelids still heavy with sleep, confused. “Wait, what? Pack light for what?”
He raised an eyebrow, his expression as stoic as ever. “Johnny’s family dinner. His mum lives in Scotland. We’re takin’ the train.”
“Oh.”
That was how you found yourself on a four-hour train ride north, heading toward Scotland. The rhythm of the train moving along the tracks was soothing, the countryside passing by in a blur of green fields, small towns, and the occasional glimpse of the sea. Simon sat beside you, his large frame taking up more space than he realized, moving his legs closer to give you more room.
Despite his earlier reluctance, he seemed more relaxed now, the quiet hum of the train and the peaceful scenery working their magic. You, on the other hand, were a ball of excitement and nerves. The thought of meeting Johnny’s family, of spending time with Simon in such a personal setting, made your heart race.
“Never thought I’d be dragging you to a family Christmas,” you teased, glancing over at Simon with a smile. “But here we are.”
Simon huffed softly through the disposable mask. “Not exactly my usual scene,” he admitted, his fingers brushing against yours where they sat on the armrest. “But... I suppose there are worse ways to spend the holidays.”
“You’ll survive. Plus, Johnny’s mum makes a mean roast, right? And Isla’s dance moves? Can’t wait to see those.”
Simon snorted and glanced out the window. His eyes softened as he watched the rolling hills and distant mountains come into view. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe this won’t be so bad.”
As the train sped along, you leaned into Simon’s side, the warmth of his human heater of a body comforting against the cool air that filtered through the windows. The two of you sat in companionable silence for a while, just enjoying the scenery and the rare moment of peace.
After a while, Simon shifted in his seat, glancing down at you. “You alright, love?” he asked, his voice low and rumbly, the concern in his tone making your heart flutter.
“I’m good,” you said, smiling up at him. “You?”
He hesitated for a moment, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for something. Then, with a small nod, he said, “Yeah. I am.”
He looked at you like you were the one thing keeping him together. You reached for his hand, squeezing it gently, and he laced his fingers with yours, holding on just a little tighter than usual.
By the time the train pulled into the station, the sun was high in the sky, casting a glow over the Scottish countryside. You and Simon gathered your bags and made your way off the train.
“Ready to meet the Mactavishes?” you asked, glancing up at him while the two of you stepped onto the platform.
He hid his face from the cold behind his scarf but you heard him chuckle softly, shaking his head. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he answered, though the slight smile on his tone told you he wasn’t dreading it as much as he’d let on.
As you stepped off the train, your eyes scanned the station. Johnny had mentioned meeting you at the house, so you both hailed a cab and within half an hour, you were pulling up to a quaint home nestled among the hills. The Mactavish family home was exactly how you imagined it, inviting and brimming with character. Fairy lights were twinkling along the eaves, and the smell of something delicious wafted through the air, even from outside.
You felt a sudden surge of nervousness as you approached the front door. Despite your ease with Johnny, this was his family, people who mattered to him more than anything. And Simon, well, he was even more on edge, though he hid it well. His grip on your hand tightened slightly, and you gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze.
"It’s going to be fine," you whispered, leaning into him. “Besides, you’ve survived far worse than family dinners.”
Simon gave a short grunt in response. He shifted his bag, straightening his posture as if he were about to walk into a mission briefing. But then, before either of you could think too much, the door swung open.
“Ah! There they are!” Johnny beamed, his face lighting up as he pulled the door wide. “About time! Thought ye’d gotten lost along the way.”
Johnny’s grin was infectious, and you couldn’t help but return it as you stepped inside. “Sorry, we’re fashionably late,” you joked, squeezing Simon’s hand one last time before letting go.
“Welcome, welcome,” Johnny said, waving you both inside. He glanced at Simon and, with a mischievous glint in his eye, added, “And you, Simon. Glad ye made it. Mum’s been askin’ ‘bout ye.”
Simon, for all his gruffness, gave Johnny a mock glare but didn’t protest. As you stepped through the threshold, you were greeted by the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and the soft hum of conversation. The house smelled like roast lamb, herbs, and fresh bread, a feast waiting to be devoured.
In the living room, Kyle, Gary, and Captain Price were already seated on the couches, chatting easily with Johnny’s parents, his sister and her husband. The room was full, bustling with energy, but the atmosphere was laid-back despite that.
Isla spotted you first, her eyes lighting up. “Ye’re here!” she squealed, running over to you. She practically threw herself into your arms, and you bent down to catch her, laughing as you lifted her up.
“Hey, honey! Missed me already?” you teased, ruffling her hair.
She giggled, hugging you tight before wriggling down and running back to her spot on the floor where she had a stack of books and toys. Simon, who had been lingering behind you, finally stepped into the room, his tall frame filling the doorway.
Johnny’s mum spotted him instantly, her face breaking into a wide smile. “Simon! Come in, lad. Nae need to be shy.”
You glanced at Simon, noticing his mask off, and he cleared his throat while nodding at Johnny’s mum. “Thank you, Mrs. Mactavish,” he said, his voice huskier than usual. Despite his size and reputation, Simon had never looked more out of place than he did right now, in this cosy family setting.
“None of that ‘Mrs.’ nonsense,” Johnny’s mum waved him off. “Call me Moira, lad. Ye’re practically family.”
Price chuckled from the couch, tipping his glass toward Simon in greeting. “Sit down, Riley. You’re makin’ the place look small standin’ there like that.”
Simon’s lips quirked in what was almost a smile as he nodded to Price, then took a seat beside you on the couch. As you settled in, Johnny handed you both a glass of wine, and the conversation quickly picked up again.
The rest of the afternoon was filled with laughter, stories, and the occasional banter from Johnny, who made it his mission to embarrass both you and Simon as much as possible. At one point, Isla climbed onto Simon’s lap, babbling about some storybook she wanted to show him, and despite his initial hesitation, Simon let her stay, quietly listening to her without interruption.
While Isla was still chatting away on Simon’s lap, Moira leaned over to you, her eyes twinkling. “He’s good with her, isn’t he?”
You smiled, watching the way Simon’s rough exterior chipped ever so slightly around the edges. “Yeah,” you sighed, “he really is.”
After an hour, everyone gathered around the large dinner table with dishes of steaming food being passed around, Moira making sure that everyone had more than enough on their plate.
You were sitting beside him, your hand resting on his knee under the table, thumb brushing the fabric of his jeans in gentle, comforting strokes. Every now and then, his eyes would flicker toward you, that small, barely-there smile playing on his lips. Simon wasn’t one for public displays of affection, but this small act, hidden from everyone else, was something that reassured him, reminded him that he wasn’t alone here.
Across the table, Johnny was in his element, his voice carrying as he gestured animatedly, recounting some story. His niece, Isla, sat beside him, giggling as he leaned toward her for dramatic effect, pulling faces to punctuate the tale.
Price, seated near the head of the table, shook his head with a chuckle, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand. “Soap,” he said indulgently, “you keep adding details every time you tell this story. Pretty sure you’re up to your fourth helicopter by now.”
Johnny grinned, undeterred. “Ye weren’t there, Cap. Had tae leap off the edge, mid-air, with nothing but a prayer and my own sheer brilliance tae save the day.”
Isla clapped her hands, completely enraptured, her little face glowing with delight. “Did ye, Uncle Johnny?”
“Well, Isla,” Johnny said, lowering his voice as if sharing a grave secret, “if ye ask yer mum, she might say different, but we both know the truth, dinnae we?” He winked, ruffling her hair.
Kyle and Gary sat further down. Their hands rested on the table, their pinkies brushing every so often in a way that was subtle but unmistakable. Kyle was mid-laugh, his shoulders shaking as Gary muttered something under his breath, clearly amused but less willing to contribute to Johnny’s theatrics.
“What’d he really do, Gaz?” Simon asked, his voice low and dry as his hand idly rested on your hand under the table. A reassurance that lingered like the scent of pine in the air.
Kyle leaned forward, his grin spreading as he pointed a fork at Johnny. “Nothing half as exciting as he’s making it sound. The ‘jump’ was more of a stumble, and the helicopter was a bloody ATV.”
Gary snorted into his cider, earning a playful shove from Johnny. “Oi, dinnae ruin the magic,” Johnny protested, his mock indignation sending another ripple of laughter around the table.
You found yourself smiling, soaking in the warmth of the moment. This wasn’t just a team of soldiers; they were a family, bound by more than their missions. Every laugh, every playful jab, every shared glance spoke to a connection far deeper than being a task force. It was loyalty, trust, and a fierce, unyielding love that they would never call by that name, but that you could feel all the same.
These men had seen the worst of the world. They’d carried each other through fire and fear, had each other’s backs in places where the only inevitability was danger. And now, here they were, sitting around the Mactavishes' worn dinner table, eating roasted turkey and drinking cider as if they hadn’t faced death more times than you could fathom. It was surreal in its simplicity, this glimpse into a life so ordinary and yet it felt monumental.
Your gaze slid to Simon, his posture relaxed in a way you rarely saw. The low rumble of his laugh at one of Johnny’s ridiculous jokes sent a thrill through you, a reminder of how precious these moments were.
You thought about the countless nights you’d spent waiting for Simon to come home, the way your chest would tighten with every news report, every moment of silence when you hadn’t heard from him. And yet, he always came back. He always walked through that door, sometimes battered, sometimes grumbling about joints, but always alive. Because of them.
Your heart swelled with gratitude as you looked around the table, at the faces of the people who had become a second family to Simon, and, in their own way, to you too. It wasn’t just about the missions or the battles. It was the way they cared for each other, even if they showed it through teasing insults and side-eyed grins. It was the way Johnny had a knack for pulling Simon out of his head with a laugh, or the way Price always seemed to know what to say to calm him down. It was the unspoken agreement between Kyle and Gary to have Simon’s six, no matter the odds.
These men weren’t just his team, they were the reason he came home, came back to you.
Price leaned back in his chair, his laughter subsiding as he surveyed the room. “This lot,” he said with a shake of his head towards the Mactavish’s, raising his glass to Johnny, “keeps me young. Barely.”
“Ye’re welcome,” Johnny replied, grinning ear to ear. He held up his own glass of cider as Isla tugged on his sleeve, asking for another story.
Simon’s gaze flicked back to you, his eyes softening as he caught you smiling at the sight of Isla perched beside her uncle. It wasn’t often he let himself feel this kind of warmth, this ease, but tonight was different. Tonight, there was no mission to plan, no danger lurking in the shadows, just laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the sound of Isla’s delighted giggles filling the air.
Johnny’s dad, an older man named Angus, leaned over the table, directing his question toward Simon. “So, lad, how long ye been in the forces?”
Simon blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sudden question, but he quickly composed himself. “’Bout fifteen years now.”
Angus nodded, clearly impressed. “Aye, takes a special kind of man tae do what ye do. Johnny speaks highly of ye.”
Simon looked slightly uncomfortable with the praise, his hand tightening on his fork, but before he could respond, Isla, who was now sitting quietly next to her mother, Edina, chimed in, her voice full of admiration. “He’s Batman!”
The entire table broke into laughter, and Simon’s ears flushed. He shook his head with a small, amused grin. “That’s what she calls me,” he muttered under his breath.
Moira, always the doting hostess, jumped in, “Well, I’d say Simon deserves a bit of superhero praise. It’s nae easy task keepin’ Johnny out of trouble.”
“Hey, I saved his arse last time!”
As the laughter faded, the conversation turned to lighter topics, Isla talking about school, Moira sharing stories from Johnny’s childhood, and Gary recounting some mishaps from a recent training exercise. You felt the atmosphere become more relaxed with every passing minute, making it easy for Simon to lower his guard even more.
Simon wasn’t used to this, family dinners, nights by the fire, and the warmth of being surrounded by people who cared. For years, his life had been defined by discipline and a constant awareness of peril. But now, in this unfamiliar setting, he let himself sink into the simple joy of being part of something bigger than himself. It wasn’t just the Christmas lights or the fireplace crackling beside the tree, it was the laughter, the easy banter, the genuine sense of belonging.
And the fact that you were beside him made it all the more surreal. You, guiding him through the evening with murmurs and soft touches, always making sure he was included, that he didn’t feel out of place.
After dinner, you sat together on the couch, your leg brushing against his as you spoke with Edina. Simon occasionally chipped in, but for the most part, he was content to just listen, soaking in the moment.
Some time passed as you basked in the glow of the hearth, relaxing in the living room with the rest. Edina and her husband exchanged stories with Kyle about raising a child as Gary sat cross-legged on the floor with Isla, the two of them playing with her dolls. Isla had coaxed him into helping her stage an elaborate tea party, complete with make-believe cakes and tiaras. You couldn’t help but notice Kyle looking at him every so often mid-conversation, his eyes lingering on the way Gary made sure Isla felt like the best princess in the world.
Simon’s eyes wandered over to Price and Johnny’s parents. They were deep in conversation, the older McTavishes fondly recounting tales of Johnny’s childhood mischief. Every so often, Johnny would butt in with a cheeky comment, making his parents roll their eyes, while Price chuckled knowingly beside him.
It was peaceful. For Simon, though, it felt like the air had grown too thick to breathe, the warmth pressing in on him in ways he wasn’t accustomed to. He liked the scene, more than he’d ever admit, but something in him always itched when he stayed in one place too long, when the world felt too safe, too calm. No matter how hard he tried, they were always lingering in the damaged film tape of his memories.
He leaned closer to you on the couch, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “I’m going out for a smoke, sweetheart.” His hand rested on your shoulder for a moment, his fingers lightly squeezing before he stood, retreating toward the door before you could respond.
You watched him go, your gaze lingering on his broad shoulders as he slipped out into the night. You knew this about Simon, knew the moments when he needed to step away, to recalibrate. The scars, the guilt, it wasn’t something easily left behind, even in a room full of warmth and laughter. He wasn’t running; he just needed air.
But still, something in you ached to follow him, to make sure he wasn’t out there facing the cold alone. You excused yourself from the group, murmuring something vague as you slipped out the door, the sudden chill biting at your skin as you stepped outside.
Simon stood on the porch, silhouetted against the soft glow of the house lights. The snow crunched faintly beneath his boots as he shifted his weight, one hand buried deep in his coat pocket while the other held a cigarette between his fingers. The ember glowed faintly, a tiny spark in the vast winter darkness.
You stepped closer, the chill of the night air biting at your cheeks. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a futile shield against the cold, but your focus wasn’t on the weather. “Mind if I join you?” you asked gently, your voice breaking the quiet like the first breath after a long silence.
Simon turned his head over his shoulder. His eyes softened when they landed on you, the shadow of his usual cautious expression easing just a fraction. “Didn’t think you’d follow me.”
You offered a small smile, stepping up beside him. “Didn’t want you to be out here alone.”
A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he took a slow drag from his cigarette, the tip flaring briefly in the darkness before he exhaled a curl of smoke into the night. “You don’t have to worry ‘bout me, love,” he said, his words laced with a casualness you knew didn’t quite reach the truth.
“I know I don’t have to,” you replied, shifting your weight to lean slightly closer to him. “But I do anyway.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The town stretched out before you, distant headlights weaving through the streets, their hum muted by the snow-covered landscape. You turned your head to watch him, catching the way the faint glow of the cigarette cast fleeting shadows across his face. His profile, all sharp angles and rugged lines, looked almost delicate under the winter’s light. There was something hypnotic about the way he stood, the silent stillness of him as the smoke curled upward into the dark.
“Why don’t you ever smoke around me?” you asked, your curiosity breaking the peaceful quiet.
Simon’s gaze flicked toward you, holding yours for just a beat before returning to the horizon. “S'not a good habit,” he said simply, his voice rough but honest. He took another drag before flicking the ash into the snow. “The smell, the smoke. It’s...not for everyone.”
Your heart tightened at the subtle thoughtfulness in his answer, the small act of consideration that he didn’t even think to mention until you asked. “That’s...sweet of you,” you murmured, the words catching slightly in your throat.
He shrugged, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t have you complainin’ about me smellin’ like cigarettes all the time, can I?”
You laughed softly, the sound carrying into the still night. “I wouldn’t complain...much.”
Simon’s smirk deepened, but he didn’t respond, his gaze drifting back toward the horizon. Before you let the quiet settle again, you couldn't help but ask.
“This Christmas,” you began hesitantly, your breath forming soft clouds in the frosty air. “Was it good for you? I mean...compared to others? I just...” You trailed off, biting your lip while fidgeting with your sleeve. “I hope it was better.”
Simon didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed in the distance, his shoulders lifting slightly as he inhaled. You watched him, wondering if you’d said too much, pushed too far. But then, he let out a quiet sigh, his breath misting in the air.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “It was better.”
He turned to look at you then, his eyes meeting yours. “Thanks to you.”
The words hit you like a wave, your heart swelling with emotion you didn’t know how to contain. You reached out instinctively, your hand resting on his arm. “I just wanted to make sure you had some good memories, Simon,” you said, your voice trembling slightly with sincerity. “I didn’t mean to bring up–”
“You didn’t,” he interrupted gently, his large hand covering yours where it rested on his arm. “You made this Christmas better than I could’ve expected.”
You squeezed his arm lightly, hoping he could feel everything you wanted to say but couldn’t quite find the words for.
The two of you stood there in silence, the cold nipping at your skin but unable to reach the warmth that bloomed between you. Simon's shadow will always be stuck right beneath his thick boots, who he was resting behind him. But that's fine, shadows are there for a reason, cast under a light. And your light thawed his heart like no other.
Finally, Simon let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting back to the stars. His hand didn’t leave yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles in a gesture so small, so tender.
Snowflakes began to drift down from the sky, the whispers of winter touching the ground. You looked up, the corners of your mouth lifting in a smile as you watched the tiny flakes swirl in the air. There was something magical about the snowfall, the way it turned the world quiet and still, a blanket of calm that covered everything.
Without thinking, you stepped off the porch and into the open space, your feet crunching softly against the fresh layer of snow. You turned your face toward the sky, arms outstretched as you spun slowly, letting the flakes settle on your skin. You felt like a child again, full of wonder at the simple beauty of it.
Simon stayed on the porch, watching you with a small smile. He wasn’t one for moments like this, wasn’t used to the kind of joy that could be found in something as simple as snow. But seeing you, watching you move so freely and without a care in the world, tugged at him, to the string bound between you. He stood there, silent, his heart beating a little faster as he realized how much he cherished these moments with you.
“Come here!” you called out as you beckoned him over.
He hesitated for a moment. “What're you doin’?”
“Come feel the snow!” You laughed, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward you before he could protest. He followed you without resistance, his larger hand engulfing yours as you pulled him into the open space, away from the shelter of the porch.
He stepped into the snow-covered yard, the cold biting at his skin, but he barely noticed. All he could see was you. When he was close enough, you grabbed his hand, pulling him into the centre of the yard with you.
“Close your eyes,” you said, grinning.
Simon hesitated for a moment, his eyes lingering on your face. You were so full of life, so full of light, and he couldn’t help but be drawn to you. Slowly, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting the snowflakes fall gently against his skin.
But he couldn't stay like that for long. While your eyes were closed, enjoying the feeling of the snow falling around you, his eyelids fluttered open, blinking the snow off as he stared at you. The way the flakes caught in your hair, the way your face lit up with joy, it was like watching something out of a dream.
That fear crept up again, the one that showed torn pictures of a past haunted, the one that clawed at his shoulders, the one that hissed in his ear about death, about loss. He huffed out air out of his nose, shaking his head while trying to shove those images away. He was tired of just telling a dead piece of wood his feelings, tired of feeling like a wimp, he could do more, he could do better he could tell you that-
He swallowed hard, the words forming in his throat before he could stop them.
“I love you,” he whispered, the words falling from his lips like a secret he’d been keeping for too long. His voice was hesitant, almost shy, as if he wasn’t sure how you’d react, but his eyes were full of sincerity, full of the emotion he had been holding back for so long.
Your eyes snapped open, your heart skipping a beat as you turned to face him. He was still looking at you, his face tense with the weight of what he had just confessed. The words hung in the air between you, fragile and new, like the snowflakes drifting down around you.
You were both frozen in place, staring at each other in the snowfall. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts, the shock of his words sinking in slowly. Simon wasn’t one to say things like that lightly. You could see it in his eyes, the dread of what your response might be.
You stepped closer to him, your hand trembling as you reached up to cup his cheek, your fingers cold against his warm skin. His eyes closed briefly at the touch, like he was bracing himself for whatever came next.
“I love you too,” you whispered, tone trembling from both the cold and the sudden flare of your heart. “I’ve loved you for a long time, Simon.”
His throat bobbed, gulping nervously. The snow continued to fall but all you could hear was the pounding of your eardrums.
Simon finally exhaled, slowly, deeply, his broad shoulders relaxing under your touch. His hand lifted to gently cover yours, his rough fingers curling around yours, holding on like he was afraid to let go. He leaned into your touch, his jaw brushing against your palm.
His silence wasn’t cold or distant, though. It was of someone processing something he never thought he’d hear or deserve. His lips parted slightly, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he tilted his head down, just enough to meet you, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth in a tentative kiss, trying to understand what it meant, what this meant.
The kiss was gentle, barely a whisper of his lips against yours. You could feel his heart beating beneath your hand.
When you pulled back slightly, your foreheads still touching, Simon’s eyes remained closed, holding onto the moment for just a little longer.
“I love you so much,” you repeated, your voice shaky, your emotions bubbling over. “So, so much.”
The words felt like a release, like you’d been holding them in for far too long. You closed the small distance between you again, pressing your lips to his in a firmer, more certain kiss this time, letting him feel everything you couldn’t put into words.
Simon’s response was immediate, the hand that had lingered on yours sliding up the curve of your arm, fingers brushing over your sleeve before finding their way to your hair. You felt the world narrow to just the two of you, the cold night fading away. His other arm snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
The kiss deepened, letting himself believe this was real, that you were real. The scent of smoke still lingered faintly on him, mixing with the winter air and the heat of his skin. His open jacket covered your sides, a cocoon that shielded you from the rest of the world.
When you finally pulled back, you didn’t go far. Instead, you rested your forehead against his collarbone, your hands slipping around his waist, holding him as tightly as he held you.
“I’ve never been good at this,” he admitted, his lips brushing lightly against the top of your head. The words were being dragged from somewhere deep within him. “But you...” He let out a low, frustrated groan, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Fuck, you make me bloody nervous.”
It was strange, hearing those words from him. This was a man who faced death without flinching, who could make grown men piss their pants with a look. And yet, here he was, blushing faintly in the streetlight, his fingers trembling ever so slightly against your back as he held you.
The tips of his ears, kissed by winter’s chill, glowed red. His favourite colour dusted his cheeks, spreading over the bridge of his nose as if even his skin was betraying the truth of his emotions.
“It scares me,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly as he squeezed your hips. “How exposed you make me feel.” His eyes blinked shut for a moment, his breath escaping him in a slow, shuddering sigh. “But it feels...right. With you.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath brushing over your lips as he continued. “For the past year, you’ve made me feel- feel like Simon again. Not Ghost. Not the fuckin’ mask.”
You tightened your grip around his waist, as if holding him close could convey what your words might fail to.
“And I–” He faltered, his voice hitching as he swallowed hard. “I’ll always try for you. Try to be better, to be...enough.” His fingers brushed along the curve of your spine, his touch almost reverent. “You deserve that, sweetheart.”
You buried your face in the curve of his neck, where his skin was warm and faintly scented with his cigarettes and his cologne.
“You are enough, Si, don't you see that?” you murmured, your voice muffled against his shoulder. The words trembled as they left your lips, but the conviction behind them didn’t waver. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, bunching it against the solid expanse of his chest. “You care about me. You never let me lift a finger at home, always telling me you can handle it, always coming back into my arms, no matter what.”
Your hands tightened their grip, clutching at him as if he might dissolve into mist if you let go. “You hold everything together, sweet boy. You hold me together, even when I don’t ask you to, even when I don’t realize I need it.” Your voice grew quieter. “You make me feel like I don’t have to be anything but me.”
He chuckled at what you called him, his arms encircling you completely now, his embrace unyielding but gentle, fearing he could crush you even as he pulled you closer. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, his touch skimming the bare skin of your back.
You tilted your head, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, your lips brushing over the faint scars there. They were stories carved into his skin, stories he might never tell, but you kissed them anyway, your lips tracing over the jagged lines as if your touch could stitch something back together, as if love could rewrite what time had etched so cruelly. “You carry so much. More than anyone should have to. But with me, you don’t have to carry it all. You can just be.”
He exhaled sharply, as if your words had struck something deep within him. His hand slid further up your back, his thumb brushing the curve of your spine. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered. “I love you.”
The words were so soft they seemed to melt into the night, carried away by the cold breeze. It filled the cracks inside you that you hadn’t even realized were there.
“I know,” you smiled against his skin, “I love you too.”
For a moment, the two of you simply held each other, the world beyond fading into irrelevance. The snow fell slowly around you, bearing silent witness to the confessions exchanged between two souls that had finally found solace in each other.
Eventually, with the cold creeping in, you reluctantly pulled back, your hands slipping down his arms. Without a word, he took your hand in his, lacing your fingers together as he gently guided you back toward the house.
Inside the Mactavish's home, the warmth of the living room enveloped you the moment you crossed the threshold. Johnny’s family had made everyone feel so welcome, and for the first time in a long while, it felt like Christmas meant more than just another day passing by.
Isla ran past the two of you, giggling as she tried to dodge Johnny, who was chasing her around the room. You caught Johnny’s eye for a brief moment, and he winked at you before he continued his mock pursuit. The rest of them sat comfortably on the couches, their voices low as they sipped their drinks, discussing something that was probably not mission-related for a change.
You and Simon settled side by side on one of the couches, the small space forcing you close, not that either of you would have chosen differently. His hand found yours effortlessly, fingers weaving together in a grip that felt like permanence. You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting the chatter of the room lull you.
For Simon, this felt disorientingly foreign. Christmas, once a word laden with family in the distant corners of his mind, had become a hollow shell over the years. A calendar square he barely noticed, another day to endure. It had long since lost its meaning, much like the rest of the things in his life.
For so long, he had been the outlier, the gloom lurking on the periphery of life. He had been the ghost, unseen and untouchable, existing only to serve a purpose that left little room for personal connections.
Simon glanced down at your hand in his, the way your fingers fit between his like pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t realized was incomplete. You were so still, your lashes resting softly against your cheek, your expression one of quiet contentment. How could something so simple, so human, hold such power over a man like him? He’d thought himself immune to this kind of closeness, the part of him that craved it having withered long ago. And yet, here you were, proving him wrong in the gentlest of ways. And he felt something blooming in his heart.
Belonging.
Maybe Christmas didn’t have to be defined by everything he’d endured. Maybe with you, with these people, it could be...easier, new.
Yet, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt, like he was borrowing something that didn’t belong to him. Happiness wasn’t supposed to find men like him, men who lived in the shadows, who bore too many lives lost. But you made him want to be selfish, to hold onto this fragile, impossible thing for as long as he could.
Later in the evening, as the fire died down and the night grew darker, the room grew calmer, with Isla fast asleep in Johnny’s lap. Price had slipped into a quiet conversation with Johnny’s parents, while Kyle had nodded off on the couch, his arm draped lazily over his face with Gary dozing off beside him. The peace was what he longed for, a far cry from the chaos they often found themselves in.
With you by his side, Simon could see a future that wasn’t just filled with missions and danger. There was room for more now, room for you, always had been.
This was everything he needed, everything he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.
The hardest battles weren’t the ones fought with fists and guns, but the ones waged in the silence, when hope pressed down on you, daring you to believe that something better was possible. And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe in it.