Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John MacTavish

Status: [Account not Found]

He recalled their arrival at the bar, and how Kyle had stayed back apprehensively, even though these were his colleagues and not John’s. An awkward start followed. Nobody wanted to be the first person to make a fool of themselves. John was an asset, in that regard. It didn’t matter that he howled like a banshee on the karaoke or tripped over a table leg and into a woman from the dispatches team. Nobody cared that moments later he had his tongue tied up with hers in the smoking area. He didn’t smoke, but Kyle did, and despite his other ventures he had stayed attached to Kyle’s hip in solidarity most of the night. Although, the incentive of his attendance had shifted somewhere between the Jäger Bombs and the woman with her hand up his shirt. He could have hooked up, no strings attached, and then never shown his face to these folk again.

Things, perhaps fortunately, did not work out that way.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” a voice teased, seconds before John was pelted with a decorative throw pillow. If it was a good morning was yet to be decided. He already felt that swirly, nauseated feeling in his stomach, and a splitting headache was sure to follow. When he stretched out on the sofa in retaliation, his shirt rode up to his nipples in a shameless display of too much pale, Scottish abdomen. 

He missed half the syllables as he groaned out a reply. “M’rnin.”

Kyle read his mind and flicked the kettle on. For a moment, the dim LED and satisfying mechanical click rerouted John’s attention from his overbearing nausea. 

“Remember any of last night?” Kyle prodded.

John sat up. The room did its best impression of the Waltzer that caused three accidents at the Nairn Highland Games last year, and he watched Kyle’s kitchen-based pottering through wavering eyes. Seemingly, the man remained unaffected, as if nothing had happened the night before. 

“Why? Did I do something daft?” John laughed. Really, that was a stupid question, it wouldn’t be a night out without him doing something daft. “Dafter than usual…”

A loud clunk of a spoon against cups filled the silence before Kyle’s reply. “Mm, not really… Had your hands all over Grace, and then you hogged the karaoke. Made all our ears bleed with your rendition of Creep-”

“Jesus Christ Ky… Radiohead ? You coulda stopped me-”

“Oh, don’t you worry, I tried. Then you went onto sing-”

Through sheer embarrassment, he waved a dismissive hand. Although Kyle didn’t push him any further, the chuckle under his breath gave away the fact that he had absolutely remembered John’s bawling rendition of Madonna's Like a Prayer . 

John was blissfully none the wiser.

“Anything worse?” If he wasn’t in trouble with yet another drinking establishment, he’d consider that a win.

Kyle hummed merrily. “We got you a job.”

The rubber soles of his fluffy slippers slid across the wooden floor, which was the only audible sound as cogs whirred in John’s mind. He struggled to process those words in that order.

“We what?”

“You gone deaf mate?” He laughed and forced the bewildered Scot’s feet down from the cushion as he took his place on the sofa. John grabbed the coffee mug thrust in his direction, and took big, scalding gulps as Kyle continued to explain. “We got you a job at my place.”

“We did?”

“Yeah, we convinced Price together- do you seriously not remember?”

John blinked. A slew of blurry, blackened memories raced through his mind but provided very little in terms of answers. “Fuck, I don’t even recall talking to him… Thought I’d have remembered that dick tickler on his lip-”

He got a playful elbow in response, and a laugh followed. “Well shit… You better get ready then, you’re starting on Monday.”

Right now, it was Saturday, somewhere between 11:00 and 13:00 more than likely. But John had lost his phone last night, likely between spilling his kebab down himself and his hasty visit to the bathroom when the Sambuca finally caught up with him. 

At least it was probably in the flat, somewhere...

He missed his father’s wristwatch at that moment. Before his sudden relocation into Kyle’s flat, he’d sent it to be repaired by old man Berwick in the village post office. Couldn’t exactly call him up about it, because even if he had held onto it, he was roughly four hundred and fifty miles away. Never occurred to him to buy a new one. It was for nostalgia’s sake that he’d worn it in the first place. The actual use of telling the time a helpful but not necessary feature when his phone never left his side. 

“What the fuck am I supposed to wear?”

Offices and John were two polarities that had never crossed. The very concept of a nine to five had somehow escaped him. He’d had a couple of stints in retail, lots of bar work, and was rated by social media poll as the cutest barista in the University café before he got sacked for spending more time flirting than making coffee. He was young and stupid then, and he doubted at the ripe old age of twenty-six, he would get away with as much as he had in the past.

Kyle had thrown the words “business casual” his way, but that was an entirely alien expression. A suit? Jeans? A combo? He had no clue. So, with the promise of Nando’s and to cough up for the bus fare, he lured the more fashionable man out to the Arndale Centre to be his volunteer corporate style guru. 

“You good for this?” Kyle ribbed, as they looked over the menu laid out between them. 

The table had that tacky, just-wiped sensation. It made a Velcro-like sound as he shifted from one elbow to the other and rapped nervous finger over his serviette. Several bags of button-up shirts, neat black trousers, and a new pair of suit shoes lounged on the seat next to him. The total had all but burnt a hole in his already empty wallet.

He hoped Kyle would only want one side and not two, as he replied with a grimace plastered on his mug. “No, but I’ve not bottomed out my overdraft yet, so I’ll not starve.”

“Let me pay.”

“That wasn’t the agreement-”

“Look, you can get me back after you’ve got your first payslip yeah? Then maybe you can move out of my living room.”

There was no malice in his voice, but he was certainly teasing with intention.

It wasn’t an ideal living arrangement, to sleep on someone’s uncomfortable sofa. Especially not Kyle’s, who had been a fast friend throughout his three years at university, but the sizable distance of a border and a whole lot of sheep between them had waned their friendship in the years that followed. Of course, he was relentlessly thankful for the kindness he’d been shown, but if given more time, perhaps he could have stayed in Scotland. 

Not in Wick, though. 

He had been born in Glasgow, a small but healthy babe of seven pounds and two ounces, who arrived moments too soon in the waiting area of Princess Royal Maternity hospital. The first and only son of his ever-hassled parents. But Glasgow was not where he was raised; not after the whirlwind relocation which followed his father’s mid-life career shift into dock management. That happened around his fifth birthday, so whilst he was not born in Wick, it was his home. Not by birth, but by familiarity. 

It was also home to his mother’s shithead of a partner.

Perhaps he could have rented around Inverness. Hell, even a move inland would have been preferable to the towering streets of inner Manchester. He missed fresh sea air, shitty public transport and finding endless entertainment in throwing rocks from big cliffs.

“Thanks. Look I’m-”

“Don’t you dare apologise; you got dealt a shit hand mate.”

“Aye… Suppose I did.”

When Monday came, he was a bag of nerves. The sofa wasn’t comfortable at the best of times, but when he’d done nothing but toss and turn anxiously, it had been his worst night’s sleep yet. Getting ready had been no better, as when he’d tried to style his mohawk into some sort of professional slicked-back do, it had sprung up again moments later. Too many years of gel and hair straighteners, not that he’d admit the second part to most. He’d nicked his cheek trying to tame his stubble, and then buttoned his shirt one button out. A dressing disaster.

“Tav?”

Kyle came through from his bedroom, pin neat as always. Fuck Manchester, this guy should be working in some fancy corporate office in central London, or Paris, perhaps. The deep navy suit he wore complimented the richness of his skin and the deep wells of his chestnut eyes. 

John envied him, admired him, and admittedly fancied the crap out of him.

“What happened to your face?”

“Razor…”

“Jesus, looks like Felix has done a number on you.”

“The one from the cat food advert?” Tav asked, before being wrangled next to the medicine cabinet for emergency first aid treatment.

Kyle applied Germolene to the cut as he teased. “Which other Felixes do you know?” 

John complained, but after a shush, dedicated his mind to the thought of other famous feline Felixes. Absently, his eyes settled on Kyle’s face, whilst the man’s supple finger pads traced at the scar on his chin with a fleeting, curious expression.

By the time the emergency clinic was complete, they were already late. Then the bus was late too, as they always were these days. Who knew there was a shortage of bus drivers? Maybe John should have done that instead. But no, because the traffic which held them up would have caused his fuse to blow within ten minutes of being behind the wheel.

Also, he couldn’t legally drive.

Kyle had neglected to tell him that the walk to the office was just as fast as the bus, if not faster. But that’s because Kyle liked his feet blister-free, and the polished leather of his brogues liked to make their mark on his heel when he wasn’t careful.

The seat rattled beneath the Scot as his eyes drifted in and out of focus. It was dirty, but not as bad as the last bus he’d taken, with chewing gum plastered to the seat. If the upholstery had been changed in the past twenty years, the pattern which plagued the fabric certainly hadn’t, shapes and lines on deep blue reminding him of Glaswegian transportation and visits to his Granda. 

He listened vaguely to Kyle, who was on the phone to one Mr. John Price. 

“Yep, yep, traffic is bad– we’ll be another ten.”

Price… What did he remember of the man? He’d only ended up at that bar because Kyle wanted a plus one for the Christmas party. Something about how he had to prove he had relationships outside of work to some woman from his department.  She’d made up rumours that he’d sucked and fucked his way into his current position, but John knew that wasn’t true. Kyle was smarter than smart, and quite frankly, could work beyond the scope of a PA role with no problem. So why did there feel like there was something between him and the older man?

He decided not to pry. He couldn’t remember whether he pried that night, either.

“ETA five minutes, we’re almost at the stop.”

As his eyes closed again, he retraced their steps. The man had greeted them at the door to the bar and had brought Kyle into a hug. Overly familiar? Possibly. But he could just be friendly, because before Friday he’d never met John MacTavish, and he’d still welcomed him with a vigorous handshake and a masculine clap on the back.

“Right, we’re coming up to the stop now – Tav- uh, John is coming in with me. Yep. Yep. Alright, bye.”

Kyle’s thumb hit the end call button, and at the same time he motioned John to follow him off the bus and down the street. Through Piccadilly Gardens, along Lever Street, and a sharp right onto Great Ancoats street where they were met by a squat-looking three-storey building. Part of John wished he could have stayed in transit all day until the engine’s vibration rocked him to sleep. His heart was in his mouth, where it remained until they reached the door.

It was your average commercial office. Innocuous. Not like the fancier glass buildings on the main thoroughfares, but rather an old, redbrick structure with a modest frontage. The street was partially tree-lined with what looked like young sycamores, but the leaves had mostly dropped now in this late November air, so it was hard to tell. Still, John felt his heart warm a little as he thought ahead to springtime.

He was getting ahead of himself.

“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be…”

His companion fiddled with the keycard around his neck, as the reader rejected him a couple of times with a set of mocking beeps. He swore to himself quietly. John wished the damn thing would hurry up because it suddenly felt like eyes were on him from one of the windows on the upper floor. The reflection on the glass of the building opposite meant he couldn’t confirm that suspicion.

When the door finally slid open and caused the air pressure in the room to shift with a chilly gust, the receptionist scowled in their direction. 

“Morning Mandy,” Kyle greeted, a level of charm only matched by his attempts to get free drinks at bars in their student days.

Mandy, as he now knew she was called, shifted in her seat. “John is waiting in Conference Room Two for you Kyle,” she said snippily, but that scowl had softened slightly. Tav assumed that Kyle must have won her over.

“You must be John MacTavish?”

“Yes ma’am, that’s me,” he replied, and hoped to radiate the same charm.

“You’re late.”

The free coffee machine was a nice touch. Apparently, there was one on every floor, which sounded like heaven, but he couldn’t allow himself to be won over that easily.

“John, this is- John,” Kyle started, with an awkward chuckle. “I suppose we already had this introduction, but… Let’s start again whilst sober.”

John Price stood up from the table. He wore a tailored grey suit, well-fitted but understated. The absence of a tie left his top two buttons open flat against his collarbones, and his facial hair was certainly interesting, but impeccably maintained. Besides a slightly receding hairline, he kept a good amount of hair atop his dome, which was neatly combed into place. John would put the man in his mid-forties, and it did cross his mind momentarily that he was indeed rather handsome in this good lighting, and when he was far more sober than before.

“John,” Price said with a smile and an outstretched palm, “I suppose it’s time for a formal introduction.”

“Nice to meet you,” John replied. “You can call me Tav, if it will be easier with the-”

He motioned his hand between the two of them, an indication of the difficulties of their shared name. He had never really felt like a John. In fact, the only reason he hadn’t disregarded the name entirely was because it was inherited from his late father, and his grandfather before him, who was still alive but a senile old fool. 

“Tav?”

“MacTavish.”

John Price laughed. “So, I was right about you being Scottish – is ‘MacTavish’ okay?”

“That works for me, Sir.”

“You can just call me Price – it’s a name I never dropped from the army days.”

With MacTavish and Price now re-acquainted in a way that wouldn’t cause confusion, the real reason for the meeting was finally discussed. Apparently, and not that MacTavish could remember, he had made quite a name for himself at the Christmas party. He’d talked a big game about his skills, spurred on by Kyle, who perhaps only tried so hard to back him up as he was sick of coming home to him sitting in his boxers, scratching his bollocks as he watched reruns of Bullseye.

“I know you’ve not worked in this setting before, but I see you as a driven young man, and I really think you can make a name for yourself here,” Price nodded. His voice droned a little, as if the speech was rehearsed. Tav wondered exactly how much of that Price believed, and how much of it was called in as a favour to the man sitting by his side.

He filled out forms, contracts, and the like. It wasn’t much more than the living wage, but to be salaried and have a benefits package? A pension? Free tea and coffee? That was a life he’d never lived before, and he couldn’t help but feel slightly excited.

Then came the fun part. The meet-and-greet.

Kyle was sent to a meeting on Price’s behalf, and with one final glance over his shoulder, he and his sleek navy suit were gone.

“Nervous?” Price asked with a laugh.

MacTavish smiled back at him. “Not really, always considered myself a people person.”

“Good, good – I like that,” Price started, before he pointed out and waved to a group of ladies working in the dispatch room. “You remember Jenny? Amy? Ahem… Grace ?”

Somehow, he did. But that’s because he had his lips barraged by one of them, and he was pretty sure he’d flirted with the others, too.

“Morning, ladies,” he greeted with an awkward smile. At least he was charming to somebody, if not Mandy. He met a very jolly Russian guy, Nik, and their conversation took place over heavy metal music whilst he loaded pallets of stock into a van. Then, the remainder of the ground and first-floor tours saw him through the rest of the day-to-day grafters, the meat and bones of the operation, but frankly nobody remarkable.

The upper floor however…

“The main offices are upstairs,” Price affirmed, “sales, finance, development, accounting, project management. And now social media marketing.”

“Why now, for the socials? You seem to be running a tight ship here already – not that I’m complaining of course.”

Price knotted his fingers through his hairy chops. “Kyle tells me social media is where things are at these days – I’ve never been one for phones or anything of the sort.”

“Oh aye?”

“Well, I’ve had this thing,” he laughed, as he pulled out a Nokia that looked like it dated back at least fifteen years, “well, god knows how long.” 

MacTavish paused. Now he really did wonder about Price’s age.

“That makes sense I suppose, you’ll build a bigger audience with an online presence – do you have a website?”

“I’ll show you as we walk.”

Price directed him to the web address as they made their way into the stairwell. MacTavish’s phone chugged desperately, as text boxes and pop ups flew all over the screen. An advert for hot singles in the area appeared from nowhere, and somehow took up more room than even the company logo.

“Ah.”

Now was not the time to address that truly mortifying reminder of what life online was like predating adblock. They had reached the top of the stairs, and already there was much more life in the floor ahead than all other parts of the building put together. Phones rang cacophonously, printers whirred, someone yelled obscenities at full volume despite it having barely passed 10:00.

This is what he expected, from what Kyle had told him over his butterfly chicken.

Price opened the door, and the sound hit them like a wave. 

“Right lads, shut the fuck up now!”

Somehow over all the din, they heard him. Arguments fizzled out, phone calls got quieter or moved behind closed doors, and John was left impressed by Price’s gusto in command.

“They’re ex-army too,” he laughed, in explanation.

They started the tour. Alejandro and Rudy, the company’s salespeople in the nuts-and-bolts line, working on market expansion into the North and South American regions respectively. Phillip Graves, an American twat with an ego so inflated you could burst it with a pin. He was a financial advisor, apparently. John remembered this one well after he’d squared up to some bloke in the bar and had to be taken home early by two mournful looking lackeys. John also had a sneaking suspicion that people were happy when he left. Then there was Kate Laswell. Apparently one of the top dogs around these parts, although she could only stop for a polite hello before being rushed off her feet elsewhere.

The open plan sections of the office were split into two halves, with a corridor in the middle that supported two adjoining meeting rooms. Price steered them down the corridor, and into the second open plan space, where he greeted a couple of folks who were walking past.

He then stopped at a closed office door.

“Brace yourself lad,” he said with a strange, staunch look on his face. He knocked a rhythm out on the glass, to which there was no answer, and proceeded inwards regardless.

The room was filled with cigarette smoke. Worrying really, since all the signs in the stairwell had prohibited it, and John was ninety-nine percent sure it was illegal.

“Morning Simon,” Price announced with a reactive cough, despite being a smoker himself.

Simon? Now this was somebody he hadn’t seen. Not at the party, and not mulling about the office or in the break room where they had stopped shortly before. The only issue was, he couldn’t see Simon. His head was buried in some papers, and his desk faced out of the window, with his chair rotated away from the door. The only thing that proved he was tangibly there was the hand that rested on the ashtray by his desk, which after each draw resettled and flicked the embers from the tip of the cigarette into the well.

“Corner office, huh?” Tav remarked, and nudged Price. “Must be an important guy.”

“Hm,” Price grumbled. 

John couldn’t tell at that moment if he was more pissed off at him or Simon, but the two steps he took in the smoking man’s direction stated that perhaps he was not the target of that gripe.

“Simon, at least say hello.”

“Busy-”

Price snatched the papers from his hand and gave him a mean stare down. Somehow, it roused something in the man, who proceeded to stand bolt upright as if someone had put a rocket under his arse.

Through the smoke, John was floored.

The guy was a giant, six foot four at least, with a chest and shoulders so broad that the fabric of his shirt strained over them. He looked as if he played rugby at the weekend. Maybe he did? His hair was a shock of blond that only intensified the darkness of his irises, and the darker circles which puddled beneath his deep-set eyes. No ring on his finger, quite unusual for a man of his age and status. Not that John looked for any reason, of course.

The bottom of his face, his mouth, and nose were covered by a black surgical mask which he had twitched back on before he turned to face John. Perhaps he was ill? Or a germaphobe.

“Simon,” he mumbled, his voice low and the palm which clutched the documents just seconds ago now outstretched. His other hand never let go of the cigarette, which continued its self-cauterisation. 

John took up his hand, and fumbled as he realised his palm had become sweaty since he stepped into the room. Simon had a tight grip, with great bear-like paws that swamped his own. Despite his average height, he’d always thought of himself as decently well built with muscle. 

Simon made him look small.

“Nice to meet you,” John smiled. He hoped to come off as polite, but firm. Something about the man radiated with an unfriendly masculinity that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “I’m John, you can call me Tav, or MacTavish.”

Then he noticed the scars. One which crept out slightly from behind the mask. Another on the back of his palm. It was rude to stare, and John knew it, but the man before him was an enigma that he could not wait to crack.

“Take a picture,” Simon rudely quipped, “it will last longer.”

John’s face flushed with embarrassment. He withdrew his hand and removed himself from intruding upon the man any further.

“Bloody hell Simon, don’t scare him off already.” 

Price wheeled him around, so they were pointed at the door once again. “Ignore him lad, let’s go show you your office.”

He did, for the most part, ignore the comment. But he couldn’t resist one final glance over his shoulder as they rounded the corner, which revealed that the ‘very busy’ man had kept an eye on them until they left the room.

“Here’s my office,” Price continued, and pushed the door open slightly so that John could see inside. It was interesting that Simon’s office was ostensibly the nicer of the two, not that offices in small blocks like this were anything in comparison to tower-block offices he’d seen on the television, but rather more humble, quaint, and with far fewer floor-to-ceiling glass windows.

“Nice place,” John nodded.

Price hummed in affirmation. “You’ll be my direct report for now, so anything you need, come and see me.”

John placed his bag down on one of desks in the middle of the room, before Price ushered him further.

“That’s where Kyle and a few others sit, but I’ve got another arrangement for you.”

He pushed John to the only remaining closed door in the secondary working area. The room couldn’t have been large, for the emergency stairwell backed onto the rear.

“This is where you’ll be, Kyle told me you wouldn’t mind it being… cosy.”

The older man stepped back and allowed Tav to take the floor. His hand grasped at the handle and pushed it down with a click before he took a step inside. Cosy certainly summed it up; the ventilation in the walls, the remnant scent of bleach, and the repurposed shelving unit implied this had been the cleaner’s closet a few days ago.

But in-between all of that, was a desk. A desk with a high-end Mac desktop, nicer than the one he’d spotted in Price’s office, and a proper ergonomic mouse.

“Now, I’ve got to dash to a meeting, but I’ve left your login instructions and the mandatory training forms on your desk – let’s be honest, today will be a write off. Just settle in, get used to everyone, and I’m happy.”

John nodded and slipped down into the spinning chair. He could probably lay sideways in here, and touch both walls at the same time, but he didn’t care. He had his own place, a new sense of purpose, and plenty of shelves for him to put all his tat on.

Maybe he would bring a plant.

When Price took his leave, John fetched a coffee from the machine in the communal area of their floor. His eyes had settled on the door opposite his own, and he watched for any movement from the dark room that Simon sat in alone. The man had piqued his interest more than anyone else he had met today. But the door remained closed, as he imagined it so often did, and he knew this was going to be one tough nut to crack.

He resigned himself to fire-safety paperwork and enjoyed his machine-brewed coffee. Black, one sugar.

Chapter Text

Kyle Garrick

Status: [In a Meeting]

Kyle shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He hated these Monday morning meetings more than anything else in the week. Not because of the work, but because of the tension. He could feel it linger. There was an air of it that felt sticky and sweaty, and no matter how much he bounced his leg or chewed the tip of his pen, he couldn’t escape it. 

This wasn’t him.

He was cool, calm and as quick as they come. Besides, it hadn’t always been this way. Not when Beth was still in the picture – Price’s ex-wife for those not in the know. It had happened just shy of his one year in service with the company, and mere weeks after he had been promoted to the man’s PA.

“She’s gone, Kyle.”

He had been making coffee at the time, and still remembered that the spoon had scalded his finger as he tried to fish it out from the cup. He knew their relationship was on the rocks, but Price had been going home later and later, and her calls were getting fewer and fewer.

“Fuck John – I – I don’t even know what to say.” 

Of course, it had broken him. Although Kyle didn’t know the ins and outs, he knew it wasn’t a lack of love that drove that wedge between them, but some unthinkable thing that he would never talk about. 

The divorce had been messy. She was spiteful, and rightfully so. Whatever they needed to work on together, Price had run away from and hidden in the four walls of his office as he cut himself off from her world. She got the kids, barring every second weekend. Price paid her child support, and she kept the family home which was paid off long ago. The older man had worked hard for everything he had earned, but it hadn’t pained him to let the monetary things go. No, he missed the comfort of another body to come home to, and the warmth of a house filled with those he loved.

That’s what irked Kyle the most.

Wasn’t it strange how he was just promoted? Wasn’t it peculiar that Price started spending time in the office late, and not rushing home to the kids? Did he do it to see Kyle? Were they fucking? Did his wife find out he was a cheat?

Of course, none of the rumours were true. The promotion had been nothing but good luck and bad timing.

So now, as he found his head back in the room with eyes on him, he sighed.

“This week Price-”

He didn’t have time to begin, for the man himself burst through the door with clipboard in hand.

“Apologies, everyone – I was showing the new hire around.”

It hadn’t gone amiss to him that his eyes were the first Price’s had met when he glanced around. Nor, that knowing smile he always gave, which often Kyle found himself reading into. Today, the smile said sorry I’m late, I’m gagging for a cuppa.

Kyle stood up as Price sat down. If Price asked, he would always grab him a drink, but in meetings he would make himself one as well to try and dispel those rumours further. The hot water boiler groaned as he filled two cups, and he cursed the fact that this was the only meeting room which hadn’t had a proper coffee machine installed. The noise caused distraction, and Price’s offhand joke telling him to quieten down didn’t help. Not with the softness in which he cooed his name.

He placed the drink in front of the man, who smiled and gave an affirming nod.

God was he thankful when that meeting was adjourned.

He bolted up the stairs before anyone else could catch him and buried himself in the paperwork on his desk. The coffee from the boardroom tasted bad. He’d been in a rush to make Price’s tea just the way he liked it. But he wouldn’t complain. Not when Price was now in the office himself, mid-chatter with Brenda, the nosy hag. She spewed forth gossip like a fountain with a faulty motor. Not even Price was safe.

Price glanced in his direction as she prattled on. He wished he could tell him to stop looking, or have the courage to fess up and tell him everything about how these past three years had devolved into stress, and misery, and hiding behind paperwork and phone calls that weren’t real. How, in his desperation, he’d had to bring Tav along to the party to try and quell those rumours. Landing him the job had been nice, but it was an accident – just another tally against him really, at how easily Price would bend to his will.

When it rained, Price insisted on driving him home. If he mentioned he was hungry, Price would send Nik to get them both sushi. Price didn’t even like sushi, he would just eat gyoza and pickles and complain about the funny taste. He was always complimentary of his work, his drive, and his motivation. Just once, Kyle wished he would reprimand him, just to check they weren’t driving this thing too damn far.

The worst part of all was, Kyle fell.

He fell for the stupid jokes, the sushi, the walks to the car where Price would always hold the umbrella over Kyle’s head, and not his own. The way Price would open the door for him. The way he would make sure he got to the entrance of his flat safe before he drove away. He was a gentleman, always. 

He was also twice his age.

And his boss.

So therein lay the predicament.

As he sipped at the overly watery beverage, he plotted. The door to Tav’s office was open, and he knew Price had planned for him to undergo some boring mandatory training and the like. He’d probably be doing nothing of importance right now.

He stood up, abruptly, and bumped the desk in his haste. Brenda’s eyes clapped to him in double time, so he knew she was watching. He knew Price was watching too because, when wasn’t he? Then he made the small journey across the room and rapped eager fingers against the wood of Tav’s door frame.

“Hey,” he smiled, and let himself into the room. “Wanna grab lunch at one?”

Of course, Tav wasn’t to know that this was sacred ground he was treading on. That 13:00 on a Monday was the one lunch appointment Price and Kyle had always shared, ever since he had started at the company. He swore he heard a little gasp from Brenda, and Price stopped his rattling mid-sentence.

Tav smiled. “Sure thing, I’ll see you then.”

This was indeed the straw that broke the camel’s back. That feeling, down there in the meeting room, as well as the Christmas party, the office group tidy-up day, the staff dinner, the award ceremony – everything had led up to this moment. This desperation. This betrayal of the man that he really did quite like.

He didn’t have the heart to look into Price’s eyes when he returned to his desk.

John MacTavish

Status: “Training day - pop by if you want to talk!”

Lunch was much needed by the time 13:00 rolled around. Usually, he’d already eaten a sarnie by 11:00, and then probably a bag of crisps too. It hadn’t gone amiss to him that he wasn’t looking as trim as he had done in his uni days, where he’d survived off energy drinks, chicken, rice, and the gym.

Kyle looked shifty as he collected his things. In fact, there was a whole bubble of shiftiness which emanated from the pod of desks in the centre of the room. There was a woman there, who he hadn’t met. All the desks had been empty when Price showed him around – probably because they were in the meeting Kyle had been dragged into.

“You alright mate?” John asked, as he steadied Kyle who had stood up far too quickly. The man grabbed his tote and hurried for the stairs, which left John in a mad chase to keep up.

As soon as they were outside, Kyle bumped a cig out of his packet and placed it between his lips, hand shaking.

“Kyle…?”

“It’s nothing.”

“This isn’t nothing – you’re not acting like yourself.”

“It’s- I- fuck Tav, it’s all so fucked.”

John followed him. Really, he had no clue where they were going, but he could tell that his usually calm friend was about six seconds away from blowing his top entirely. Lunch would have to wait.

“Is this what you were telling me about, with Britt? Bertha? What’s-her-face?”

“Brenda...”

“Brenda!”

Kyle stopped abruptly, before he shot across the road like a whippet. He was too damn fast, and John reluctantly remembered when they used to run together at university, and how he had always preferred long distance cross-country, whilst Kyle had been more of a sprinter.

They only walked for a couple of minutes before they happened on one of Rochdale Canal’s many embankments, this one lined with bendy benches so that the homeless couldn’t sleep there. It was sad, but that was life in the city. He felt a sense of guilt-laden relief that he had friends to fall back on before he too had ended up trying to bend into an S-shape to get some shut eye.

Kyle tapped his foot relentlessly, before he eventually resigned himself to a seat.

“Do you see the way he looks at me?” He started. As Tav took the seat beside him he wiped his eyes as if the tears that had formed there made him less of a man. “But I need this job, and I can’t take that shit from Brenda anymore, and honestly? I’m not even sure he’s gay.”

John wrapped an arm around his shoulder in a comforting fashion. Not enough to intrude, but also with enough pressure to calm the shakes which quaked from the man’s core.

“Do you-” John started, before he bit his tongue.

Kyle huffed and took another drag of the near-dead cigarette. “Just say it.”

“Do you like him?”

“Of course I fucking do, or I’d have told him to fuck off already.”

There was a short pause from the man as he flicked the butt of the cig onto the ground. Then, the silence was followed by a snort, and then an uproar of awkward, half-hysterical laughter. Sometimes, the only solution is to laugh. Today was one of those days.

“Oh god,” Kyle wheezed, between chuckles, “I’ve messed that up so bad.”

Tav tilted his head. “Why’s that then?”

“Ever since I became his PA, which was what- three years ago? Ever since then, we’ve always eaten together on Monday lunchtime.”

John blinked. “Oh, cheers mate,” he scoffed, and tried to hide the actual hurt in his voice. “Way to put me on the back foot – Mr. Steal Yer’ Man over here on his first day.”

“Shut up,” Kyle retorted, “I’ll get the brunt of it, don’t you worry.”

He stubbed the butt out under his tan leather shoe and kicked it into the grate below their feet where the remaining cinders puttered out in a leafy deluge of mud and drain water. John shifted on his uncomfortable perch. As much as he needed to thank Kyle for the opportunity, he couldn’t help but feel like he was being pulled into more than he knew.

“You’ve not just brought me in to fend him off, have you?”

“Really ? That’s what you think?”

“I don’t mean it like that- it’s just… The timing?”

Kyle was quiet. The air of silence between them, which moments ago was filled with unbridled laughter, now lingered uncomfortably. 

“I suppose, in a way, I did.”

The walk back had been less hurried, and quiet. They grabbed box sandwiches in the few moments they had to spare, even though John knew Kyle had a thing against bread, and that any other day he’d probably be at some salad bar or getting soup. His jaw clenched tightly as he held his tongue.

Because what could he say?

He’d been shown every kindness by the man, who took him in without a second thought after three years of radio silence, save for the occasional text around birthdays, and the stupid videos they sent each other on TikTok which were reminiscent of years gone by. Then he’d landed him an actual job, without any former experience, barring the degree he’d never been able to utilise due to his father’s illness. Not many marketing jobs out in the sticks of Wick, close enough to home to look after him. Not much of anything in Wick, in fact. The most populous northern region before the road signs turn all gobbledygook into Anglo-Saxon and you’re toeing the line between falling in a bog or toppling right off the edge of the country.

Now he was doing what he should have done years ago. Should have left that damn house as soon as his mother moved that prick in with them. Should have taken his father’s dying words seriously, that he should run for the hills and get out of the back end of nowhere before he also died young with a rotten illness and a marriage on the rocks.

Kyle fumbled with the keycard a second time. John could see that his hands trembled slightly, even now. Perhaps he shouldn’t have prodded when he was clearly so on edge. But it was gone in an instant as soon as that reader beeped its acceptance. The moment they walked through the door, he was all suave confidence and smiles. Not even Mandy’s rough edges chipped his swagger. He took command of the room, unbridled by the eyes which turned to him.

It was no wonder they did.

He was marvellous, in all his many facets. Handsome, of course, as anyone would be able to tell you. But charming too, and charismatic, smart, witty… Utterly brilliant. It was obvious in the way people stared, and then the way they turned away with lowered eyes and whispered words. They weren’t at his back because they hated him. No. They feared him. Revered him. Wished that they could be like him, whether that be in his looks, or his attitude, or yes, even the way he garnered favour from the boss. But that was only possible because Kyle was who he was, and it seemed that nobody else saw through anything but his pretty smile and nice eyes. Nobody saw him for the hard worker who stayed late, who would often only roll through the door of the flat far past eight o’clock in the evening. Nobody saw the meticulous way he would plot reports, or organise timetables, or even manage budgets that were far beyond the scope of his role just to save the team an extra twenty minutes. 

Tav saw.

Tav saw it all. He saw how he had some power here, that Kyle couldn’t muster by himself. He could step up as the man wanted. As he needed. Be a distraction for a month or two. Play the game he begged him to play. Step-in-prospective-boyfriend? Potential date? Next big scoop in the office gossip pipeline? He hadn’t gained anything yet that he would hate to lose. It was only his first day, after all. If he was fired by month’s end, he could always return to packet noodles and Aldi’s own brand tea bags in his boxers on Kyle’s couch. He’d have a lot of daytime telly to catch up on.

Then, John couldn’t help but feel eyes on him when he re-entered the upper floor of the building, like he’d knowingly broken that unwritten code between Kyle Garrick and John Price. The air was cold, although that could just be Mandy’s overly tight control of the thermostat.

He had returned to his office and plodded through the remainder of the fire safety course, very much aware of the irony that the man in the office across from him was still puffing away on a cigarette surrounded by piles of flammable paper. When five finally rolled around, he grabbed the tote Kyle had forced him to buy and threw on his coat.

As he re-appeared from inside the glorified broom closet, he noticed that nobody else had made a move.

“You coming?” He prompted Kyle, who shook his head and tapped the headset over his ears. A peek at the screen showed he was in a call with what seemed like half the office. He could see Price’s face in the top left corner, his mouth pressed into a thin, unimpressed line.

Would Kyle be alright by himself? Would he be alright? He’d never been to this part of town before, and he was half asleep when they travelled on the bus that morning. Thank Christ for Google Maps, he thought, as he slipped the smartphone from his pocket and jammed his thumb into the print reader.

The screen didn’t come on. The battery was flat.

He rolled his eyes and lingered awkwardly by Kyle’s desk until the man scribbled go home!! onto his notepad and prodded it with his pen.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been lost in this city without his phone. Only back then he was a foolhardy student, usually blind drunk, and often stumbling out of someone else’s flat. He always seemed to manage then. When he reached the lobby, he nodded goodnight to Mandy, who looked confused that somebody was leaving at the destined clock-out time, before he poured out into the street. And speaking of pouring, as was tradition, it had started to piss buckets.

“Bleeding hell,” he muttered to himself, as he scrambled in the useless sack across his shoulder for his umbrella. The very umbrella that, due to the incident with the razor this morning, had been forgotten with the rush.

“It was John, right?” A woman’s voice called, smoky with a hint of gravel and an accent that didn’t belong in a small office building in the middle of Manchester.

He spun on the spot, to find Kate Laswell. She beckoned him under the awning and away from the rain, where she hid with a cigarette tucked neatly between two fingers. Smoke curled from her lips and into the creases in the corner of her eyes.

“Aye,” John affirmed, and joined her under the cover. It might be nice to know someone who was too busy to bother with the ins-and-outs of relationship gossip, although it did worry him that nearly everybody he met had the same unhealthy vice. Kyle, Price, Kate… Simon.

“Sorry,” she added when she noticed John recoil from the smoke. “You heading out?”

“Yeah,” John nodded. “Looks like nobody else is though…”

She laughed and flashed a set of brilliant white teeth. He had always found that disconcerting about Americans.

“They all work too hard, me included,” she smiled softly, and let the words out with a sigh. “But today I get a free pass because I’m visiting the IVF clinic with my wife.”

“Oh,” John said, rather taken aback that the woman wasn’t just married to her work. “Are congratulations in order?”

“Not yet, but hopefully soon.”

“Well, best of luck to ye’ both – I’ve not seen kids in the cards for myself.”

He wondered why she had opened to him with something so personal. He in turn wondered why he had reciprocated.

“Thanks – say, John, do you need a ride?”

It was an awfully American way of saying did he want to bum a lift, but with this rain, he wasn’t going to argue. “I- well- that would be nice, thank you.”

She stubbed the butt of the cigarette out against the wet mortar of the bricks behind them. “You live with Kyle, right? Princess Street?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he fumbled as he grabbed his things, “I didn’t know you knew Kyle.”

“I won’t lie, that boy is like a son to me,” she said as she began to walk. “Well, perhaps not a son, but at least the favourite nephew of the bunch. The one you ploy with extra turkey on Thanksgiving.”

John followed. There was a pristine white Audi S6 parked on the road, and not in the manager’s spaces around the back. That surprised him. “Why not in the car park?”

“Have you seen the truck Phillip drives?” She scoffed and waved a hand in that direction. “Darn thing takes up two spaces and then some…”

He hadn’t seen the ‘truck’, but he could certainly imagine it. He assumed the guy’s ego had all the fittings to match. Now this lady seemed smart, if not a little cunning. Nice, but there was an obligation to that niceness that John could sense through her polite façade. Out of all the things it could have been about, he didn’t imagine the first words to spill from her mouth to be about that situation.

“Is Kyle okay?”

“Huh?” The question had caught him off guard.

“Kyle, he’s… I presume you know about-?”

“About Price?”

Her lips pressed together as if she was sucking a rogue popcorn kernel from between her perfect teeth. She indicated as she pulled out, and John fought the urge to make the joke about German saloons actually having indicators fitted. 

“Jonathan is playing a stupid game,” she finally admitted when they reached the end of the street. “I just don’t want Kyle being dragged into it when it all blows up.”

His ears pricked at the familiarity of the name. There was something about the way she spoke that suggested she was invested in both parties. It would make sense. She was around Price’s age, after all. And what was it that Kyle had said this morning? That he wasn’t sure Price was gay? Perhaps there had been something between them once, but as John glanced at her choppy mop and pristinely well-kept fingernails, he very much expected she wouldn't bat for that team… 

So, a rejection perhaps? Or was Price previously married to somebody else? 

“How do you know Price? Or Jonathan-”

“I wouldn’t call him that to his face,” she laughed. “But we’ve always been close, his family and my family.”

“Family? I assumed he wasn’t married,” John shrugged. “He has an… energy about him.”

She chuckled again, and the car ground to a halt as was to be expected at rush hour around Piccadilly Gardens. Perhaps walking would have been quicker, even if he was a little lost.

“Divorced, two kids. Messy business.”

“Ouch.”

“Mhm – and I won’t get into the ins and outs. That isn’t my information to share. But since it affects Kyle… I need you in on this too.”

Her hand smacked against the horn as a rogue delivery moped swerved in front of her. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem phased. 

John shifted in the seat, unsure whether to press further. “Why is Price so interested in Kyle? I didn’t think he was into men, or at least that’s what Kyle said.”

“So, Kyle has talked to you about it.” She started, and then continued when John nodded. “Well, I thought the same. Still think the same, at times. Kyle was the person he latched onto during the divorce – I suppose he couldn’t come to me or Laurie, we knew them both too well. Laurie especially- oh, Laurie is my wife, by the way. She felt so strongly for the kids… There was a huge falling out between us all.”

John watched intently as she spoke. There was something so delicious about it, that he could only liken to the many jobs he’d taken up behind bars or counters at coffee shops. The feeling of knowing so much about someone you will never meet. Perhaps if he hadn’t taken this job, he could have kept things that way. Could have eked the information out of Kyle, or met Kate Laswell at some bar, or done anything to not be a part of this himself. Too late for that now, though.

“And Kyle? At first, he was resistant- he was so young after all. First proper job out of university, and some old fart is trying it on with him. Never sexually , I will at least give him that. But, poor boy, he didn’t need the weight of real adult problems on his shoulders.”

The scenery was becoming far more familiar now. He walked around these shops a lot with Kyle, the bakery that he insisted on picking up croissants from because the owner is French and ‘ knows his shit ’. John had gone by himself one day and rumbled him, his accent slipped away as he was on the phone with his missus and John couldn’t help but call him out. Turns out, he was just some bloke from Burnley who had happened to live abroad for a couple of years.

He never did have the heart to tell Kyle. He let him continue life under his false delusion.

“Kyle told me that he…” John began, and trailed off, not knowing exactly how much Kate knew.

Kate filled in the blanks. “That he likes him? That’s what he said to me last time we talked.”

“Aye…”

“But you being here, that suggests otherwise.”

She shot a knowing glance that travelled from his waist up to his well-defined jaw. In fact, that was the same glance Kyle had first given him when they locked eyes across the foam pit of that club during Fresher’s Week, eight years ago. He’d been shirtless at the time. He wasn’t meant to be, but he’d been in a fight with some guy, and then there may have been some fooling around involved in the middle of all that… He didn’t remember, really. But he did remember when he first spotted him, well-dressed, near fucking angelic, holding himself with such poise and status that John had assumed he was either rich or famous. Maybe both.

He'd crossed directly in front of one of the spray guns and hadn’t cared that it soaked him to the bone. He had to get to this guy before anyone else did.

“I’m Tav.”

“Kyle.”

“That suits you, you look like a Kyle.”

“And you look like you’ve just lost a fight with a bar of soap.”

John hadn’t thought he looked like a Kyle at all. More like a Marquis or an Edgar or some other fancy-arse name. But in the same vein, he didn’t look like a John, which is why he went by Tav for the entire time they were students.

He still remembered the pick-up line he’d tried before he lost his Caithness brogue.

“Say Kyle,” he had begun, and drunkenly stumbled just a little closer , “do ye’ have any Scot in you?”

“Is this an attempt to flirt?”

Kyle had laughed, and those eyes lit up like fireworks. There was a small scar on the apple of his cheek. The imperfection perfected him. John felt inferior, and almost a little embarrassed.

“Go on then, I don’t have any Scot in me, no.”

“Ah- Would ye’ like some?”

Kyle’s dark eyes had traced down to the abs he had the time to maintain back then. To the way Tav’s navy blue shorts sat ever so low across his hip bones to reveal a flash of thick brown curls up to his naval. Shorts for the foam party of course, although it was a cool five degrees outside, and he knew at the time that he would regret it the moment he left the warmth of the room. In hindsight, he did. Kyle had scanned the questionable tattoo on his forearm. It looked like a boar head, circled by a belt? And there was Latin there, although it had been obscured by the light bouncing off the wet of his skin and all the bubbles that tangled themselves up in the hairs that plastered his arms.

“ I’m not that easy, Tav. But you can buy me a drink if you’d like.”

His accent was rich. Southern, obviously, but it sounded pleasant unlike some of the more nasally tones he had heard from others of southern ilk. Tav was smitten. He remembered with a jab in his chest that his wallet was empty the next morning, and that the fated hook-up was not to be. It was his own fault, really. He had ended up in another scrap, and the bouncers had really had enough of his dramatics and threw him out of the club with a busted nose and very blue balls.

Before he’d turned around to leave, he’d heard someone yell his name from the smoking area.

“Tav!”

It was him. A lit cigarette between his fingers, and a napkin stuffed in his hand which he scrunched up into a ball and pelted at John’s head. It had bounced off, but John had caught it before it reached the sodden ground, and for good measure too. Written in lipstick borrowed from some bird they’d been chatting to was Kyle Garrick’s phone number followed by a cute little “x”.

Funny really that the previously obscured Latin on his arm read Non Oblitus , which after a few modernisations of the Latin simply translated to not forgotten . John MacTavish always made an impression, after all.

He snapped out of his daydream as he responded to Kate’s glance. “I don’t really think Kyle likes me in that way. We already did all that flirting when we were young and stupid.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re still young, and I’ve not got enough info to judge the stupid part yet, but Kyle hasn’t dated anyone since.”

“We didn’t date- we just…”

“Fooled around?”

“Not even that, really. Unless you count drunken snogging and- god, sorry, you don’t need all the details.”

“Hey, I’m not here to judge,” she said with a smirk. “I just want to know why he’s waiting. He tells me he’s too focussed on his career, but this- bringing you here? Seems like self-sabotage to me. No offence.”

“None taken, I don’t think…”

It hadn’t gone amiss that they had been parked up outside the flat for at least a couple of minutes. Surprising really that she had managed to find a space, especially one so close. Maybe Kate Laswell had connections in high places, or maybe, she was lucky.

“Look, John, you will look out for him, yeah? However that may be, if you become a distraction from Jonathan, or just a helping hand or whatever it is- just make sure he’s alright.”

John nodded and thanked her for the lift with a promise. “I’ll be there for him, don’t worry.”

Chapter Text

John Price

Status: [DO NOT DISTURB]

This was the second Monday now that Kyle had gone out to lunch with that twat with the mohawk. Price’s bottom jaw ached with a dull throb. He had spent the morning with his teeth clenched to avoid going over there and chewing him out. He was just a friend, after all, and why wouldn’t Kyle want to introduce him to the company? But Kyle wasn’t stupid, and Price saw the way he sheepishly glanced in his direction every time he got up to head to the man’s office door.

Did he have any right to be angry? Probably not. It’s not like Kyle had ever reciprocated his advances in any way other than unbridled loyalty and the occasional touch of his arm or smile in a way that was more than just friendly. Kate had told him, time and time again, that Kyle wasn’t interested. 

He knew that was a lie.

He saw the way Kyle’s eyes would always settle on his reflection in the mirrored panels of the artwork on the wall opposite, although he would never admit to him that he knew he was looking. He wouldn’t dare embarrass him like that. Price knew Kyle took longer than normal to make his tea just how he liked it, and that he wouldn’t make a move to leave until Price was leaving too.

To his left, next to the framed picture of his girls, his mug steamed with tea steeped for four precise minutes. Kyle wasn’t doing this to spite him. If he was, the mug wouldn’t be there. So why? Why would he not just talk?

A heavy rap against his open door startled him slightly, but he didn’t outwardly show any sign of diminished composure.

“Price,” came the voice, and upon looking up from behind his computer, it was MacTavish. “Just wanted to run the finalisation of the new TikTok account by you – I’ve had it cleared with Products Team already-”

“Yeah, you can go for it.”

The man lingered, with his intention clearly being to have shown Price on the phone he held in his outstretched palm. “Uh, sure thing boss.” 

It was unprofessional, and rude, and Price knew it. He’d toiled long enough in this role to understand that there was no place for his own feelings, just as much as he knew he would be in the shit if anyone found out. But today of all days, he couldn’t put up with the man being in his presence. 

“Did you- did you need anything else?” MacTavish stood half-in and half-out of the room. Price analysed as more words came across his lips that he did not say, as if against his better judgement. Seems his grumpiness hadn’t gone unnoticed, but rather, was being politely ignored as to not cause a fuss.

“Sorry, MacTavish – I’m just a little busy…”

Then it struck him, how to get the man out from under his feet for a few days.

“Actually-”

The man turned on the spot, from where he had already begun to leave. The way his eyes lit up made him seem eager to please, or perhaps there was a validation there that his boss didn’t hate his guts only eight days into the job, and maybe Price did feel a slight tinge of guilt in his gut at the fact that a lad nearly half his age was the victim of his current gripe.  

“Simon will need some help in the coming weeks, he’s about to launch a new line to the open consumer market. Could you collaborate with him?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Poor bloke, as if having his wrath wasn’t bad enough. He wouldn’t wish working with Simon on his worst enemy. He was a lone wolf through and through, but a bloody brilliant member of the project management and sales team, hence him being asked by the higher-ups to head up this new product line. Hinges of all things. Fascinating... Price did often wonder whether his success came from scaring their clients into ordering extra stock, considering he didn’t have the most well-polished way with words. But that was probably why he charmed them, it was all honesty, no bullshit, and he had an air of authority about him that solidified both.

MacTavish made a hasty exit, which left the doorway empty. Price stared at that metal panel, and sure enough, was met with hesitant, ebony eyes in return.

John MacTavish

Status: “Lunch break”

He knew Kyle was bluffing when he said Price wouldn’t get mad. It was obvious, the moment he had walked back into the office that day, that a thick scowl was set across the man’s face unbecoming of someone his age and status. Then Kate’s words echoed in his mind. “Look out for him,” she had said. So, he did once again, as he took Kyle to lunch for the second Monday in a row.

If it was helping was another matter.

They had returned to the canal. Kyle had lit not one, but two cigarettes, and smoked them both as if they were to be his last on this god forsaken earth. 

“Look mate-” John started, then stopped at the look Kyle shot at him that begged him not to overstep.

It was bitterly cold, and he’d rather be in any greasy spoon in town than out here where his fingers were turning red and puffy and threatening to fall off. Sure, he liked the snow. But that was up on the slopes of the Alps, with a board strapped to his feet and seven layers of clothes, gloves and goggles.

The second cigarette fizzled and puttered away in the slush, before being kicked down that same drain as the last. He’d watched a documentary once about sewage and groundwater disposal and how people discarding their butts down those grates was causing huge environmental issues. He thought maybe now wasn’t the best time to bring that up.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Kyle blurted out.

“Sur- wait, what?”

His face had changed, anxiety replaced by a mixture of staunch resolve and bad ideas.

“I’m sick of working late,” he muttered, and stuffed his now empty hands into his pockets as if the lack of a cigarette between his fingers rendered them useless. “Want to blow off some steam.”

John shifted against the uncomfortable slats of the wooden torture benches.

“It’s Monday… You sure about this?” He laughed, nervously.

Kyle kicked at a small snowdrift as he replied. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

What was the worst that could happen? Apart from getting fired or losing Kyle and finding him tonguing some rebound minger. Or both. Both would be worse.

John laughed. “You’re a bad influence, you know?”

“Me? You’re the bad one Tav,” Kyle replied with a harumph.

He seemed entirely unaware of how he was coming off at that moment. About how every action slowly sank them both deeper into a creek of shit without the proverbial paddle. John didn’t complain. Didn’t let the offense seep through the smile on his face, at the fact that he was no longer the bad kid Kyle once knew, and instead the self-sacrificial hero.

“Sure, if you say so.”

The walk to the bar, although not too distant, was cold. They’d already argued for ten minutes about what the other was wearing, with Tav being concerned for Kyle’s safety as he threatened to parade into -2⁰C weather in a mesh undershirt and a blazer.. Kyle in turn bickered with him and said that his outfit looked too ‘ butch’ , which Tav didn’t get in the slightest.

“I’m not gay enough for this shit,” he had mumbled, as he adjusted the way his cap sat, swivelled backwards.

Kyle grunted. “You’re going to look like you’re my keeper.”

“I am your keeper, as in, keeping you out of bleeding trouble!”

He wished he would have pushed more for Kyle to change. He was too stubborn to admit it, but Tav saw the way he shivered and how his hands trembled without any pockets to shove them into.

“Bleeding Jesus Kyle, give me your hand.”

“What?”

“Your hand,” he repeated, as he held his own out, and wiggled his fingers.

The man looked hesitant at first, before going arse over tit on a patch of particularly dangerous black ice, where he found himself caught up in a tangle of Scottish arms and legs.

“Woah laddie,” John laughed, the full magnificence of his accent coming out as he did. He rarely spoke with his true voice. It was always there, of course, but he’d learnt to mellow it to just background noise for the sake of tender English ears. “Don’t coup it before we even get there, I know you’re head over heels for me but there’s nae need for that.”

“Shut up Tav,” Kyle laughed, as he untangled the majority of the knots he’d tied between the two of them, and instead relented to the offer of a hand.

His fingers were frozen, and John nearly pulled back at the touch. Instead, he took up both of his hands as he mumbled to himself. “You’re like ice, you idiot. Told you to put on something warm.”

There was something about the closeness. Something about what could have been all those years ago when they first met at the club. Something about the way Kyle looked down with his doe eyes, and those lashes most girls would kill for, and the small smile which tweaked the corner of his mouth and caused dimples to form just below his scar.

“What?” Tav asked, when he finally noticed Kyle watching.

Kyle said nothing, just tugged and set them back on their way. John tucked both of their hands into the pocket of his thick jacket, the faux teddy-fluff on the inside both comfortable and practical.

As was always the case when he went out with Kyle, they were straight through the doors of Bar Pop, even if the bouncer did give John and his backwards cap a glance of disappointment. Not that there was a queue, really. It was the first snowy Monday in December and the only people out were students or drunken office goers at work parties.

They both liked the drag shows here – although for John it was more about the pretty people and the loud music rather than the culture. No show tonight, though, so they settled at the bar and John bought them the first round as was their tradition.

“Can you even afford to be out tonight?” Kyle asked and sipped the negroni John had slid across the bar top to him.

John laughed. “Not unless you want to start drinking Fosters and surfing tables for leftovers.”

The face Kyle pulled suggested that wasn’t on the cards.

“I’ll pay- or maybe someone nice will buy us a drink.”

It also hadn’t gone amiss that Kyle had smiled in a very friendly manner at any guy who looked over forty in the room.

“You’re terrible,” Tav replied with a roll of his eyes, “and anyways, aren’t you mine tonight?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were all over me five minutes ago, could barely keep your hands off me.”

“I fell!”

“In love? You charmer, Ky.”

“Fuck off Tav.”

The first round of drinks was sunk all too fast, and the man at the end of the bar who clearly wanted a piece of both of them sent them a shot board their way, which really didn’t help matters.

“Bet you wanted me back then too,” Tav prodded, as he downed the third consecutive shot of strange, flavoured vodka. Birthday cake, apparently. “Bet I looked- so sexy- with all that foam all over me.”

Kyle snorted. “If by sexy you mean a dog that’s just escaped the bath at the groomers.”

“You wound me,” Tav replied, and clutched at his chest overdramatically. “Gonna have to fix it somehow.”

“Is that so?”

It was like the old days, all over again. Back then, he was too eager, too brash, and too full of himself. Now, he could take a joke, and his flirting was at least half in jest. The other half, well, how could he help himself? The man who sat next to him was still one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen – and the instant infatuation he’d felt back then didn’t surprise him given his upbringing.

He knew part of it was for a stupid reason. Small-town syndrome at its finest. Wick has a population of just under seven thousand. Only twenty-six percent of those people were between the ages of twenty-five to forty-four. Ninety-nine percent of them were white. When he came to Manchester for the first time, it was a shock to his entire system. He loved it. Loved the vibrancy, loved the culture. Even the Gay Village itself was a culture shock. He’d known he was bisexual as young as he could remember, or rather back then he didn’t know it was considered weird to want to play kiss chase with the boys in class and not just the girls. He was corrected, soon enough. But here it was so open. There was no hiding of diaries in closets or sneaking behind the bike shed with his first boyfriend. No memory of that one blue, pink, and purple pin badge he kept wrapped in a tissue in his sock drawer in case his parents found out. But here was Kyle - a black man, who was openly gay. Although John had no doubt that he’d faced his own level of hardship growing up, he would have hated to have thought if Kyle had grown up in Wick.

“You’re staring,” Kyle murmured, and John realised how he’d subconsciously shifted closer, with an arm propped against the bar.

“You look good,” Tav responded. “Only thing worth staring at in this whole bar.”

Kyle shifted, not uncomfortably, but from embarrassment. Tav’s usual flirting had already heated him under the collar, but the blatant compliment made him feel some sort of way.

“You’re embarrassing me now…”

“What, would you rather hear it from some old sleaze?” 

There was a pause, where Kyle’s eyes settled on the blue of John’s irises. John had of course been referring to the old fogeys who had been ogling him as soon as he’d walked through the door. Then it was like something clicked in his mind, and John saw it. Saw the way his pupils dilated, and his nostrils flared gently as he sighed.

“No…”

“Wait- really?”

If there’s one thing about Kyle, it’s that he doesn’t take any shit. The flirting, the jokes, all of it had always been brushed off with some sort of witty insult or a plain old shut up. Now the world had paused. He’d never gotten a positive reaction, and he froze up because of it.

“One more drink,” Kyle started with a smile, “and I might even dance with you.”

Tav had never whipped his wallet out faster. Not even the first night they met, when he was young, dumb, and desperate. He forked out for Kyle’s sex on the beach, which he imagined he ordered in a teasing manner, and after he had supped it all through a ridiculously camp curly straw the man grabbed his hand and led him onto the dancefloor.

The Scot hated club music. He liked punk, and dad rock, and occasionally if he felt like it, he might tolerate a spot of British indie. But he wouldn’t complain. Not now. Not with Kyle pressed shoulder to shoulder with him as they squeezed through the crowd. It was some frankly terrible Eurovision mashup that the DJ decided to throw a ridiculous bass line into. He didn’t care. Kyle’s cologne smelled divine. His skin glowed glossy under laser light. They stopped. The vodka was his tolerance, his shield, his one line of defence against the embarrassment of being twenty-six and acting eighteen. Then Kyle touched him, touched his chest, his face, and stroked fingers through the wires of his beard that had spent only a few days neatly cropped before he gave up butchering his skin with the razor. His own hands wrapped around Kyle’s waist, now shed of the blazer which hung lazily up in the coat room. He always forgot Kyle was taller, not by much, perhaps an inch or two. He looked up and met his dark gaze with a hunger he hadn’t lost in eight years, not even when they were apart. Kyle had only let him this close once before, after too many drinks. They had never talked about it again, after that. 

Their hips pressed into each other, and Tav thanked the ‘butch’ boots for giving him an extra inch of leg-length. It was obvious why. Both men weren’t exactly hiding their interest .

“Fuck,” Tav growled, and pressed his nose into the crook of the other’s neck. He had to ask him what scent he was wearing. It was musky, but with a hint of citrussy sweetness that made his mouth water.

Kyle pulled him back by the collar, and for a moment, John relented his touch. Perhaps he had overstepped.

Perhaps he was wrong.

“Kiss me,” the words came. It was almost drowned by the music, the thunk, thunk, thunk of the bass reverberating the floor beneath them.

John blinked. “Really?”

“Why do you always seem so shocked?”

Kyle laughed at his own joke, but that was stopped soon enough. Tav’s lips crashed down upon his and drank in the sound and all the breath behind it. Kyle had no intention to lead, rather, he liked to be led in the way he liked. So he fought back a little, and took control with Tav’s lower lip trapped between his overly-sharp canines. Tav used to laugh at them, would run around and call him Dracula, or even worse, Edward. Tav wasn’t laughing now. He was desperate, and urgent, and everything that Kyle had imagined him to be.

This was shortly proven when Tav scooped strong arms under his thighs, herding him up against the wall of the establishment. There were faces in that crowd that had most certainly seen them in here together before, in these few months that Tav had crashed on Kyle’s couch. A lot of them were probably thinking finally .

They ignored the peering eyes.

“Tav, fucking hell,” Kyle gasped, as John worked kisses and gentle nips down his jawline and into his collarbone. His tongue licked stripes onto his skin, animalistic in nature.

Tav muttered into his jaw before his teeth brushed the skin of his neck again. “You taste good.”

“What are you? A- ah!”

Whatever insult Kyle was crafting stopped shortly after being hauled up the wall. Tav might not have the perfectly refined abs he once had, but the bastard was still strong as an ox. His mouth licked along the mesh of his collar, and down towards his chest.

“We need to go,” he urged.

Kyle paused, noticeably enough that John lowered him down softly onto his feet. “Only if you want to,” he added.

“I- I- fuck…”

“Kyle?”

“Raincheck?”

“Sure, raincheck.”

John released his grip and adjusted himself in a completely obvious manner. He was hot, too fucking hot, and the jacket he refused to pay coat fare for wasn’t helping things. Nor was the vodka and the pints, which were now protesting in his bladder.

“Gonna take a pish,” he said, and thumbed at the door to the lav. Kyle nodded and cleared his throat. He was clearly just as hot and bothered.

He resigned himself to a stall, where his cheeks hit the seat with a heavy thud. His hands trembled with adrenaline as he pulled his phone from his pocket. What the hell had he done? Did he go too far? He didn’t understand, and he could feel his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He felt sick, and that heat which gnawed at his stomach wasn’t helping. His thumb swiped to open his messages to Kyle before he shut the app again. He couldn’t just be a coward now – he had to go back out there and face the music. So, it was a shock then when he finally emerged to find Kyle sat at the bar chatting with the silver haired geezer who bought them drinks earlier. 

He had half the mind to go over there, but by the way they were eating each other with their eyes, he felt he’d be interrupting. Really, he should have stayed. Should have made sure Kyle was safe, and all that. But he’d done plenty of protection duty in the short two weeks at the company already, and it was plain to see, the reciprocation he desired was not to be found here. The phone was flipped out one more time, and a message was slapped angrily against the keypad, which never had so much of an effect on smartphones as it did on phones with buttons and flip screens. Nevertheless, he felt an inch better as he hit send before he stormed out of the bar.

23:47

Tav: See u at home, I’m not ur keeper.

Chapter Text

Kyle Garrick

Status: [Offline]

Kyle woke up in blue cotton sheets, not black silk ones. An unknown man snored softly into the space between them. He must be pushing fifty, and he certainly didn’t look bad for it, but this was not what he needed the morning before work-

Shit. What time was it?

The trousers he had been wearing lay crumpled near the doorway, his phone visible in the thin material of their pocket. As he stood, he noticed the soreness. It had been a while… The condom wrappers strewn about told him at least they were safe, and thank god. What had happened to Tav? When did he leave?

Thankfully, his phone switched on. It was 06:32. He needed to be at his desk for 08:00.

He shimmied into the skimpy outfit. There’s no way he could wear these to work, but he doubted he’d make it home in time to change. Where was he? Maps opened slowly as he cursed the area’s horrible signal.

West fucking Didsbury.

There was only one thing to do.

“Price, it’s me,” he spoke softly down the phone, reluctant to leave the sleeping man’s hallway and traipse out into the cold. “Yep, yeah, you haven’t set off yet have you?”

Cars rumbled past, and snow flurries sloshed under wheels. No doubt public transport was delayed, if not cancelled entirely. A taxi would take too long, and he’d got no cash in his wallet.

“Okay, I’m at a house, could you swing by? I’ll need to go to my flat… I’ll text you the address.”

He hung up before the man complained, and sent across the postcode. Price would come for him, even if it was just to chew him out. West Disbury wasn’t the largest suburb, so it wouldn’t be longer than ten minutes. Soon enough, there was an engine outside, that idled momentarily and then stopped. He would recognise that sound anywhere, and dashed for the exit. 

Oh boy. That face was a sight to see.

Price had gotten out of the car, and instantly pulled the coat from his own back to wrap it around Kyle’s exposed chest and shoulders. His hands lingered protectively, perhaps jealously, but did not breach the fabric of the jacket. Just as it had always been.

“Kyle.”

One word. One bitter word. One angry word. One jealous, offended, rage-filled word.

One apprehensive word. One comforting word. One word that reeked of anxiety, panic and ultimately relief.

“John- I-”

He stuttered, having not given much thought to his explanation. What the hell was he thinking, getting that drunk when he knew he had work in the morning? He loved his job, apart from the recent issues of course, and wouldn’t want to lose it for the world. 

He might have lost it if his boss was anybody else.

“Come on, get in the car – you look cold.”

Price corralled him to the car door, and opened it for him. Kyle didn’t notice the hand which settled above his head on the doorframe, avoiding any bumps. There were many things Kyle didn’t notice, in and amongst the few things he did.

When Price settled into the driver’s seat, he turned the heat up beyond what was usually comfortable for him. “Buckle up.”

“Right, yeah.” Kyle tugged the seatbelt down, the scent of the man’s aftershave tantalisingly close as his coat was pinned against his neck.

The engine rumbled again, and the distinctive sound of wheels crunching against road grit sounded out as the Jag pulled back out into the road. There was a silence, not quite uncomfortable, but filled with questions yet to be asked and accusations yet to be made.

Price coughed and fiddled with the wipers. He finally settled on a way to parse the topic. “Good night then? You’ve not been out in a while.”

Kyle didn’t know whether it had been a good night. He didn’t remember much after Tav had left.

“Fuck-” he said out loud. He remembered exactly what he’d done before he’d fallen into some old bloke’s bed. “I mean- yeah, it was alright.”

He was a terrible liar sometimes. Not always, and especially not when lying to himself. He did that part often. Like last night, when he told himself it would be a good idea to blow off some steam.

“Who did you go out with?”

“Tav- MacTavish.”

Price bit his lip, but there was a small shimmer in his eye. One that revelled in the fact that Kyle had gone home with someone else, and given him a lick of hope that MacTavish had lost out.

“He uh, he had to go though.”

“Was that before or after you hooked up with your- conquest.” 

Kyle’s mouth opened and closed in offence at a line overstepped. But it was an entirely true statement, so really, he couldn’t complain. “Sorry, that was too far,” Price admitted, to partially relieve him from his embarrassment.

Silence followed, and Kyle knew he should fill it with something. An apology maybe, or just a thank you for coming to his rescue. He could materialise neither, as he shuddered. The alcohol shakes. A chronic sign that the worst of the hangover was yet to come. But he couldn’t be ill, not when he needed to get to work.

“You’re not coming in today,” Price gently scolded, as he rattled in the door-side pocket for a pouch and handed it to Kyle. “Put some music on, traffic is bad in this weather. We’ll be here for a while.”

Kyle often wondered whether Price could read his mind. The silence had been deafening, and here was his solution. Sometimes he wished that he would do it more often, so that he didn’t have to come clean himself. Unsteady hands unzipped the case, to be greeted by stacks upon stacks of CDs in clear plastic pockets. The retro way. Not long since this would have been the holy grail amongst holy grails. He thumbed through the sheets and laughed a little. About three CDs in the pile were released after he was born.

He opted for Now That’s What I Call the 80s. It was unbearable to think what he’d get lumbered with otherwise, not after what he remembered about last night’s DJ remixes. Disc 2 slid into the CD slot nicely. Only, Disc 2 was a mistake, not that he could have known without the case, which had been replaced by these spaciously economic plastic sleeves. The Proclaimers – I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) hit him with the force of one thousand vengeful Scottish suns. 

He recoiled into his seat in shame .

Price hummed along to the familiar tune, whilst Kyle slipped his phone from his pocket. His thumb hovered over the conversation with Tav, unsure whether it was wise to open it with Price in the car. Neither of them were known for being particularly sensible whilst drunk, and more times than not Tav would send shirtless flexing pictures with stupid flirty comments.

He pressed down. One message with no reply.

23:47

Tav: See u at home, I’m not ur keeper.

An apology was owed, that much was true. Not necessarily for stopping whatever wild and wicked thing they started, but more for the way he had tossed him aside the moment it happened. The guilt welled in his gut, and he knew right away what he had done was wrong. But what was possibly worse, were the hairs which stood cruelly to attention on the back of his neck as he remembered the heavy, hitched breaths against his ear.

Tav was loyal, and beautiful, and misunderstood.

But then, a glance to his right, at the man braced against the cold of winter in only his button-up shirt. The man who had been there at his first call, who had held his tongue and the thoughts clearly pressed into the crease of his brow for Kyle’s comfort.

Fuck.

He’d really, really messed this one up.

After forty minutes and plenty of grumbling from Price about people’s ability to drive in snow, they pulled up outside the flat. It was on double yellows, but Price didn’t care about that sort of thing when Kyle was involved. He’d pay for a ticket if it meant he was safe.

“C’mon,” he said, as he opened the car door for the younger man. “I’ll take you upstairs.”

Kyle quickly glanced at the time on his phone. It was now 07:25. An approximate fifty/fifty chance that Tav was still inside, worrying about his hair or still on the sofa in just his pants.

“Uh,” he started, before he almost keeled over. He realised that he was definitely still intoxicated when he had woken up, which showed in his Bambi legs across the icy pavement.

Price grabbed his arm and steadied him. “No ‘uh’ . I don’t care if MacTavish is there – I can take him to work if he is, anyway.”

He relented, for there was no point arguing, and allowed himself to be escorted inside. They took the lift, as Price complained about his knee. MacTavish took the stairs. They missed each other by seconds.

“Hello?” Price Cautiously announced as he entered the flat, at Kyle’s warning that MacTavish could still be parading around starkers. No such thing materialised, thankfully, and Kyle let Price put him to bed with water and painkillers.

There was a slight pause. A realisation that, between the two of them, this was a boundary never crossed. Price had picked Kyle up from the flat many times and helped him to carry files and boxes when he was working late, which had always been left neatly in the entrance of the kitchen. Never this close to the life Kyle lived outside of work. The orchids he kept on the windowsill, tenderly potted in bark and moss. The record player. Some stupid hipster purchase he’d made at university before he realised he actually did love the sound of vinyl. Since then, he’d collected nearly two hundred pieces. The books. So, so, so many books. His to-be-read pile stacked neatly next to the second-hand armchair he and Tav had dragged in from the street, and ended up spending just as much as a new one would have cost to reupholster the water-damaged fabric.

Cautious, dark eyes settled on Price, in some strange fear-driven way. That he would say something or judge the way he kept his room as if it wasn’t meticulously clean and pin neat. 

“Didn’t know you liked to read.”

Kyle chuckled, before he swallowed back bile in his throat. He sipped from the glass and hoped the nausea would miraculously leave. Price knew little to nothing about his real self. Sure, he knew his exact sushi order, his preferred route home, the font he favoured in his documents and exactly which ink cartridges he put in those fancy pens he insisted ‘ wrote better’ . But not who he was. Not the existence of his currently-in-hiatus book blog, or the fact that he had an intimate knowledge of the local drag scene. Not the fact that he knew nothing about cars, or DIY, or life outside of big cities. He’d never travelled, despite always wanting to do so. He had a ten-step skincare routine. He preferred cardio to strength and played badminton until he moved up north. Autumn was his favourite season. He’s horrifically scared of heights.

He decided to keep his answer tame. “Don’t get a chance to read as often as I did…”

“Because of work?”

“Hmm.” The water tampered the hammering in his head just a little. “It’s not just that-”

Price interrupted him, but raised a hand apologetically as he did. “You can talk to me, you know, any time. Work, or- anything.”

He could just let everything go now, since he’d already blown up his stellar attendance record and hurt his good friend whilst doing so. But he was afraid. Afraid to let Price in, and afraid to push Tav away. Afraid that either step would be the wrong choice. Really, he’d spent the past eight years single, barring that one Tinder fling that lasted two weeks and left him for some airheaded twink with three total brain cells. Jealousy sat on his tongue as he thought about him, some guy he hadn’t seen in years. Maybe he needed companionship. Or maybe, just some good head. He knew Price could give him the prior, but it would be big, and serious, and there was his family to think of first and foremost. Tav could give him the second, from everything he’d been told in university kitchens by his one-night stands. Why wouldn’t Tav be a good choice of companion? He had a job now, after all, and there was no doubt that he’d matured from the angry, angsty, overly-sexual deviant he’d been in their past life.

“Just need to figure something out for myself.” He sunk into the pillows as he spoke, in hopes that Price wouldn’t see the slight heat that would appear on the tips of his ears when he was embarrassed. He was thankful the undertones in his skin disguised the flush on his cheeks.

Price picked his jacket up from the bedpost. He ignored the boozy scent that clung to it now. 

“Get some rest,” he insisted, as he headed toward the door.

“John, wait-”

Price’s hand lingered on the doorknob as he looked back over his shoulder.

“Thanks for this.”

“Anytime.”

John MacTavish

Status: “Anyone got any paracetamol?”

John didn’t notice the undeniably unique green Jaguar XJR parked half on the kerb right outside their building. John didn’t notice much of anything that morning, between the lack of a message on his phone from Kyle, and the fact he nearly left the building with mismatching shoes.

He considered calling, but couldn’t bring himself to hit the little green phone next to his name. Surely, he’d be at work. He hadn’t missed a day in three years.

The bus journey was lonely without him. Then the damn thing got stuck in a snowdrift two stops down from where he usually hopped off, which meant more trudging through snow with wet shoes. Yeah, these fancy brogues Kyle liked so much were nice in the looks department, but they rubbed like a bitch and might as well be colanders with the amount of water they let in. 

It was quiet in the office, unusually so. Most of the sales team were given some leeway to work hybrid, and with the weather worsening, it was no surprise that desks were empty. But there were two notable absences.

Kyle, and Price.

He stood in quiet stipulation by the coffee machine as he thumbed the buttons. In his daze, he’d pressed on latte and not his usual black coffee. “Shit…”

“Morning.”

“Morning, I’ve only gone and pressed the wrong button-” he started to explain, before looking up at who the voice came from. The tall, and unmistakable frame of one Simon Riley. “Oh shit, hey! Didn’t think you’d be in today with the snow, awful driving conditions, eh?”

“I don’t drive,” the man said plainly, and reached for the cup that had just finished pouring the last of the frothy milk into the coffee below. “I do drink lattes though.”

For a moment, John was confused. Then he realised that he could now have his usual coffee without any waste. “Lucky coincidence that.”

Simon was about to retreat to his office, no doubt to light a cigarette and hide himself for the next ten hours. That was before John remembered the last thing Price asked him to do yesterday before everything kicked off.

“Oh, wait up-”

“What?”

“I need to talk with you at some point, Price wants me on with your advertisements for the new range.”

“Price said this?”

“Yeah, he asked me yesterday. I can pop in now if you’re free?”

There was a stunted shuffle, and he scrunched his nose in a way that looked annoyed. It was hard to tell as the mask obscured his mouth.

“What do you need from me?”

John stuttered. He was about to ask Simon what he could do for him, and not the other way around. “Well, uh, we’ll look through your product line. You can tell me who the target markets are, and I’ll get some posts drafted for the socials and-”

“I’ll email you the catalogue,” the blond interrupted.

“Right-”

Simon about turned, done with the brief conversation. John wondered whether he was bad at this whole office thing, or if nearly everyone in this building was just a bit of a tosser. “See you around then,” he added, as Simon shut the door behind him.

He was about to retreat to his own office, which he and Kyle had affectionately named The Closet so that they could make jokes every time they exited the room. That was before the door to the upper office swung open, and the booming voice of Price came through it, accompanied by another with an American twang.

Kate Laswell.

John looked around for anything he could do to make his hands look busy whilst remaining in earshot. Brenda would be so mad that she missed this. He was glad, the nosy bugger.

“We’re not doing this now, Kate.”

“I think you’ll find we are,” she retorted. “You need to fix this. Today.”

“And how exactly do you suggest I do that, hm? He called me this morning, still fucking drunk, and I’ve not even had a moment alone with him in two bloody weeks! ”

“So, you’re suggesting this isn’t your doing then? That he was upset about nothing?”

Price jammed angry fingers into the coffee machine. The tea the machine made was subpar at best, but since there was no trace of Kyle, he had no other choice.

“I don’t know what he’s upset about- he wouldn’t talk to me.”

MacTavish fiddled with some buttons on the scanner and pretended to look at it pensively. The blank paper on the copy surface stared back at him.

“Why don’t you try and quell the rumours that are going around about the two of you, then…”

Price scoffed. “Really? You know those idiots will talk about anything, I’m sure that can’t be the reason.”

“Put yourself in his shoes, Jonathan,” Kate snapped back, and handed him a stack of files. “Would you want to be accused of what he’s being accused of?”

With that, she was gone. Always a whirlwind; one that shakes the foundations and makes you realise that perhaps they could do with some more concrete.

“Fucking hell,” Price muttered, and pinched two fingers against his brow.

MacTavish rounded the corner, his plain white sheet of paper making silent threats to out him. He folded it, a crease right down the middle, and was cautious with his greeting. A simple “morning” and a pause.

“Morning, MacTavish,” Price replied with a sigh. “Come to my office for a moment, would you?”

John followed and wondered whether he was about to be fired. He wished that if he was, it could have happened before his socks got wet. Nonetheless, he approached with courage and shut the door gently behind him.

“What’s up?” He asked and sat on the chair opposite the man’s desk. 

“I’m not going to pry, and it’s not my business- it’s not work business either, so we didn’t have this conversation if anybody asks…”

MacTavish nodded, and set a stern look across his face to boot.

“What’s wrong with Kyle? Why did you go out last night? Who did he- go home with?”

John blinked. Twice, just for good measure.

“Price, I-”

“I know I shouldn’t be asking, but he called me this morning from some stranger’s house. I don’t know you all that well yet, but you don’t seem like someone who would leave a friend behind.”

The man’s grating annunciation of the word ‘friend’ made him think there was something more behind the statement. An accusation, but not necessarily a malicious one.

“Kyle wanted to go, I agreed to go with him,” he started, and wondered which bits to avoid for Kyle’s sake. “He met someone whilst I went to the toilet, they looked comfortable so I-”

“Left?”

“Aye, and I shouldn’t have left him, but he was… We had an argument.”

“A bad one?”

 “I- He-” The paper in John’s hands was now folded again, twice over. “Let’s just say the argument affected me more than him.”

“He wasn’t upset afterwards?”

MacTavish shrugged. He’d been coming down from the adrenaline and scent of pure fucking lust, so he wasn’t going to remember everything. But he couldn’t let Price know that part, so he just fumbled an explanation.

“Not from what I could tell, like I said, I went to take a pish and he’d already cuddled up to that guy.”

“Right, okay… Thank you MacTavish, and I’m sorry.”

The smile and the shift from his seat told John he could go. It was weird though, that Price apologised to him. Seemed unnecessary really. As he left the room, he didn’t see Price smile slightly with a shake of his head.

He didn’t know he’d been rumbled, and he didn’t know why. This morning, he hadn’t shaved his beard again. Because he didn’t shave, he didn’t check the mirror. And because he didn’t check the mirror, well… 

He didn’t see the deep purple blemish peering over his shirt collar, with two signature bruises at canine width apart.

Kyle Garrick

Status: [Offline]

“I cannae fucking believe you Kyle!” The yell came from outside the door of the flat, followed by an unhinged rattle as the key slid into the lock. “When I get my fuckin’ hands on ye…”

It had been a peaceful Tuesday, half of which he’d spent trying not to heave up his guts, and the other half he’d thumbed through the novel that had sat unread by his bedside for weeks. He worried about work, worried whether he’d left the reports Price needed in a place he would find them, worried that people would talk more than they already did.

But most of all he’d worried about Tav.

Nothing could bring him to send that text he’d typed out where he begged Tav to forgive him. Or the one where he asked him to bring him some dinner back.

There were several more crashes, as Tav kicked his shoes off at the door and shed his excess clothes. Kyle’s stomach twisted. He was absolutely taking his time on purpose, just to draw out this torture longer.

“Tav?”

Silence followed, save for distant muttering. Then soft footed steps along the floor, and a knock against his slightly ajar door frame. Kyle bookmarked his page. He never dogeared the corners, unlike the man who was waiting impatiently outside. He still hadn’t forgiven him for what he did to his copy of The Hobbit . 

“Come in.” 

The door opened with what could only be described as controlled annoyance. Kyle placed the book gently on the bed before he clapped his hand to his mouth. “Please tell me you covered that up?”

“Does it look like I covered it up?” The Scot half yelled, but with no actual malice in his voice. Some annoyance, of course. “I didn’t fucking notice until after lunch, and by then Price had already-”

“Oh fuck, he saw?”

“He more than saw , Ky. He had me in his office the moment he saw me, although I didn’t realise why until I saw myself in the fucking mirror!”

There was a creak as Tav sat on the end of the bed, and another as he splayed out on the sheets. He unbuttoned his shirt, continuing his unfortunate habit of stripping and walking around like he owned the place. Kyle watched him. Watched the breath as it gently rose and fell in his chest. The mark which had blossomed, deep purple, nestled beneath his jaw. He couldn’t deny the heat which flushed through his own face, the sin of marking something which wasn’t his to own.

A loud beep came from the kitchen. “That’s yer soup,” Tav said matter-of-factly, and sat upright once again.

“The Panda soup?” Kyle’s eyes lit up as the familiar smell wafted into the room.

“Aye.” The man departed, and returned with a bowl wrapped hastily in a tea towel to avoid scalding. “Price told me to pick some up for you.”

“Ah…”

He handed the bowl over, as well as the deep plastic spoon that came with orders to-go. “I was gonna get ye’ something, just- didn’t know what exactly you wanted.” 

The look on his face was somewhat sheepish.

“Thanks, you really shouldn’t have though- let me pay you back.”

Tav shook his head, before he invited himself back into the bed, this time propped up against a pillow next to Kyle. “Don’t need to pay me,” he muttered, “I just wanted you to feel better.”

The soup tasted like comfort. Like a home he’d never lived in, and a life he’d never led. But apart from all that metaphorical bullshit, it was just nice to eat something that wasn’t immediately going to make him hurl. He glanced across at Tav, who was picking at the skin of his fingers in an anxious fashion. “You wanna talk about last night?”

“Yeah…” The Scot replied, downtrodden. “I didn’t mean to come on too strong- or if I hurt you I-”

“Shut up for a second, will you?” Kyle interrupted with a laugh. It’s like he came with some built-in guilt complex that he couldn’t switch off. “I wanted to kiss you, that’s why I asked.”

“Yeah but-”

“There’s no buts, Tav,” he said through a slurp. “I wanted to kiss you, but I didn’t want to go too fast – that’s all.”

Tav nodded as he processed the words, but then turned with eyes that looked genuinely hurt. “Why’d you go home with that guy?”

It was the question he had been trying to figure out all day, because he knew Tav was a good ride, and if he was for some reason saving himself for Price he’d cocked that one up too.

“I don’t know,” he responded, before the look on Tav’s face made him elaborate more. “I think I didn’t want to lose you as a friend if…”

“If you ended up with Price?”

The silence in the room spoke for Kyle, who shifted further up the pillow in an attempt to not tip the last of his soup over his bedsheets.

“You know it wouldn’t impact our friendship, right? I mean- I’ve been trying to fuck you for what? Eight years now.” Tav said, with a slightly bitter laugh. “You’re still one of my best mates, and you’ve not gotten rid of me yet.”

“Right,” Kyle laughed. “It’s just, I don’t think I can hurt him- I mean he didn’t say anything earlier, but his face…”

Tav rolled onto his side, propped up on his arm. Kyle tried not to think about the way those arms had hoisted him halfway up a wall last night.

“So why did you ask me to kiss you?” The tone of his voice was different. Teasing, almost. He’d certainly picked up on Kyle’s confusion over his own actions.

“Alright stop it now,” he laughed. “It’s hard to say no to someone so-”

“Someone so?”

Kyle placed the bowl down gently on his nightstand and tossed the duvet away. It landed on the floor, and knocked something down with a clunk. He didn’t stop to check. Tav watched, inquisitive, as Kyle scooted down the bed on all fours. He stopped, facing the Scot.

“Come here.” 

Tav looked sceptical but complied nonetheless, and sat on his haunches in front of him. He was thankful for the judo lessons his mum had insisted he took, for what he lacked in muscle against this Aberdeen Angus of a beefcake, he would make up with speed and evasiveness.  

He grabbed both sides of Tav’s open shirt tightly, right under his armpits, and tugged him down flat onto the bed. 

“Fuckin- hey!”

Near instantly, he became flustered. His cheeks, deathly pale with the lack of sun in winter, turned tomato red. His arms were pinned above his head, and his legs restrained by Kyle’s legs.

“You’re not using this to get out of the questioning you know,” he growled from beneath Kyle’s grip.

“Oh yeah?” He smirked as he tightened his fingers around the man’s wrists. It was a futile effort, but he’d enjoy it whilst it lasted. “Don’t think you’re in any position to question me right now.”

Tav rolled his eyes and adjusted his hips against the mattress awkwardly.

“You’re hard aren’t you…”

“Yep.”

“Fucks sake Tav,” Kyle laughed, which turned out to be a mistake.

The moment he let his guard down, Tav reversed the hold. It took him by surprise, and he gasped as he hit the mattress. It made sense, with how many scraps he knew Tav had gotten into when they were young and drunk, but even so it scared him momentarily.

“Someone so?”

Tav’s voice was hot in his ear. He knew that the man was holding back, the grip on his wrists loose and careful, his hips held a respectable distance away. Kyle wanted them closer. He liked the breath in his ear. He wanted the lips that were held in a smirk to bury themselves into his neck and kiss, bite and mark.

“Someone so fucking annoying…” He joked as he tried to squirm free. To no avail, though, as the grip tightened slightly in warning. “Tav c’mon.”

“I want to remind you that you started this,” Tav laughed, before he raised his head, and looked directly into Kyle’s eyes. “So?”

“So… Kiss me?”

Tav opened his mouth to query the request, but quickly shut it again. He’d been reprimanded last night for questioning such things.

Kyle knew it was wrong. Knew that, until he made up his mind, he should abstain from any of this. But it had been years since he’d had good sex, with someone he actually liked and not some drunken hookup. Been years too, since he’d had an honest-to-God crush on someone his age and not some silver fox. Their lips met, and it was gentle, and coy. Kyle knew Tav was afraid of hurting him, that he probably thought last night that he’d done something wrong and mulled over it ever since.

So, he took charge, and coaxed him into deeper kisses. Pulled his hips close with his loose leg so that there was some resistance against his cock. If his hands were free, he’d have taken a fistful of that overgrown mohawk he liked so much and yanked it, but perhaps he liked the idea of being restrained even more than that. 

They kissed for what seemed like an eternity before finally coming up for air.

“Fuck Ky,” Tav panted against his neck. “We should stop…”

Kyle groaned and shifted underneath him. “Yeah, probably…”

They didn’t stop, not just yet at least. Tav finally released his grip and pulled Kyle into his lap so that they were sitting upright. He placed another kiss on his lips, before trailing more pecks down his jaw and neck.

“You’re beautiful,” the Scot whispered, as if it was a thought he meant to keep inside his head and not say the words out loud. His hand traced over the scar on Kyle’s cheek, a beautiful vein of gold through marble.

“Tav?”

“Hm?”

“You know, you’re beautiful too.”

“Come off it now,” the Scot replied with a lighthearted scoff, and then unceremoniously dumped him back down on the bed.

The sudden shift made him rather ill, with the hangover that still loomed over him insistent that it would not be forgotten about. Even so, he propped himself up as if he was fine and watched as Tav began to slink out of the room. “I’m being serious!” He yelled, met with a non-committal “mhm” yelled back from inside the fridge. 

There was another kicker when it came to John MacTavish. Something had happened, sometime between him leaving university to go back to take care of his family and the present day. It wasn’t vanity back then, but he certainly took pride in his appearance. But somebody had stripped that self-confidence from him. Kyle had seen it. Seen it the moment he slumped down on the settee in tears when he finally finished the journey down from Scotland, and the way he would jump if his phone buzzed unexpectedly, and in all the glances in mirrors and reflections ever since. It didn’t stop him from his usual banterous flirtation, but Kyle knew that if this was the Tav of eight years ago, he’d have been kicking half-naked people out of his flat at all hours of the day. 

He was about to climb back under the covers when his own phone buzzed. His thumb lazily hit the fingerprint scanner.

Price: How are you feeling? I sent MacTavish to bring you soup, hope it helped.

It’s as if he could sense something was up. Sure, he’d sent home Tav to do his bidding with soup and good will in hand, but did he know about the snog that followed? He must have some sort of sixth sense.

Kyle: Better. Thanks for the soup, it helped. Be back tomorrow.

Price: Better be - tea was shit from the machine. I’ll see you bright and early.

He rolled his eyes, but there was something which tugged at his chest. An urgency to return to where he knew he belonged.

Then he listened to the shower turn on, and Tav started singing off-key. He imagined what he looked like right now, all soapy, like when they had first met only with far fewer clothes. Then Price, and the way he gently held his arm as they crossed the pavement that morning, and how protective he had been when he bundled him into the car. How would that look on him in bed? There was no denying the thought had crossed his mind from time to time, but now it roared in his belly with wanton ache. Here he was in the so-called prime of his life with two beautiful men vying for his attention – and yet he was stunned into indecisiveness by the whole ordeal.  

“Fuck…”

Chapter Text

John Price

Status: [DO NOT DISTURB]

It hadn’t escaped Price that in the days that followed Kyle’s little stunt, he’d been especially close. The poor lad arrived early, left late, and Price would return without fail to a cuppa on his desk, reports freshly printed, and calendar miraculously cleared. He truly hoped this wasn’t just a self-destructive apology, but something seemed different.

“John?”

Kyle leant against the doorframe, the round golden frames he wore to read perched halfway down his nose. He looked tired. A quick glance out of the window showed it was already pitch black, and the office beyond Kyle’s slouched frame was empty.

“Sorry Kyle, you can go if you like – completely lost track of time.”

“It’s alright, I can wait.” Kyle entered, permission not necessary as John well knew. He made himself comfortable in the chair opposite John’s desk. “How are the girls?”

The sudden chatter surprised him. Kyle had certainly been more present, but so much of it had been work related that they hadn’t had time to just talk .

“Lacey is getting into trouble at school again,” he laughed. “Just like her daddy.”

“Never thought you to be much of a wild child,” Kyle responded with a smile. He shuffled through the stack of papers in his hand, and paired the sheets into twos for stapling. “Thought the army didn’t like bad kids.”

“The army loves bad kids, so long as they are… Open to reform.” Price put down the folder he had in his hand, and instead replaced it with the half-cold cup of tea that he’d forgotten about. “Half of the so-called bad kids are just kids who don’t do well in school. They’re good at heart, hard-working lads and lasses… most of the time.”

“Would you want Lacey to join?”

“Oh, god no,” he laughed. “Was bad enough when you got that call about the young'uns who weren’t your flesh and blood.”

John watched as Kyle pinched the glasses from his nose and sunk deeper into the chair. The time at the bottom of his screen read 19:12, and he knew Kyle had only had a light lunch.

“Shall we pack up?” He asked, and gestured towards his computer. “I’m sure this can wait until morning.”

Kyle smiled. He placed the stapled papers into John’s desk tray. “Sure thing.”

“I was thinking-” Price started, as Kyle shimmied to his desk and scooped up his tote from the worn down, carpeted floor. He pretended that his pause was natural, and not because he’d been distracted by the shapely tightness of the younger man’s trousers. “Can I take you to dinner? I know you didn’t eat much today.”

“That would be nice.”

Price followed him out of the building and turned off the lights as he went. He made sure to check in that Simon wasn’t still burning the midnight oil, but thankfully it seemed he too had gone home. His companion waited by the door for him as he flipped the burglar alarm on and locked up.

“The Castle alright?”

“Mhm.”

The Edinburgh Castle pub was a stone’s throw away from the office. They walked together, as Price wondered what exactly was on the mind of the man at his side. It wasn’t unheard of that they would eat together; Monday lunches had been their thing for the longest time, but very rarely did the topic of conversation drift away from work.

Tonight, he hoped it might be different.

The Castle was busy already, nighttime punters rolling in, in their masses. Still, Price pulled some strings with the bar manager, Clive. It paid off that they insisted on the Castle for all their SLT group meals; good money meant good service, and they were led over to a booth which was technically reserved for the night.

“What can I get you to drink?” Price asked, having already stood up. Kyle would always, without fail, order a Pepsi Max when they ate here at lunch. But now, the man flicked through the drinks menu.

“Fancy a gin,” he mumbled, as he moved through sticky pages to find the spirits list.

Price cocked his head, with an eyebrow raised. “Gin?”

Kyle pursed his lips, and squinted without the gold frames balanced on his nose. Aside from critiquing him on looking after his eyes, Price wanted to tell him to put his glasses on because he rather liked the studious look they gave him.

He kicked himself at the thought.

“Pink raspberry gin and- yeah, diet tonic, please.”

The man’s smile triggered a sensation in his chest, like a knife, but warm and soft. Had it been this way since Beth called it quits? Later than that? He didn’t know. But he hadn’t come to terms with the idea that the person who made his heart jump from his chest was a person of the same sex. 

Sometimes it showed.

“Bit fruity, ain’t it?” He had already blurted out with a laugh, before he bit down on his tongue hard. Some of it was learned, a brutish sort of masculinity that shielded any weakness from the teasing of his battle brothers. But that was no excuse, really. He’d been out for fourteen years, and two of his closest friends weren’t exactly of the straightest persuasion. As he watched for the disappointed look on Kyle’s face, he could already hear Kate reprimanding him.

No such look came.

He laughed instead, a flash of white teeth dazzled as he did. Then, in a sort of singsong, old-timey voice, he teased him back. “Astute observation Mr. Holmes, did you want a medal for that?”

Still, he felt bad, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry Kyle, that was-”

“Just get me my damn gin.”

He’d never been one for being bossed around, but he supposed he’d let that one slide. “Going now,” he gestured, with a wild flourish of his credit card. He didn’t see Kyle roll his eyes, or the way his face sank into a resting position on his hand as his sultry gaze followed him to the bar.

When he returned, it was with a pint of John Smith's and a balloon of pink gin in hand.

“I got you one of those bits of fruit in it.”

“A twist?”

“Yeah. Beth used to-” The words got trapped in his throat, and he hid that fact with a cough and a sip of his pint. Part of him hoped Kyle wouldn’t have heard, but a glance over showed that he was waiting patiently for him to finish. “She drank gin. None of these fancy flavours they have nowadays, but always with a twist of orange.”

“A woman of good taste,” Kyle nodded, and picked the balloon up in steady fingers before taking a sip. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Hey, first one is on the company card so you can thank Shepherd.” The two of them laughed and settled into a steady glance across their drinks. “But let’s not talk about work for once, yeah?”

“That sounds nice…”

Price didn’t know whether Kyle was nervous or just damn thirsty, because he’d already finished his gin by the time he’d supped half his pint. He insisted on getting him another when they ordered food and made it a double just in case.

“So, any news on the fella from the club the other night?”

Kyle almost choked on the halloumi he’d been nibbling bites of. John supposed they didn’t really talk about romance, especially not when it came to Kyle’s relationships with men.

“Just a one-time thing,” Kyle finally managed to get out, “and he wasn’t great in bed, from what I can remember...”

It might have been that second double of gin that had given him the confidence to speak openly.

“I don’t really get these one-night stands, I mean don’t get me wrong – it happened before all of these Tindle apps…” That triggered a laugh from Kyle, who corrected his misnomer. Price rolled his eyes but continued. “It’s like kids these days just don’t want to settle down.”

“Have you ever had one?”

“A one-night stand?”

“Yeah, or whatever you old fogies call it.”

Price left the insult untouched. He probably deserved it. “I can’t say I ever have.”

There was a pause as he gaged Kyle’s reaction. The man lounged back against the plush leather of the booth, far more relaxed than he’d seemed for the past few weeks. Seemingly he had found that confession rather amusing as he chuckled into his straw.

“Have you had sex since you split with Beth?”

“Jesus Kyle-”

“I mean you don’t have to tell me… but you asked me about that guy so it’s only fair.”

Price munched the remaining hunk of his chicken as he thought about what to say. Kyle’s eyes settled softly in line with his own, expectant but with a calm patience. It was almost as if he was eying him up for some personal metric.

“No, I’ve not – unless you count the couple of times when Beth and I…”

“Oh, you dirty dog,” Kyle laughed, “you really went back after she divorced you?”

“A man needs his, well… Needs met.”

“See, you and I aren’t all that different now, hm?”

He couldn’t help but ask, since that was the way the conversation was going. “So, MacTavish… Is he a way to get your needs met?”

The ice in the bottom of the glass clinked around as he fiddled with the straw. “He’s a good friend, an old friend too.”

“But nothing more?”

“What makes you say that?”

Price wondered whether he knew about the argument. What had elapsed since, and why MacTavish had worn high-necked sweaters since the day after he’d noticed that mark nestled under his jaw. The flash of Kyle’s canines already signed his guilty verdict.

“Just curious, he seems like a nice lad.”

“Not my usual type,” Kyle joked. Price didn’t know how much of it was true. He didn’t know how to ask what Kyle’s type was, and if he’d even understand what he said as an answer. He doubted brunettes with big jugs were at the top of his list. Any jugs really. Jugs were a no-go.

“So-”

“Are you really going to ask me what my type is? Is this a date?”

He always liked that about Kyle. Always quick on the button, that cold, calculated sarcasm that cut through the monotony of conversation that often cropped up with other blokes. The only other fucker he knew with that same tone was Simon, and on Simon it was royally annoying. 

Maybe that was just the soft spot he had for Kyle speaking.

“I was just curious,” he half-mumbled into his pint. One of the bar staff came over with a tray containing another two more drinks, and Kyle waved his app in Price’s direction as if he was meant to know what that meant. “I need to drive home Kyle…”

“You can get a taxi I’m sure, or a hotel.”

“Jesus Kyle- it’s a Thursday!”

“What would you be doing otherwise?”

He paused, and dusted the salt spilled on the table into a pile. “Probably just put some telly on. Nice cuppa, feet up…”

“I’m not stopping you from going back to telly and a cuppa,” he was met with a wry smile. “Although I don't think I’d be able to finish your pint- bit too manly for me, eh?”

“Garrick! ”

“I’m just pulling your leg!”

With a resigned breath, he slid the pint closer. It would be better, he supposed, if he didn’t have to drive home in this bloody snow. It had all but melted around the centre, but he knew the gritter wouldn’t have touched the roads around his house. Perhaps those were thinly veiled excuses.

“What’s the deal with MacTavish anyways? What favour did you owe him that you’ve got him hogging your sofa?”

Kyle raised one of his feet and tucked it under himself, settling in for the night. “It’s a long story, and I don’t know a lot of it.”

“Well, where did you meet him?”

“University, we were in the same year. Met at Freshers week- that’s where new students meet in their first week and get really drunk.” There was a small chuckle from Kyle as Price nodded along, having had no idea what ‘the kids’ call things these days. “Anyways, we met at a foam party- that’s… Well, it’s self-explanatory. Then I couldn’t get rid of him for three years.”

“And after three years?”

“We went separate ways. I spent a year home in London before I moved back north for this job. He stayed. He was doing his Master’s degree…”

Price nodded intently along, an actual sense of intrigue on the Scotsman who reappeared in Kyle’s life after no real mention from him beforehand. “Didn’t see a Master’s on his CV.”

“He never got to finish it. His dad was ill, lung cancer, I think. He dropped out to look after him until he passed. Then his mum remarried, suspiciously close to his dad’s death, if you catch my drift. His stepdad sounded like a total wanker…”

“They kicked him out?”

“Something like that, I remember when he arrived, he had a black eye. He used to get into fights, so I didn’t know whether he’d just been in a scrap, but it seemed different this time.”

“Hmm,” Price responded, with another nod. “So, any plans to get him an actual place around here? I could keep an eye on flats for him.”

“Well…” Kyle looked a little stumped, but Price couldn’t put a finger on why. “He’s not got the money for it right now, but soon, I imagine.”

“Just don’t let him take advantage of your kindness, Kyle.” The words were spoken with the best of intentions in mind, but John wasn’t sure how exactly Kyle had taken the statement. There was a pensive pause, followed by a nod, then a rapid shift in the topic of conversation to something entirely unrelated.

It’s not that John Price didn’t trust John MacTavish. He had always had a good read on people, an old army habit. MacTavish seemed the type to wear his heart on his sleeve and have a total lack of reserve when it came to social etiquette. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but one might assume upon meeting him in some bar that he was rather full of himself. All of that was surface level. From what Kyle had said about his family, and the fact that of all people it was someone he hadn’t seen in three years that he turned to in his time of need, Price very much suspected there was something hidden deeper below that confident persona.

Drinks flowed smoothly after that conversation, almost as if some air had cleared between the two of them. Was it jealousy? Possibly. Or maybe the Scottish wedge that had been driven between them had now been filed back down to an appropriate size. A friend, a coworker, and unlike what Kyle had insinuated, perhaps a little bit of fun. But nothing more. Nothing that would change what they had, at least.

“Let me walk you home,” Price had insisted. “I’ll stop in a hotel up your end.”

“What- no honestly, you don’t need to-”

John playfully pushed him out the door with a “shut it,” before they began to head towards Princess Street. Both men stumbled, with John already making a mental note to bring Berocca tomorrow.

“I wanted to ask you something,” the words came, as they walked through one of the Gay Village’s more colourful streets. “But I don’t know if it’s alright to ask.”

Kyle’s words were as rich as they were sarcastic. His voice always had that smooth honeyed tone that crept warm brushes down his spine in a way he didn’t understand. “I’m not going to snap at you for asking a question, John.”

“How did you know you were, you know-”

“It won’t curse you to say it.”

“Sorry.” They crossed the road, and John carefully held Kyle’s arm as he scrambled up an icy drift packed into the kerbside. “How did you know you were gay?”

Kyle laughed, a full-bellied laugh. “My dad tried to get me into football.”

“Football?”

“Every damn year, without fail, I’d get a footballers of the year calendar. You’ve got Beckham, mid-2000s Beckham that is, you know with the sunglasses and the pout?”

“I remember…”

“And Ronaldo, and Torres, and Piqué and Francesco Totti-”

“Totti ? God, his hairline was receding before you were even born.”

He watched for that flash of Kyle’s teeth, which followed on command. “Hey, it didn’t stop me then, it wouldn’t stop me now.” A loaded statement, surely, as Price consciously swept back the matt of hair that had stuck to his forehead with the snow.

“I didn’t get into football,” Kyle followed up, “but I did like the shorts.”

“Guess that means you won’t want to come to a match with me?”

“Absolutely not.”

The illuminated front of Kyle’s building stood proudly a couple of hundred more meters down the road. Neither of the men pointed out the fact that they’d walked increasingly slowly, until they were barely moving at all. John breathed deeply, as if ready to say something he’d been holding in for a long time.

“Do you think anyone has ever, I don’t know… Not seen the signs? Assumed they were something they’re not?”

Kyle stopped, the charade of walking throwing off the depth of the conversation. This is something they had needed to speak about for some time, but where? Not in the office, where the walls have ears. Not in the pub, where god forbid, they would bump into some unlucky sucker they knew. John’s house was too serious, Kyle’s flat too busy. So, they would have that conversation here, where only the stars would bear witness.

“Loads of people,” Kyle began, and jostled with the lapels of his coat as they flapped open in the wind. “I think some people live life as they are expected to live, and I think some people just miss it- but you know, someone who has lived in one way might not have been wrong. You can like chocolate and crisps, you know? You can prefer one, or like them both the same-”

“You don’t have to dumb it down for me, I’m not that old.”

“Alright then, you can like men and women, or people who identify otherwise. There’s nothing stopping you.”

“Hypothetically speaking of course.”

“John…”

“I don’t know whether I’m ready to have that conversation yet.”

Kyle hummed and began to walk again, right up to the stairs of the building. He took a flying leap at the first step and twisted around the railing in a more than agile manner, far different to the last time they had been here, where Price had essentially carried him up the stairs.

He was beautiful. John could deny it no longer, that his heart skipped a beat whenever he saw him, or that he found his entire person just pleasant to look at. The same way he felt when he saw Beth in the morning, her hair tied up in a messy bun and last night’s pyjamas with whatever baby mess had ended up on them. Totally comfortable, and totally at ease.

Those lips, and the way they cocked just slightly into a smirk. Fuck. He wanted desperately to kiss him. From the way Kyle lingered, there was something telling him he felt the same way. He couldn’t though. Not with work, and not with everything Kyle had been feeling this past year.

A car sped by and sloshed snow slurry onto the pavement. It narrowly avoided the hem of Price’s trousers.

“Goodnight, Kyle.” 

“Night…”

He watched him up the steps, where the door at the front of the property softly closed behind him. Then, he was alone.

Kyle Garrick

Status: [Offline]

His heart pounded like a drum in his chest cavity, as if he’d just completed an Olympic triathlon with no prior training. What was that? A confession? There were multiple people he could have asked that very same question, so why him? Why not Kate? She’d have set him out right. It must have meant something… But then why did he not act? He’d seen the way the man’s eyes settled hungry on his lips, wanting for something, waiting for something. Did he expect him to act on their shared sentiment? Or was it just that the time wasn’t right? Or-

Kyle wrestled the key into the door, which opened to reveal Tav in only his joggers slurping noodles from a pot. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Price took me to dinner,” Kyle responded. “Bit late for noodles, no?”

Another slurp, accusatory in nature. “I’d say it’s a bit late for dinner – have you seen the time?”

Both men glanced at the clock above the coffee table. It had just passed 23:00.

“We might have had a couple of drinks.”

It was undeniable how eagerly the Scot’s ears pricked up. “Anything more than drinks?”

“No, you pervert!”

“Alright, alright, just checking!”

He rolled his eyes as he hung up the long suede coat on the hook behind the door. Second peg, as always, for he was a man of habit. His shoes slipped off, feet achingly happy for the comfort of hardwood floor and not the entrapment of pointy-toed brogues. Looking good came with a cost. All the while, he felt the heated prickle of eyes on the back of his neck.

It didn’t even occur to him to turn around, for he already knew the man was staring at his arse. “Got something to say?”

A sharpish scuffle of feet and the clink of the fork in the sink suggested the man knew he’d been rumbled and was trying to play it down. That was unusual. The normal protocol was some stupid, flirty remark followed by that grin of his.

“Nothing, nope, nothing at all…”

“Tav…?”

“Nuh uh, not happening right now.”

“Tav? What’s up?”

MacTavish was a slippery bugger at the best of times, and the way he mantled the sofa to rush toward the bathroom meant he had an advantage against Garrick. More so, if considering Kyle was three double gins deep and coming down from a hallmark Christmas movie moment.

“MacTavish, don't you dare run away!”

Badminton paid off, as he angled a perfectly timed pillow serve which wedged the bathroom door before it could close. He sock-slid along the floor, and wrestled into the gap.

The eye roll from MacTavish spoke volumes. “Sometimes, I really hate you…”

“Sure you do,” Kyle retorted with a sly grin, before his eyes dipped down to the obvious bulge occupying the front of the man’s trousers. “You’re really hiding in the bathroom because of a boner?”

“Ky…”

“I’ve seen you naked,” he began, before realising he needed to add, “several times.”

“I’m not bothered about that, it’s just…” Kyle watched as he took a step backward, the bare skin of his exposed back nearly pressed against the cold tile of the bathroom wall. “It’s just, I need to know what you want, so I’m not treading on eggshells around you.”

“Is this because of Price?”

“Put it this way – you invited me to that party to shake him off, right? Or at least, to shake off what Brenda was saying about you. Then we go out, and we kiss. But then you pull away, so I stopped. And the very next day, we’re kissing again. And now you’re going out for late night drinks with the guy you wanted me to shake off? I’m just really confused here…”

He’d never been happier for the noisy extractor fan which clattered whenever it was turned on. The racket broke the silence that lingered as he thought of his next words.

“I didn’t know what I wanted, Tav…”

“And now you know?”

“I mean- I know I have the pieces of the puzzle; the puzzle just isn’t put together yet…”

“You want to tell me about yer’ puzzle?”

A deep sigh escaped his lungs, but he knew wholeheartedly that the conversation was needed.

“Let’s think of this like a big business plan,” Kyle began, and grabbed both of their toothbrushes and a comic plastic duck that MacTavish had named Duck Norris. “We live together, yeah? The toothbrushes? And I have to see you with your god damn shirt off every time I get home, right?”

“… Right.”

“Now I am attracted to that, because you’re hot, and I’m horny, and we’re living under the same roof with all of your pheromones getting all over my shit.”

“Pher-?“

“Shut up and listen!”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay- wait, sir? You’re not helping things you know…”

“Sorry!”

“So, I like the duck, right? But I can’t like the duck because the duck and the toothbrush aren’t the same. The duck has a big job, and a nice car, and he’s in a position where it would be wildly inappropriate to like the toothbrush even though the toothbrush is damn sure he wants him.”

“Why’d you have to bring Duck Norris into this?”

Kyle ignored the quip, or really, they would be there all night. “The toothbrush and the duck, that is a long-term goal. The duck will take a while to come around, the toothbrush needs to be sure it won’t backfire…”

“So, what’s the toothbrush thinking in the short term then?” MacTavish questioned, only slightly perturbed to have fallen into this bathroom product production.

“The toothbrush needs its needs met, and the toothbrush hates sub-par fucks that leave you miles away from home…”

“So… Is the toothbrush looking for another toothbrush, or another duck?”

“The toothbrush will take what it can get,” Kyle laughed, for the first time throughout this entire stupid analogy. “The toothbrush is fed up with waiting, honestly.”

There was a pause, whilst MacTavish wrapped his head around the finale of the plastic actors. Duck Norris stared at him in a condescending fashion.

“You’re the toothbrush-”

“I got that part…” Tav replied.

Kyle took a step closer, until he too was wedged between the shower and the basin of the sink. It wasn’t romantic; he didn’t need it to be. Tav smelled like sweat and Ko-Lee cup noodles, his joggers were stained, and his hair fell in that frumpy, unkempt manner it often morphed into when the gel came out. No matter. Right now, he needed him more than he could know.

Maybe it was the gin that enticed him to his knees. 

What was the harm? He’d thought about doing the very same thing sober. As slender fingers snaked under the Scot’s waistband, he wondered how he would sound. If he’d be loud, or if he’d stay quiet with muffled whimpers.

“Kyle?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you good with this? Like- actually good?”

“More than good. You?”

“Fuck- ah,” the tiled wall pressed cold into MacTavish’s back as he settled against it, “more than more than good.”

He’d get even better when Kyle tugged him out of his joggers and met him with both hands and a warm press of his lips. His tongue lapped up the Scot’s shaft, long, slow and tantalising. Mouthy grunts and deep throaty curses spilled from him, without Kyle even taking him between his lips. Loud was the answer. Definitely loud. It was with good reason though, considering his blowjobs were basically denoted legendary status by the patrons of the university badminton team.

Those days were behind him now, of course.

“Ky- ah!”

MacTavish was handsy, fingers wrapped in his tight curls, and there would be hell to pay if he messed up his hair. Not that it mattered right now. Nothing mattered. Nothing but the feeling of fullness in his throat as he sank down in one go, his nose pressed up against the rugged bristle that traced all the way up to his naval.

“Holy fuck…”

He tasted salty sweet. Probably saltier from the sweat, since he was ambushed by this, but neither of them cared. Not when Kyle was enjoying having more than just a mouthful, for once, and Tav was in the middle of having his brain rewired. It surprised Kyle that he lasted as long as he did before he finally cried out for some mercy.

“Fuck- I’m close,” Tav panted, voice barely audible amongst the raspy gasps and clattering of the extractor fan. He jerked his hips, as if to pull away, but that wouldn’t do at all. Not when Kyle felt so insatiable and wanted nothing more than to taste the reward of his labours. His hands sunk further, pressed tight into the back of Tav’s thighs until they trembled. One final choked whisper and a hand tight in his hair. 

He tasted sweeter than Kyle imagined.

John MacTavish

Status: [Offline]

The broken hum of the fridge kept John awake as his mind raced ten paces at a time. To say he’d had his mind blown would be an understatement. It was more as if he’d been sent through some futuristic sci-fi teleporter and his cortex had been reconstructed from millions of his own floating subatomic particles.

Their little soiree had ended with a chaste kiss, far too coy for the filth that they had just performed. Kyle had whisked off to bed shortly after, without much else of a word. The gentle snoring which came from behind his bedroom door suggested that he was pleased with what had happened.

Tav was happy. 

At least, he thought he was. This was something he’d been waiting eight bloody years for, after all. Something which he would happily have accepted on that first night they met, locked in some mucky bathroom stall or down a dark alley. Or maybe he’d have been a gent for once and they’d have made it home. So why did the rattle of the window in the wind, and the ticking of the clock, and the yelling of some drunken lout on the street below prevent him from dropping off to sleep? His mind went somewhere it hadn’t been in some time, a painful memory folding open like a book as he rolled onto his other side.

“I promise, it was nothing!”

Sat on his childhood bed, freshly twenty-two, and with his four-month relationship about to go up in flames. Four months wasn’t all that long, and he knew it. Hated the way the tears beaded in his eyes in weakness, tears which threatened to fall and drown the pictures of the naked woman plastered across Tom’s phone screen in all their anger and sadness. That was four months where he had felt loved . Truly loved, with romantic beach walks, and coffee outside of the shitty café on the corner owned by his family, and gifted wee bags of tablet from his mam. 

“Who is she?” 

“She’s nobody love, let’s forget about this – I’ll take you fer’ a coffee?”

“Fuck coffee- fuck you! Get out of my room-”

“Love please-”

“Don’t fucking ‘love’ me!”

Of course, the commotion hadn’t gone unnoticed. John didn’t know how many more times the lie of going to play Xbox upstairs would fly before his whole cover story was blown. He couldn’t let them know, not his ma, but especially not Jack.

To say Jack didn’t approve was an understatement. Jack actively sought to harm those who he considered different. After the incident with Tabby and Susan at the Halkirk Highland Games, that much became very clear.

Everyone in Wick knew Tabs and Suzie. Tav didn’t like to stereotype, but whenever anyone mentioned old lady lesbians, their image flooded his mind as soon as you could blink. Of course, people knew they were together. Two old ladies under one roof; one who walked about in cardigans with big curlers in her hair, and the other who could be found wrapped in a thrifted Trespass puffer jacket, waders, and a crocheted beanie hat. Nobody talked about their relationship. He supposed as much as you wouldn’t want to think about your dear grandad’s new ‘lady friend’, since a lot of folks did think of them as the pair as if it was their own grans. But, it was obvious that they kept each other happy in multiple regards.

Jack had been new to the village back then. He wasn’t hard to miss. The only English bastard cocky enough to swagger around the High Street like he owned the place. There were a couple of other English folks Tav knew about, but they at least had the courtesy to keep their heads down.

He’d not been to Halkirk with his mam that year, the memory was too painful. He and his dad had visited ever since he was a boy. His dad had played in the pipe parade back then, where little Tav had beamed with pride at the sight of him in his MacTavish tartan, fair cheeks flushed red as they expanded for air around the mouthpiece of the pipes. He’d had to give it up when he got sick. They stopped going altogether when he was no longer able to drive. 

His mum had argued with him about missing out, and how he couldn’t let his dad’s death get in the way of him living his life to the fullest. It had only been a year, if that. He didn’t know how she could say such things. But all became clear when the man who knocked on the door to take her instead was none other than the cocky English twat wielding a blow-up bagpipe, and miming playing completely wrong.

Charlie’s sister Gem told him about the incident with Tabby and Susan. She’d been martialling one of the children’s events for her Duke of Edinburgh award at the time. About how, upon seeing their kitschy stall full of crocheted teddies and rabbits and little Scottish men and women dressed in rainbow kilts and scarfs, he had gone on a right royal blow-up. Tabby had asked him to leave the stand, as he was scaring the children in line for the welly lobbing contest. Oh boy, he had not taken kindly to a lesbian telling him what to do. 

Jack and his mother had been escorted from the grounds after the prick tossed one of the stands of merchandise into the middle of the foot race track. One of the runners had been injured by a flying wooden duck in a lovely pastel cardigan, and then the police were involved. His mother, in all her idiocy, had sided with Jack and dragged their family’s name into the dirt with him. Why his mother found him tolerable was a puzzle, but figuring out why she married the prick was like cracking the fucking Enigma Code.

So really, crying at that time had been a mistake. The threatening grip he held over the phone, a direct catalyst to the fire which followed and burnt for the next four years. He hadn’t heard the footsteps come barrelling up the stairs. Didn’t have time to react when the door slammed open, and Jack came up in arms about the racket. Couldn’t stop Tom’s words, who was already headed towards the door in fear. 

“I think we should break up…”

He’d scarpered without even stopping to reclaim his phone, but came back for it a couple of days later. A downtrodden John answered the door, who wouldn’t turn to face him to hide the bruise which bloomed beneath his right eye. There was no hiding that cut though, the one which jutted fiercely across his chin. Tom had realised what he’d done. Not only had he broken John’s heart, but he’d also put him in danger. Real danger. He’d tried to intervene, as well as his mother, who came over later that day and dropped off some tablet. She tried desperately to get him to stay with her,, cursing out her own cheater of a son whilst doing so. He had declined, politely. He could fend for himself after all, and he’d be out of there soon enough…

Soon enough turned to years, and years turned to more flings with more cheaters, and more bad breakups, and more fights with Jack, black eyes, broken fingers, a rib once. His mother, who would have fought heaven and earth for him as a child, did nothing. Perhaps she was scared. Perhaps she couldn’t accept her son’s sexuality either.

So here, as he lay on a friend’s sofa, toeing the line between friendship and something more, he didn’t wish for good head. Didn’t toss and turn thinking about how phenomenal the sex would be. For once, he wanted something real. Someone who could give him walks on the beach, and shit coffee, and whatever the regionally appropriate sweet treat of choice would be.

John MacTavish liked good sex. John MacTavish liked Kyle. 

But John MacTavish wanted to be loved.

Chapter Text

John MacTavish

Status: “Taking Xmas song requests for TikTok”

For the two weeks that followed, the sex was phenomenal. Kyle was happier for it. You could tell in his face, and in the way he swaggered about the office with all his previous confidence restored. The return to usual made Price happy, but happier still when their scheduled lunchtime continued as if nothing had happened. Even Brenda was thrown off, her bitchy comments reduced to nothing more than polite hellos and quick retreats from rooms whenever Kyle appeared.

Most days, Tav was happy too. He hadn’t had time to ruminate after that first lonely night spent on the couch in recovery from the best head he’d received in his life. Kyle had quickly topped that two days after, with some trick with his tongue that led Tav to smack his head on the headboard and spend the rest of the session in semi-concussed orgasmic delirium.

They had started sleeping in the same bed, mostly due to post-coitus exhaustion. Late nights and early mornings, where they just couldn’t keep their hands off each other. But now it was the last day in the office before Christmas, exactly twenty-five days since his arrival.

So, when the outrageously poor singing of Christmas music was interrupted by the door to the third-floor offices being slammed open, and the tornado that was Kate Laswell entering with her face beet red, it was clear that the drama would not stop and that their final day would be livelier than ever.

Some profound works are carved into stone. Some scrawled on ancient manuscripts, kept locked in dusty tomes or spoken for generations between mothers to daughters.

Nobody assumed that the third stall of the ground floor women’s bathroom would be the next source of profound literature to grace this good earth.

The bathroom was rarely visited by the brass. Too far from the upper floor, poor air circulation and notoriously itchy single ply toilet paper were deterrents enough. But nothing, not even the danger of a total paper split, would keep Kate Laswell and the bad leftovers she had eaten away from the nearest toilet when she barrelled into the office.

“JONATHAN!”

Even Kyle flinched, and he was used to Kate’s tirades against the man. Tav, ever curious, took his empty coffee cup as a sign that this was drama he didn’t want to miss. He dashed out from his cupboard, and jammed his thumb into the black coffee button on the machine.

“Kyle, sweetie, have you seen John?”

Sweetie? 

“He’s just on his way back now – he’s been out with the clients from the Mulligan offices.”

“Okay, I’ll be waiting right here…”

The expression on the man’s face upon his return suggested he knew he was in trouble. There was a quiver in his lip, like a reprimanded child. Another glance to Kate, who was slightly less red, but certainly not less pissed.

“To what do I owe the pleasure,” he choked out, sarcastically. Although, the hint of fear over the repercussions of that statement meant the execution landed flat.

“Come in here,” Kate demanded with a hurried gesture to Price’s office, “and shut that damn door.”

The look Kyle shot was priceless, doubled so by Brenda, who shifted uncomfortably in her seat as if she knew something. Tav couldn’t let such an opportunity pass, especially not if it put her in as much of a tizz as she had caused Kyle recently.

He scooted into the empty chair beside the shifty, box-dyed blonde. “What’s all that about?”

“I don’t know…” Brenda chewed at the inside of her mouth with a steely expression, as if it took every fibre of her being not to spill. “Well, I might know something.”

“Kate seemed pretty pissed, I hope nobody is in trouble,” Tav prodded, a falsely anxious expression plastered on his mug.

“Tav’s right,” Kyle chipped in, “I’d be so annoyed if I didn’t get to hear what was going on…”

Either Brenda would chelp, or she would miraculously keep her gossipy gob shut. He thought it might be the latter, when she rose from her seat with determination written across her face.

“You have to come with me,” she whispered, even though there was nobody else in the room. “Quickly!”

Kyle and Tav shared a confused shrug and followed all five foot one inch of amateur sleuth downstairs. Nikolai stopped them in the corridor for a chat, which annoyed Brenda to no end as apparently it was compromising their “mission”. Finally, they reached the door to the ground floor ladies’ bathroom.

“In here.” She nodded with determination, as if she had cracked some great mystery.

Kyle’s mouth opened but closed again. Tav spoke for them both. “Brenda, we can’t go in there…”

“Oh shush, of course you can – I’ll guard the door!”

“Aye, alright…”

They knocked gently, and made their way inside when there was no response. Apart from the immediate novelty of being in the women’s bathroom, something Kyle had never experienced, and Tav had experienced more times than he would like to admit, it wasn’t immediately obvious as to what exactly they had been brought in here for. Kyle pushed the first stall door, which opened to a small cubicle with nothing of interest. Same story with the second stall. But the third and final stall, now that was something.

“Steaming Jesus,” Tav exclaimed.

Writing. So much writing. An entire graffitied Mean Girls style Burn Book scrawled in various pens at various heights all over the inside of the stall. Tattles on who was dating who, snide remarks about what other staff members had worn, and some truly bitchy comments about poor unsuspecting souls. Then right in the centre of it all, expertly divided by the pipe that ran above the toilet, was a question followed by at least ten tally marks.

WHO IS FUCKING KYLE GARRICK?

Then below, written in two different sets of handwriting as a bracketed amendment was made:

JOHN PRICE / THE NEW GUY (MACTAVISH)

Tav laughed. He laughed so hard that Kyle’s punch in his rib bounced off as if it hadn’t even touched him. This was comedy gold, even if both he and Kyle were at the goddamn centre of it all. The thought of middle-aged women scribbling on the walls of their workplace about gay sex didn’t traumatise him quite like it had done with Kyle, that much was sure.

“For fucks sake, why are you laughing?”

He could hardly stop to speak. “It’s just- it’s fucking funny! Why are they doing this? They literally all have phones-”

“It’s not fucking funny! This means they know about us; you know…”

“Having sex?”

“I mean-”

“Well Kyle, I can’t help that my dick puts such a clear spring in your step that you have a bunch of middle-aged women speculating about it. They’ll be asking for my number next-”

“Fuck off Tav, you wish you could treat me that well.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Tav took two steps closer, leaving Kyle flattened against the opened stall door. He watched the man’s face closely, as his eyebrows knitted together, and his canine gently clasped his bottom lip to stifle any noises his body was begging to make. His former sarcastic comment was a total bluff, and they both knew it. Neither of them had had sex this good for years.

Unfortunately, their little foray was interrupted by the sound of Kate’s voice coming down the corridor.

“Oh fuck…”

Brenda did very little to stop Price and Kate’s entry to the room. In fact, they didn’t hear Brenda at all. There was a large possibility she had scarpered as soon as they had entered the bathroom to avoid the blame.

“What the bloody hell are you two doing in here?” Price grumbled. He was clearly unamused, but made no effort to remove them from the room.

“Brenda,” Kyle replied, which received an eye roll from both Price and Laswell. “Price, what the hell is this?”

“This is because you haven’t done anything to sort out those rumours Jonathan! And now you’ve got MacTavish tied up in this as well.”

Tav felt very much like the odd one out, with Kate absolutely fuming, Kyle nervously tapping his foot, and Price levelling out somewhere in between. He balled his fist, and his fingernails dug into the fleshy part of his palm, to stop himself from laughing.

Price stood in front of the graffiti. His face clouded over, but there was indeed a hint of embarrassment which flooded across his cheeks as he stood between his former closest friend and the reason they fell out in the first place.

“This is… I’ll fix this, Kyle.”

“This is what Kyle has had to put up with for a long time-!”

“It’s alright Kate, he’ll sort it.”

There was a sombre silence between the three of them, and then MacTavish broke. He simply couldn’t help himself. “If it helps, you’re winning by two points.”

Price swivelled on the spot, and Tav thought he’d really done it this time. He was fully prepared for a bollocking, especially with the look of horror he saw flash across Kyle’s face. The man maintained his look of fury for just a moment, and then from nowhere he stifled a small chuckle.

“Jonathan!” Kate scolded, before she was unable to stop her own mouth from twitching into a grin. She turned to face Kyle, who had also seen the humour in this after a short while’s recollection.

“You watch yourself MacTavish,” Price laughed as he jabbed a thumb back at the graffiti. “Clearly these idiots know who the boss is.”

The irony wasn’t lost on the two of them. “Guess I’ll have to try harder to get you out to dinner, eh Kyle?”

“Oh, fuck off Tav.”

He hadn’t thought about Christmas until the final commute of the year, when he and Kyle barely kept their hands off one another. It was the first year away from home, but not the first bereft of Christmas spirit. Hard to feel festive with Jack around. The bus rolled to a stop, and they offboarded. Although the snow had all but melted, the streets remained trimmed with decorations, shops hung wreaths and garlands from windows, and buskers sang festive tunes on the busier streets. Maybe Christmas in this part of the world wouldn’t be so bad, but nothing would beat the sound of gulls racketing outside his window, and the wood pigeon that nested in the chimney cooing his own morning alarm. Boats in the harbour all trimmed up in lights. Horrific weather. Closed roads.

Home.

“Tav?”

They were at the steps to the flat, only he didn’t remember getting there. Cars trundled through, and planes descended overhead bringing folks home to Manchester Airport from all the corners of the world. He took a step towards Kyle, but his body felt wrong, his chest hurt, and suddenly it was as if all the air was pulled from his lungs like a vacuum.

“Tav…?”

“Shit,” he grunted, and parked his arse firmly on the wet step before he could fall. He chased for oxygen that wouldn’t materialise, until he was panting in short, sharp wheezes.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Kyle yelped, before he rushed back down the stairs. “You alright mate?”

The feeling in his gut kicked him, over and over. The nausea reminded him of his failures, his family, and his homesickness. Of the situation with Kyle, the dancing around he’d had to do at work, and of his lifelong guilt. The one that came along with being John MacTavish.

“I need you to breathe, yeah? Deep breaths with me, c’mon – in, in, in…”

Kyle was here. He held his hand in some firm, comforting manner. But there wasn’t much comfort in something he thought he wanted, but now wasn’t so sure. He wanted Kyle, of course. But wanted him unconditionally. No holds barred, and more than sex. Some students passed, chattering loudly. They paid him no mind, except a few sideways glances. He was alone here. Sure, there were friendly conversations over coffee cups and reheated leftovers in the break room, but half the people there had yet to learn his name. He wasn’t sure how much of “new guy” he could take before he melted into some unidentifiable glob of a caffeine fuelled desk dweller.

“Out, ouuuut, you can breathe out now- please breathe out!”

The air in his lungs burnt like acid, as if his body was rejecting the fact that he needed to breathe. The seat of his trousers against the wet stone was the only thing more uncomfortable. In the end, it reacclimated him, and he finally released the breath that he’d held captive. There was freedom in the discomfort, and he was taken back to a memory of his back pressed flat into wet soil, body shivering as he sniggered bray laughter. His friends, young and stupid and falsely impervious to danger had been jumping naked into Loch Hempriggs, the cold water of which was a shock to any system, and then were chased away muddy and nude by the farmer who had better things to do than look after hypothermic teenagers in the middle of his sheep field. Things were different then. He knew he had a chip on his shoulder, and that the change he felt brewing inside of him would cause him some harm, but he was too wild to care about anything other than hijinks and how he would fight the world bare handed.

Breathing came easier then. His body remembered that it was born to do so, just as it had done for twenty-six years before. All the noise of the world returned, and the blaring horns and low planes and Christmas carollers reminded him that this was now home, at least for a little while.

“Sorry,” he gasped, and allowed Kyle to pull him up and hurry him inside the building.

As soon as they were through the door, Kyle tugged off his wet clothes. It wasn’t the same desperate clawing they’d performed the entire week prior, where they had smashed clumsily up against walls and into furniture and probably caused the neighbours some grief. It was careful and tender, like Tav was made of glass. But Tav wasn’t used to being delicate, or breakable, and it showed in the way he sheepishly shrugged off the fretting as if he hadn’t just been in total collapse on the front step.

“You want a coffee?”

Tav paused, then sighed. “I want a hot chocolate, with whipped cream…”

“Whipped cream, uhm,” Kyle rummaged in the fridge for a moment. “I can do one if I eighty-six the whip?”

“Nah, it’s fine-”

The man disappeared before Tav could finish speaking, only to reappear with an oversized, soft hoodie. “Give me ten minutes, and put this on.”

He did what he was told, and slipped the Oodie as he found out it was called over his head. It was massive on him, so he had no idea how it fit Kyle’s slimmer but slightly taller frame. “Where are you going? Ky, really, it’s fine.”

“It is not fucking fine; you’ve just had a full-on panic attack.”

“Is that what that was?”

Kyle blinked, but decided the explanation could wait until his return. He rushed back out of the door, where John was left to sit and ruminate on whatever the hell had just happened to him. Not once did he consider himself an anxious person. Truthfully, he became mad quicker than he became fearful, something he’d tried so desperately to work on through his teens and early twenties. But there had been something about the rumbling of the bus, the loudness of the streets, both providing stark reminders that he was not home.

Clearly on the way to get the whipped cream, Kyle had a revelation. As soon as he had returned, and with the melodic clinking of the spoon, he posed his solution.

“London?”

“Well, yeah, that part is a given…”

“I mean, are you sure? Like, won’t your ma complain?”

“She asked me to invite you as soon as I said you’d not have anywhere to go, she’s an adopter.”

“And you’re serious?”

“I wouldn’t pull your leg about this Tav.”

“Thank you…”

“For the love of Christ please let me tidy your beard,” Kyle whinged, moments before they were due to leave. Really, it needed doing, but he’d been reluctant to exert any extra effort since the holidays started. “If my mother sees you like that, she’ll have a fit.”

“You like it,” Tav teased. “You think it makes me look rugged.”

“You’re giving me beard rash.”

“Oh shit, actually?”

Kyle pointed out the rather sore looking patch on his neck, that may or may not have been beard rash. Tav felt bad, so let the man go ham with the razor until he was almost clean shaven. He always kept the semi-goatee patch, to detract from the scar which dashed across his chin.

“When did that happen?”

“What?”

Kyle gestured across his own chin in response. “It wasn’t there at uni, right?”

“Ah, it’s-”

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want.”

There was a gritty expression in his eyes, like the memory hurt, but he was better than it now. “Jack found out I liked men.”

“Oh, fuck… I didn’t know you came out-”

“I didn’t, my ex broke up with me in front of him, and that was after he cheated on me.”

Kyle was silent for a while. Tav wondered what he was thinking, and if he should have reached out to him sooner. He’d had this flat for two years, at least. Perhaps he could have saved himself some grace if he hadn’t waited to hit rock bottom.

“Why did Maggie not do anything?”

That question had been on his mind for some time. His mother was a Christian, but in the way that most people in the country were. She’d attend church at Christmas and Easter, loved a good Christening, but in the meantime would swear like a sailor, drink herself stupid, and smoke far too often. He couldn’t imagine so-called faith driving a wedge between them after the news. But there had been a noticeable change in her behaviour towards him as soon as he was outed.

“Wish I knew. She’d do anything for that cunt.”

“Oh?”

“Aye, well, the whole town hates them both now because of how many times she stuck up for him. Can’t say he’d ever do the same for her, mind.”

“I’m sorry man, I didn’t know…”

“It’s alright, I didn’t want to trouble anyone with it.”

Kyle’s phone rang, as the taxi pulled up outside the flat. They grabbed their cases, with Tav insisting on carrying most of Kyle’s heavy things to outwardly combat the fact that he’d just shown emotion, and to renew his self-imposed manliness. Kyle rolled his eyes at the fact, but he wasn’t going to complain about not having to lug the ten books he’d packed in his case down the stairs.

First came the taxi, and then the train, and then a smaller, more crowded train before they finally arrived at London Fields overground station in the centre of Hackney. Then they had walked the entire way to Kyle’s street, because he didn’t want to bother his dad for a lift whilst he was busy. Tav reminded him that he had an entire library in the bag he had so graciously offered to carry, and that he hadn’t hit the gym for weights in a good couple of weeks, but it didn’t change his mind. 

When they arrived, the smile on his face was beautiful. 

Then they were swarmed. 

Kyle had told Tav about his sisters, two older, and one younger, but Tav had never met them. Never, until that moment, when the door burst open, and Kyle dropped his case down to get sandwiched in a hug between the two elder siblings. They fussed over him as if he’d been gone for some years, even though it had only been a few months from what Tav was aware.

“Alright, alright,” he heard Kyle plead, before being smothered again. “At least let me get through the door.”

The smallest of the siblings rushed out to join the pile-on, but upon spotting Tav, dashed right towards him and pulled on the sleeve of his jacket. She was button cute, big brown eyes like her brother and hair in braids, with two fluffy buns at the back.

“Hey bonnie lass,” he said, and crouched down to meet her at eye level.

Her eyes widened in response, clearly very amused. “You talk funny!”

Kyle had finally broken free of the death hug, just in time to introduce Tav to the girls. “Everyone meet Tav,” he said, an apologetic smile thrown in his direction as the younger one had proceeded to fuss up his gelled hair. “Looks like you’ve already met Sienna, and this is my oldest sister Zoe, and my other older sister Tash.”

“Natasha,” Tash interrupted.

“Oh, shut it Tee, you’ll get along with him just fine,” Kyle interrupted back. 

“Are you from another place?” Sienna asked, as she stalked laps around him like he was some strange, foreign creature. Really, he didn’t think his accent was all that noticeable anymore, but then again, he didn’t imagine this small girl meeting many Scottish folk around here.

“Aye,” he said, laying it on thick, “I’m from Scotland, and there’s dragons, and unicorns, and Nessie.”

“NESSIE?”

“Aye, I’ve seen her with me own two eyes!”

“MUM, I WANNA GO AND SEE NESSIE!” It was an almighty holler, and a rush of legs crashing along the path before she dashed away inside.

“I see she’s not calmed down at all,” Kyle laughed, much to the disdain of her sisters who had been living under the same roof as her.

From the outside, one might assume this was a modest house. A standard, mid-terrace on a row of townhouses, in an area that wasn’t always as nice as it was today. There had been some rejuvenation in the Hackney area that at the time had caused quite a stir amongst misplaced locals who were priced out of the region. Not the Garricks, though. With the money Obasi had earned tooth and nail through the success of his own business, he sat on that house like a golden egg and weathered through the storm. Now they owned outright what could be described as their own little slice of heaven, a plot with a sizable garden in London standards, a two-storey extension, a loft conversion, and a cellar.

“Is mum in?”

“She’s…” The older one, Zoe, replied anxiously. “She’s cooking.”

Kyle froze. “Why do you look so nervous?”

“She’s trying to make Tav feel welcome…”

“Oh god she’s not trying to do the Scottish food th-”

“She’s doing the Scottish food thing.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Tav I am so sorry.”

Tav blinked a few times, unsure what exactly the Scottish food thing entailed, and exactly how much of this Kyle knew about before they had set off on the train. “I’m sure it will be lovely,” he laughed, with a pensive smile.

They finally made their way inside, with Zoe and Sienna’s help. Sienna wasn’t much help, mind, as the bag she tried to carry was just about as tall as she was. Still, she was more help than Natasha, who slinked off upstairs as soon as the greeting was over.

It smelled like home.

“Well, at least it smells good,” Kyle grumbled, as he shed his shoes and coat by the door. Tav followed suit, clumsily, as one does when they enter an unfamiliar residence for the first time. The walls were lined with pictures of Kyle and his sisters, pictures from graduations, and weddings, and family picnics. Baby photos. He was surrounded by Kyle’s baby photos. The mixture of panic, excitement, sadness, and misplacement bubbled in his stomach. Should he be here? It all felt a little too… domestic. 

Couldn’t think about that for too long, not when Kyle was ushering him through to the kitchen at the back of the house. The smell of day-long stewed beef filled the air with a wonderful, rich scent. He realised he hadn’t eaten at all today, and his stomach growled.

Kyle’s greeting with his mother was similar, if not more intense, than the one with his sisters. She pulled him into the tightest hug and kissed all over his cheeks which left them coated with the slight sheen of lip gloss. It felt like an intrusion, so he made himself busy by looking at the interesting statues that filled out the spaces between the cookbooks on the shelf.

“John my love,” he heard Monique croon, before she appeared right behind him without making a sound. “You’ve grown.”

Grown was perhaps a tad generous for a man who hadn’t shot up in height since he was seventeen, and since he last saw Monique at their graduation ceremony at an advanced age of twenty-one years, he thought she might be slightly late to the party with that statement. No matter, he supposed, before being scooped into a hug that smelled of freshly baked bread and rose perfume.

“Mrs. Garrick,” he replied, “thanks for letting me stay with you, you have a wonderful home.”

“Oh, shush child, and I’ve told you it’s Monique!”

“Sorry…”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” he replied with sincerity, despite the dirty look Kyle shot him. “What are you cooking?”

Her face lit up with excitement, as she returned to the stove and proudly whipped the lid off the casserole dish. Stovies. She’d made him stovies. Not to mention the trays of shortbread, and the steaming Clootie dumpling which sat under a cloth releasing the delicate aroma of spices into the air.

“Stovies?”

“Yes honey, I hope I made it the way you’d have it back home.”

He couldn’t deny the tremor in his bottom lip, or the burning sensation of tears which welled in the corner of his eyes. “It looks great, Monique.”

Kyle jumped in ahead of him, before he started bawling in the kitchen. “Let’s get our cases upstairs before we eat.”

By that, Kyle had clearly meant Tav was going to carry the cases, and he was going to go downstairs for a stern word with his mother. Maybe they thought they were being quiet, but the open space of the corridor adjoined to the kitchen acted like an echo chamber of sorts, and he heard everything.

“Why are you doing this mum?”

“Doing what?”

“This! All of this- the cooking? You know he doesn’t eat like this? I’ve seen him eat cold pizza from the fridge at least 3 days this week.”

“The boy is homesick . He needs to be looked after by a mum, and if his mother won’t, then I will.”

“But he doesn’t know that I’ve told you everything-”

“He doesn’t have to know, does he? Nobody should spend Christmas alone, and I’m not letting him go back where they smack him about, so I’m bringing his home here.”

The words hurt from an outsider, but he knew it was true. He thought he would feel embarrassed, after all, it was embarrassing enough finally admitting to Kyle how he got the scar on his chin. But for some reason, it felt safe. Monique had always emitted this intense, radiating feeling of welcomeness, even in the fleeting moments they had met before. Maybe it wasn’t so bad if she knew, and maybe he would pretend he was oblivious to save some of Kyle’s modesty.

“Hey,” the voice came from the doorway, and he spun around to see Kyle had returned from downstairs.

“All your cases are here,” Tav pointed out the bags he’d hefted up the tight stairwell. “Think I deserve something nice for all my hard work, hm?”

Kyle closed the space between them and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

Every fibre in his being wanted to ask, is that all? Somehow, he refrained. He knew he was in no place to question that, even if he had pulled his back with that last case.

Dinner was delicious. Even when Sienna complained about the “funny” stew, and Kyle turned up his nose at the neeps, or swede as the English at the table called them, which led to more bullying about Tav’s regional dialect. It was nice to sit at a table to eat, and pleasant when they asked each other to pass more veg across, or the salt. When Kyle’s father came in from work, and joined them in the final empty seat, nobody flinched. He’d even kissed the top of Kyle’s head as he walked past, to Kyle’s chagrin. They talked about work, the play Sienna was going to be doing at school, Natasha’s boyfriend (that she was currently not talking to, again), and Zoe’s novel. Then it was Kyle’s turn to talk, and his mum asked whether he was seeing any nice guys in the most open manner, where nobody at the table batted an eye.

Tav was stunned.

Kyle pushed mashed potato around his plate. “Not at the moment mum, still trying to get ahead at work.”

“It would be nice for you to settle down eventually love, work isn’t everything you know! You don’t want to end up like Zoe-”

“Mum!”

“I’m just kidding love; you know how much I support you.”

Apart from Zoe’s disgruntled face, there was laughter that emanated around the table. The taste of bile cut through the beefy broth, as John realised what could have been had his father still been around. He regretted that more than anything, that he didn’t get to tell him who he really was. Why? Because he’d been scared? Or was he still trying to beat the accusations in his own mind, at the time. After all, being the one out gay kid in town was basically signing a death warrant.

“More potatoes John?” The room had gone quiet, somehow, amongst the loving quips and stories. Monique held the bowl in his direction, her warmth radiating through the fluffy spuds.

He almost couldn’t speak but managed to choke out a “no thank you” with a polite smile. Kyle had noticed, but he suspected that Monique had as well. The topic quickly moved on from relationships to something a little more palatable as Tav and Obasi debated whether English or Scottish football was better, and Kyle groaned every time either of them made another point. By the end of dinner, and after some shortbread which was possibly even better than his late great-grandmother’s, they retreated upstairs.

“Sorry,” Kyle muttered, as he folded his clothes into his wardrobe. “I know they’re a bit much.”

Tav laughed, but a frown occupied his face. “It was nice.”

“Guessing your folks aren’t the loving type?”

“Mum used to be when dad wasn’t...” Tav motioned a quick hand across his throat as an implication. He still didn’t like to think about that four-letter word that the hospice nurses had said so plainly, any hint of emotion well hidden beneath a professional level of sympathy. “I honestly think he wouldn’t have cared if I started dating an alien, so long as I was happy.”

“Does your mum- you know?”

“Hate me for it?”

“Well… Hate is a strong word.” 

“She didn’t seem to have much of an opinion until she met Jack, but now- I don’t know. She’s never openly said it, but I think she’s disappointed in case I don’t settle down, have kids, start a family and whatever.”

Kyle paused. His own family had known that he was gay before he even started secondary school, and although there was some initial confusion that comes with finding your sexuality so young, there was never a time that his mother held it against him. Him, or any of his siblings for that matter, since he’d thought for a long time that the folly of romance or sex hadn’t taken Zoe’s fancy, and that Tasha’s only hope for producing an heir to their line was some accidental night of passion.

“Sorry,” Tav muttered. “Don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer-”

He was surprised by Kyle’s sudden crossing of the room, and the way his soft lips gently pressed his own. A ferocious anger behind them which raged on his behalf, but presented itself like crushed velvet, as if to say none of that was your fault .

This was different. Sure, not every kiss had been that type of messy passion where teeth clashed with teeth and hands roamed bodies, but the ones that hadn’t evolved as such had been quick pecks on foreheads and cheeks, just like earlier. Never had it been so slow, with such purpose, where their fingers barely brushed up against the other’s hand.

“Ky?” Tav had whispered when their gentle embrace finally broke.

Kyle looked slightly shocked at his own actions and stumbled over an apology whilst he went back to his unpacking. The bed they shared that night, too small for the two of them to lay without touching, became heated rather quickly.

It continued that way, throughout the two days that followed. From their arrival, until Christmas Eve. Hidden kisses and fooling about behind Kyle’s closed bedroom door as if they were teenagers again. Walks through London Fields Park where Kyle would smoke without the judgement of his sisters. Especially Sienna, who squirted his last lit cigarette out with a water pistol despite the temperatures outside being a rather cool -1°C. As the sun sank behind the horizon on one such walk, where it bathed the city with a golden glow, Kyle warned him about what he would walk into when he got back.

“A party?” Tav replied, with his hands stuffed into his pockets. He remained entirely boggled by the fact that Kyle kept his hand out in the open, slender fingers clutched around the lit ciggy which smouldered just as orange as the sunset. 

“My aunties and uncles will be there, my cousins as well if they can make it.”

Tav didn’t dare to question how many more people would fit in the house. It felt like quite a squeeze with the added presence of himself and Kyle, and already they had been forced to take the beanbags on the floor for lack of space on the sofas. Still, it sounded like a hoot. He could do with a drink after his little wobble the other day.

“Shall we get some cans in?”

“Do you even know me at all, John MacTavish?”

“Okay Christ! Cans and whatever you’re about to drain my wallet with…”

He really shouldn’t have drunk that last eggnog. Not when all six bottles of Birra Moretti had gone down like water, so he’d been invited to share some Baileys with one of Kyle’s older cousins. She seemed to have taken quite the liking to him, and after a while was insistent on catching him by the mistletoe that Kyle’s parents had hung menacingly in the doorway.

“Need a waz,” he excused, the one place where she wouldn’t follow. He did in fact need to take a leak, since he’d broken the seal somewhere between bottle five and six.

Any other day, he’d have been counting his lucky stars. Some gorgeous lady with an accent caramel-smooth putting her hands on his thigh. But, as it happened, he locked eyes with Kyle from across the room, those deep mahogany orbs drawing every ounce of attention and sucking him up like a whirlpool.

The room spun as he slid the lock across the bathroom door. He had always laughed that the bathroom at a party was the most self-aware you’d ever be whilst drunk, and tonight was no different. He fumbled with his fly, and in the end, just sat down to piss so that he could spend a few minutes scrolling on his phone in a desperate attempt to sober up. It didn’t work. The man that looked back at him in the mirror laughed at his own stupidity, and for a moment reflected on the situation he had got himself into. Nope, forgetting all that was what the beer was for.

After he had stumbled out of the lav, he should really have expected he wouldn’t be able to escape for long. Kyle’s cousin had waited for him, now on the other side of the booby-trapped mistletoe door. Any attempt to return to the party would mean crossing the threshold with her, and as tempting as that may be, he found himself stupidly preaching his own exclusivity.

“Tav!”

Kyle rushed back into the kitchen from the front door. He smelled like cigarettes, and although he would usually complain at the scent, he found himself drawn to it more than ever. Really, he should have probably listened to what exactly Kyle had yelled his name for before he caught his arm and pulled him through the door. The boobytrapped door. The one which Natasha had been monitoring all damn night for her own sick and twisted enjoyment.

There was an excited, whooping yell from her direction, which caused not only half the family to turn around, but also Monique who had been running through the door after Kyle. 

Their lips had barely touched when he felt the swift crack of a hand against his cheek.

The sensation burned in that well-remembered way, like the last time he’d been caught off guard chatting up some bloke’s girl at the pub. He hadn’t known at the time that she was accounted for, and really, he’s not that type of person. But when that slap had cracked him around the ear, he saw red.

This time was almost no different. He gritted his teeth and breathed through it.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Kyle growled. He massaged his hand, and Tav didn’t know whether it was in a regretful manner, or if his face had been harder than he expected.

“Mistletoe?” He replied with a question, as calmly as possible.

It was as if a cold air had come across the room, and every member in it had fallen deathly silent. Silent enough that the revving of the car engine outside and the general commotion could be heard through the door Monique had left open in shock.

Kyle didn’t meet his gaze. “You need to come outside,” he said plainly.

John did what he was told, slightly afraid to get himself into more trouble. Monique had very politely, if not slightly awkwardly, guided him along the road to where Kyle’s elderly great-aunt and great-uncle were stuck in a tricky snowdrift at the bottom of the hill. The engine of their car revved, and its tyres spun like whirling dervishes, but the car slid left and right unable to muster any traction on the ice.

Two of Kyle’s younger cousins, who looked like they frequented the gym, had already taken their stations on either side of the car. There was one space between them, and he was thankful that neither of them had just seen what had happened, otherwise he feared he might have not been able to stand between them with a straight face.

“On three Scottie?”

He didn’t know that was the name he had been assigned, but he wasn’t going to argue. His cheek stung something chronic in the wind, even with all the booze in his system.

“Aye.”

Tav was strong. He’d always been strong, probably more noticeably so when he used to eat nothing but chicken and rice and obsessively work out twice a day. But now he had something that his six-pack maintaining former self didn’t – bulk. Three bodies were obviously better than two, so it wasn’t really a fair comparison, but the fact that as soon as the countdown hit three the car nearly lifted onto its front two wheels shocked everyone. He hefted his shoulder in and forced his body down low until the wheels finally gripped at the tarmac beneath the ice and caught some traction. There was a honk of the horn as thanks, and the car sped away up the hill leaving the three men in its wake.

“Nice!” One of them yelled, with a clap of his shoulder. “You lift?”

“Used to,” Tav replied, eyes drawn to the pavement where Kyle stood with his mother. He couldn’t read that look on his face, but he knew it wasn’t a happy one.

“You should get back on it, you’d have a great cut right now-”

Their drabble was drowned out as Tav laser focussed on Monique, who was whispering something in Kyle’s ear. Both of them glanced in his direction, and Kyle looked more embarrassed than anything else. Was this something they had talked about before? Other people had been locked in awkward, mistletoe kisses that night, so why was this so different?

This situationship had gone too far. He didn’t realise until he stumbled that he'd already fallen. Crossed the one line that they agreed on at the start, and now Kyle had made his point very well known that their fumbles under covers were for behind closed doors only.

Tav was not shy. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But he couldn’t ignore the crawling itch that worked its way up the back of his neck and the heat which blemished under his already reddened cheek. Especially when their whispered conversation became louder, and he realised that this wasn’t just teasing, it had spiralled into a full-blown argument.

“I’m not seeing him, mum-”

Monique’s attempt at a whispered reprimand cut through John like a hot knife through butter. “Well, he clearly hopes otherwise, you know that look he had on his face.”

“It’s not like that, we’re just-”

“Yes, I know, your bed frame squeaks awfully-”

“Mum!”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything, but now you’ve hit him-”

“He’s had worse…”

“That is not how I raised you, Kyle Michael Garrick.”

They probably hadn’t realised that their voices were carrying on the wind, and clearly audible even halfway down the street. So, if it wasn’t bad enough that Kyle’s entire family had caught their unfortunate snog, now all the neighbours knew they had been shagging as well. It was too much, and whilst they continued their hushed bickering, Tav made a rather violent, semi-drunken escape over the fence that led into the park.

He ran. Didn’t really know where he was running, although when he finally did spot that house with the mini potted trees, he knew he was in the right place. The snow came heavier now, which would have concerned him had he been sober. 

He was not sober.

The cuffs of his jeans were soaked through, and his hands still greasy with the dirt and debris from the bottom of the car. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Once, then once again. Just texts for now. He could answer those later when he’d stopped shaking. Pushing a whole fucking vehicle up a hill had quite frankly been the best thing that could have happened to him after that moment. He didn’t think he’d ever let a man hit him before without hitting back. There’d been a couple of women he’d let off the hook, mind you, because that’s the way his mam had raised him. 

His pocket buzzed again, but now it was a call. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was – there was only one person he still had any real connection to in this life, and he’d fucked that one up right royally.

Still, he better answer, or that buzzing wouldn’t stop. He slid his thumb, and all the dirt with it, across the green answer button. “What?”

“Where the hell are you ?” Came the response. He sounded exasperated, as if he’d been running too.

Tav gritted his teeth. This was the first place Kyle would look for him, anyway, considering it’s the one place he actually knew . Then, if not back to the house, where would he go? Yeah, some hotels might still be open, but the ones that were would most definitely be booked up considering it was twenty minutes to midnight on Christmas Eve. No trains until after Boxing Day, too, so the attempted escape from London would be near impossible unless he wanted to walk the two-hundred odd miles back home. That would burn off the Christmas turkey, that’s for sure.

“I’m in the park,” he finally replied, “I just want some space.”

“Tav it’s fucking freezing, you’re going to catch your death- ”

“I’m fine!” He lied. “And you sound like your mother.”

“Don’t bring her into this… ”

“What, you still embarrassed that mam told you she heard you getting railed last night?”

“Oh, for the love of- wait, you heard that ?”

“I heard everything- well, I heard enough.”

“Fuck, Tav -”

“Save it, I don’t need the pity. You should go back; they’ll be waiting for you.”

“Jesus, will you just stop being stubborn for one second, please! ”

Tav did not want to stop. Tav wanted to lay face down in the snow and stay there until a thick blanket covered over him like in those TikToks with the huskies that his feed was full of. He wanted the sky to fall and swallow him whole.

“Fine.”

“ I’m- I am really, really sorry for hitting you… ”

Tav grumbled. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine, it was a crazy reflex and it shouldn’t have happened- I just, my family were there, and I -”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re not like that I know.”

“No, you don’t understand-”

“ I understand. More than enough. You have someone waiting for you on the other side of this, I don’t.”

There was a low beep that came from down the line, accompanied by the scuffle of a sleeve. “Fuck, my phone is about to die, don’t you dare leave that park !”

He didn’t get to prepare his rebuttal to that statement, as either the phone died, or Kyle had hung up. So instead, he took to what any sane person would do and began to pelt snowballs at the grated green fence that surrounded the tennis court. It froze his hands halfway to frostbite, but it blew off some steam and was altogether quite an enjoyable experience.

That was until Kyle rounded the corner, unseen. The snowball he’d let loose just a moment too soon curved with the gumption of a pitch by an elite baseball player, and struck him square in the middle of his pretty face.

“What the FUCK?”

“Shit, Ky-”

They stepped into each other’s view, and Tav couldn’t help but burst into laughter as the powder snow had stuck to his facial hair and left him with a cold, white moustache. “I’m really sorry… You weren’t meant to walk into-”

His apology was cut short by return fire, which he managed to barely dodge. Kyle did not relent. At least four more frozen balls were lobbed in his direction until he’d been backed into his original throwing spot. He went arse first into the divot of his carved-out trench, a real sitting duck, and was pelted with more snowballs than was probably fair.

“You win! You win… Please stop!” He begged out, until Kyle showed him a small mercy and stopped throwing, for now.

“Don’t run from me like that again please,” he sighed, and offered a hand to the downed, drenched Scot.

Tav snorted a response, the headrush of the snowball fight not helping the alcohol in his system. “You’re not my keeper,” he said teasingly, reminiscent of the mess that brought them here in the first place.

“You wanna talk here or…?”

“Or in front of your family? Fuck no, respectfully, I’d rather never see them again.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You slapped me.”

“Well, yeah…” 

From somewhere across the park, some drunken soul yelled out a sloshed Merry Christmas and there was much jingling of tiny bells on elf costumes. A glance at his phone showed that midnight had indeed ticked around, and whatever would come of this conversation would probably ruin Christmas for the next two or three years at least.

“I don’t want you to be lonely,” Kyle began, signature canine rolling over his bottom lip. “But we agreed this was just sex, and I feel like you’re, I don’t know… I just feel like you’re falling for me.”

Tav sighed. “You’d have to be a lunatic not to fall for you, Ky.”

“Don’t say things like that-”

“I’m just telling you the truth. I mean the sex is fucking incredible, and you’re a good-looking guy, but best of all you’re funny, and you’re smart – a smart arse at times, and I don’t care if you deny it but there’s chemistry between us that just feels… right.”

“That’s-”

“I mean, you felt it yesterday, right? Yesterday, you kissed me, and it was- it was different. Like you meant it.”

“Tav don’t, please.”

“You’re stuck because I’m the safe option, I’m the dumb bastard that’s chased your tail for eight years and I’d chase it for eight more if I had the chance.” He paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, or perhaps to gather his thoughts. Either way, Kyle’s frown quirked as he spoke again. “But then there’s Price, and if you did give that all up for something safe, you’d always wonder what could have been.”

“You’re a good guy, you know that right?”

“No, Ky, I’m not – if I was, I wouldn’t have done that to you.”

“I mean it! You’re a good guy, and you’ll find someone who cares for you as much as you care for them. You wear your heart on your sleeve, and you have so much love to give.”

“Nobody wants that from me Kyle. They want a good fuck, or a tough guy, or… Or a distraction.” He spoke. The last line was cutting, and true, and they both knew it.

“I’m sorry,” Kyle exhaled, and closed the space between them. “I really didn’t want you to get dragged into all of this.”

Kyle looked small, tucked up against his chest like that. The way they had often found themselves waking up from long naps after orgasmic collapse. More recently, the way they had woken up after sharing Kyle’s rather cramped bed. He supposed that was why this felt like more of a breakup than a cancellation of whatever benefits situation they had been sharing. They had, after all, been teetering on the edge of something more.

Tav wrapped his arms around Kyle’s back and exhaled deeply. Letting Kyle go was the best thing for the both of them, but he wished it wasn’t here or now. He should never have come over for Christmas. Too domestic was right. Accepted by a family who wasn’t his own and welcomed as if he was the new boyfriend in town. Perhaps that was what Monique had hoped, she did keep asking Kyle about his love life, after all.

“It’s okay,” he eventually whispered into Kyle’s hair, with a resigned fleck of sadness that he tried to keep trapped at the back of his throat. “It’s for the best.”

When they returned to the party, the stragglers who were left didn’t notice them enter, or slip up the stairs to Kyle’s bedroom. They stripped off their sodden clothes, comfortable in each other’s naked company, but with an invisible barrier that kept them apart. Kyle asked him to sleep in the bed, but he declined, and instead threw the spare duvet down next to the wardrobe and bedded down for the night on the floor. 

It was only after Monique and Obasi finally crept up the stairs in one of those drunken silences when you really do think you’re being sneaky, that they finally talked.

“Can’t sleep,” Kyle muttered, gaging whether his floor-bound companion was still awake.

Tav stirred. “Well, at least you get the mattress…”

“Oh, shut it you, I asked you to sleep in here!”

“I’m doing this for your sake, you wouldn’t have been able to keep your hands off of me.”

“Fuck off, Tav.”

“Am I wrong?”

A silence, followed by the creak of the mattress shifting as Kyle turned away.

“I thought as much,” he rumbled victoriously. A small victory, followed by another several minutes of silence, until Kyle finally spoke again.

“I miss the sex…”

“Jesus, was this morning not enough? I put my back out throwing you up against the wall like that you know.”

Kyle exhaled a laugh. “Suppose I didn’t know it would be the last time…”

It was one of those statements that wasn’t a demand. Wasn’t really an invitation either. But in the veil of that passive comment, was a plea, one that only Kyle Garrick would make. Tav wouldn’t turn this down, and if he ever did, he’d ask someone to put a bullet in him.

Before the lights even came on, he was up. Already rock hard, which had been the problem keeping him awake all this time anyways - he was just too damn stubborn to admit it. The dark was for the best. It took all the lovey-dovey feelings away from what followed. Hate sex was possibly the wrong word, but it most definitely mimicked that final, heated break-up fuck where the cumulative emotions of the two lovers forced their way out into scratches, and biting, and throwing of bodies onto every which surface of the room, walls, hell even the floor was involved. They stumbled over the now discarded duvet bed and landed in a heap where they kissed frantically as if the touch of lips to lips was oxygen.

“If he doesn’t fuck you this good,” Tav’s voice hitched, as they traversed once again to the wall, so that Kyle was pressed flat into a collage of posters from his teenage years. “If he doesn’t fuck you, this good.” Faster now, with fingers pressed hard into what little fat Kyle carried around his slender waistline. “You’ll come back to me, yeah?”

Kyle whimpered, as he neared his second orgasm. Tav couldn’t tell what he was thinking, he didn’t know whether his thoughts were sad, or angry, or just cock-hungry and lewd. But what he could tell, by the shaky, breathy moans and the way Kyle’s hands looped around the thick of his muscular forearms was that he’d miss this possibly even more than Tav would miss Kyle.

“Fuck,” Kyle had moaned out, the unwavering glare of the smiley-face staring down from the Nirvana poster plastered beneath him. It would probably blush if it could. “Tav, fuck, I need you-” 

“Oh yeah, bonnie lad?” He knew Kyle liked when his accent slipped out in the act. Found that out by accident after a particularly intense blowjob back at the flat. “Well, yer gonna have to take what you can get from me now sweetheart, because it’s yer last chance.”

That sent him spiralling. Sent them both spiralling, in fact. Neither had heard Tasha pelting projectiles at their adjoining wall to get them to shut the hell up. Neither realised that it was going light by the time they had finished there, and that their aching muscles were struggling to do as much as hold them upright. The duvet on the ground lay abandoned, as they fell limb and tangled limb into bed together in a panting, heaving, whimpering mess of lube, and sweat, and closure .

Christmas was a little awkward after that, with the entire family taking a joint decision to not mention whatever the hell was going on between them. Tav chose to spend most of Christmas and Boxing Day out of the house, where despite the weather and the still-falling snow, he went on long walks that took him even further than the Hackney borders. Further from being under the feet of Kyle, who equally tried to keep a respectful distance that had not been kept the night before. 

The day following Boxing Day, Tav was on the first train home. Barely 06:00 and after writing a beautiful thank you note to Kyle’s parents, with an apology enclosed for any dramatics he had caused, he had slipped away into the murky morning dark.

Manchester seemed, in the list of places he could terminate this train journey, like the worst pick of the lot. But for now, it was home, even if that home had turned into the most glaring example of that age old saying of don’t shit where you eat.

The flat smelled like Kyle. His room was the worst, which hit Tav right in the nose as he opened the door to rescue the headphones that he’d left in there before their departure. He stopped himself from taking the silk pillowcase and shoving his face into it. If he were to remain sane, he had to go elsewhere – and where else to burn eight hours’ worth of time but the office.

Chapter Text

John MacTavish

Status: “In for the Christmas break”

As if to add to his woes, he realised something was wrong as soon as he stepped off the bus. The office was indeed open for the very few folk who wanted to work over the Christmas period, even though the business was on a break. But there were no clients trading, and deliveries were halted due to no other offices being open for goods receival. So really, that left the project management staff, and he’d already heard that Rudy and Alejandro were going back to Mexico for the holidays.

The door acted as a staunch guardian, as he frantically patted down his pockets.

His key badge.

Ninety-nine percent of mornings, Kyle was there to scan them in, ignoring his blip earlier in the month. Even then, Tav had been let in by Mandy, who was sick of watching him open every single pocket to find the bloody thing. No Mandy today, though. No anybody by the looks of things. The manager's car park was entirely empty. Perhaps a cleaner would be in? 

The doorbell was an old, rusted thing, affixed onto the bottom of the keypad and scanner. Worth a shot, he thought, as he smashed his finger against it a few times and shivered from the cold. No movement occurred inside as a result, and the lights remained off. He tried one more, futile press before he took a step away, ready to return home defeated. 

That’s when something smacked him in the head. 

“Fuck, ah!”

He looked down at the puddle beneath his feet. A keycard. The assailant hadn’t stuck around to show their face, but as he picked up the card and flipped it over in his frozen hands, he saw the name alongside a scratched-out space where a photo should have been.

Simon Riley

Senior Project Manager

It just had to be that asshole…

But, he couldn’t help but be thankful. It would make for quiet company, considering he likely wouldn’t open his office door the entire time. So, what a surprise it was when the man was standing by the coffee machine with his hand outstretched.

“Morning Simon,” John started, before realising he was waiting for him to hand the pass back over. “Didn’t think there would be anyone in.”

“Hmm,” the man replied, with a wary stance.

“Anyways…” John subconsciously pressed the buttons of the coffee machine, the pattern he knew all too well by now. Simon was still watching him. “I thought I’d come in and-”

“You look like shit.”

The statement caught him off guard, so much so that the coffee he’d just sipped came straight back up in a spluttered choke of “pardon?”

“You’ve got bags under your eyes, and your face… looks like you’ve fallen chin first onto the floor at the barbers.”

It was the most words he’d ever spoken, and he seemed to be engaging in the conversation willingly. This was progress to a whole new level, even if he was getting absolutely ripped to shreds in the process.

“Yeah, I-”

“If you haven’t shaved, then you haven’t looked in the mirror. If you haven’t looked in the mirror, then you haven’t noticed that you have multiple love bites on your neck. Again.”

“WHAT?”

He really, really needed to start looking in the mirror before he came to work. This was like last time, but potentially more embarrassing. He wondered why Natasha was giving him that look over the table at Christmas lunch.

“Which means you’ve been with Kyle, and judging by the fact that you’re here and he’s not… I’m guessing he dumped you.”

This man was something else. He barely left the confines of his office and had somehow accurately retold his last two weeks without so much of an indication that things were happening. Not only that, Kyle’s interactions with him at work were minimal at best, as Kyle had been closer with Price after their agreement started. 

“I mean we weren’t together together…” He explained, before addressing the more urgent, more stalker-like issue at hand. “Also, how did you know that?” 

Genuinely, he was rather scared to know the answer.

“Well, Garrick has been walking around like he’s saddle sore for the past two weeks…”

“And you think that is my doing because…?”

The blond chuckled, which caught Tav off guard. “You see a lot of cock in the army. Let’s just say Price isn’t leaving anyone limping.”

It was a statement he hadn’t expected to hear this early on a Wednesday morning, and although it took him a moment to process, he began to snicker. That then turned into a full-on belly laugh, at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. He might even have noticed the slight crease of a smile in the corner of Simon’s eyes, but he could have just been seeing things.

“Well, I guess I should say thank you for the compliment?”

“Hm.”

“So,” John started, as he tried to shake off the laughter. “Why are you here?”

“Nowhere better to be. Can catch up whilst it’s quiet, oh, and Price can’t tell me off for smoking in the office.” His fingers rummaged through his pocket until he clasped at his cig box and bumped one out without needing to think. “You smoke?” 

“Nope.”

“You don’t seem the type,” Simon confirmed. For some reason that he couldn’t explain, hearing it from him instilled a sense of pride. He didn’t want to unpick that.

Simon retreated to his office after their brief but enlightening conversation, but surprisingly left the door open. When Simon made coffee, John made coffee. When John went out to grab lunch, he asked Simon if he wanted anything and was met with a shrug, but even that was progress. He even managed to get a client portfolio presented in-person , which was an incredible deviation from the packs of papers he’d been mugged off with before.

John leafed through the papers Simon had just talked him through. “Have you expanded into the domestic markets yet?”

“Domestic makes nowhere near as much as commercial wholesale,” Simon replied. His fingers tensed against the desk, and John realised he hadn’t smoked for the entire hour they had been talking.

“You can smoke, I don’t mind,” he laughed, and observed as the blond shot him a wary glance and shuffled slightly in his seat. “Or is it the…” A quick motion to his general face area, to indicate the mask that sat stiffly across his nose and mouth.

“I don’t usually take it off around people.” Simon replied, pensively. “You’re going to ask why, aren’t you?”

“Ah- yeah actually that was my next question…”

“To hide my face, naturally.”

“… Right.”

As infuriating as that answer was, he supposed it made sense. Only, surely there was a time he took it off. To eat, for example. Or when he had his coffees.

“Do you show anyone? Parents? Siblings? Uh, girl…friend?” He really wished he hadn’t added that last part.

There was a sort of humoured exhale that left Simon’s nose before he spoke. “Dead. Dead. Don’t see anyone lining up to date me.”

Well. That was thoroughly depressing and served him right for being nosy. All he could choke out in response was a pitiful, bumbled apology.

“Don’t worry about it,” the man had responded, and although his voice seemed dry, it was possibly no drier than usual. “You weren’t to know.”

Despite the whole dead-parents faux pas, their conversation didn’t end. Rather, it took a slight stumble, before switching tracks back to work, and then onto other, lighter conversations. They had argued about the merits of tea over coffee, and another, secondary argument about snow sports after Simon had eluded that he was rather fond of skiing. He may have called John a heathen, and in return, John may or may not have told him to fuck off.

They had laughed, John more than Simon, but the creases at the corner of his eyes that formed when he smiled were absolutely noticeable and clearly, he hadn’t imagined them.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Tav asked, as Simon locked up the door to the now-empty office. Somehow, he’d stayed later than ever, due to a particularly interesting conversation where the blond had recalled the valve on the coffee machine in the downstairs meeting room exploding this one time, and-

Well, had he really paid attention to the story?

He wasn’t so sure.

“I mean, I’ll be here,” he grunted, as the key finally twisted in the lock. “It depends on whether you want to spend your Christmas break talking to some grumpy old git.”

“Not got anyone else to talk to,” John laughed. “Anyways, I’ll give you grumpy, but you’re not that old surely…?”

“You want to take a guess?”

Oh, how he loved this game. But it was bad enough to someone’s face, and worse when said person showed only the space between his nose bridge and his forehead. Hell, he never even showed his arms, with long sleeve white shirts that stretched over the bulk beneath them. He still had a good head of hair, but some of the blond seemed to shimmer slightly lighter, as if the first roots of grey were beginning to poke through. Sometimes he wore glasses to read, but so did Kyle, so that wasn’t a good indicator.

“Give me a few days…”

“Heh, alright then.”

They parted ways with a hurried goodbye, as John dashed to the bus stop at the sight of familiar headlights which rounded the corner. As the bus rumbled back past the office, he tried to catch a glimpse of the man’s face, with the mask tugged down, and lips around the cigarette he’d craved so desperately. Of course, he wouldn’t let his guard down so easily, and at the arrival of the vehicle in his eyeline, he’d held one of his massive hands up to cover his face.

John cursed himself out at least six times over before the bus ride finished. He couldn’t do this to himself. Not after his services had been unceremoniously terminated no more than forty-eight hours ago…

But it had already begun. That first, creeping feeling that you might be developing a little crush on your ambiguously aged, no-faced coworker.

The flat was empty. No sign of Kyle, or the Arctic expedition’s worth of luggage they had hefted over on the train. He did feel a little bad for leaving early, knowing that he was the one who had carried Kyle’s bags on the way down to London, and that unless he’d packed a moving van up there was no way he was getting back with everything all at once. The little devil on his shoulder thought that served him right.

But this unexpected revelation did cause a problem. A problem that solidified when his phone buzzed in his pocket to a text from Kyle, confirming he’d be delayed home without much of an explanation or a date tied to his return. Tav didn’t want to press the matter, knowing full well Kyle was likely hiding until things calmed down.

The problem then lay with his lack of excuse for returning to the office tomorrow. Surely it couldn’t hurt to catch up on some work… He needed to actually get the ball rolling on the TikTok and LinkedIn profiles, since they were temporarily sidetracked by Simon’s client portfolio saga. Then there were those copies Price needed for the media renewal plans and-

Who was he kidding?

He was taking his ass into that office tomorrow just to see Simon again.

Simon Riley

Status: [Online]

He set a PR in the gym that morning, but it had been an absent-minded experience. Somehow, through some daft bastard’s mismanagement of the weights rack, he’d put twenty-fives on the bar and not twenties. All in all, a combined total of twenty extra kilos on top of his usual lift spread across the four heaviest plates. It’s not like it was too heavy. He lifted it clean off the ground, much to the shock of that annoying guy in the blue wife beater, who always ended up at the gym at the same bloody time as he did. Before the accident, he would have scoffed at the bar which now lay on the mat, and probably ribbed whoever was lifting it. Wouldn’t be the military without some well-meant teasing, after all. But now, as the area around his prosthetic ached something chronic and he sat and guzzled water on the bench, all he could do was sigh.

There was a reason he was out of it. A bothersome, Scottish reason. 

At first, he’d been annoyed. Price had told him after the Christmas party that there would be a position opening in social media, and that he already had someone to fill the spot. Of course, Simon knew this was some ploy pulled by Garrick – the signs of his rapid mental decline were all there, and he always pursed his lips when he was plotting. He’d pursed his lips a lot that week, not that Price noticed, of course. So, when some young, bright-eyed thing just the same age as Kyle came strolling into his office that morning, cracking shit jokes and shaking his hand as if he was trying to out-muscle him, he’d been less than friendly.

Things changed though. No, it wasn’t some fairytale. It’s not like the man’s very presence had lit up his life, or changed him from the grumpy bastard that he knew he so often was. But there was something in his persistence, and the way that he always said good morning despite his reluctance to answer, and the way he had thrown himself into the fray between the oblivious old man and Garrick without a care for his very new job. It was stupid. He was stupid, for all Simon knew. But yesterday, when they had plotted over his portfolio, there was a glimmer there that maybe he wasn’t as brash or daft as he had seemed at first.

Still, he didn’t understand the need for John’s job. His client base was entirely large-scale commercial markets, and really, he’d rather keep it that way. It’s much easier to smooth over a blip with one singular client than it was with several hundred one-time buyers. Reputations are easy to screw over, and posting ten second videos on an app made for kids, as far as he could tell, didn’t seem the smartest of options.

Was it sympathy he felt? Guilt? Or did the fact that the young lad had those horrendously blue eyes have something to do with it?

“Nice lift!” Blue-shirt guy shouted, which was met with a slight tilt of the water bottle in his direction and nothing more. He wasn’t here for pleasantries, after all. 

He was here to stop himself from going crazy in a world he never thought he’d live to see the light of.

Wonder if he’ll be there today. 

He couldn’t stop the words before they formed in his mind, and the sickly taste of vomit infiltrated the back of his throat as some sort of anti-affection defence mechanism. Medically speaking, perhaps that was just a bit of indigestion, but the timing was too coincidental for him to ignore.

John wasn’t repulsive looking. The opposite in fact, with that daft, foppish hair, good skin, and strong figure. But Simon was thirty-nine years old, and really had no time to be chasing tail for fun. Especially not somebody thirteen years his junior. 

That’s what he told himself, anyways.

Simon Riley didn’t do crushes. Simon Riley didn’t do romance, either.

A mixture of bad decisions, worse situations, and barracks boredom meant he’d avoided claiming the title role in The 40-Year-Old Virgin. However, the past eleven had left him close to re-registering his V-card. In the few and far between moments his prick did choose to work, following the accident, he only had his hand for company.

As he rounded the corner, he was very much surprised to see a figure crouched down on the pavement looking bereft. A quick glance at his watch showed it had hardly grazed 07:30, at least half an hour earlier than the man would come in on an early day. 

“Morning,” Simon mumbled, with a confused look.

“Door’s locked…”

It hadn’t crossed his mind that MacTavish wouldn’t be able to get into the building without him. He felt a minor tinge of guilt as the man shivered, clearly frozen in his interesting choice of attire today. “How long have you been here?”

“Uhh, not sure actually – decided to start running again to clear my head.” The man motioned to the sleeveless grey overshirt with those uncomfortably low sleeve holes that barely covered his ribs. He appeared to be wearing only a vest underneath. “Was hoping I could hit the shower before you arrived, I fuckin’ honk.”

“Sure I’ve smelled worse,” Simon huffed comically, “although I did wonder what stank when I rounded the corner.”

“Oh, fuck off,” MacTavish returned. That stupid, half-cocked grin taunted him.

Simon was glad he’d showered at the gym now, or he’d probably have ended up fighting over the one measly cubicle with him. Not that he’d want to after the incident with the plumbing…

“You know that shower only has cold water, right? The pipe burst months ago…”

The door finally opened as he broke the news, and he hit the control panel to stop the intruder alarm from triggering. The look on the man’s face was hilarious, a mixture of regret and stubbornness that came across in a sulky pout.

 “See you upstairs, I’ll turn the radiator up in your office.”

“Yeah, thanks…”

John MacTavish

Status: “FREEZING!!!”

Simon, unfortunately, wasn’t wrong about the shower. The water piddled out in a pitiful stream, and the temperature seesawed between mildly chilly and bloody Baltic. But it soothed him, and calmed the rush of feelings that had been hammering down on him since Christmas, since his fight with Kyle, and since whatever the hell yesterday was.

Last night was hell. He’d be lying if he said he got more than four solid hours of sleep. The sofa was lumpy, and hard, which he’d only noticed now he’d been demoted from the memory foam mattress of Kyle’s double bed. At some point he gave up and made his way into Kyle’s room knowing that he’d have at least one more uninterrupted night, but that caused only more problems. He found himself pent up, with sheets that smelled like Kyle’s cologne and the frantic fuck they’d had before they dashed for the train. The water helped with that part, at least.

It was hard to know what exactly he needed to get over this. The situation had been neither lengthy nor emotionally involved, on Kyle’s part at least, so really, should he be feeling this way? That horrid ache in his chest, and the unshakeable feeling that any rebound sex which followed would leave him wanting more. Wanting Kyle.

His fingers were going blue now, not aware that he’d spent so long pondering his life choices. Not until he finally snapped out of the trance, and shuddered into the towel he’d scrunched tightly into the slim backpack he ran with. His work clothes were nestled next to the towel, but his fingers cried out as he attempted to do up the buttons, so he gave up after two and slipped back into his running gear after giving it a quick sniff.

A glance at himself in the mirror before he left revealed the deep blush bruises around his neck were finally fading away. He couldn’t help but check himself out, too, with a quick flex of his muscles in the low-cut sleeves of the tee. He’d not done that for a long while, and maybe Kyle’s cousins were right – he’d have a great cut.

Simon was quieter today. Not that that was unusual, of course, but a stark contrast to how abnormally chatty he had been yesterday. John noticed. As soon as he returned to the upper floor, with the hairs on his arms still prickled up from the bitter cold of the water, he saw that Simon made no move to join him at the coffee machine as he had done before. By chance however, he caught his reflection in the silver dome atop the appliance. Was he looking? Could have been a coincidence, that he glanced over at the wrong time. But then, again, as he saw a mirror image in the shiny part of the glass affixed within his office door. 

The man was leant back in his chair, the cigarette in his hand dropping shed embers onto the floor beneath him, and seemingly, he had no awareness of the singe of cheap carpet beneath the pithy heat. 

John hadn’t just caught him looking. He was staring.

It had been a long time since the hairs on his neck stood up like that. Many a time he’d locked eyes with some drunk fuck who had been ogling him at the bar, and depending on how he felt on the day, he’d either fought them or fucked them. But this was different. Firstly, he had presumed Simon was straight, and possibly that presumption was correct. It was hard to tell by just his eyes what exactly the glare in his direction meant. Then secondly, if this was some sort of lustful look, they were in the bloody office.

Part of him considered making a joke, to tell him that a picture would last longer just as Simon had done to him on that first day. But there was an oddness in the way he watched that disconcerted him slightly, like a melancholy had washed over him.

He sat down at his desk, obscured by the door.

Strangely, despite the weird tension that hung in the air, he managed to get a lot done. Maybe it was nice to take his mind off things with work, although if he’d have said that to himself two years ago, he’d have called himself a nerd. Maybe it was the run, or the shower, or maybe just the coffee.

“MacTavish?”

The voice made him jump as it echoed over the sound of his playlist. Peering from behind the screen, he saw Simon linger at the doorway to his little closet.

“What’s up?” He finally responded, after finding the tab playing music.

“I’m going Tesco, out of smokes,” he said, as he rattled the empty carton. “Did you, uh, need me to pick owt up?”

The question, however mundane, made him stall for a second. Simon hardly left his office, rarely interacted with people, and never, ever did anybody a favour. “I- uhhh,” he stuttered. “Nah, I’m good mate.”

Shortly after Simon left, he decided he wasn’t good. He’d had an aching for something sweet ever since he’d had Monique’s shortbread, so much so that he’d cursed himself out on the train for not taking any extras home. He made another coffee, but the bitterness had no effect. So he sat, and chewed his pen, and grumbled silently to himself until he felt the buzzing of his phone in his pocket.

Kyle…

“Hello?”

“I’m at the station mate,” Kyle started, the reversion to his former nickname causing a far more bitter taste than the coffee on John’s tongue, “hopping in an Uber, but could you help me get these bags up the stairs when I’m back? ”

Fuck. He knew Kyle would be coming back soon enough, considering he was living under the man’s roof, but he’d hoped for one more night. 

“I can probably be back in twenty, or uh, maybe twenty-five minutes?”

“Sure- wait where are you ?”

Avoiding you… But no, he couldn’t say that out loud. He’d been so busy thinking about how to avoid him, that he didn’t really think about what he’d say when he found out. “I, uh, I’m at work – I just wanted to get ahead with a few bits.”

“Work? The office is shut though- how are you…” Kyle cut off as he spoke to the driver, which was John’s sign to make the dash to reception. Only now he couldn’t leave because he didn’t have the key to lock up the door. Kyle continued after a brief pause. “Are you there by yourself?”

“Simon is here,” he replied matter-of-factly, as he tapped his foot. “Or he was, but he’s nipped out so I might be a wee bit late.”

Kyle sounded quiet for a moment, and then he laughed. “Oh mate,” he choked out with a wheeze, “I’m so sorry.”

“He’s been nice,” he said, to an interruption of snorts. “No, really!”

“I’ll believe that when I see it… Text me when you’re close, yeah?”

“Aight, will do.”

The door opened to a rather damp looking Simon as he hit the end call button. Because of course as fate would have it, it rained as soon as he needed to leave.

“I’ve got to help Kyle with his bags, I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Simon shrugged off his heavy jacket and hung it up on the coat rail. “Didn’t he break up with you?”

“Well, yeah, but no.”

“Yeah, but no?” It wasn’t exactly mocking, but there was something uneasy in his voice.

John backpedalled. He shouldn’t have to explain himself to a man he hardly knew, but he felt like he needed to set things right. “It’s complicated, and I owe him for-”

“You need to look after yourself, MacTavish.”

He didn’t quite understand the monumentality of the words and passed them off with a dismissive quip before he ran out into the rain. But who, except this man he’d known for mere days, had looked out for him since his father had passed? Who had taken his side without worrying about someone else’s feelings, or if someone would be hurt by his actions? Who had been there for John, and John alone? Not his mother, that’s for sure. Not Price, who gave him the job for Kyle’s sake, or Kate who looked out for him in return for his cooperation. Not Kyle’s family, who took him in as one of their own, but every whispered conversation amongst them suggested that there was intent of something more. Not Kyle. Kyle, who took John in as a broken man, and only broke him further.

How much was Kyle to blame? He too was hurting badly, and John knew. There were boundaries set, and John crossed them. An outsider would blame them both, two bitter and broken men caught up in good sex and bad romance. An outsider wouldn’t be looking out for John, though.

So why Simon Riley?

The rain electrified every nerve in his body, more than that freezing cold shower had done. Nervous tension remained trapped in his shoulders. What would Kyle say? Would they fight? Would it be like old times?

If John had turned around, he’d have seen Simon stay, eyes locked onto him as he crossed the road. If he’d have returned as he said he would, he’d have seen the bag of Werther’s Originals the man had left on his desk. Or the hot, black coffee he’d made alongside his cuppa.

He went to the flat. He helped Kyle lug his ridiculous amount of luggage up the stairs. They didn’t fight, not really, but things weren’t the same. There was a coldness between them. It would smooth over, eventually, as fights between friends often do. He made Kyle a cup of tea, but they took turns to use the shower to warm up from the rain. The shower which recently had snugly fit both bodies. They put some crap on the telly, and ate packet noodles, and John forgot about going back to the office altogether.

“Simon, I-”

John had realised his mistake the moment he reached his desk. The bag of sweets and the cold coffee proved a sad piece of evidence that an attempt to reach out had been made yesterday, or that Simon had somehow read his mind. He thought perhaps the prior was more likely, and that Simon was hopefully not telepathic.

Simon’s eyes raised from his papers, and he moved the glasses from the tip of his nose to the top of his head. “Morning.”

“Morning,” John began. “The sweets?” His head cocked to one side, as he questioned in a strained voice. He wasn’t at all upset that they were there. Really, he was just embarrassed that he’d gone back on his word.

“You looked like you needed a pick-me-up, you really should refuel after running.”

Even though they hadn’t been close yesterday, Simon had clearly noticed he didn’t eat. Had he watched him the whole time, then? Perhaps there was something more to all of this.

“Thanks, I- I appreciate it.”

“Hm.”

“Sorry I didn’t come back, I was-”

Simon interrupted. “Why are you apologising? I don’t care what you get up to.”

“Right…”

“So, did you make up with Kyle?” The tone of his voice obviously suggested a different type of making up than as friends.

He retaliated with a creased-up nose. “Jesus, no! We just watched some crap telly and ate packet noodles.”

“Sounds healthy.” The man said with a huff. “Don’t know how you manage to stay in good shape with that diet.”

“Alright then, I’d love to hear what you had for dinner if you’re being such a cocky twat about it.”

For a moment there was silence, like a boundary crossed, shortly followed by what sounded like a dish at a nice restaurant. “Salmon, new potatoes with butter and herbs, and asparagus.”

John blinked. “Alright, Gordon fuckin’ Ramsey.”

“I’m sure you could cook for yourself, you’re not stupid,” Simon mused.

“It’s hard when you have so little room, I mean, Kyle’s kitchen isn’t the biggest and he’s got all of his stuff in there.”

“That’s fair,” Simon responded, and swivelled in his chair to face John directly. “But I can guarantee, my kitchen is smaller.”

“Nah, no chance,” John chuckled. There was a lightness to his laughter, one which he’d not heard in some time. One which Simon had noticed, as his eyes creased ever so slightly at the corners. 

Half a day passed, and John ignored the text from Kyle asking him if he’d really gone into the office again, the accusation in his words seeping through the cracks. Not his fault, really, that he’d rather spend time in semi-decent, pretty-attractive company rather than with the man who had effectively dumped him on Christmas.

But there was something more than the eye candy that had brought him here. A genuine curiosity, perhaps, and the knowledge that as soon as others returned to the office again, he would not see this part of Simon. The man’s door would be closed, and he wouldn’t get those small slithers of information that seemed to bring him such delight. Mundane things, that because of the person, seemed even more fascinating.

“You should eat.”

He looked up rapidly, away from the branding documents he had been absent-mindedly musing over. For a man so bloody large, he moved like some sort of ghost. 

“Err, yeah I suppose so.”

“What did you bring for lunch?”

“Well, I was going to grab something on the way out-”

“In four hours?”

He fidgeted in his seat. When was the last time someone had, well, cared ? Made sure he ate, drank water, kept his sugars up, and noticed when he’d worked himself too hard with no relent. Hell, he could have done with someone like that at university, where he’d lived on Monster Energy and protein shakes. “Suppose I could go to the shops…”

“No,” Simon cut in, and he seemed to notice that his tone was perhaps a little harsh, as the next words continued in a soft, almost shy hum. “Where do you want to eat? We’ll get lunch.”

“Lunch? Oh, you sly fox you, luring me out on a date, eh?”

“Piss off, MacTavish.”

John stood and fished his wallet out from his pocket. One peek inside had him hoping no moths fluttered out into the space between them. “I mean, I’m a little strapped for cash right now…” 

“I’ll pay.”

“Wha- I’m a grown lad Simon, I can pay for my own food.” He paused and coughed. “So long as it’s cheap…”

“I’m not eating at fucking McDonalds, let’s go somewhere that the food is actually edible, yeah?”

That somewhere ended up being a cute local café that John had never really noticed before. The frontage was set back from the street, only signposted by a hanging sign. Despite this, it was surprisingly busy inside.

“Didn’t think this would be yer’ sort of spot,” John teased, as he smiled apologetically at the foreign exchange student that they had squeezed past to get to the queue.

Simon simply grunted, with no explanation. The person behind the counter seemed to shoot them a glance, and excitedly flapped their hands as the pair approached.

“Simon!”

“Arabella.”

This Arabella must have been only a few years older than John. The choppy haircut attacked with purple box dye, several tattoos, and the facial piercings really did not fit with who he imagined Simon would be friends with. But, as he’d discovered with the salmon and asparagus, the man was full of surprises. 

“Who is this?” Arabella asked, with a sly grin directed towards John. “Finally seeing someone?”

“He’s my new colleague,” Simon deadpanned in an obvious reaction to the quip. “Introduce yourself MacTavish.”

“Err, John,” he started, “lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” they replied, “though I’m a little disappointed, thought you might finally get this grump to lighten up.”

John glanced at Simon, who only rolled his eyes and began to order. One glance around the room said this space was inherently queer. From what Arabella had said, John could only assume that they knew something about Simon’s sexuality that he didn’t. 

“MacTavish- order up.”

He looked at the menu, trying to save Simon’s pennies by cheaping out, but got warned against it as soon as Simon clocked what he was doing. In the end, he settled on a roast beef sarnie with extra dripping.

“I’ll bring it to your table boys.”

John was about to walk to the table in the centre of the room but was steered in the other direction by a firm hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve got my own table,” Simon explained, although he seemed a little sheepish at the fact. “Follow me.”

The table was through a door that seemed to be for staff only, and then out of a stone archway into a small courtyard. It was beautiful back here, but it didn’t seem to be a public space. Only one table, two chairs, an overflowing ashtray and a space heater that looked like an electrical hazard. John took the seat on the left, the freezing slats of the steel shocking him through the thin material of his trousers. Simon sat to his right, his body dwarfing the small table. He kicked the heater with his foot, which roared to life near-instantly.

“So… What’s the story here?”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked, but he just had to know. How did Simon know the cool, quirky barista and why the hell did he have his own table.

“I’ve known Ara for a long time, they were on my ward after my operation. Took the piss out of me when I was doing PT, they were just a kid then and something about being mocked by a kid… Well, I got better quickly let’s put it.”

“Wait- operation?”

“Had a pretty nasty discharge from the army.”

John watched as Simon shifted in his seat and ended the conversation with a pensive hum. His long fingers fished into his pocket and pulled out his cigs, which left the Scot pinned into place. There was no space in the courtyard for him to go where he wouldn’t be seen, and as his lighter followed the cigarettes, John panicked.

“Do you want me to go away?” He blurted out, already reeling with embarrassment about how eager to leave he seemed.

Simon paused, and then snorted out a weird half-laugh. “How the fuck did you think I was going to eat lunch?”

The sound was strange, coming from him. But his accompanying humour was as dry as ever, and John’s embarrassment mellowed into the same feeling that followed their recent banter. He stared at his shoes whilst Simon unhooked the surgical mask from one ear, almost afraid to witness the thing he’d been wondering about for weeks in case it disappointed him somehow.

It didn’t.

When he finally had the courage to raise his eyes from the wet shimmer of the cobblestone floor, he rode the worst type of emotional rollercoaster. He could only pray Simon hadn’t seen the initial flash of shock that painted itself across his face, which was followed swiftly by disgust at his own judgemental response. Then, as he looked deeper, there was a slight flutter in his chest that he again had to kick down with self-disdain.

The Simon that entered the military was probably a god-damn heartbreaker. His features dominated his presence – strong jawline, good nose, plush lips, all of which fell nicely on his face and with the slightly grown-out curl of his hair. But he was scarred. Not like the scar John carried on his chin, hidden by his stubble. Deep, irritated scars which ran across his lips, nose, and cheeks. A patch of glossy, healed burn-tissue on the right side of his face. Whatever had hit him, hit him hard. This must be related to the operation he had mentioned, and his discharge.

“Go on,” Simon prompted, and exhaled the smoke into the air so that it curled away in the wind. “Say what’s on your mind.”

John felt awful. He knew exactly how that stare felt, the same stare Tom had given him when his scar was newly granted. That hesitant glance of disgust, and then pity. But Simon’s face wasn’t disgusting – it had just surprised him, he supposed.

“You don’t have to tell me,” John replied, voice low. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to look at you funny, it was just a shock.”

“S’alright.”

“No, but-”

“I clocked your scar right away, might have pulled that same look if not for…” He trailed off but wafted his cigarette-wielding hand around his face. 

“Oh.” John’s hand traced his chin, the divot under his fingers a reminder of times long gone. It was strange, to feel so noticed, but not judged. “Yeah, this is-”

Simon looked over with slightly shifty eyes, as if he too was worried about overstepping some boundary. “You don’t have to tell me, either.” 

Somehow, that made him more inclined to speak. “Well, let’s just say my stepdad didn’t take too lightly to figuring out I liked cock.”

“Sounds like a charming fella,” the blond joked. There was no awkwardness, as there often was following that admission. “I’m guessing you thumped him good after that?”

“Do I seem the type?”

Simon shot him a look as if to say do you even need to ask that question? Clearly, this man had a better read on him than most. There was a moment’s silence, where they both revelled in a strange, deeper understanding of one another. John marvelled in the oddity that somebody he’d known for such a short time, and who shared so little in common with him, had this unmistakable chemistry that seeped through every passing comment all the way down to the more profound of their chats that had happened since his ‘so-called break-up’.

Arabella interrupted whatever other questions that John had by bringing out their lunch. They didn’t react in the slightest to Simon’s now bared face, but it was more than likely they had seen it many times before, considering the situation. 

The food was damn good, and he wondered why he’d never heard of this spot before. 

“Got any plans for New Year’s Eve?” 

There was nothing pretty about the way Simon asked the question, mouth half full and ketchup smudged on his chin. Probably a side effect of eating alone for lord knows how long, and the fact that he’d chosen John to break that streak excited him more than the messy eating grossed him out.

“Erm,” he started, then remembered the night he was supposed to have with Kyle at Bar Pop, coincidentally the place that started this whole mess, was presumably cancelled. “No…”

“Me neither,” Simon replied.

John made the move this time, tentatively, and hoped that Simon wouldn’t rib him the exact way he ribbed Simon about an hour ago. “Did you want to have plans?”

“Wouldn’t be against it.”

The answer wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but with this being Simon, it was as good as he was going to get. Hesitantly, he extended his hand out towards him and crooked his fingers.

“What?”

“Your phone, gimmie.”

Simon was hesitant but pulled out the device and placed it gently in John’s outstretched hand. Thankfully unlike Price’s pocket-brick, it was a smartphone. He opened the contacts and was met with only three names.

John Price Work

John Price Personal

Gary Sanderson Physio

John blinked. He thought he was a loner, with half the names on his phone being people he knew at school or had gathered from one-night stands at university. God knows how many fit bird from gym, guy with glasses from module 2 and DO NOT ANSWER names he had saved. I mean, two of the people on Simon’s list were literally the same person, and the other one presumably his physiotherapist, unless he had a really strange double-barrelled surname.

He decided not to comment, this time. Not when the man was looking over so nervously.

TAV :)

A forth name graced the screen as he tapped the save button. Perhaps the smiley face was a step too far, as upon handing the phone back, Simon’s face flashed with momentary confusion.

“You can decide where we go, just text me,” John added. “But don’t take me to any old man pubs.”

“Oh, so you finally guessed an age then?”

“Sorry, but your reaction to a smiley face told me all I needed to know.”

Chapter Text

Kyle Garrick

Status: [Offline]

The choice to come back was not made lightly, but it was better to face the music with Tav than to listen to Tash and Zoe chew him out further over what had happened. Or his mother, who following their argument hadn’t really been the same. Unlike his sisters, she refrained from teasing him, but that didn’t stop him from shuddering at every forlorn sigh she took. They acted more unreasonably than Tav had, given the situation.

So, it was a surprise when he heard that Tav was at work, and even more so when he went back a second time. But then he’d become increasingly more suspicious about where the man was going and why he was trying so damn hard to avoid him.

Tav didn’t know anyone in this city, at least, not enough to spend whole days with them.

A key entered the lock. He glanced upward, towards the kitchen clock, and regarded that the time was far later than he’d usually come home after work. 

He wasn’t jealous. That’s what he told himself, anyways.

“I’m back- oh, hey…?”

Kyle was unaware of the posture he’d taken up, arms crossed tightly across his chest and a scowl plastered on his face. “Where have you been?” The question slipped his lips, before he realised how much he sounded like his mother.

Tav took it well, and laughed as he replied. “Didn’t know I had a curfew now mam.”

“Is it Grindr? I need to know because I don’t want to come across your profile and-”

“Kyle,” the Scot interrupted. The look on his face teetered between humour and annoyance. “I was at work – you can check my phone if you’re that bloody nervous. You know I’m not a fan of dating apps.”

Kyle shifted on the spot, very much aware that this outburst was blown entirely out of proportion. It’s not like their prior contract had come with exclusivity, and even if so, that had ended abruptly some days ago.

“Sorry, just- curious I suppose.”

He watched as Tav made his way into the kitchen, dropped off his bag, clicked on the kettle, and pulled out two cups. Nothing had changed, really. They had just returned to that same mundanity that came with long days after work. Only, Kyle hadn’t been at work. He’d been the one sitting at home in his metaphorical pants.

“Are you going out on New Year's?” Tav asked, whilst his hand hovered between regular and decaf.

“Is Barpop off?” He responded, sheepishly. “I mean I assumed as much but-”

“I want my New Year's snog,” he laughed. “And I don’t wanna have to wear a gumshield to do so this time.”

“Alright, alright…” Kyle deftly dodged a fake punch thrown in his direction, his own palm stinging in some sort of karmic retribution. “Wait, who are you snogging?”

“No comment.”

Tav’s phone dinged as if on cue, and the message which flashed onto the screen grabbed both of their attention. Unknown number, no photo.

Hey MacTavish, it’s S-

The rest of the notification was cut off, and Tav snatched the phone from the counter before he could even make a move to pounce for it.

“I hate you for this,” Kyle groaned. He wasn’t nosy just… naturally curious. Who could blame him for that?

Tav stuck his tongue out childishly. “You can keep on hating.”

It became increasingly clear that the man wouldn’t relent. Especially not as Kyle listened to him laugh softly, and the rapid clacking of the keyboard as he typed out a response with his phone turned away. It stung a little. Back at uni, he had taken pride in parading around his latest possible fling. Many nights were spent with the two of them glugging down a bottle of wine, then analysing text messages and swiping through Tinder.

Tav wasn’t done healing from the trust he broke. Or perhaps there was something suspicious about the mystery person on the other side of the line.

John MacTavish

Status: [Offline]

Simon fucking Riley, the uncrackable nut that he was, had actually text him. He didn’t know why he doubted the man, when he had made it perfectly clear after lunch that he wanted to continue their conversation. They had talked for so long that neither of them really did any work, drank far too many hot drinks, and then by the time they were finished nattering, it was already dark.

Hey MacTavish, it’s Simon. I’ve got a spot for NYE. It’s not a club, so don’t put your fucking hotpants on, but it’s not a fogey pub either. Promise. I’ll send the address. See you there, 7pm. 

He’d rolled his eyes at the message. The hotpants were a one time thing... Although he was pretty sure he still had them festering in the bottom of a suitcase somewhere. God, he wished he wouldn’t have told him that story. Or several others, for that matter. But that was the strange thing. Talking came easy. Too easy, considering the first month of him being there he’d been completely ignored by the guy. 

He supposed they shared a sense of humour, and that the man wasn’t as big or bad as he first seemed. He was goofy .

John loved it.

The hour before the Uber arrived was stressful. Faffing with his hair, avoiding Kyle’s incessant questioning, and trying to sniff out which of his few going out clothes didn’t already smell like a bar pit. Usually, he would flutter his lashes at Kyle and get a few shirts and a couple of pairs of boxers in with his laundry, but since the Christmas ordeal, he’d not been up for any pretend flirtation. There was a laundromat down the street, but his gravitation to the office had stopped any attempt to visit. Or maybe he was just feeling lazy…

For the first time since that unexpected panic attack on the steps outside, he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. The Uber driver had done nothing but give him a polite smile, and yet the presence of another person in the car was stifling . But why? The flings he’d had prior to Kyle hadn’t had him feeling this way. He always bounced back, sometimes that very night. Even gained a reputation for it. But that reputation hadn’t followed him into his now very adult life, and it seemed the confidence that was tacked onto it had also gone missing.

A peek inside the pub showed he’d arrived first, which didn’t surprise him considering he’d hailed the Uber way sooner than necessary to avoid another round of guesses at who his so-called date would be. Considering Simon probably had some sort of special seat here too, he decided it was best to park his arse on the picnic bench outside. Bitter wind whipped spray up from the canal opposite, but the lights from the boats at least looked cosy, and warmed him up a tad.

Manchester was loud at the best of times, but when the sound of a motorcycle ripped through the streets, John’s attention rose from playing Angry Birds on his phone to the direction of the noise. The amount of times he’d been caught trying to nick issues of Bike from the corner shop could no longer be counted on two hands, most of those incidents being between the ages of ten and fifteen.

So, when said bike came to a nice, neat stop right across the way, he couldn’t help but jump out of his seat.

“She’s a beauty,” he whistled, and chirped his compliment at the helmeted rider as he dismounted. An interesting choice of helmet for someone riding a cruiser, with a full visor clamped down over his face, but some people worked that way he guessed. “What engine? Heard you from a ways out.”

The rider paused in momentary contemplation, perhaps not used to overly excitable Scottish blokes practically jumping him. John looked up at him with an urgent adoration.

“Didn’t know you liked bikes, MacTavish.”

He blinked at the muffled but familiar voice, and watched as the visor flipped up to reveal dark eyes and blond curls plastered to forehead sweat. The creases that tweaked the corners of his eyelids suggested he was smiling, although it was hard to tell.

“Simon ?”

“The one and only.”

“Fuck off, there’s no way you ride-”

“What was I just doing then, ya’ cabbage.”

There was something different about his tone. He seemed more relaxed, and it was the first time John would have assumed he hailed from around these parts.

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughed back. He knew when to back down from a losing battle, and instead went back to eyeing up the beauty besides him. The bike, that was, although arguments could be made for both.

“I’m storing ‘er round back,” Simon said, as he remounted and kicked the stand down. “Get us a pint, would ya? Owt’ll do.”

Who was this man? What did he do with the boring guy from the office? Also, was he going to wear those leathers all night, because that would be a very big problem.

Some compromise on the leathers it seemed, his riding leathers subbed off, instead being replaced by a secondary leather jacket. A plain white tee and a pair of jeans seemed far more casual than the long-sleeved suit shirts that he barely squeezed into. The mask was still there. His hair was a little tousled, presumably from the helmet.

“You have a special seat here as well?” John laughed but was half-prepared to follow him in case he did.

Simon rolled his eyes. “No, but people know me here and they usually mind their own business.”

They chose a closed-off booth, with a clear view of the telly that played football news from the past week. As John supped his pint, his eyes hovered nervously towards the screen.

The blond teased, humour ruminating under the hot coals of his voice. “You can look at me, you know. You won’t turn to stone.”

“It feels like I’m being rude when I do,” he replied softly, as his eyes eventually settled on the man’s face. The soft lighting of the pub looked good on him. It warmed the pale skin that had looked ice cold as they had shuddered in the back alleyway of the café. 

A soft chuckle and a crooked smile were shot in his direction. 

John felt that awkwardness well up again, as if suddenly he’d forgotten all the words in the English language. He needed to say something, but all his charm had gone down the gutter with that slap, and he found himself opening and closing his mouth like a fish before he finally gave up.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Just great. He’d noticed. “Aye, something like that,” John laughed. “I’ve not been myself as of late.”

“Because of Garrick?”

“Christ, is it that obvious?”

Simon shifted in his chair; his opposite hand moved to clasp his drink. The glass looked small, in comparison, and John tried not to get distracted from the ongoing conversation. “You look like one of those dogs from those abused animal adverts..”

John blinked, and then snorted out a laugh. “I don’t- what ? What does that even mean?”

“Like a sad puppy, with its tail between its legs? You know what I’m on about.”

“No! I’m not a dog- I’m at least one of those endangered tigers or something, make me something a bit more interesting than a bleeding pooch.”

“Maybe a chihuahua.”

“Right, that’s it! I’m not buying you another pint now, ya bastard,” he chuntered, and then continued to do so into his glass before he took another swig. “Bloody chihuahua my arse.” 

He could see Simon’s hesitant glance, as if he was measuring whether the light prod had worked to give him his mojo back. “If you were an animal,” John started and whipped out his phone, “you’d be one of these fuckers I saw on TikTok the other day.”

The animal in question, a rather irked looking shoebill, was thrust in Simon’s direction.

“I don’t take that as an insult,” Simon laughed. “Says they eat crocodiles here.”

“Aye but they’re mean looking bastards like when I first met you.”

“And now you know I’m as soft as a kitten, eh?” Simon asked, and moved both of his hands under his chin to rest his head. He met John’s eye, as his tone changed teasingly. “Did that surprise you?”

“A little…”

They weren’t close, really. The table was wide enough that the distance between them was more than ample, even if Simon had leaned forward onto his hands. But that tone, it seemed to suggest more than just playfulness. Like a bubble of something was swelling around them. Then the bubble broke, Simon laughed and kicked back against the cushions, and the noise of the pub came flooding back all at once. 

Fuck.

“I’d like to think I’m something old and wise, like an owl.”

“Oh yeah? To match the old fogey pub?”

“Just you wait for the karaoke MacTavish, then you’ll see it’s not a fogey pub.”

“You didn’t tell me there was karaoke… You’re not prepared for the consequences of that, Simon Riley.”

Simon was indeed unprepared for the consequences, several hours and even more drinks down the line. Especially not after John took a couple of shots, for courage of course, and wrote his name down in the book to line up to sing. He prepared his usual discography. That being said, John saw the way Simon staggered when he went to get them another round, and as such surmised that they were both pissed as farts.

He started out strong. Don’t Stop Me Now of Queen fame, a hit with the other folks around the bar as a small group gathered to watch. It wasn’t that John was good at singing, he could occasionally hit the right notes and didn’t always muck up the words, but he was a bloody showman. Confident didn’t seem a strong enough word as he gyrated up against the microphone stand.

“You’ve got some pipes on you,” Simon laughed, after John had escaped his captive audience. “Not good ones like, but they’re there.”

“Oh aye, he laughed, “I’d love to see you do better.”

“You won’t catch me on that fucking thing.”

Later renditions followed, one warbled enactment of Whitney’s I Will Always Love You of which he was joined by some random bird who was actually half decent. People looked thankful for that. Many more drinks, more songs, John being dragged up to duet with a group of elderly women who pinched his cheeks throughout the entire song. Simon watched. John watched Simon watching. More drinks, Simon sneaking out a few times for a cig break. They were both absolutely trollied by the time eleven rolled around, and last call was being called on the karaoke machine.

“Johnny Boy…”

“Whit?”

“The song,” Simon hiccupped, “the one about the bagpipes… you should sing that one.”

“Johnny Boy ?” John replied and tried to google it. It took a while, since for some reason the letters kept moving around the screen. Eventually, they discovered that Simon meant Danny Boy. “Why that?”

“He’s Scottish is he not?”

“He’s Irish you bampot!”

“Same bloody thing…”

“I know you did not just say that.”

After a string of Scottish insults, that Simon didn’t seem to entirely tune into, he finally calmed down.

“Suits you, that name.”

“Whit name? Don’t call me fucking Irish again-”

“Johnny boy.” It rolled off his tongue like goddamn honey, like the words were meant to be spoken by him and only him. The shiver that shot down John’s spine was astronomical.

“Oh, shut it you.”

“I’ll sing it with you, if you want.”

“What, Danny Boy?”

“We’ll sing our own version.”

And so, one rendition of the modified “Johnny Boy” was requested, much to the dismay of the sixteen year old lad sitting on the controls. Poor kid wished he was anywhere else in the world right now. 

It was only when Simon locked eyes directly with him on the line “Oh Johnny boy, oh Johnny boy, I love you so” did John feel like he was about to pass out. Or maybe he was about to pass out. The room was certainly spinning. He found himself pressed, suddenly, against the side of the taller man. His huge arm had wrapped around his shoulders, and then he thought, when had he taken off his jacket? Were those tattoos? Those were tattoos. And was he still remembering to sing? Just about. His heart might have stopped beating though. He needed someone to take his pulse.

Then he was outside, and Simon was forcing him to drink water. No, this wasn’t how this was meant to go. It would be the hour soon, which a very cross-eyed glance at his phone revealed.

“C’mon Johnny boy, drink up.”

“Mm’no, nearly Midnight,” he mumbled, accent no longer hidden behind its English-appeasement filter. “I was supposed to winch someone tonight.”

Simon knelt in front of him. He was no longer swaying, as if the outside air had sobered him up. Probably some weird army thing. “What the chuff are you on about?”

“Yer’ meant to snog someone when the clock turns midnight, dafty.”

“Yeah, I got that part- was it one of those lasses you had your eye on?”

John was unable to hide the look of visible confusion which spread over his face. He didn’t really know why Simon had brought him here. There had been a line of friendly flirtation, toed all night. Then the song, the arm around him, and the look of something more in the man’s eyes.

“I wanna kiss you, Simon.”

Simon laughed hard. He actually snorted, and punched John’s shoulder to boot. But John didn’t raise his eyes from the floor. Partially to stop the world from spinning, but also from shame.

“Fuck, you’re being serious?”

“Thought maybe… you wanted to kiss me, too.”

Simon Riley

Status: [Offline]

The statement made him laugh, so much that his belly started to hurt, and the booze almost went back to his head. MacTavish was a jokester alright. But then, he caught that look in his baby blues that said he was dead fucking serious. His voice was small, hurt, that same kicked puppy he’d imagined at the start of the night. It was someone different than the showman, or the guy chatting up girls at the bar, or the one cracking joke after joke all night long.

This was Garrick’s doing, and probably every other fucker before him.

“Johnny, I didn’t bring you here to snog you,” he said plainly, but tried to keep his voice soft. “Sorry if I made it seem that way.”

That’s not to say he wouldn’t. There was no doubt that the restless nights he’d had recently were something to do with this interesting new man in his life. But he was young, and wild, and shouldn’t be tied down to some long-dead man plagued by the demons of his former life. Simon Riley wasn’t old , just barely thirty-nine with probably the same amount of years ahead of him. But he felt ancient, like every year he’d lived after the accident had lasted hundreds of rotations of the Earth around the Sun.

“Ach, it’s fine,” the Scot grumbled, and broke Simon’s stream of consciousness. He noticed he had been staring at John’s lips, and quickly corrected course as John tried to stand way too fast and tripped on his own feet. “Let me go find one of those birds, eh?”

Simon caught him mid stagger, and upon the realisation that he was the only thing keeping him upright, decided to expedite getting him home. 

“Let’s go, you can barely stand.”

John pushed him, and it was clear that there was still plenty of strength in his shorter frame. He stumbled back slightly, and knowing the man’s past, didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a mean right hook. More than anything, he certainly didn’t want to be forced to retaliate.

The ruckus inside started, and the countdown had begun. John’s eyes were like fire.

Nine. Eight. Seven.

Simon took John’s arm, and led him away from the pub. The man swore loudly, words that no longer sounded like the English language. He was being cursed out in foreign tongues to his Mancunian ear, but he’d heard worse in his life.

Six. Five. Four.

The first fireworks went up. He never really did get along with the noise, sounded all too much like the explosion that took his leg. That searing, blinding cacophony followed by waking up in the heli-evac, screaming and writhing in agony. He felt his socket turn white hot as the bangs rang out. But now wasn’t the time for that. Not with duty to do.

Three. Two. 

John was still fighting him, but they were far away from the pub now. Perhaps it couldn’t hurt to appease him…

One! Happy New Year!

The sky lit up in rainbow glory. Simon spun the man around, one firm hand placed against his left cheek to steady him, and his lips delivering a gentle kiss to his right. It wasn’t the snog he clearly wanted, but the anger melted from his face as he mulled into a stunned silence. Aside from the stubble, his skin was soft. Simon’s calloused hand rested there a moment longer than it should have, but neither party complained.

“Happy New Year Johnny boy, now let’s get you to bed.”

Chapter Text

John MacTavish

Status: [Offline]

It wasn’t unusual for him to start a new year sick as a dog, and in a t-shirt that most definitely was not his. But the phone which buzzed non-stop against the bedside table was new, and one check of the screen showed an assortment of notifications from Tinder, Grindr, and some apps he’d never bloody heard of.

John hated dating apps.

He swiped away the incessant and quite frankly terrible pick-up-lines littered with aubergine emojis, and a few actual dick pics. What the hell had happened last night? Where did Simon go? Where was he? With a grunt, he sat up to reveal a still-spinning hotel room. A little cramped, but nicely furnished to the point where it was most definitely not within his price range. God knows if he’d paid for it, or if Simon had dropped him off here after he ended up getting blackout.

The last thing he remembered was karaoke. They’d sung together, hadn’t they? Not that he remembered much of the singing part. But he did remember a strong arm around his shoulder, and how he felt weirdly safe in that tight grip.

As he made his way to the bathroom, he noticed his own shirt folded up by the door. He didn’t even need to look at it to smell that familiar scent that turned his stomach. Wouldn’t be a blow out night if he didn’t puke on himself at least once. The shirt he was in swamped him. Simon’s shirt… Which meant whatever stomach expulsion had happened last night; the poor man had witnessed. 

He had to apologise to him later, probably for a lot more than he could remember.

A long shower helped clear off some of that grunge and sweat, and he helped himself to copious amounts of fancy hotel shampoo. No point styling the hawk, so he let it fall into a long, messy mop. Really, it needed cutting. Even the gel he kept back at Kyle’s place was struggling to hold the errant locks. But his barber was half a day’s travel away, and that’s if he had the courage to step back into that town.

The concierge reminded him that he had breakfast booked, but John declined. His stomach couldn’t handle solids for another few hours.

More dating app notifications were swiped away before his hand hovered over the contacts button on his phone. He hit call. The line rang three or four times, and he was about to hang up, when there was a muffled rustle of fabric and the dropping of something heavy.

“Johnny?”

The sound set his fucking nerves on fire. He remembered the name, and the teasing that came with it.

“Morning,” he replied, and tried not to act deranged. Someone dropped a barbell, the sound of which rang out in the background of the call. “Don’t tell me you’re at the gym after last night…”

“Fitness is important, couldn’t have hauled you up those fucking stairs otherwise.”

“Hey that’s-” he paused for a moment, “what exactly do you mean by hauled?”

“Oh, a full-on bridal carry, until you puked on yourself.”

John looked down at the oversized shirt, and the bin he’d just lobbed his own, soiled shirt into. “I guess you want your shirt back…?”

“Just give it to me at work,” Simon responded with a grunt. Was he lifting as he was on the phone? Crazy bastard. “Don’t let anyone get the wrong idea, though.”

The hotel wasn’t far from the pub. He didn’t really know where he was, but he wandered as he spoke on the phone and soon found himself at the canal overlooking the pub’s frontage.

“Do you live around here?” He wondered out loud. Seemed just a tad too far from work, for someone who was at the office at the crack of dawn. “It’s nice.”

“Sometimes .”

“What?”

“Look Johnny, I’m mid set, I’ll catch up with you later.”

Sometimes? How can someone sometimes live somewhere? Did he have two houses? Stop in hotels? Have a weirdly flexible rental schedule?  He wanted to ask more but was hurried along by a series of okays and byes which caused him to stammer out his own parting sentiment.

The short conversation hadn’t stopped the flow of messages from the viral infection of dating apps. He gritted his teeth, and finally opened the little squares one by one to reveal the extent of the damage. Oh dear . He’d been sending messages late into the night, far later than Simon had dropped him off at the hotel, with varying levels of obvious sexual undertones. The people looked… nice. But he knew the type, the exact type he’d hook up with for a week at university before they’d ghost him, or he’d ghost them, or they’d be involved in some type of mutual ghosting.

This wasn’t what he wanted. 

It wasn’t what he’d wanted with Kyle, and he certainly hoped he hadn’t tried anything on with Simon, although he didn’t remember anything after their impromptu performance of whatever that song was called. If Simon knew what he’d been thinking about him, he’d be mortified.

Of course, if John hadn’t been quite so drunk last night, he’d have remembered his more than pitiful confession of his attraction to Simon. Remembered the way Simon had placated him with a kiss on his cheek, and then listened to his drunken babbling the whole way back to the hotel about how he wanted to settle down with someone nice. How he was sick of being used as a good lay and nothing more, and more than a few bad words said about the situation with Kyle, that he’d been more than reluctant to talk about when sober. All of which had been punctuated by bouts of crying and begging to go to a kebab shop at the end of the street which was, in fact, closed.

He'd somehow wandered away from the road. The Bridgewater Canal Tow Path, and all the boats alongside it, made for a decently pleasant view along the Rochdale Canal. It wasn’t pretty in the sense of a beautiful, picturesque meadow in the morning sun. But, there was an understated charm that captivated him and quelled his uneasy stomach. The gentle babbling of slow-moving water, and tenacity of the overgrown plants that squeezed out shoots between industrial rafters, touched him with a sense of satisfaction that he couldn’t quite place a finger on.

John hadn’t come to this city by choice. 

If he’d had his way, he’d still be skipping stones from Wick Harbour into the cold waters of the North Sea and resenting the world. It’s not like he had been happy at home. No happier than he was sleeping on an uncomfortable couch, in a city with too much noise and buildings that strained his eyes to look at. 

Not since his father had passed, or perhaps longer still. Perhaps since he realised he was no longer a boy. No more playing out in the bogs and jumping from rocks without one damn given for his safety. No more cut knees and alcohol swabs, garbled singing of primary school songs, or hopscotch chalked onto tarmac with the numbers written backwards. The world had grown too big, too fast, and he’d struggled to grow with it. Being different was hard. Being different in a small town was harder. So, he’d drifted away. Drifted to Manchester. A long search for an anchor. Just like these boats, moored with ropes that strained every time a gust of wind picked up down the waterway. Something needed to tie him down to this place. A round turn and two half hitches.

Simon Riley

Status: [Offline]

As soon as he put the phone down, Simon knew three things. First, he needed to move the boat. He only had a day left at that mooring point regardless, since it was for tourists rather than long-term living. He didn’t mind the extra fees, though. Not when it was the closest location to both the gym and the pub. His local, as he liked to call it, despite half the time it not being local at all. But now he’d given up some information – not that Johnny would ever expect him to live on a riverboat. He’d rather be safe than sorry.

The second thing he realised, on the subject of the Scottish fucker, was that he was feeling things he was not prepared to feel. He’d found himself an escort-come-chauffeur for drunken fools in the past, but none who fessed up their feelings whilst preparing to swing at him. He was a wild thing. Even when he’d eventually tired himself out, he still had a bone to pick with the world.

Which led to the third revelation. God knows he couldn’t tell Price about this. So, the only other person he would ever spill his guts to was due an untimely visit.

He moved the boat, a long and arduous slog deeper into the city. When puttering along some quaint countryside canal, there was much to be said about the relaxing element of boat life. Manchester’s internal waterways didn’t have that same charm, and with several locks along the way, took too long to travel in to be enjoyable solo. But when that was finally complete, he found himself in his usual lucky spot underneath the dual carriageway which passed overhead.

The noise didn’t bother him. Once you’ve slept through an aerial missile bombardment, you’ve slept through anything.

He pounded on the door as if the place was on fire. The café was closed for the New Year, one of the only times Arabella actually took off, so he felt just a twang of guilt for his intrusion. 

The multi-pack of Monster he touted under his left arm should make up for it.

There was a calm inside, broken by the crashing of feet on stairs and Arabella’s little rat of a dog yapping. Part chihuahua, part unknown. Didn’t know why they loved the thing so much, all bald and scabby, with a bad snaggletooth. 

“Simon Riley, if you’re banging on my door with boy problems on my day off, I swear to Alex Turner I’ll-”

Arabella’s disturbing obsession with the Arctic Monkeys aside, it was more than clear that they had rumbled him. He didn’t know whether it was the look on his face that gave him away, or perhaps the bags under his eyes that were somehow worse than usual.

“What the hell have you done?” They snapped.

Simon was taken aback. What had he done? More like what had been done to him, and why did it make his chest race when that fucker looked up at him with bedroom eyes?

“Let me inside,” he grumbled, and scuffed his feet on the ground. “Can’t talk here…”

Arabella’s flat was small, but it had a certain charm. It was the studio above the café itself, which had the benefit of a great commute, and not much else. Not that it bothered Simon, who existed in about four long strides of space for much of his time at home. He plonked down on the armchair, as his legs fell into a comfortable spread, and he tugged the mask from around his ears. 

“Make yourself at home,” Arabella chuntered sarcastically. They wouldn’t stay pissed for long, or at least Simon hoped. A cup of tea was placed into his hands soon after.

“I’ve not done anything bad, you know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t go blaming me when you’ve not heard everything yet.”

“It’s about that lad from the café, the Irish one?”

“Jesus- he’s Scottish, do not say that to his face…”

“Oh aye,” Arabella laughed. “You learn that the hard way then?”

“Something like that…” He replied with a roll of his eyes. The tea was nice at least, even if it was made with almond milk. “That’s not why I’m here though.”

Arabella finally sat down on the stool opposite. It was nice to see them still, for once. Too many conversations cut short by the rattle of the coffee machine, or another customer. Of course, he could have gotten their phone number sometime within the past ten years, but it just wasn’t the same.  

“I went out with him last night,” he began, but the pointed look from the other suggested that was already known. “It was the first time in a while that I’ve felt… good.”

“Please tell me you used protection – you don’t know where he’s been.”

Simon just stared.

“You didn’t do- oh…”

“Is that really who you take me for?”

“Sorry, it’s just- you don’t really do that all that often and…”

“Just stop-”

“I’m digging, aren’t I?”

There was a small moment of silence, interrupted by sniggering from both members of the room. This is why this was a conversation for Arabella, and not for John Price…

“I just need your opinion on him.”

“Simon, I’ve met him once for about ten minutes… Give me the details, or I’ll have no idea.”

He stared his cup down. Here he was, thirty-nine years of age, gossiping about a man he somewhat fancied. “He’s a social media marketing agent at my place.”

“Seriously?” Arabella sighed, head in their hands. “Where does he live? Does he have family? Pets? What does he like to do at the weekend? You can do so much better than his job, Simon.”

“He’s from this backwater sorta town, real far north in Scotland. His dad died a few years back, mum remarried some prick. They fought a lot. He’s just got out of a friends with benefits sort of situation with the guy he’s living with…”

“Right.”

“But apart from all that, he’s a really nice guy.”

Arabella shifted; legs tucked up beneath them. A pensive look spread over their face before they finally spoke. “Look, I mean this in the nicest way…”

“That’s never a good start.”

“Is this guy someone who will bring you up, or is this like, some weird rescue project?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve built yourself up from nothing Si.” The pet name only ever came out in talks like these. Too many times he’d heard that, whilst he struggled to adapt to the loss of his leg. “You need someone who will continue to uplift you, you know?”

Simon scowled. “So, what, your parent pops their clogs and that makes you unworthy of-?”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t play the dead parents card.”

“I’m playing it until you explain more-”

“Simon.” The look in Arabella’s eyes had gone from gentle teasing to deadly serious. “He’s sleeping in the same house as his ex, presumably homeless otherwise. He’s young, and not from around here, and if the only thing tying him down there is a free sofa… Who’s to say he’ll stay? What if you fall for him, and then one day, he’s gone? And don’t give me any of this I’ll look out for him crap, I know your style of flirting is practically fucking glacial.”

Arabella had always been wise, for their young age. But boy, were they cynical. Had every right to be, Simon supposed, after losing many of their friends and their support system crumbling beneath them when they started gender affirming surgeries. Simon had assumed, once upon a time, that he was the more cynical of the two. When the then-teenager would insist on colouring in his leg cast, and then when that was filled up, moved onto the tattoos on his arm. Would always grin at him with a smile too big for their face, teeth all rainbow coloured from two neat rows of braces. Maybe he was becoming soft, after all.

“You think I shouldn’t go any further?”

“I think you need to think about it. Take a break, out on the boat? Then if you do decide to carry on, at least you’ll be doing it with a clear mind, you know?”

Cynicism was also, annoyingly, often the right approach. If this had happened straight out of the hospital, he’d have fallen headfirst into it and let it all spiral until it fucked his head up. But now he was older, much to his dismay, and wise enough to realise just how much work he’d put into his current mental state. The therapy was no joke, all those hours of commitment to his unsteady mind, on top of those that he had pushed through during his PT. Eventually, he walked on his leg as if it wasn’t a prosthetic, apart from when the weather was funny, or he’d get the ghost pain. He wouldn’t throw his leg away. So why do the same for his mind?

After another cuppa, and listening to all of Arabella’s latest gossip, he knew what to do.

Simon Riley, 13:02:

Putting in some annual leave, boss. Need to clear my head – give me two weeks. I’ll get my handover document published for you tonight then I’m taking the boat.

John Price, 13:07:

Signed off. Do you need to talk?

Simon Riley, 13:23:

No. I’m good.

John MacTavish

Status: [Offline]

“Did you get your snog?” Kyle asked, when John finally crawled home. 

The detour around the canal was nice at first, until he realised how far out he’d gotten and had to battle a barrage of dick pics and winking emojis to follow Maps home.

“Uh, I don’t remember,” he replied. It was sincere in that he didn’t remember if he got a kiss, but he still wasn’t going to tell Kyle exactly who he’d been out with. “I woke up in a hotel.”

“Always a good sign,” the man shrugged, as he clicked the button on the iron a couple of times and filled the space between them with steam. Clearly, he’d taken full advantage of the empty sofa, which was now filled with piles of neatly folded shirts.

John made himself a sandwich, and then sat on the floor. It’s not like he could ask for much more than a roof over his head at this point, so the plushness of the rug would have to make do. He was entirely sure that he’d fallen on his arse at least once last night.

“You meet up with Price?” He asked, around a mouthful of ham and cheese. “Heard from him at all?”

The thin line which formed across Kyle’s face said it all, even before he spoke. “I didn’t go out.”

“It was too fucking busy,” John deflected, an attempt to make light of the situation. “Loads of dickheads out, you didn’t miss out on much.”

“Hm.”

Kyle’s bitter remark put him off his food, the sharpness of cheddar replaced by a horrible, guilty tang. Sure, he’d not expected them to go back to being best mates, but he’d not seen him smile in days.

“Back to work tomorrow,” John changed the subject. “Can’t believe it’s gone so fast.”

“Faster every year,” Kyle sighed. Most of the shirts he was ironing were those he wore to work, so holiday mode in pyjamas and slippers was officially over. “We get busier in January, too. Lots of new customers on the books.”

John didn’t want to think about work, but if it got Kyle talking, he’d bite. “Anything interesting coming up on the calendar? Need to update the socials if we’re getting more traction.”

“Upper brass usually visits in January, for a check in. Then we’re starting preparation for the business parade in May.”

“Like, an actual parade?”

“Yeah, with competitions, and floats, and rubbish prizes. It’s stupid and gets bigger every year. A few years back it was just a conference hall, networking, nice and quiet.”

“Hey, I’m down,” John muttered. “I like prizes.”

During the conversation, John had neglected to hear the most important part.

As he trudged from the bus stop, three paces behind Kyle, he found himself ogling a gorgeous lady. The little miss in question being a '24 plated S650 Mustang, and an American import at that – full left-hand drive still intact.

Even in traffic, the gentle purr of the engine had him hot under the collar.

Then, in what could only be described as premeditated violence, the Mustang jumped up onto the kerb a couple of feet away from the pair and drove fifty meters down the pavement before it came to a dead stop in front of the building.

Immediately, the admiration he’d been feeling turned into blind rage, as really, he didn’t want to start the year flattened like a pancake. Kyle shoved his arm over his chest before he could go and give the driver what for.

“That’s the CEO,” He whispered in an annoyed fashion, as if John was meant to know that the cartoonishly villainous action that just played out in front of them was performed by a man he’d never met. “Don’t start anything, or we’re both fired.”

As things go, they unfortunately met at the front door. But instead of fumbling over keycards, the door was wide open, and Mandy was present in her best frock, makeup on, and lips curled into a huge smile. 

The sight scared him more than the near death experience.

So, who was the man in the sexy car? Surely someone tall, dark, and handsome. The exact kind of person he’d read about in Kyle’s novels, who starts out a total arse, but slowly falls in love and-

Bald.

A short, bald man emerged.

He huffed and puffed as he squeezed from the door, and from the passenger side weaselled out another man. Phillip fucking Graves.

“Shepherd!” Kyle offered out a hand to shake which was quickly waved away. “How was the commute?”

Shepherd threw his keys at Phillip, who took to the driver’s seat and forced the car back out into the slow-moving traffic to the sound of much honking and wild hand gestures.

“Just terrible,” Shepherd grumbled, his voice deep with a Southern accent. Southern of the American variety, of course, not quite Texan, but something with that similar drawl. Maybe Kansan, or Oklahoman, or- “Garrick, go and get my coffee ready.”

“Yes sir.”

The snippiness of him cut John’s train of thought short, and he didn’t realise just how quick Kyle was going to hot foot it inside.

“Nice ride!” John motioned to the now retreating Mustang. “Big fan of Mustangs.”

“You’ve a funny accent haven’t you, boy?”

John laughed. This guy might scare Kyle, but he’s just like any other fucker in this building. “Could say the same for you, mate.”

The man Kyle called Shepherd paused for a moment, turned to him, and offered his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Herschel.”

“John,” he replied, and shook his hand with confidence. For some reason, it was easier than that first time he’d shook Simon’s hand.

Now acquainted, and after leaving poor Mandy shivering for long enough standing by the open door, they made their way inside. They chatted about pointless things, Shepherd very interested in John’s heritage. Good golf was the conclusion of that. Scotland has good golf . And John couldn’t disagree, even if it wasn’t exactly his thing.

Price, Laswell, and the project managers were in some sort of boy-band lineup at the top of the stairs. Immediately, Price greeted Shepherd with the gumption of old friends, but even he looked nervous. There was something more to this man that he hadn’t seen, clearly.

Kyle shot him a nervous glance. Probably thought he’d stayed back to have a go at him, but instead they’d made small talk and shared quips. Then it dawned on him.

Simon wasn’t here.

His eyes flitted to the back of the room, to Simon’s open door, lights off in the dark space. Then, back to Price, who was guiding Shepherd over to his office. Shepherd noticed, at the same time as John.

“Where’s Riley?”

He walked straight past Alejandro and Rudy, who were looking a little browner after their return from Mexico. The weather wasn’t always sunny in December, he’d heard, but he bet it was a damn sight warmer than it had been here with all the snow. Kate was given a nod in passing, and not much more.

Price coughed, which made his next sentence seem somehow suspicious. “He’s taken annual leave, but he’s done a full handover. He sent his regards.”

Shepherd seemed to laugh, but there was something odd about it. “Avoiding me again, is he? Better have a good reason this time.”

The shirt folded away into his bag felt awfully lost. Was he meant to just leave it in there? He was hoping for a swift hand off in the bathroom, or whilst the office was still empty in the early morning.

Simon hadn’t mentioned going on leave. Specifically, he’d said he’d see him back in the office. Perhaps something had happened? It seemed unlikely he’d go off on his jollies when he knew that the brass would be visiting.

When the party of onlookers had departed, and he made his way into the closet , he found he couldn’t settle.

John MacTavish, 08:07:

U good? Noticed ur not at work.

Every time his phone screen lit up, he jumped to grab it. God, it was fucking embarrassing. One night chatting with the man had him acting like a teenager again. Hours passed, and tinder messages came and went, but from Simon - nothing.

Simon didn’t reply that night, or the night after for that matter, and by the third day of his absence, John was pissed. Simon was the one who brought him to the pub, and the one who suggested it in the first place. Had he said something bad? Faux pas? Annoyed at being puked on? None of it seemed worthy of a total ghosting. He wanted nothing more than to complain to Kyle, but he wasn’t going to let that one slip. After all, he’d look like the biggest hypocrite in the world telling Kyle not to shit where he eats, and then falling into the exact same trap.

Work had been stressful. Not necessarily because of Shepherd’s presence, who apart from some general questions about his work, hadn’t really paid him much mind after the first morning. More because of the way everyone else was acting. Kyle, who was usually cucumber cool, had come into his office to hide on at least three occasions. Then Price, who John thought couldn’t be told what to do by anybody, had followed at the man’s beck and call like a dog. Even Kate’s steely composition was shaken.

And who was John but a man? A man who, after all of the stress of his situationship’s breakdown, and after Simon’s absence, and work, and his coworkers, and his general, shitty life, fell back on the one thing he said he would never do.

He started replying to the messages on those apps.

Chapter Text

John MacTavish

Status: [Busy]

His inbox filled up fast. Just chatting at first, as if he had a genuine hope that he might find someone who wanted to take things slow between all the shitty pick up lines and sexts. But that changed, slowly, as the days crept along. Like one weekend, where he found himself in a bar with some older guy who was buying his drinks. Since when was that a thing? Since Simon, of course. The first taste he’d had of being treated nice and feeling like his wallet hadn’t been robbed afterwards. Then in the bathroom, he’d been on his knees in repayment, and although he didn’t enjoy it as much as he had with Kyle it was good to feel wanted again.

He got bolder. Kyle messaged saying he’d be staying late, so he took the liberty of inviting a girl for dinner with the complete intention of cooking something nice. Only, as soon as she arrived she’d littered the living room floor with her clothes, and the peppers remained on the side, un-chopped.

There had been that one guy, the one with the blond hair. Rugby lad, bit of an arsehole really. But god, if he didn’t look like Simon. At least at a certain angle, and that’s all he needed.

But it came to blows with the girl he’d brought home drunk. So drunk, and with such a chip on his shoulder, that he hadn’t really considered Kyle might be a tad offended if he started having sex with some bird on his decorative throw pillows.

It wasn’t a pretty argument, jeans around his ankles and cock pulled out from his boxers as he wrestled to open the condom wrapper. Poor lass had stripped down into a lovely floral lacy set, matching of course, because they both knew how the night would end.

“John MacTavish, you are not about to fuck someone on my couch.”  

The use of his full name caused his neck to snap up, and his head had spun as a consequence, room doing mad circles. He grinned, a goofy and disarming smile, and spoke in a teasing voice. “C’mon Ky, in the middle of something here… You’ve had your turn.” 

“No!” Kyle snapped. He never shouted, not even that time when John had ruined his favourite thick knit wool jumper by putting it in the dryer. “Cool the fuck off and get out in the morning.”

“Huh?”

The girl had tried to dress quickly, until her zip got stuck. She looked like she was going to make a break for it regardless, until Kyle stepped forward to help her out. He muttered a quiet sorry in her direction and showed her to the door.

“Oi, mate! What the fuck?”

“Don’t make me kick you out now, I want to at least give you time to pack.”

John, thankfully, tucked himself back in and pulled up his jeans as he spoke. “Wait, woah- you’re not serious? I was just-”

“Messing around? Is that why I keep finding knickers in our laundry, or are you trying out something new?”

“Look, just hear me out!” John yelled back.

He raised his arms, and walked towards Kyle. Then he reached towards him, to hold his shoulders, talk eye to eye, steady himself. Big mistake. 

Defensively, Kyle pushed him.

Not that John would raise a hand against him. Not that he ever had, even when Kyle had struck him before. But Kyle knew his past, and knew he righted wrongs with his fists more than he ever had with his words. John’s already shaky legs buckled beneath him, socks providing no grip on the hardwood floor. Not enough to stop him falling backwards where he stumbled over the coffee table and gained airtime.

He didn’t remember hitting the floor. Didn’t remember Kyle freaking out, or him calling the ambulance, or his ride to the hospital. But he remembered waking up with an IV line shoved into him to replace the fluids he’d lost from drinking, and the nurse on the ward giving him a soft, slightly patronising recap of what had happened. He’d tripped whilst drunk, apparently, and wound up with a pretty nasty concussion.

Although his memory was hazy, he’d not forgotten exactly why he tripped.

“Did a guy come here?” He managed to choke out, voice hoarse with a bitter taste in the back of his throat. “Kyle?”

“It’s past visiting hours love,” the nurse said, as she placed a cold compress on his forehead. “You’ll not be going until we’ve monitored your concussion, so you might see him tomorrow.”

Sleep would be a blessing right about now, but the nurse kept prodding him back awake. He’d been concussed enough to know exactly why he couldn’t sleep, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. So badly so that the nurse eventually returned with a pot of black coffee and two cups.

“Let’s go through some paperwork, that’ll keep you awake eh, love?”

She had a proper Mancunian accent, like Simon’s. It was funny working in Manchester and not hearing that sound more. He spent most of his time ping-ponging between a Scouser, a Londoner, and a handful of Americans. 

“Fine,” he grunted, as he adjusted the awkwardly dented pillow beneath him. “What do ye’ need?”

First it was just medical questions. He knew he had to pay attention, but his brain had that slightly foggy feeling, and every time he tried to speak the words just wouldn’t formulate on his tongue. Most questions thankfully could make do with a nod or a shake of the head.

But then came the question he’d dreaded.

“You know, yer’ still awful young duck, do you want us to reach out to your parents?”

“No-”

“I’ve got yer’ mam’s number down here?”

“Don’t call her!” The outburst shocked him more than it shocked the nurse, and a patient in one of the other beds on the ward yelled at him to shut up. “Sorry…”

“Let’s get you another contact written down then, yeah? We don’t have to call anyone now, but god forbid if you had a worse accident-”

“There’s nobody.”

“Okay so if not family… A friend? A neighbour, even?”

John laughed. “Well, my only friend just kicked me out, so I guess I don’t have a friend or a neighbour.”

God, he really was in a sorry state. Even the nurse paused awkwardly, her pen skipping tiny dots of ink across the blank question.

“Let’s leave that question then.”

Really, would it be so bad? If he was to have this foreshadowed accident, would anybody care? Care enough to miss him, at least. His mother would cry, but the John she knew died years ago. Before he started kissing boys, amongst other things. His dad would have cared, but if Catholic school taught him anything, he’d probably meet him down in the fiery pits anyways. John Senior for profanity, ignoring Lent, and enjoying a sup a little too much, and John Junior for the sin of loving who he loved, amongst the several other stacks of evils that the big man might hold against him. 

This wasn’t him. Not the John who had his own clan motto tattooed across his forearm like a brand. The MacTavish name would not end with him, unknown. A mangled, unidentified body in a car crash. A battered victim in a brawl. An unlucky receiver of a freak lightning strike.

“Simon Riley.”

“What’s that love?”

“He’s a colleague. Here, his number is in my phone. Just don’t call him unless I actually do cark it.”

He watched as she scribbled the numbers down on the form, a small gesture to the only man he could trust at this current moment. The man who, as of yet, had not returned to work or replied to his message. So really, he was probably not the right person for the job, but he’d take that over being forgotten any day of the week.

Another few hours with constant checks of his vital signs and his pupils, and he was given the nod to get a wink of sleep. And sleep he did. So damn hard that when Kyle appeared in the ward and dropped off the suitcase full of all his things, he didn’t wake up. Didn’t see the way Kyle’s eyes were circled by deep bags. Did he feel remorseful? John wouldn’t know. Didn’t hear his phone ringing, a call from Price. He dropped him a text instead, granting him the week off work for recovery. Kyle must have told him what had happened, after all. Then, didn’t see the changeover of nurses, or the way his paperwork was picked up by a new admin, and how that new admin called Simon despite his prior wishes…

“Johnny?”

Now he couldn’t even escape the bastard in his dreams.

“Johnny? Hey…”

His arm felt cold, as something firmer than the thin, hospital sheets brushed against it. He could drown out the noise of coughing patients, talking nurses, and loud hospital ambiance, but this was different. His head throbbed as he tried to open his eyes.

“What happened? Who did this to you?”

The voice was unmistakable, and the shape of Simon’s chest materialised even through his blurred vision.

“Si-mon?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

One hundred questions rushed into his brain at once. Any attempt to speak them ended in garbled, wordless sentences.

“Did Garrick do this?”

Yes, he did, but John knew he really had crossed a line this time. And he wouldn’t have wanted him to fall, he hoped. And-

“Just nod or shake.”

He nodded.

“Right, that’s fucking it-”

He’d never heard Simon swear in anger before. Why was he angry? If the nothingness between them after New Year’s was anything to go by, he wouldn’t give two shits that he’d ended up laid up in a hospital bed. But then again, he’d come here, somehow.

Why was he here? How did he know? 

“Wait-”

Simon turned back; eyebrows furrowed so deeply that the crease pressed into his forehead looked cavernous. 

“Don’t- blame him.”

“You’re in fucking hospital Johnny. I don’t care what you said to him, that’s assault.”

“Wasn’t like that…”

As Simon turned to leave again, John used whatever strength he had to grab at his sleeve. His movement was predictably groggy, but he couldn’t tell if it was more the hangover or the concussion that was the cause.

“Stay. Please ?”

And fuck, he sounded pathetic. Hated the way his voice cracked and felt pretty sure that tears had welled up in his eyes, although he couldn’t really tell through the general crustiness. It was weird, that despite looking out for himself for so long, he really did need this right now. At the ripe old age of twenty-six, he felt so fucking young. Everything inside himself squirmed at the fact, and he tried to shake off the feeling that he wanted Simon there just to be an actual, real adult. Totally no unresolved daddy issues or underlying trauma, of course.

Simon said nothing. The words he wanted to say would have come out as venom, and something in his eyes suggested he was scared to hurt Johnny more than help him. So instead, he pulled up the uncomfortable chair with its ripped, blue pleather cover and sat down by his bedside.

That very same admin staff who had summoned Simon realised her mistake and appeared behind the curtain to the bay. She apologised rather profusely and told the man at John’s bedside that John would be quite alright, and that if needed he could be on his way. But Simon shook his head. He was staying firmly on that chair until John said otherwise.

After he regained some clarity and consciousness, John finally spoke. 

“Why did you come here?”

“I got a call saying you’re in hospital, why wouldn’t I come?”

He’d said it so matter-of-factly, in that way he often did. But it wasn’t that way, was it? Not when they hadn’t talked for two weeks.

“You weren’t at work, and you didn’t reply to my text. Though you were ghosting me.”

“Ghosting you?” The man shot a puzzled glance his way.

John rolled his eyes. “It’s when you just ignore somebody suddenly, like a friend or someone you’re seeing....”

“Ah,” Simon punctuated. “I guess I was, in a way. But I didn’t want to stop talking to you altogether. Just needed some time after what happened at the pub.”

John blinked. Their conversation over the phone on New Year’s Day had suggested that other than the man having to hoist him up the stairs bridal style, nothing remarkable had happened.

“What… happened at the pub?”

“You seriously don’t remember?”

“Nuh uh, my memory is shocking when I’m hammered…”

Simon’s voice lowered to a whisper, clearly conscious of the very public space they were having this conversation in. The flimsy curtain material wouldn’t protect them from prying ears.

“You asked me to kiss you.”

John’s hand smacked around his mouth in shock, which in hindsight wasn’t the best of ideas, as the pain radiated through his noggin in one fell swoop and sent him dozy again. But after a couple of seconds of blurry recovery, he finally choked out an apology.

“I am so, so sorry. That’s fucking embarrassing… I really didn’t want to put you on the spot like that-”

“I gave you a peck, on the cheek.”

This was the absolute worst moment for Simon to admit something of that nature, as the heart rate monitor he’d been hooked up to since last night started skipping out on every other heartbeat. God, it was mortifying, especially when the ward nurse popped her head in to check in on him.

“We didn’t… do anything else?”

“Are you asking if I had sex with you?”

“Jesus Simon! ” He hissed through gritted teeth, hyperaware that the nurse now absolutely knew something juicy was happening behind the drape. “Not so fucking loud…”

“We didn’t, I wouldn’t do that. You were wankered.”

“That’s- that’s really considerate.”

Simon shrugged. John wondered whether this guy was even real, and fuck, it wasn’t helping the heartrate predicament.

“So why did you go on leave?” He paused, as a lump in his throat started to form. “Was it because of me?”

Simon paused too. Rather, he took a moment to think about his answer, as if he was trying to select the right words that wouldn’t cause John to suffer any more than necessary.

“Yes,” he started, and seemed to check for John’s reaction. “I dropped in to see Arabella after we got off the phone, I told them what had happened.”

Although John wasn’t exactly happy about that revelation, he was thankful Simon hadn’t talked to Price instead.

“Ara told me I needed some time, amongst other things.”

“I don’t think I get it…”

Simon shifted uncomfortably, creaky blue chair clearly not helping matters at all. “You had me feeling things I’ve not felt in a long time, and I can’t do that to you.”

The gossipy whisper from behind the curtain hadn’t gone unnoticed but couldn’t be helped. It’s not like John planned on being back here any time soon.

“Do what to me Simon?”

Simon leaned forward, and his fingers grazed John’s arm. It felt like a kiss of lightning shot through his body at the contact.

“We can’t fall for each other, and there’s no way in hell I’m using you like-”

John cut him off before he could go on another tirade against Kyle. “Why can’t we fall for each other?”

“Well firstly, you deserve better-”

John snorted. “Aye, like that’s going well for me right now…”

It earned a scowl from the seated man, but he continued. “I was like you, ten years ago. After my discharge, I just couldn’t catch a break, you know? It took a lot of work to get back on my feet, a lot of pain. Mental and physical.”

He knew how it felt, of course, to be in fucking deep whilst your legs ache from treading water. That quiet voice in your head that tells you to just stop kicking, and that powers beyond your control would decide if you floated or sank. But John was tough, and somehow through the years he’d just battled that painful buildup of emotional lactic acid and kept on swimming.

Didn’t quite get how that had anything to do with their current situation, though.

“Ara didn’t want me to get lost in your pain, in case it set me back.”

“Ah.” That was certainly a punch to the gut. He’d heard those whispers too many times before. The worried glances of mothers with prams, crossing the road to avoid his black eyes and bloodied knuckles.

“But that- that was wrong. I should have been here for you as a colleague, and a…”

“A friend?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you have to pause?” John laughed. “You never had a friend before?”

“Not one like you.”

Their closeness was undeniable, as Simon had failed to shift back into his previously reclined position. It gave John the opportunity to look over his face, at his long, blond lashes and woody brown eyes.

“Yer’ lucky,” he snorted, sarcasm lacing his words, “I’ve just had an opening for the position of friend.”

John Price

Status: [Offline]

Phone calls at midnight were always a surprise. A phone call from Kyle, however, was even more surprising. When he finally rolled over and picked up the phone as it tried to vibrate itself to an early grave off the edge of the nightstand, he pulled a muscle in his back. But despite the pain, as he heard Kyle’s shaken voice, he  jumped right into action mode.

Kyle was unintelligible down the phone line. All Price could hear clearly were his repetitive, panicked breaths, and something about an ambulance.

“Stay there, I’m coming over.”

In the past week Kyle had been nervous, and perhaps a little frantic, but they all were. Shepherd’s face was enough to put anyone off their dinner, and the way he’d been hovering over shoulders and grilling every decision had certainly caused him to find more greys in his beard. But Kyle? It seemed to be more than just work. He’d never seen him so anxious.

He was glad the weather had shifted a little, as the second half of January brought only rain and not snow and sleet as the first half had. The roads were addled with puddles in potholes, but he could drive relatively quickly without the risk of careening off into someone’s garden fence. 

As he turned onto Princess Street, an ambulance came flying down in the opposite direction, blues on. He gently rolled the Jag to the side of the road to let the vehicle pass, before he shot quickly into the vacant spot it had left behind.

Tweaked back be damned, John Price was up those stairs in thirty seconds and pounding on the door.

“Kyle!” He yelled and winced at the fact that the neighbours across the hall had probably not had a wink of sleep all night. “Let me in god damnit.”

The door creaked open, and John pushed his way inside. The scene that awaited him was a total mess.

“What the fuck happened? Are you okay?”

Kyle looked shell shocked. Price glanced over at the floor, the rug all folded up at the corner, the coffee table overturned, and the sofa pushed back as if it had been in the way. There was a noticeable absence in the room.

“Where’s MacTavish?”

“I- I didn’t mean to- I-”

Price grabbed him firm by both shoulders. His touch was unwavering, not like his usual, gentle passes.

“Take a deep breath and tell me what happened. Did he hurt you?”

“No, I- I pushed him.”

John held his tongue. He knew that Kyle’s mention of an ambulance, and the ambulance that had flown past him just moments ago, couldn’t have been a coincidence. “Why?”

“He brought a girl home, they were drunk, and loud, and- fuck . I just couldn’t take it anymore – I yelled at him,” Kyle’s eyes widened, and he began to hyperventilate again. “I told him to get sober, and that I was kicking him out in the morning. He came towards me; he had his arms raised- I thought he was going to hit me…”

The environment he’d walked into had already told him exactly what had followed, but he continued listening.

“He wasn’t going to hurt me, he never would…”

“You couldn’t have known that.”

“No, I knew. At Christmas, he kissed me… I hit him.” The tears started again and stained his pretty face with their wetness. “He didn’t even ask me to apologise.”

“Jesus Christ Kyle…”

“I just got scared- and he slipped over his own feet. What if he takes it to the police?”

“I don’t think he would, he’s not the type. But you owe him a fucking apology this time, you hear?”

It was unnatural for him to reprimand Kyle. The words fell from his mouth awkwardly, like too-hot food at a nice restaurant on a first date. But this was more than just a spat between friends. He’d been in MacTavish’s shoes. In those final, broken months he’d spent with Beth, he took the pushes, and the flailing arms that were supposed to be punches, but it was hard to be mad at the woman he’d loved for twenty years. 

“Yeah.”

“So… You meant it when you said he needed to leave?”

Kyle nodded, and turned away as John finally loosened his grip. “I need to pack his stuff.”

“Let’s get a cuppa first, I think it would do you some good.”

He had boiled the kettle, and for once it was his turn to make the tea. The cup with the Scottish flag plastered all over it was the only thing in that whole kitchen that indicated another man was ever there, amongst Kyle’s perfect collection of muted grey and terracotta dishware. Although less than a month ago, he’d urged Kyle to hurry along this whole moving out project, he couldn’t help but feel a little guilt.

MacTavish wasn’t a bad lad. Sure, he was a bit brash, but that’s hardly a fault to write home about. But there was something in his eyes that John had seen, a tiredness perhaps, that he’d seen in many men under both his employ and his command. MacTavish never showed it. Never seemed weak, or vulnerable. Then Price would remember how young he was, and how the weight of whatever he was carrying on his shoulders was probably immense.

Did it make him a bad person too, as he helped Kyle pack his things? That the suitcase that held the lad’s entire life wasn’t even full to bursting, even with the keg of protein powder they’d shoved in there. That his arms wrapped around Kyle in a comforting hug, and that the scent of his cologne and the soft touch of his skin made him forget MacTavish was even in the equation for a second.

Probably.

He slept on the couch that night, slightly worried about what Kyle had said MacTavish was doing there earlier that evening. He threw down a blanket, just in case. Then by morning he drove Kyle to the hospital, suitcase shoved into the boot of the car, and waited.

The series of events that followed was to be expected. Kyle came back defeated after the nurse had informed him that he was finally sleeping, a delayed precaution to combat the active concussion. He called MacTavish to let him know to rest up, but since the line went to voicemail, just sent him a text instead. He told Kyle to book some days off too, since Shepherd had finally gone.

Then the next day he returned to work, as if nothing had happened.

Only, something unexpected did follow as he hazily strolled into work. A night of restlessness, and a tweaked back which didn’t let up. He opened the door to his office, which he didn’t remember closing when he left on Friday. Maybe the cleaners had.

Or, judging by the tall shape looming by his filing cabinets, maybe not.

“Simon! Good to have you back.”

“Hm.”

“Good break? Take the boat anywhere nice?”

Simon didn’t respond. He instead asked his own question, with a low tone in his voice. “You know MacTavish is in the hospital, don’t you?”

“MacTa- why do you know about that?”

The man turned and threw a clipboard down onto the desk, where the metal fixing rang out with a loud clatter. On it, the hospital’s name was branded in chipped gilded letters, and a paper file that seemed to be a few pages in length at least. Price stepped forward, hand extending out to the board, but he’d already seen that name across the top before his fingers even grazed the paper.

Patient Name: John Duncan MacTavish

“Simon, where did you get this?”

“I took it whilst the nurse wasn’t looking.”

No amount of scolding about stealing hospital property would get through to the dense fool, so he ignored it for now.

“Yes, I knew he was in hospital. Yes, I know what happened.” His other hand raised and scratched at the wiry hairs of his chops. “What I’m failing to understand is, what does it matter to you?”

He watched Simon glance at the door behind him, as if he hadn’t heard it close. Already, he was a shifty person, but this was worse than usual.

“MacTavish is my friend.”

John paused, and then had to stifle a laugh. “I’m sorry, the lad that you complained that I hired, and didn’t want anything to do with, is your friend?”

“He came into the office, all throughout Christmas. We talked a lot; I took him to see Ara. He’s a smart kid when you get to know him.”

“He was here?”

“Yep, after Garrick messed with his head, he came here for some time away from it all.”

The more defensive the man became, the more Price realised what exactly was going on.  “Simon,” he warned. “It’s not a good idea for you to-”

“Just tell your fucking boytoy to keep his hands off him, yeah?”

And with that, Simon was gone. Not only gone from his office, but also the building. God, if there’s one thing Price hated, it was unnecessary drama, and thank god Shepherd had left because he sure as hell was not running a tight ship…

He sighed deeply and rapped his fingers against the desk. Any attempt to get back to work was rudely interrupted by a niggling thought in his head. Soon, he couldn’t wait any longer.

He had to call Kyle.

“Hello?” He had picked up hurriedly, clearly still on edge.

“Why did you not tell me about Simon?” He said, after deciding that cutting to the chase was more than likely the best course of action.

“Simon?” Kyle replied, apprehension in his voice. “What about him?”

“That he’s… friends with MacTavish.”

“Tav? Friends?” He hummed in contemplation. Price heard him scratching at the stubble he usually kept so dutifully shaven. “Oh fuck.”

“What do you know?”

“Tav, he spent Christmas at the office. He mentioned Simon was there, said that they had chatted and what not. I thought, there’s no way, he’s probably said hello all but once.”

“Well,” Price grunted. “I think there might be something else going on.”

“Tav went out with somebody at New Year. I thought it was weird, seeing as he doesn’t know anyone around here...”

“You think they went together?”

“Well, he’s never brought people back to the house before… not until Simon went on leave.”

A shared silence held the line between them, as all the puzzle pieces slotted gently into place. Now that was a revelation and a half.

“He went to the hospital, he’s seen MacTavish. You need to be careful, Kyle. I’ll have his fucking job if he takes it out on you, but you need to be cautious.”

“Alright,” Kyle affirmed, following a nervous, audible gulp. “Do I owe him an apology too?”

“Depends how pissed off he is next time you see him…”

Chapter Text

John MacTavish

Status: “Out of office - please contact John Price for enquiries.”

There’s only one way up from rock bottom, and John was fucking thankful. If a whirlwind, scapegoat romance was the thing that achieved that, then he wasn’t going to complain. At least the sex had been good.

Sat on the bench in front of the hospital, he scrolled aimlessly through flats that he didn’t have the deposit for.

He’d let Simon know around 05:00 that they were going to discharge him early that morning, and Simon had texted him to wait at the hospital and that he’d drop by. Since John had nothing better to do, and nowhere to go, he obliged.

“Johnny.”

The voice came from behind him and startled him from his perch. Simon’s hand caught his shoulder as the sudden turn sent him dizzy.

“Woah, not so fast. You’re still concussed.”

“Well don’t come up behind me then, ya big dolt!”

“Fair point.”

Simon seated himself beside him, and John realised that he was in his workwear. It was hard not to realise, when the buttons on his shirt were straining for their bleeding life.

“You going in after this?” John pointed.

Simon shook his head. “Price knows I’ll be… taking time.”

John blinked. “Is that not going to get you into trouble?”

“Not if he knows what’s best for him,” Simon scoffed. “I might have said a few things.”

“Simon…”

“That’s not why I’m here, though. I’m here to help you.” The man looked over his shoulder, at the idle scroll his thumb had made further down the pages and pages of flats for rent. “Thought we could see a few flats together, then maybe get some lunch if you’re feeling up to it.”

“About that…”

“Hm?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“It’s not a laughing matter, Johnny.”

He nervously flicked the property application away, and instead navigated to his online banking. The number on the screen was angry, red, and very much in the negative.

“What’s that?”

“I’m £436 into my overdraft.”

“Okay, and your savings account?”

“I don’t… have one.”

Simon’s face went from slightly bemused to slightly sceptical, which under the mask was a very slight shift, but John noticed.

“Look, there’s a reason I was sleeping on Kyle’s couch in the first place, couldn’t exactly afford to move out to Inverness or Aberdeen, and I sure as hell couldn’t stay in Wick.”

“Did you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Stay home? Or at least stay up there?”

Now, wasn’t that just the million-dollar question. Because in Manchester, he had a job, and an interesting new friendship. But it felt alien to him, even now.

“That’s a big question,” he laughed. “Did you ever miss home, you know, when you were deployed?”

The man seemed to mull the question over for a while, before settling on his answer. “Sometimes.”

“I was thinking,” Tav began, “I could probably rough it out until payday, but then I’ll need to save up for a deposit-”

“You’re not roughing it out.” Simon snapped. “Will you just fucking think about yourself for once?”

“Well, I can’t exactly do much else, can I?”

Simon shook his head. “I’m right here, just- just let me help you.”

John had never really asked for help. Sure, in his moment of desperation he’d reached out to Kyle, but aside from the time spent on his couch everything else had been self-sufficient.

“I can’t do that to you, I mean, you’ve not even known me that long-”

“I don’t care.”

“But-”

“Johnny listen, I own my home, I don’t run a car, the bike is well maintained and insured – I’d not hesitate to say I make quite a bit more than you do. I’ve a nice little pension pot, military pension too, and when I was discharged, let’s say I made a bit of dosh for compensation. I wouldn’t offer it if you weren’t truly struggling.”

“One week in a hotel,” John sighed. “Just until payday.”

“Okay.”

“And,” he started, but chickened out halfway. That was until Simon nudged him with his elbow and forced him to continue. “I’d kill for some breakfast.”

“There you go, Johnny boy!” A hand clapped down on John’s shoulder. “All you need to do is ask. C’mon, I’ll call a cab.”

North Manchester General was quite a way out from John’s usual stomping grounds, so they had plenty of time to keep occupied in the back of the taxi. Although, when recovering from a concussion and being hopped up on sleep medication, John couldn’t find many words to say.

“What was it like,” he finally spoke, the gentle hum of the taxi idling in traffic providing ample background noise. “When you were in the army?”

Simon shifted; legs spread awkwardly in the small space behind the passenger seat. Must be hard being so tall, John mused to himself with only a slight pang of jealousy. 

“I can’t talk about a lot of it,” he replied. “I was in the SAS, lots of covert work.”

John couldn’t help but let his eyes drift in Simon’s direction. He’d blame it on that being the only way his head felt comfortable. 

“Anyone ever told you that’s really fucking cool?”

“I get that a lot, usually from little kids though.”

“Och, I’m just a wean at heart, what can I say?”

“It’s not all fun,” he sighed. “Did a lot of stuff I regret, a lot of stuff I don’t. You don’t really get to moralise when it’s life or death.”

“Hmmm.”

“Are you even listening?”

“Sorry, you just suddenly got all broody and mysterious.”

“I carry a lot with me Johnny,” he summarised. It seemed like there was more behind the statement, but whatever it was, was solidly kept behind lock and key.

“You know, if you ever needed it, you could share it with me. I’ll hedge my bets, I haven't done what you’ve done, but my life ain’t exactly been all sunshine and rainbows so…”

“Thanks, Johnny.”

They spent the remainder of the journey in comfortable silence, until they finally happened upon the waffle shop John had been looking for. Never been, but a quick search on Maps showed it did proper American style waffles with all the sugar and syrup and bacon, and he needed that today. 

“The fuck is this place?” Simon asked, puzzled. The tiles of the diner were baby pink, and a large moose in an apron peered from a peeling decal on the glass.

John smiled. He was giddy, which in hindsight was probably just the medication. “They do pancakes.”

“Do they do bacon sarnies?”

The young Scot pushed inside, ignorant of Simon’s general complaints. But when inside, he lingered and allowed Simon to pick out the booth in the corner. It was nice, with plush seats, and plenty confined enough to avoid general staring.

Then the sugar rush began, with John ordering an enormous “full Canadian” pancake stack laden with enough maple syrup to incapacitate a bear. Simon ordered toast and eggs, and a cup of tea. John, of course, had his coffee black.

Although the music was a little loud, and the bus lane outside a source of much rumbling, none of that mattered. John talked. Talked about how he’d woken up with those dating apps on his phone, and how he’d not wanted to fall back into that life. Complained about how much he yearned for some sort of connection, something more than sex. Told Simon everything about his ex back home, and why he’d ended up falling out with his mother, and how she hadn’t protected him from the abuse. Reminisced about the good times with his dad, and how he’d have not given a damn if he’d have come out to him, or if overnight he somehow turned into a frog or grown a third eye.  

Simon listened. Between messy bites of overly-ketchupped egg, he followed intently. Nodded along, hummed, but didn’t offer advice. Whatever advice he could have given wasn’t what John needed right now. He just wanted someone in his corner, to know how much things hurt.

The hotel they booked into was only a stone’s throw from the office. John insisted that he wanted to be back, because sick pay wasn’t going to cover it if he wanted to be out of his overdraft any time soon. So, Simon agreed, reluctantly. He carried John’s case up the stairs, despite his protest, and with several reminders that he was not medically fit to do heavy lifting. Insisted that John sat down whilst he unpacked the items that had been strewn in the case so haphazardly. John knew that irked him, that Kyle had thrown him away like nothing ever happened, stuffed lazily into a case. But John didn’t blame Kyle, which was exactly why Simon was here.

“You don’t have much,” Simon stated plainly. 

John shrugged. “Didn’t pack a case when I came here, I just had the clothes I was wearing.”

“Do you want-”

“Jesus Simon, no I’m fine. Thank you, but I don’t need a sugar daddy.”

He’d hoped like all the other young-folk phrases, that one would have sailed over Simon’s head. Unfortunately, it did not. Simon’s expression changed from one of initial shock, to a hurt expression.

“Sorry, didn’t mean it like that…”

“You need help, your brain is addled with sex.”

“Unhealthy coping mechanism,” John winced, as the reminder of the night before sent another round of throbbing through his skull. “Besides, I’m not good at much else.”

Simon cocked an eyebrow. “But you’re happy to give yourself 5 stars in the bedroom department?”

“Hey, I’ve had no complaints.”

“And how large is the sample size?”

John paused. “You want the real answer to that?”

“I don’t really know… Do I?”

“Eh, I couldn’t put a number on it anyways.”

Simon scoffed as he folded some of John’s boxers into a neat pile. “Fucking man slag.”

“Oi!”

“Just stating the truth, Johnny boy.”

“Go on then,” John started, his voice full of gumption. “What’s the damage on your account then?”

“And why would I tell you that?”

“Because I told you mine,” he insisted, and shifted down the cushion just enough that his head stopped ringing. “And also, I want to know if you still have your V card.”

“I’m not a virgin.”

“Right.”

“But I’m not a whore, either.”

“Have you ever had a partner before?”

Simon stopped for a moment, hesitant. It wasn’t unusual for him, though, and John had noticed. He would always consider just how much he wanted to reveal.

Today he seemed talkative.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Wait, never? I thought you were joking-”

“Didn’t meet anyone in the service, and nobody wanted me when I left. What more is there to say?”

John frowned. Simon didn’t really seem the type to care about any of that, but the way the situation mirrored his own life hadn’t gone amiss.

“Would you want to, you know, settle down?”

“This your idea of asking me out?” He joked, before John pelted him with a pair of rolled up socks. “I don’t really think about it that often, I like my own company.”

“God,” John laughed. “Why the fuck do you hang out with me then?”

The suitcase between them was now woefully empty, and John knew their conversation would have to end soon. A glance at the wall mounted clock showed it was now well into the afternoon, and that Simon would have to be on his way. But it hadn’t gone amiss to either of them that the man had been folding the same stack of shirts repeatedly and tidying parts of the hotel that had already been meticulously cleaned by the staff.

“You’re good company,” he finally replied, as the empty suitcase was now slid into the bottom of the closet. “Don’t tell anyone I said that, can’t have them thinking I’ve gone soft.”

“I think you’ve always been soft,” John smirked. “Just had a hard time expressing it.”

Simon’s eyes rolled as he picked his coat up from the chair he’d draped it over earlier.

“Are you going to be okay? You’ll phone me if you’re having any problems, yeah?”

“Yes mam.”

Simon tutted, and in a moment of John’s blurred vision appeared suddenly by his bedside. “No heavy lifting, make sure you order something filling for tea, and don’t fucking invite anyone over, you hear?”

There was something so familiar about the scent that wafted his way, probably from his night spent buried face first into his coat as he was dragged up the stairs. Fuck, he didn’t want anyone to come over right now. He just wanted Simon to stay…

“Mhm,” he eventually nodded, and pulled the white linens up around his chin. For some reason, he didn’t mind the lecture, although he’d have not taken it from anyone else. He found himself slipping off into a snooze before Simon had even left the room.

The week in the hotel flew by. Only on the second day of his stay did he feel well enough to go into the office, where his tired eyes and bruises caused a wave of gossip to sweep through like the plague. Kyle’s absence was notable. Price welcomed him back over-zealously, something the man had never done. MacTavish knew that Price wasn’t his biggest fan, but it seemed like he was trying to cover for Kyle’s mishap.

He wouldn’t hold this against Kyle. He appreciated that, if he were in Kyle’s shoes, he’d be pissed off and possibly scared. But it did hurt to think Kyle would act against him in self-defence, when he would never dream of hurting the man, and had actively avoided doing so in the past.

Kate drove him back to the hotel, insistently, on the first three days of his return. She tutted relentlessly that he shouldn’t be at work in his condition, despite him feeling more than fine. Perhaps that was just him, the resilient bastard he was.

Of course, the financial situation didn’t exactly improve from one week’s work, but the relief of that month’s pay meant he had at least some cash in hand. Which is when he made the decision to contact Alan.

Alan, which he heavily expected wasn’t the man’s real name, had put out a frankly dodgy looking post on a local Facebook page that he had some small housing units for rent. Cash only. A quick search of the postcode took him to a basement level self-storage company, which sounded like it broke at least fifty building regulation codes, and then some.

Still, for £100 a week… He couldn’t argue it was a steal.

Simon had called that morning between sets at the gym, to ask him how things were going. He wasn’t going to admit he was about to hand over a few hundred quid in cash to a guy he found on Facebook, because he knew that would cause more than a lecture. So, they talked about nothing whilst John took the bus. Simon’s weights, some project John was heading at work, a show Simon had caught on TV and insisted John watched despite John no longer owning a television. Time flew with him, as it so often did, and he almost missed his stop.

The guy was just as he’d expected. A middle-aged bloke, scrawny and balding. He sniffed and wiped his nose several times before they had even entered the building, and the way his eyes twitched and dilated gave away his intoxicated condition before John even saw him take a bump in the office.

“This is an off the record sorta deal, yeah? I gizya a gaff, and you keep yer’ nose out’er what goes on ‘ere.” Thank God he’d spent the morning in training with Simon’s Mancunian tones, because the man’s jaw was hanging so low he was barely sounding out his phonics.

“Aye, got it.”

The basement was only one level deep, but wide enough that it spread below the neighbouring stores as well. A couple of the units on either side seemed to be denoted with signs of places he’d seen on the street, so that was more than likely. But the other units in the block, all chained up with huge padlocks, looked like genuine self-storage garages.

“Yer’ ‘ere”

A large, green shutter sealed off a room that could only be described as cosy . The adjacent units hugged the room claustrophobically.

“Look around – bring the cash if yer’ wanting it.”

Alan’s footsteps echoed as he walked away, and he was only a slip of a man. God knows what it would sound like when whole groups were walking around, or pulleys of furniture, or whatever else happened in this ungodly place.

The shutter door screeched as it opened. Inside the room was a wire bed frame, singular clothes rail, a table, and a sink. The sink bore a worrying “do not drink” sign written in marker and Sellotaped to the wall. The table had two sockets, enough for a kettle and a microwave, but those goods were not provided.

It was absolutely the worst place he could imagine. He handed over £100.

John moved into the storage unit on Sunday, if by moved in, dragging his singular suitcase down the stairs counted. He talked to a young couple in the corridor, who were throwing out some items in their unit. Somehow, his charisma bagged him a second-hand mattress and a kettle that whistled annoyingly, but it was a start. He jogged to work on Monday and used his sweatiness as an excuse to shower first thing. All this after a terrible night’s sleep caused by some sort of illicit deal going on in the hall, where he’d explicitly noted to himself to steal some earplugs from the dispatch floor.

Then came Simon. He looked up as soon as John entered the office. “You manage to find somewhere then? Hotel rang me and asked if you needed that extension on the room.”

“You don’t drink black coffee.” John blundered, as he looked down at Simon’s hands. 

He wished he wouldn’t have said that so loud, as his eyes migrated over to Kyle’s desk. He was there today, staring directly at his monitor, pretending he didn’t see John enter. There was an obvious tell that he was listening in, with a singular earbud discarded on the desk.

Simon had noticed too. He didn’t answer, rather, he slid the coffee across the countertop to John’s waiting hand.

“Yeah, I found somewhere,” John said with a disarming smile. “Nice little place.”

The man clearly wanted to say something more in return, but the public nature of the office prevented him. He settled with a firm nod, “I’m glad.”

When lunch rolled around, a text message flashed across his phone screen. Lunch? A tempting offer, but he knew Simon would have questions, and if he found out exactly where John had set up shop, he’d be more than pissed.

He quickly responded, an apology of busy, sorry followed by several frowning face emojis. The danger of the office was his shield. There wouldn’t be any reason for Simon to come to his room, not with that many watching eyes.

That night he peered through the gap in Simon’s office door, where the man paced around on the phone. He sounded frustrated, hopefully more at the client than at John. Then whilst he knew Simon was occupied, he dashed to the building’s exit.

Perfect evasion.

The song and dance continued for two more days. Enter the office, small talk, avoidance mission, escape. By the end of the second day, John was sure he was in the clear. Simon hadn’t asked him to lunch, nor had he made extra effort to flank him in the corridor. He exited at his regular time, and nodded as he walked past Kate, who in her infinite wisdom knew something was wrong but never did ask.

The bus was crammed full. He no longer could hop on the 42, but rather, take one of the busier services further into town. No matter, he could easily drown out the sound with tactical deployment of his headphones.

He stuffed into the bottom deck, standing room only.

Upon departure, he worked his way down the side street of his new locale. It was alright in the daytime, but he wouldn’t fancy walking about later at night. The beats of his music provided him some further solace from the construction site across the way. Then he dropped down into the underground level, wielding the old key for the padlock to his unit. He’d tied it on a big loop of string, so it didn’t get lost in the bottom of his running backpack.

Corridor checked, roller door opened, and closed-

Almost closed.

A foot jammed itself beneath the roller, followed by a hand which dragged the sliding door right back up again. John let go, half in shock and half in anticipation of having to throw a punch. His fists balled up before he could regulate.

The voice of the intruder hissed as the screen rolled high enough for him to step inside. “Don’t .”

Oh dear. He was in deep shit now. “How the fuck did you find me?”

“It wasn’t hard, you have no sense of self preservation.” Simon fucking Riley, the nosy bastard. John should have known he wouldn’t give up that easily, and that he also used to do this as a job so really the previous question wasn’t necessary. 

He stood down. Simon shut the roller as he stepped inside. “You wanna tell me exactly why you’re living in a crack house?”

“It’s nae a crack house,” John scoffed, followed by a sarcastic smirk. “It’s a crack home.”

Simon didn’t see the funny side. He closed the gap between them in seconds and raised a hand to grab John’s face.

John flinched.

It wasn’t often someone would scare him enough that he’d lash out, but his fist acted before his mind did and he’d already swung a left hook at Simon before he could stop himself. Simon’s hand had situated itself under his chin, locking his head into place so that he could look at his face closely. It wasn’t a violent hold, but John wasn’t to know.

The punch connected, the weight of his body behind it.

Simon took the brunt of it in his jaw, which caused him to stagger one step back, but he didn’t let go of John’s chin. Then, he laughed.

“Was right about you Johnny, you’re feisty.”

John didn’t reply. He was confused and still completely on edge, but the pressure of Simon’s fingers against his jaw had a contradicting effect. Simon got closer, and his eyes met  John’s with a seeking intensity.

“Hm, okay then.”

“Okay what? What the hell was that?” John’s voice quivered a little. His knuckles ached from the connection with the man’s rock-hard jaw, and he didn’t know whether Simon was going to scrap him or kiss him. When he’d done neither, the adrenaline that built up inside of John had nowhere to go.

“Was just checking you’re not high.”

“Seriously?”

Simon shrugged. “Don’t know what other kind of person willingly moves into a place like this.”

“This is why I didn’t tell you.” His voice was bitter, but he didn’t dare raise it for worries of alerting his less friendly neighbours. “Knew you’d be weird about it.”

“I know you’re broke, but is this really the best you could do?”

“It was this or a tent.”

The taller man sighed softly, before he took a step back and rubbed his tender jaw. His eyes scanned the room, at the bare necessities for human life. Hell, the only toilet was the one in the staff room upstairs, which he’d managed to wrangle use of in case of emergencies. If he needed a piss, well, there was a sink.

“Are you at least going to stop that?”

John’s head tilted to one side. “Stop what?”

The sink, in all its bodged glory, dripped and splashed against the basin in short, stabbing bursts. He’d all but tuned out the noise, after all, he’d survived three years in student accommodation.

“Oh, that? I mean- the guy I’m renting this from isn’t exactly the landlord type…”

Simon pinched his nose bridge, furrow in his brow heavy set. “Bet you didn’t buy a toolkit when you moved in…”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Simon worked hands across his sore jaw, as he did one final inspection. “Tomorrow, after work. I’ll be here.”

“Simon…”

“Don’t argue, you’re still in trouble.”

Nobody dared question why Simon had brought a tool kit to work with him. Nobody saw Simon slip out five minutes after John. But you can sure as hell bet that Price clocked them standing together outside, Simon with a cig in his hand, and John rocking back and forth sheepishly on the balls of his feet.

Simon fixed the sink that night, and the wobbly leg on the table, and greased the shutter so it finally stopped with that awful racket. Of course, that didn’t spare John another lecture. You really do need to eat fruits and vegetables. You’ll need to put traps down, you’ll get loads of rats. Make sure you don’t talk to the neighbours too much.

What will you do if there’s a fire?

“If you’re so worried,” John started, annoyance in his voice clearly audible, “then why don’t you let me crash on your couch?”

He watched as the blond’s shoulders tightened, and the muscles of his back pinched the fabric of his shirt. “You can’t, Johnny.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have, but he pushed further. “Why not, scared I’ll shag you too? Track record, eh?”

“That’s one of the reasons, you clearly can’t keep your dick in your pants.”

“And you’ll fall in love with me?”

“You’re pushing your luck now.”

“So, that’s a yes?”

Simon turned; face pressed into a tight scowl. “There’s shit you don’t know about me Johnny, and I don’t want you to know it.”

He had another joke lined up for that, too, but he chose not to say it. Not with the way Simon stared, not at him, but right through him as if he was translucent. Maybe he’d gone too far this time.

“Sorry – I’ll stop being an arse now…”

The apology seemed to put Simon back into the room with him as he packed up the last of his tools. He let out a sarcastic remark to ease the tension. “Didn’t know that was possible for you.”

He was just about to leave, with a half-hearted goodbye, when Johnny grabbed his arm.

“Thank you,” the Scot insisted. “I honestly don’t know how I can pay you back for all of this.”

Simon frowned. “I’ve already told you; I don’t need any money-”

“No, not money. I mean as a friend… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to top this, you know?”

“You don’t need to,” Simon started, before he ruffled a hand through John’s hair. “I know neither of us are good with this friends thing, but it doesn’t need to be… transactional.”

John’s mind melted at the touch on his scalp. He could just about muster up a nod.

Chapter Text

John Price

Status: [DO NOT DISTURB]

Price braced himself as Mandy put the packet on his desk. He knew Shepherd’s handwriting from a mile out, fully aware what waited for him in that sealed package.

A quick glance through the door, an unsuccessful attempt to find Kyle and share the blow with him. The man was nowhere to be found. A common occurrence in recent weeks. More often than not, he’d been hiding out alone in a meeting room, or downstairs sitting with the ladies in the distribution office.

It didn’t seem to be MacTavish scaring him away, but Simon.

How could he broach that sore subject? Hey Simon, please stop throwing daggers at the coworker that put your ‘friend’ in the hospital. He could already see the deadeye, and damn, it terrified him too.

As his fingers unpeeled the sticky, sealed flap, he let out a deep and irritable sigh. Last year’s report was a scathing response to the smallest of issues. The wallpaper is outdated, the chairs are uncomfortable, Glenn from the delivery crew has a funny accent. So, this year, he had expected more of the same bullshit. 

His hands shook, nonetheless.

Tired eyes scanned the introductory ramble, and then the various Shepherdisms that followed, a diatribe of nonsense that wasn’t worth reading. But then, when he was all but ready to flip the paper over and mark it as “read later”, his eyes met with an all too familiar name.

Wanted to talk about a reshuffle of Kyle Garrick’s role. He’s outgrown his position – would be better off training under another department. Relocation to the London office on the cards, perhaps. Can move back with his family.

Bile welled up in his throat. 

Discuss at the end of second quarter – more in the pipeline until then. Talks with another company.

Four months. Shepherd wanted to relocate Kyle in four months. 

What would he tell him? How would he tell him? Perhaps Kyle would be happier back down south. Perhaps he would grow more. John knew Shepherd liked him, thought he was a good kid, but was this in Kyle’s best interest? Or, was this a ploy, a way to get under his skin?

He discarded the papers and grabbed his coat. It wasn’t lunch, and it wasn’t Monday, but he needed out. Simon met his eyes as he passed, and his obscured expression morphed from grouchy to concerned the moment he clapped eyes on Price’s clammy forehead. 

Simon could bloody wait.

“Where’s Kyle?” He demanded, as Nikolai rounded the corner downstairs with a crate full of merchandise. “I need him.”

Nikolai looked torn for a moment, considering his options. He relented after realising he’d rather take a disappointed sigh from Kyle over Price’s wrath. “My office, he’s using the printer.” 

Kyle jumped half a mile when Price called his name, louder and more urgently than he had intended. The door shut behind him, and he tweaked the blinds to make sure nobody had followed.

“John… what’s wrong?”

“It’s Shepherd,” Price coughed. “He wants you to go to the London office later this year.”

“Oh yeah, business trip?” Kyle asked, seemingly unaware of the gravity of the situation.

Price shook his head. “Thinks you’ve outgrown this position, wants you trained up on another team. He didn’t give me many more details; just said we’d discuss in the second quarter roundup…”

The younger man stopped to think, but his hands did not fall idle from sorting out stacks of printed graphs. There wasn’t that same sinking register in the downward glance of his dark eyes, not the same one that had left Price’s own gaze shell shocked.

Not unless he was doing an excellent job of hiding it, anyways. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I mean, if that’s what the boss wants – we have been talking about my next steps.” He shrugged, before sidestepping to get around Price and to the door. “I’ll put these on your desk.”

Price’s hand thumped against the wood, once again unable to contain his own desperation. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, but now was not the time to say it. Not here, where he was still paranoid that Brenda’s nosy ear would be pressed to the other side of the wall.

“Kyle, I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you stuck as my PA but-”

“Price,” Kyle gently nipped, a return to the man’s surname. “If this is about us… It’s a lot to put my career on hold for.”

The older man’s hand fell from its guarded position, and he took a step back. There was a silence filled only by the hum of machinery in the warehouse. Kyle wasn’t wrong. Whatever they had wasn’t worth a penny, considering that they weren’t even talking , or whatever it was that the youth called courtship these days.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and when Kyle made no further attempt to leave, he vacated the room himself.

He hadn’t realised how much his hands were shaking until he tried to light his cigarette. No amount of ‘what was I thinking’, or ‘pull yourself together Jonathan’, seemed to quell the tremor. Christ, he felt worse in that moment than when he was under direct fire in a PMC base on the outskirts of Moscow. 

“Jonathan?”

Anybody but her…

“Kate.” Price said with a grimace in the direction of the pristine white Audi that had just pulled up, his face flush red with embarrassment. Things could only get worse though, as in the passenger seat was another, familiar face. One who was doing their best to look anywhere but in his direction. “Laurie…”

Laurie offered a pensive nod.

“Wait here sweet,” Kate whispered low in her wife’s direction, before stepping out of the car. “John, you don’t look so hot.”

Price couldn’t think of the words to say. Didn’t know how to approach the conversation, never mind with Laurie in tow. So, he did what he had to, and just told her the facts. “Shepherd’s transferring Kyle. London office. We’re discussing at the second quarter review.”

“Christ...”

“My thoughts contained more swearing, but the sentiment is still there.”

Kate rummaged through her puffer jacket pocket to fish out her smokes, much to the annoyance of Laurie who watched on from the car. John lit her cigarette for her.

“Have you spoken to him?” She managed to choke out through an ugly cough. Laurie was right to force her to cut down, but this conversation required nicotine. “You’ve spoken to him haven’t you. And his reaction was…”

“Bad?”

“Well, I imagine his reaction was very… Kyle.”

“Yep.” He let out a huff of laughter as he exhaled smoke. “Said that he doesn’t want to put his career on hold for us, which is fair enough, but now he’s done with MacTavish I thought he would…”

“He’d settle?”

“Hm.”

“Jonathan,” Kate looked him directly in the eye. “Are you gay? Or bi, or queer or whatever. But- do you like men?”

That question again. That same bloody question. The one that he hated to think about, through some stupid, internalised homophobia. It was strange. He hadn’t ever been disgusted by Kate and Laurie, rather he embraced it when Kate had drunkenly admitted she was dating a woman during their time in the service together. And Kyle? He supposed it was a little different. 

Before Kyle, he’d never met anyone openly gay from the start. Kate had, over time, become far more comfortable in her own skin. Not only as a lesbian, but as a normal, everyday civilian. Their wedding had been the first time he’d seen her in a dress, and when the two ladies kissed at the altar, he cried ugly, happy tears. Although he swore he’d never tell her that. But Kyle? He remembered the first time Kyle told him he was gay – three days into his employment. Not a deep conversation, but in passing, after Price had asked him where he used to drink in his uni days. He’d told him about the Gay Village, and Price’s honest reaction had been ‘why did you drink there?’

Kyle had found it very amusing.

So perhaps it was male love that he was having to unlearn bias against. Too much time spent with homophobes and bigots in the army, cracking unsavory gay jokes to other officers. He hated himself for it now, but that’s just the way things were.

“I- I don’t know, Kate.”

“Well, would you have sex with him?”

Now it was Price’s turn to cough, as he took a drag at entirely the wrong time for that question to be asked. “Christ… Bit personal?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “You can’t keep him around just to stare at him, Jonathan. He’s young, he wants someone who will have a relationship with him. All the parts of a relationship.”

“I don’t even know what… that entails, truth be told.”

Kate paused, stunned. “Have you not, you know, researched? It’s not like the olden days; you can get your kicks online. Don’t even need to buy dirty magazines-”

“Kate!”

“I’m just saying! Consider it… homework?”

Despite the entirely awkward conversation, Kate’s presence had calmed him. He stamped out his cigarette on the grate affixed to the building and dropped the butt inside. Laurie seemed to have ignored their awkward conversation, now immersed in something on her phone.

“So, uh… what brings you in today?” He said, an uneasy attempt to change the topic. “Thought it was treatment day?”

Kate seemed to change her tune suddenly, as if now it was her time to be nervous. “I have some news. I was going to tell you in your office but, since you’re here…”

She dug into her pocket again, and left Price wondering how deep they make these puffer jackets. From inside came a small envelope, unmarked by any writing.

“What’s this?”

“Open it and you’ll find out, smartass.”

He clumsily unfolded the flap, annoyed for the second time that day at how small and fiddly envelope seals are. This was why he had Kyle deal with these things. Inside was a small piece of folded film.

“Kate… Is this? Laurie’s…?”

The word never slipped from his mouth, but both knew exactly what it was. Both knew the reason Price couldn’t bear to utter it. He was so gentle as he folded the ultrasound back into the envelope, before he swept Kate into a hug that lifted her from the pavement.

“Jonathan! You’ll put your damned back out!”

“Don’t care,” he muttered into her shoulder. “Kate, I can’t believe it. Do you know…?”

“It’s a boy.” Then the flood waters broke. Price didn’t cry, ever, apart from all the times he did. Secretly, of course, and in a completely manly fashion. “Jonathan? Oh god, are you crying?”

“No…” He choked, as he lowered her to the ground and wiped his eyes.

Kate rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

Price had always wanted a boy, so much so that when Beth got pregnant a third time, he’d already picked out the Liverpool babygrow and a red and white bear for his cot. He spent hours deliberating over baby names whilst all four of them were together: Kate, Laurie, himself and Beth. The girls gave him so much joy, and of course he’d forced them into Liverpool tops and taken them to football too, but it was his dream to have a little lad in the bunch.

Perhaps that’s why he took it so hard when Beth miscarried. That’s why he hid at the office and distanced himself from the empty nursery. He didn’t want to hurt Beth, but the doctor had already warned them that Beth’s age worked against the viability of the pregnancy. When it happened, she was adamant they were done trying.

“I wanted you to know, before anyone.”

He thanked her with a polite nod and glanced towards the car. The idling engine suggested Kate wasn’t stopping.

“Will she talk to me?”

“Hm?” Kate asked and glanced in the direction of Price’s gaze. “I mean… you’re welcome to try.”

If there was one thing that could heal the rift between them, surely it was congratulations. He wiped his nose and ruffled his hair back into place, before rounding the car. Laurie had seen him coming but did not look up from her phone until he knocked on the window.

She rolled it down, just enough to hear him.

“Hey Laurie,” he started.

“John.”

“Just wanted to say congratulations, I’m honestly so chuffed for you both. If you need a hand at all, building furniture, painting, anything – you let me know, okay?”

Laurie seemed to think for a moment, as if looking for some comeback. But, after a short pause, she replied. “Thanks.”

He’d returned to the office with a changed perspective in several regards. Moments before, he felt that life had ground to an unmerited halt. But now had something to look forward to, with or without the man he’d unsuccessfully chased for the past few years.

But that didn’t mean he was going to give up on him, either.

Kate’s questions, however awkward, were eye opening. Something was stopping him from being able to pinpoint exactly why he liked Kyle. Perhaps their relationship wasn’t sexual in nature, and if so, he would do as Kate suggested and drop the whole thing.

Kyle deserved a good man, and the whole package.

It took until the following Friday night for him to bolster the courage to do his research . These young, hopped-up kids and their libidos truly terrified him. Even when he was young and reckless, he never really needed to let off steam like that. Now, it was more like a once-a-month affair, usually after thinking about Beth or seeing something on the telly that put him in the mood.

He turned on his laptop, the same one he bought when he started this job all those years ago. The fans smelled like burnt dust and sounded like an engine roaring for take-off. It was not at all conducive to setting the mood, but he had to soldier on, for Kyle.

Internet Explorer chugged open, because of course he never updated to a newer browser. He unbuckled his belt and sank back into the cushions of the settee, feet up on the recliner. But then when it came to what to search, he stopped, before resigning to typing out gay sex with a slight grimace and clicking on a website with an orange header.

The issue was, he needed more of an introductory course. Gay porn for beginners, so to speak. The screen was flooded with various men, in various positions, fulfilling various fetishes. 

Price was overwhelmed.

“That man is sucking his own…”

He stood up, and his trousers fell down, and in the embarrassment of it all he went to the kitchen and fetched the entire bottle of red he’d been keeping for a rainy day.

“Alright,” he muttered again, “let’s just… take this slow.”

He ignored the repetitive motion of the man bouncing on a large, pink penis in the corner of the website, and instead turned on the telly and settled back into the chair in just his underwear. He’d ease into it, watch a Transformers rerun with Megan Fox hanging sexily out of the bonnet of a car, and then he’d go from there.

Roughly halfway through the bottle, and after a few sweaty, high-octane breast shots, he felt somewhat in the mood. The laptop screen had gone into standby, but a quick wiggle of his finger over the trackpad reinvigorated the screen, which once again gave him a minor heart attack.

It was all new lingo: twink, bareback, daddy?

He’d learn eventually. 

Something in his mind told him he’d be more comfortable if he found someone who looked like Kyle. Kyle was pretty, handsome even, and he had no complaints about looking at him five days out of seven every week. That seemed like a good start. His cursor hovered over the interracial category, as he morally debated whether searching by race was an issue.

Big black cock. Black thug. Black top threesome.

He remembered Kyle joking around with MacTavish one time when he thought nobody could hear. They were talking about bottoming, which Price hadn’t been entirely oblivious about, but until now it had never really crossed his mind. Was Kyle a bottom? Was he expected to be a bottom? He couldn’t imagine that, but these videos seemed to show him otherwise.

Finally, after several pages of scrolling, he found a young man who looked somewhat like Kyle on the receiving end of the transaction.

There was no romance to the video. No hello, and no how are you. Before ten seconds, the slapping of flesh on flesh rang out on his overly loud laptop speaker. Jesus, it was violent. Did he need to go so hard? Didn’t that hurt? Where’s the candles and the ambiance?

Sure, his cock jumped a little at the thought, but it was more an impulse than anything else. Still, he had to try. 

He wrapped his hand around his shaft and ignored the cool and clammy feeling of his own palm. How was he meant to start here? Fast? Slow? In time with the video? He tried, but after a few minutes of discomfort, hit the pause button.

Maybe Kate was right after all.

In his dejection, he was about to shut the laptop down entirely, before an email notification flashed up on the screen. It was just some junk from that Instagram that Kyle had set him up on a couple of months back, purely to follow the girls’ football team.

31 new posts from @GazzzKy.

Curiosity got the better of him. 

Kyle had insisted on them being mutuals, but until now, Price had not once set foot on his Instagram page. That might change, after this discovery. It wasn’t necessarily scandalous, rather a lot of the pictures were very… artsy. But there was Kyle shirtless after yoga, and another one of him in a lacy mesh shirt, and a mirror selfie showing off his bum in a tight pair of shorts.

He clicked on that one to get a better view, naturally.

The blood which had begun to wander away from its erectile station returned immediately, and uncomfortably, until he had no choice but to clasp himself again to stop that ache. Those sounds echoed in his mind, the heavy slap of flesh on flesh, the grunting, the whines. Did Kyle moan? Did his sharp tongue tease, just as much as it did in the office?

He moused through more photos for curiosity’s sake. Kyle in a suit, at last year’s award ceremony. God, he remembered how he couldn’t keep his eyes off him, and how he was wearing that cologne that smelled almost sweet, and how badly he’d wanted to bury his face into his nape and just drink in that scent.

John’s head fell back against the recliner, as he let out a guttural groan. Sure, he might not understand everything he was feeling, but nobody would deny how hot under the collar that man made him. He abandoned even Instagram, as he squeezed his eyes closed as he pictured Kyle in his office.

The door was closed, and the lights outside were dimmed. It was only them there. Kyle’s top button was undone, no, two buttons, skin of his neck bared as an invitation. It would be easy to corner him against the desk, not that he’d particularly need to, for he was sure the man was there willingly. But perhaps that’s what Kyle wanted. Wanted to be needed, and chased, and hunted. Wanted a man willing to make a move, and not just watch from afar.

He imagined what his lips felt like. Dragged hands down that slender waist, and then up again underneath the soft cotton of his dress shirt. Felt the heat of his supple skin on weathered fingertips. Then Kyle, guiding his hand, letting him know exactly what he wanted.

Fuck…

The aftermath of that experience was a spilled glass of wine, a cleanup job on the sofa, and possibly the most mind shattering orgasm he’d had in the past twelve months.

Kyle Garrick

Status: [Offline]

It was the third weekend he’d spent alone, and although he appreciated having the space around his sofa back, he couldn’t help but wince every time he looked at the taped-up corner of the coffee table and the crease in the rug.

Yes, he regretted it. No, Tav would never have hurt him. Yes, he was a massive arsehole for putting him in the hospital. But he was at the end of his rope, between everything going on.

Then there was Simon. It just had to be Simon. The one person who genuinely scared him, given his unpleasant nature, short temper, and the fact that he was approximately the size of a bus. Tav wouldn’t kick up a fuss, but Simon? He’d bust down Price’s door as soon as he’d heard the news.

The offer from Shepherd was his get out of jail free card. He’d skip town, get away from the combined front of Tav and Simon, and maybe cure his romantic affliction once and for all whilst he was at it. 

His phone buzzed.

A glance down revealed a name he hadn’t expected to see on a weekend.

John Price, 09:02: Fancy a drink?

The clock on the wall ticked aggressively in the otherwise silent room. It had barely passed nine.

Kyle Garrick, 09:04: Eager, aren’t you? Not even had my morning cuppa.

That sparked a purpose in him at least, as he moseyed over to the kitchenette and waited for Price’s no doubt slowly typed response. The conversation they had in Nikolai’s office at the start of the week had been tense. Since then, he felt as if Price had been more cautious than usual around him.

John Price, 09:06: Breakfast then?

He mulled it over as he stirred the teabag and squeezed it against the side of the cup. The growling of his stomach betrayed him, and he was woefully aware that he’d used the last of the eggs yesterday morning.

Kyle Garrick, 09:07: I could go for breakfast.

There was comfort in the fact that he needed to say no more. The choices he had made recently were not exactly rational, and he’d been left with an overwhelming feeling of anxiety at even the smallest of choices. To work, or to stay home. To apologise, or to stay silent. Peppermint or English Breakfast.

John Price, 09:12: Meet me outside, 45 minutes. Wear sensible shoes.

He’d been trained well, clearly, leaving plenty of time for Kyle to get ready. But today, he wished that he could just get out of the door the moment he’d finished his tea. It was a struggle picking out clothes. Was he trying to look good? Did he want the attention? Surely, he couldn’t just not dress up. That would be unheard of…

And the shoes? Sensible for what?

February’s beginning was as dreary as ever, and a glance out of the window revealed ominous black clouds that were due to burst into rain. He’d have to wear a jacket, at least, and perhaps even a coat. Then that just seemed like too much effort for breakfast, and-

His hand grazed his old University of Manchester hoodie. It was an ugly, reddish purple, the Uni’s logo plastered across the front, and beneath it an embroidered class of 2019 which seemed so long ago that it taunted him. Smelled okay, and the lining was soft… He tugged it over his head, paired with some ripped jeans and ‘sensible’ boots.

Going out, he felt underdressed. It wasn’t helped by the glance up and down Price gave him as he stepped out from the car to open the passenger car door. More than likely, it was all in his head, but it was hard giving up on the shield that nice clothes afforded him.

“You know a spot?” He asked, an attempt to distract himself.

Price looked at his watch. “What would you say to a drive into the Peaks?”

“Why?” Kyle blinked. “You plan on murdering me?”

He watched the man pull on the seatbelt twice as he rolled his eyes, which by now was a habit due to it often getting stuck on the first attempt. The fact that he knew that said that he’d spent too many journeys in this car.

“If I planned on murdering you, we’d go up the Woodhead,” he joked, before continuing, “I thought we could go to Castleton. Tea rooms, tatty gift shops, nice walk in the countryside if you’re feeling it?”

Kyle and the countryside didn’t mix. It’s not that he couldn’t enjoy it, but he’d much rather it be on a sunny day with a picnic, several bottles of prosecco, and one of those glamping tents that always popped up on his social media feeds.

This is what he gets for not dressing up. “I’m not going to get muddy right?”

“Not unless you fall on your arse,” Price laughed.

Maybe he needed the fresh air. Not counting the park back in London, he didn’t remember the last time he’d gone outside for a walk. Even that was only out of necessity, as he wouldn’t have survived Christmas without a cig or another minute longer without Tav complaining how cooped up he was.

The drive took about an hour, much to Kyle’s dismay, as the rumbling of his stomach earlier had now turned into full on, embarrassing growls. He turned down several offers of granola bars and bags of Mini Cheddars from Price’s stash of snacks for the girls, and instead just turned the music louder and sank back into the seat.

It was a nice drive, if not for the fog which squandered most of the views between the border of the city and the village.

They finally pulled up into a car park, belonging to the visitor’s centre. It was busier than he expected, to say the weather wasn’t ideal, but Price’s shock at managing to get parked made him think that possibly this wasn’t the busiest it would get. Price thumbed the pay-and-display machine clumsily and swore under his breath.

What the hell was Kyle doing here? Sure, breakfast with the boss wouldn’t have been completely abnormal, but wasn’t this a little more…?

“Shall we get going?”

The voice behind him made him jump, and he quickly buried the thought. “Sure.”

There were two ladies taking orders in the tearoom, one who was chatty and bubbly, and the other who shot Kyle a nasty glance as soon as he walked into the room. Price had been talking to the chatty one, Anne, about their journey over, their itinerary, the weather. Kyle zoned out and pondered over the menu, navigating which items would leave him bloated, and finding his options limited.

“She was nice,” Price summarised, after the woman left to make them tea.

Kyle hummed. “The other one is giving me daggers though.”

The man had a lot of merits, but his subtlety was not one of them. Kyle watched as he made direct eye contact with her, which caused her to scuttle away into the back. 

“What’s her problem?”

“Do you want to vote? Racist or homophobic.”

“Homoph-?”

“We’re not exactly a conventional pairing to be coming to their establishment first thing in the morning, John.”

Price smiled lightly as the whimsical teapot was placed in-between them. He waited for their privacy again before he asked another question. “Do we look like a couple?”

“Well, it’s pretty unlikely that you’re my dad.”

He watched as the man’s mouth opened and closed again, before he resigned himself to pouring the tea. It was amusing in a way. He knew exactly how much Price had fawned over him, and from their conversation back at the office, he had made it clear that he intended for them to be something. So why did he always seem so shocked when the word gay was thrown into the mix?

The menu stared back at him. It was far too early for a salad, and there was no way he was being convinced to eat bread if they were going to be trapped in the countryside. He must have scrunched his nose, because Price noticed.

“I forget you’re not a fan of… bready food.”

Kyle backtracked. “No, no it’s fine. I’ll manage.”

The sourpuss unfortunately chose her moment to come to the table, despite seemingly trying to avoid them until this moment. Perhaps she saw a crack in their formation. She turned directly to Price, a cold shoulder in Kyle’s direction. “What do you want to eat, duck?”

Price interjected, now sensing the entirely uncomfortable energy first hand. “Take Kyle’s order first, and he might need to ask some questions."

Somehow, the demand shifted her attention, and Kyle tried not to laugh as Price mimicked fisticuffs behind her head. He ordered gluten free crumpets and hoped it would be enough. Price complained he needed a fuller belly to walk on, but gave in after it took another three minutes scanning the menu with no recourse. Kyle watched as he ordered a full English, extra bacon, eggs, toast, and a nix on the mushrooms.

“Do you get that a lot?” Price asked, discouraged.

“Sometimes.” He shrugged. “Not so much in the city, I guess. But here? I mean… Look around.”

Price took one glance at the room full of white-haired biddies, grumpy old men in flat caps and thirty-something-year-old white guys fully kitted out in Gore-Tex and hiking poles. “Right, yeah… Sorry.”

“You get used to it, unfortunately.”

They ate quickly, for the air had become thick and uncomfortable, and the conversations they wanted to have were not suitable under this quaint, peaked roof. Kyle had never felt so comfortably cold when they finally departed.

“We’re off on a bad foot here…” Price huffed and scratched at the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I know it’s not what you expected. I just, I thought it would do us some good-”

“Alright tough guy, I can sip tea and go on little walks too you know,” he teased. “I’ll keep pace, don’t you worry.”

The start of their walk had taken them down a nice, babbling brook where ducks bobbed around, and John insisted on naming all the small birds flitting in and out of the hedgerow. 

It was endearing, in an old man sort of way.

A couple of jewellers sold stones from the local Blue John Cavern. Then there were other small shops full of ‘tourist tat’, as John had forewarned. It didn’t stop Kyle from looking at every overpriced item though. Retail therapy was fun. Then the path diverged, a fork in the road that looked almost like a private driveway. He figured it was a footpath after Price took the left hand prong with confidence. Kyle followed, a little unsure in his footing along the rocky, steep parts of the path.

The path wound through a small, wooded area, and through the rear of a farm. It stunk. No really, what was that smell? Why did Price not seem phased? Oh god. Was it him? 

“You good back there Garrick?” Price called back, as if they were on some bloody training ruck.

He scrunched his nose in an unsuccessful attempt to block the stench. “Yeah… Sound.”

“Isn’t it gorgeous?”

The man had stopped so suddenly that Kyle ploughed right into his back, bouncing off the overstuffed rucksack and nearly falling flat on his arse. After reaching out a steadying hand, Price turned back to the view.

Sure, Kyle thought it was pretty. But wasn’t it the exact same thing they had driven an hour through to get here? When you’ve seen one field, surely, you’ve seen them all.

“Lovely…” Kyle replied semi-enthusiastically, before turning around to head back down the trail.

Price gently steered him back by the shoulder. “It’s this way.”

Now he wondered whether Price had bumped his head. That way was a fence, and beyond, another field.

“Look, I’ll show you.” Kyle watched closely, as the man approached a funny piece of wood that looked like steps. Then he climbed it, and did some criss-cross with his legs that meant he landed perfectly on two feet at the other side. “It’s called a stile.”

“You told me it was an easy walk, not bloody gymnastics!”

Price laughed. “If an old man like me can do it, you certainly can. And didn’t you do gymnastics?”

“Not in the last two decades, you twat.” The tirade began and ended somewhere with his legs tied in knots and a long string of curses. Finally, his feet planted on firm ground. “I am holding this against you.”

“You’re a bit of a city boy, aren’t you Kyle?”

“And?” 

“Nothing wrong with that… Just thought you’d be the type to have hiking on your- dating thingamajigs.”

“Pfft, yeah right.” Kyle made a mental note to remove hiking from all his bios, before his eyes widened in terror. “What is that?”

Price turned in shock, assuming the worst from Kyle’s expression. When the abstract horror turned out to be a couple of grazing sheep, he looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Kyle… those are sheep.”

“I fucking know they’re sheep!” He yelled and started to back away from the fearsome beasties. “Why are they in here with us?”

Price collected him from his braced position against the fence, and walked at his side, separating him from the rogue and unpredictable animals. “Technically, we’re in here with them.”

He did take his time complaining that the field they were walking through was filled with sheep shit, and that although he wasn’t precious about the boots he was wearing, it would be a nightmare to clean them. Then about the smell, again, which Price just described as the smell of the countryside . And finally, after seeing that the next field had cows, he’d just about had enough.

“So, is this a gay thing?” Price asked, having finally been able to say the word without causing himself an aneurysm. 

Kyle, who had now relocated atop an old millstone bedded into the side of the stream which meandered from somewhere up in the hills, rolled his eyes. “Okay now that’s homophobic.”

 “Sorry, sorry… It’s hard to tell sometimes. Never met a man so scared of sheep shit.”

“And how would you feel if I dropped you off in central London without, you know, even a hint of notice?” Kyle snipped. Price was only asking, but it still stung a little.

Price grimaced and tucked his hands in under the straps of his rucksack. An old habit, only the pack that used to sit there contained live ammunition rounds and enough stims to revive a horse. “Let’s head back. I’m sorry for dragging you out here.”

Kyle felt terrible. It had been nice for Price to think of him, nice for him to bring him to breakfast, and pay, of course. Nice of him to want to share something that he enjoyed doing with Kyle, and all the conversations they’d had on the way. And yet here he was, acting out for seemingly little reason.

He thought about Tav, and how he’d done the same. God, he really was a selfish pr-

“Argh!”

Kyle learned that riverbanks are quite muddy. The moment he leapt down from the safety of the millstone, his foot had dislodged a large clod of turf, which had sent him tumbling downwards too fast for Price to grab him. Thankfully, the water was shallow, and so he was saved from being entirely soaked. It was more a thorough dampening of his lower half.

Price had laughed, possibly more than he should have. That changed as soon as he saw the grimace on Kyle’s face. He could barely rotate his ankle, and the searing pain it generated shot up into his calf and caused further agony.

“Fuck… Think it’s broken.”

He hardly acknowledged what was happening until Price was standing calf deep in the water next to him, and strong hands looped politely but firmly under his legs. He might have underestimated Price’s strength, considering he wasn’t exactly the image of a gym-going Adonis, but he really did lift him up like he weighed nothing.

“What am I going to do with you, eh?” His voice had softened considerably; to say they were on the brink of an argument moments before. “Let me get a look.”

Kyle had fucked up. He’d fucked up big time. The scent of cigarette smoke and overpowering aftershave flooded his nostrils, and he couldn’t help but sink into the small amount of comfort the hold gave him from the intense pain in his right ankle.

But it was over as soon as it started, and he was hoisted back up onto the cool stone. Price knelt in front of him as he untied his shoe and held onto his ankle with a measured firmness. Watching him work was like watching a master craftsman.

“It’s a bad sprain,” he surmised, “but I don’t think it’s broken.”

Kyle tried to stand, but the pain that shot through his leg forced him back down onto the stone. “It hurts…”

“I know lad, we’ll get you back.” Price assured, as he began to repack the rucksack that he’d slung to find compression bandages. “I’m sorry, this was a really bad date, huh?”

“Date?”

“I’m just messing,” the man laughed. “Just after what you said in the caf’ about us looking like a couple.” 

The wind had blown the stench of sheep shit in vaguely the other direction, and the clouds had parted just enough that a slight warmth bathed the clearing by the water. It was some stupid, poetic coincidence, and Kyle couldn’t help himself.

“Not the worst date I’ve been on,” he sighed reminiscently. “I’m sorry I’ve been an arse.”

A sarcastic response was returned. “You? An arse? Never.”

Kyle laughed, and even though his ankle was on fire, their conversation felt more at ease than it had the entire day. Away from strange country folk, farm animals, and work.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” he started, and then before he knew it, he couldn’t stop. “I feel like a monster for what I did to Tav, and I’m shit scared every time Simon looks at me, and I don’t know what to do about… this.”

Price seemed to ruminate, or perhaps he was taking in that pitiful amount of sunlight before the clouds snatched it back. “I talked to Kate,” he finally said, after a long silence. “It was a ridiculous conversation; I don’t even know if I want to tell you the details… But it put a lot into perspective.”

He was about to question what had been said, but Price continued.

“I don’t know how to… like men. Kate, she said to me that there’s no use chasing your tail if I can't give you everything you want.”

“And by everything you mean…?”

“Sex. Well- not just sex, obviously,” his cheeks flushed, not entirely hidden by the scruff of facial hair. “A relationship, with all the parts involved, just like I had with Beth or any other unfortunate mug before.”

If he didn’t know Price, this would possibly be the most awkward conversation he’d had in his life. But this was, somehow, quite heartfelt when coming from the man who refused to wear a pink button up to the company breast cancer awareness dinner three years ago in case it gave off a ‘vibe’.

“So… Did you figure out that part?”

“Ah, well… I, uh…”

“John?”

“I watched porn.”

Kyle paused for just a moment, and then snorted loudly into a voracious round of laughter. He tried desperately to stop when he noticed Price going redder and redder, but this was just too good.

“I’m so sorry,” he finally wheezed. “That’s entirely logical, but just… coming from you…”

“It was an experience, and now I’m more confused than ever. Are you a twink? Am I meant to be able to, uh, fellate myself? And do I need to like feet, is that an entry requirement? There were so many feet…”

Kyle waved steadying hands, afraid that Price might explode otherwise. “Okay there’s a lot you need to learn,” he chuckled, “but to answer those questions: I’m probably getting too old for that, not unless you’ve had ribs removed, and no… But if you are into that then there’s certainly a market.”

Price laughed at Kyle’s laughter, but he seemed to be upholding the serious part of the conversation somewhere in the lines of his crow’s feet. “I want to make this work… I know I’ll be slow, and I’ve got a long way to go before I get it…”

Kyle didn’t expect Price’s hand to rise towards his cheek, or his thumb to smooth over the scar that rested there. A sign that things were changing. A sign that this wasn’t just a crush.

He’d never touched him like that before.

“I want a chance with you, Kyle. If you’d let me…”

The world spun, like fairground teacups in slow motion. Surely this was a dream, but the heavy pinch he gave himself hidden beneath the soaked hem of his jumper proved otherwise. “Sounds good,” he replied with a smile. “Nice and slow.”

Then it was over as soon as it started, and his face missed the touch of surprisingly gentle hands. What would it feel like to touch him back? What would it feel like to kiss him?

He hadn’t expected to end the afternoon being piggybacked back to the car whilst explaining queer vernacular, or to spend most of the evening waiting around in A&E. Price stayed with him the entire time, but their conversation returned to their usual nonsense, and not whatever strangely romantic confession had occurred hours earlier. A bad sprain was confirmed, and although he cursed that riverbank, it was possibly the cause of the best thing that had happened all day.

Chapter Text

Simon Riley

Status: “Launch day - prepare for calls.”

Simon’s new product finally launched to market. Now, say what you want about the apparent plainness of hinges, but these were the best darn hinges on the market, and he was absolutely driving that point home to vendors.

It did help that Johnny whipped together some decent branded marketing for his current clients, and put together nice presentation packs for new consumer clients.

He’d just finished his twelfth call of the day, when the man appeared by him in the office and gently placed a cuppa down on his desk. He reclined in the armchair in the corner of the room, which Simon had cleared of all the tat he used to store there, completely coincidentally of course and not just as an incentive for him to stay longer more often.

“Wanted to run something by you,” Johnny asked. It had been about a month and a half since he’d been in the hospital, and just over a month since he moved into that god awful storage unit which he called home. “Si?”

“Sorry, I’m listening.”

MacTavish paused, and a little smile crept across his face that he clearly wasn’t aware he was pulling. “The TikTok is doing some decent numbers, but I want to make it more about the company, you know?”

“Right…” Simon replied. He did not know, but he would go along with it anyways. “And you need me because?”

“I need you to feature on a video.”

“No.”

“Simon pleeeease,” he begged, and batted his lashes. That did something for Simon that he didn’t want to think about here at the office.

“What sort of video?”

He slipped the mask down from his face and sipped the tea from the cup. It was just how he liked it, strong and sweet. It didn’t matter that the concept of thirst traps was being explained to him, or that the words were going in one ear and out of the other. These past two months had been confusing as all hell, and after his show of force in Price’s office regarding the Garrick situation, he had decided to just roll with the punches.

“So, you’ll do it?”

“Do what?”

MacTavish frowned. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Sorry…” He sighed and settled back into his documents to avoid being further enchanted by the freckles which adorned the man’s face like a constellation. “You’re… really distracting sometimes.”

“Just say yes, you won’t even notice I’m there.”

“Fine…”

Having left the conversation with no further explanation of what sort of video he’d be featured in, he decided to just forget the whole thing. Price had scheduled a meeting with himself, Alejandro and Rudy, as well as some folks from other departments they hadn’t met in a while. Something must be afoot, since the preferred method of communication in the upper office was either emails, or grumbles at the coffee machine.

He took his seat at the table, occupying the back corner where the light fitting had blown its bulb weeks ago. Alejandro and Rudy sat close to one another, as always. No surprises there. A few other notable faces joined from different floors, and Kate followed shortly after with Farah and Alex in tow. Simon nodded cordially, which was more interaction than most people would get from him, but he had a shared bond with the two of them from days before his civilian life.

Price and Garrick made their way into the room last. Garrick was on a crutch, ankle bandaged up in some sort of compression tape. Simon didn’t bother asking why, although some murmured conversation with the others revealed he’d slipped during a hike.

He was more interested in the way Price squirmed during the exchange. There was something going on between them.

“Right,” Price started, a grimace on his face. “We’ve heard some news from Graves and Shepherd about a competitor that has sprung up onto the market. Growing most in North and South America, but by the looks of things, they are also grabbing buyers from the UK market.”

Those sitting in the room turned and whispered to each other, but the din died down shortly after as Price coughed to continue.

“This wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but the company board of this new venture has a very… familiar face.”

Simon felt one side of the room go cold. Alejandro’s forehead had creased as it always did in these situations, and Rudy’s mouth was pressed into a flat, hard line.

“The head of the company is former employee Valeria Garza, who as we know, assisted with a lot of product development and localisation assistance for that market.”

“And has reason to use that against us,” Kate interceded, with a slight but noticeable glance towards Alejandro. “In her eyes, of course.”

Their relationship wasn’t exactly a secret, especially not to those who had worked here a couple of years ago. A toxic office romance which had caused frequent tears, fights, and eventually, Valeria disappeared without a word, taking much of their work with her. Legal couldn’t track her, and it was believed that she had fled the country for good.

“Does she have our product specs?” Simon chirped up, causing some members of the room to swivel eyes to his location. “Is this theft, or just competition?”

Price flicked on the monitor mounted in the room. Lines of products, barring Simon’s most recent venture, appeared on the screen.

“It seems that the manufacturing is incredibly similar, if not the same. Legal are looking into solutions now, but there’s a certain difficulty.”

Kyle spoke now, gesturing towards the images. “What difficulty ? Surely that is cut and dry?”

“Well, you would think so, but Valeria knows things. Such as - and this will not leave this room – the happenings in the original branch in the US.”

More mutterings now, those who had been around long enough knowing that was nasty business.

“What happened in the US?” Kyle asked pensively.

Simon spoke before Price could reign him in. “Shepherd happened, and that slimy prick Graves.”

“Simon…” Price grumbled, before he reclaimed the room. “Shepherd’s leadership in the US branch was sold on to grease his own pockets. In his stead, an unknown entity dashed most of the staff force, and ran the company into bankruptcy for the insurance payout. They sold off their assets, and disappeared shortly after, but we have on record that they split the cash with Shepherd. Money went into the right pockets, and he was never prosecuted.”

Kate’s face soured. “Unfortunately, that is why the UK offices are now the tour de force of the company. It wasn’t always this way, so watch your backs through these coming months. My knee is acting up, and that usually means trouble.”

“You think Shepherd will make deals with Valeria?” Rudy finally piped up. “If he sees a similar product with cheaper wages…”

“It could happen,” Price warned. “But Shepherd was the one to warn us about this, so perhaps not. Keep your eyes peeled folks.”

With that, Price dismissed the group. Simon stood, but Price nodded him over without calling for him so as to not draw attention. He closed the door.

“What do you want?” Simon asked, pointedly. 

Price sighed. “I want to call a truce; this isn’t the time to be fighting.”

Simon shifted from one foot to the other and let out an amused exhale. “Who said we were fighting? I just told you to keep an eye on Garrick.”

“Don’t be a child about this.”

He felt his heckles raise, as they would have done if Price was speaking to him out on the field. But on the field, his word was golden. Here? Sure, Price was his boss, but it wasn’t life or death if a report was filed on time, or an office lunch was skipped out on.

“I need your opinion on some things,” Price continued, before Simon could refute his last claim. “Part of it is about work, and the other part… not so much.”

“As my manager?”

“No,” he continued. “As a friend.”

Simon let out the air he’d been holding in his puffed-up stance, which deflated his scary frame just a smidgen. “Fine,” he agreed, “I need to move mooring tonight, come lend me a hand and we can talk.”

He fit uncomfortably into the passenger seat of Price’s Jag, which was made for smaller people than him. Cars were never his style, and he much preferred the open air of his bike. But, it did make the ride home plenty quicker than walking or catching the bus.

The boat, which only Price, Kate and Arabella knew existed, was currently moored quite a ways down the canal. It had been a pain getting into work, the bus from that road showing up late, and then being rerouted by a diversion. He’d take the bike, but the thought of climbing in and out of his leathers so early in the morning always made him groan.

Price parked a ways down the street. They walked down the bank together.

Simon boarded first, and extended a hand to Price, who declined it politely. Price knew the boat well, but there was certainly a difference between occasionally visiting, and living on the water.

“Beer or tea?” He grunted, as he crouched down to the fridge. Everything about the interior was more spacious than one would imagine, but that required plenty of use of the lower bounds of the space.

“Beer…”

“That sort of conversation?”

“Hm.”

He invited Price towards the sofa, whilst he took up his position on the bed. It’s not like there wasn’t space for two on the sofa, but that seemed a little too close when they were already on the verge of fisticuffs.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Price began. There was a look in his eyes that suggested this was about to be an uncomfortable conversation.

“It depends on the question,” Simon responded.

Price sighed and wrapped his lips around the freshly cracked beer. “I’ve talked to Kate about this, but I think it’s different…”

“If this is about your love life, don’t give me the gory details. Don’t need to know you’ve been banging Garrick.”

“I haven’t.”

“But you want to.”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly?”

“I don’t know.”

This conversation, albeit ludicrous that it was actually happening, intrigued him. 

“So… You’re with Kyle?”

“Does it look like I’m with him?”

“You knew about what happened between him and Johnn- MacTavish.”

“Kyle confided in me, yes. But we’re not together.”

Simon watched as the man shifted uncomfortably against the slightly flat bench cushions. They had discussed romance possibly once in the almost two decades in which they had known each other, and that was when Price confided in him about leaving the military for Beth and his then unborn baby.

He hadn’t been much help then, either.

“Why are you asking me then? Why not Nik, he just loves to hear you rattling on.”

“Enough sarcasm, Simon.”

Simon tutted.

The man took another swig, before he started to talk again. “I need to know how it feels to be gay without being… gay gay. Does that… make sense?”

“No.”

Price huffed. “I know your preferences, but you’re not open about it like Kyle… So how did you know? About MacTavish?”

To say he scowled was possibly an understatement. It was like wrath incarnate came across his face for just a moment, before he used the techniques his therapist had taught him for when he got a little too riled up by nosy people. “MacTavish isn’t any of your business.”

“This isn’t about the fight.”

Simon stretched out his legs, now the uncomfortable one. “I don’t really think about that stuff,” he grunted. “Wouldn’t care if he was an alien, I just like him for him. You know I’m not big on relationships.”

“Would you have sex with him?” Price asked and coughed as if saying the word out loud poisoned him.

“The accident disabled a lot of those functions.”

He caught the moment Price’s face morphed from intrigue to absolute mortification. He had absolutely forgotten. It’s not like Simon regularly brought up his medically obtained erectile dysfunction around his colleagues. Losing his leg was tough, but having a prick that only got half hard on a good day was the killer of his own self-image.

“I am so sorry.” The older man pleaded around a bitten lip. “I completely- fuck…”

“Don’t be,” Simon shrugged. “Nothing you can do about it, and besides, there’s other ways to get someone off.”

Price looked confused until Simon grossly mimicked a blowjob. He laughed a little, which broke the awkward silence. “Before the accident, did you-”

Simon filled in the extended blank. “Ever fuck a guy? Yeah.”

“Have you ever been with a woman?”

“No.”

“But you’re not sure if you’re gay?”

Simon shrugged. “I just don’t think about it. I like who I like. It’s not like I’m getting any nowadays.”

“MacTavish looks at you like you’re a fucking golden unicorn, Simon.”

The boat gently rocked as another vessel passed by on the canal. The walls were thin, and if someone was outside, they would absolutely have heard this conversation.

“Well,” he sighed as he stood up to begin unmooring, “I’m sure he’ll stop that when he learns the truth about me. I’m not pushing for anything.”

Price grumbled and followed to lend a hand. “You drive me up the wall sometimes – he’s a good lad, he’ll understand.”

“Mhm…”

The two cleared the boat for travel, emptying out the waste tank, fixing up the ropes, and finally Price saw him off from the towpath with an awkward wave. This conversation had brought up a lot of feelings he’d buried down deep, and he didn’t know how to address them. What was Johnny, to him? What did he want him to be? It’s not like they were dating. Simon had set that standard as soon as they became close. But there’s not a lot of separation between close friends and lovers in Simon’s mind. Demisexual was a term Ara had sprung at him, but he didn’t really care for it. As he said to Price, he just liked who he liked.

Right now, the one he liked was a blithering idiot with a daft accent, and he didn’t know how much longer he could stop himself from admitting that.

John MacTavish

Status: “Can someone fill me in…?”

There was a hubbub in the office that he could not describe. Chinese whispers. One by one, people peeled away into rooms and behind closed doors, all coming out with that same look on their face. Part of him assumed that someone had let slip about Kyle, but nobody was inherently hostile to either of them.

He’d tried asking Simon, but the man had just smiled through the cover of the mask. He could tell by the way his eyes creased, and all the other signs he’d learned to read. Then, Kyle was no help. All attempts to talk to him resulted in a cordial hello, and then a sprint to the nearest closed off room.

“Price!” He called out, when the man finally made it up the stairs with Kate in tow. “What was that meeting about yesterday, anything I need to know?”

The two of them exchanged a glance, and Kate answered on Price’s behalf. 

“Just a product meeting, nothing to worry about.” She replied, as she walked them in the direction of Price’s office, and then threw back a distraction. “Good work with Simon by the way – I heard your marketing pieces really took off with the customer roster!”

Another door closed to him as they made their way out of sight.

He huffed and headed back to the closet. The name wasn’t as funny now he couldn’t laugh about it with Kyle. An hour or so passed, alone in a flurry of Photoshop edits and solitude, until there was a knock on the door.

“C’min,” he mumbled, half asleep from boredom.

He was expecting a familiar face to pop through the doorway, but instead was greeted by two unfamiliar ones. The lady’s eyes struck him first, an intense, somewhat serious shock of hazel. The man bore a killer stache, and a ‘tattooed’ prosthetic leg which he tucked his trouser cuff around – a statement piece.

“Sick leg,” Tav blurted out before he could stop himself.

“Thanks man,” he responded, unphased. An unexpected accent laced his words, because really, how many more Americans were there in this small, Mancunian office?

“Sorry,” Tav responded, and stood up to shake their hands. “I’m Tav, and clearly I have no filter.”

“Alex,” came the response, “and this is my wife Farah who would claim that I also have no filter.”

“That’s because you don’t,” she sighed. “Farah, head of international relations. This is my PA Alex, who is also coincidentally my husband.” 

“Sorry ma’am,” Alex laughed. “We’re recently married – I can’t stop myself.”

“Congrats,” Tav smiled, slightly nervy that this was about to turn into a spat. “So uh, what brings you to my humble office.”

There was hardly room inside for one person, so three was a bit of a squash. Alex, the one who had first spoken for the two of them, stayed quiet.

“The business parade,” Farah began, “it’s a yearly event. We usually give most of our time to it from February to April, but this year- well. Something came up.”

Another group of people who knew more than he did - this had become a regular occurrence. Still wary, Tav nodded along. “Kyle mentioned this, it’s here in Manchester yeah?”

“Correct,” Farah continued. “Usually, I demand that Price helps us, but this year he volunteered you. Said you’re a bit of a creative type.”

“Right…” He responded unsurely. “And what is it I need to do?”

Farah pulled out a printed booklet from her satchel. The title on the front read Manchester’s Best Businesses 2023, and a quick flip through showed a large-scale fete spilling out from the Manchester Central Convention Centre, and out onto the street. Another couple of pages showed a parade, an actual parade, with crazy floats and people throwing free tat into the crowd below.

“We need to plan our stall, and we wanted to enter a float this year – they only started doing that last year and it was so exciting.”

Alex grimaced behind her back.

“The float winner gets interviews with quite a few papers and TV stations, and a pretty sizable cash prize.”

“Oh, that’s actually really good,” Tav agreed, as he flipped through some more bits and pieces handed to him. “It’ll be good for the socials too.”

The designs of the floats pictured were pretty intricate, probably outsourced to other companies. Price certainly wouldn’t part with that money, and Tav knew it. “So, you need help building this thing?”

“Building it is a good start,” she nodded, “but frankly, I’m more concerned about getting the others involved...”

Alex intervened. “They won’t listen to Farah’s ideas because she organised a paintballing party for the last company outing and then proceeded to kick their asses.”

Tav laughed. “Even Price and Simon?”

“How many points did you beat Ghost by when you two last hit the range?”

Farah stamped on his non-prosthetic foot, hard.

“Ghost?” Johnny inquired.

“That’s confidential,” Farah snipped. “He’s not military, Alex. Stop running your mouth for two damn seconds.”

“Ah shit,” Alex groaned. “Sorry, I saw the scar and I just thought you were one of Price’s… You know what, ignore me.”

“We will,” Farah shooed him out of the door. “Now, shall we start planning what our theme will be?”

“What was all that about?” The man beside him at the bus stop mumbled. 

Farah’s obsession over the creation of a giant, motorised hinge had kept him late. So late that he had left at the same time as the other usual late leavers.

“Business parade…” He muttered, before he glanced up from his phone to see the usual lit cigarette between Simon’s lips. “You should really quit that, you know.”

Simon laughed. “Sure, like you’re in a position to give life advice.”

“Touché.”

This meeting at the bus stop had happened a handful of times now, and each time confused John more than the last. Seemingly, Simon headed in a different direction each day, sometimes on his bus, and sometimes on another. The bus pulled up, and today Simon boarded alongside him. They squeezed into the small seats, and he found himself pinned between the meat of Simon’s thigh, and the window.

It wasn’t an unwelcome experience.

“Where to today then?” He joked.

Simon shrugged. “Places to be, Johnny boy.”

The journey was stinted, with a woman speaking loudly on speakerphone in the seat behind, and a baby practicing operatics being unsuccessfully rocked in its pram. There was so much Tav wanted to talk to Simon about, but with the recent events at work, there just wasn’t time. This was only worsened by the fact that they had seen so much of each other between the hospital and his move. Now, a simple goodbye at the end of the day didn’t cut it.

“This is me,” Simon called, and stood as fast as he spoke. It had hardly been ten minutes this time. “See ya, Johnny.”

The niggle in his mind continued as the bus pulled away, and Simon lingered by the bus stop to not give any clues.

John sighed, as the cacophony of sound continued to barrage him. Then, he decided he’d had enough. He was nowhere near his stop, but he hit the bell and hopped off the vehicle at the next stop down the road from Simon’s place of departure.

He knew it was tempting fate, but he decided to take the road that had approximately a fifty percent chance of running into Simon again. If that circumstance did occur, he’d just be cautious and follow from a safe distance. No need to approach him, and no, it wasn’t wrong. Simon had done the exact same thing to him when he busted the storage unit operation. He’d just poke around, see what the man was doing, and then leave.

Maybe he had a few fun hobbies in the city. Pottery? Zumba? 

The backstreet spewed out into the bustle of the main road, which was unknown to John on foot, and seemed to be packed tightly with high-rise residential suites rather than businesses. Still, he proceeded, and soon enough caught the shoulders of a tall blond standing half a head above the rest of a gaggle waiting to cross the road.

He yanked his hood up over his distinguishable haircut, knowing full well he too could be spotted from a mile away. Then, he gave chase.

It was a small thrill, waiting at corners, pretending to investigate the window of the old Post Office that perpetuated the lines and lines of flats. Didn’t matter that it was closed by that point, the shutter drawn tightly over the door. He caught Simon on the move again in the reflection of the glass and waited a few more moments before he too continued with a brisk pace.

Had he known the area, he would have noticed that they had taken several right turns in a row and were now headed back to the bus stop. When he eventually did notice, it was already too late.

As he rounded that last corner with Simon nowhere to be found, and the bus stop dead loomed ahead, he knew he had been rumbled. A prickle of fear halted his movement, which is something he did not often feel. He attempted an about turn, and cursed the sudden emptiness of the street.

A hand grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him into a small gap between two buildings. He knew exactly who the hand belonged to, otherwise fists would have been flying. He’d been positioned, not facing Simon, but facing the wall like a petulant child.

“A’wright Johnny boy?” The voice came from close behind him, like he’d have been able to feel the heat of the man’s breath on the back of his ear if not for the mask.

“How long did you know?” He laughed, nervously. 

Fuck. This space was small, not even an alleyway, and neither of them were particularly horizontally lacking. He shifted slightly, unable to fully turn around, and ended up with his back pressed directly against Simon’s chest.

“You did alright to say you’re a civvy,” the man chortled. “I didn’t notice you until the Post Office.”

“So, about twenty steps in…”

“Mhm.”

Simon didn’t appear to give a damn about the cars rumbling past. Maybe a life in the shadows does this to a man. John glanced back to the street, and wondered whether he would notice this strange exchange if passing on the bus.

“Why were you following me?” Simon finally broke the silence filled by the embarrassment of John’s own thoughts. “Right little stalker, ‘ey Johnny?”

Little. Little? Fuck. Why was that doing something for him? Other than the fact that the man behind him was a giant, hulking slab of muscle.

“Just wanted to know where you were going… thought you could be going to a pottery class,” he joked timidly, although the way his voice wavered didn’t help his case.

“Pottery?” Simon finally choked. “I’m just going home, Johnny. Don’t know why that’s so interesting to you…”

John used his shoulder to winch a gap between them, and slipped free. He was bound to get caught, but he hadn’t really considered the consequences at the time. The blood vessels in his face were fit to burst with the heat that burnt his fair cheeks. It was hardly a pardon, but before he squeezed back out onto the street he stuttered out, “I’ll just… yeah.”

He couldn’t wait for the bus, for the thought of having to wait anywhere near the man was now critically embarrassing. So, he started walking, knowing full well he had a while to go.

“Johnny?”

Dear lord, he wanted to know that man so bad. Wanted to know all his dirty secrets. It had been the first thing he’d thought, back those few months ago, when he’d left the man’s office with a slightly pained hand and the scent of cig smoke burning his then unaccustomed nostrils. Wanted to know exactly what he was hiding, and why their secrets seemed to be only one sided.

“Johnny! Where the fuck are you going?”

He yanked his hood back up and pulled his headphones out of his bag. God, he thought Kyle was nuts when he first found out about Price, and the constant to-ing and fro-ing on whether he wanted the man or despised him. Now he felt the same, not quite knowing where they stood – it was a friendship that he wanted to be more, and wrongfully, he kept putting Simon in that equation.

It started to rain, because of course it would when he was already embarrassed enough from the encounter. Now water seeped through the fabric of his hoodie, and he felt the gel in his hawk slip from his hair and stick instead to his forehead. Even with Britney turned up to the max, he couldn’t help but hear every sound of the city. It felt like people were watching his failure.

Then there was the droning. He’d been walking for five, perhaps ten, minutes and had no real idea which part of town he was in. He knew if he followed the road, he’d eventually end up somewhere he knew, but for now he was none the wiser. That droning continued, piercing through his cheerful 90s pop renditions. It got louder, until it was a roar against the tirade of the rain, and suddenly something flew past his peripheral.

Something, or someone.

Simon’s bike, recognisable from anywhere, skidded to a stop in a deep pool of water that had gathered at the kerbside. His first instinct was to turn away, but Simon beat him to it and hopped off the bike with an agility that he probably shouldn’t have for his age… However old that was.

“You’re going the wrong way, idiot.”

“What?” John gawked and pulled his headphones off.

“Unless you’re planning on fleeing the town on foot, you’re heading the entirely wrong way.”

Fleeing… Not a wrong term, he supposed, but made him appear all the more cowardly in the face of his own actions. He could have sworn the bus took this path, but as he peered up over the brim of his hood, he realised he didn’t recognise the buildings and that the high rises of the central city were getting sparser.

“You don’t like riding in rain,” he interjected. An excellent distraction, for now Simon was looking back at the puddle once again and worrying about the kickstand which had bedded itself deep in the muddy grime of the gutter.

The man sighed briefly, and then he pulled his helmet off to reveal a mess of blond.

“Put this on.”

“… What?”

“I’m taking you home.”

“Simon- I-” Before he could further contest, Simon had shoved the helmet over his head. It was a little loose, until Simon’s fingers started adjusting the fit all too close to Johnny’s neck. He could probably feel the jumping of his pulse through his carotid, which only made things worse. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he grumbled in return, and started to shed his leathers.

Johnny threw up his hands and caught Simon’s shoulder before he could squeeze out of the jacket. “I can get myself home- don’t be daft.”

“You’re being daft,” Simon protested. “You’ll go bloody hypothermic in this rain.”

It seemed like no manner of complaining would stop this now, as he allowed himself to be draped in the oversized leather jacket. He swatted Simon’s hand away before he could do up the zip and proceeded to wrangle it himself. If he allowed him that, he might as well play damsel in distress and be bridal lifted back home… again.

Simon hopped onto the bike, white button-up shirt already soaked against his skin. He really had grabbed the thing, got into his gear, and gone. John bet the tight work chinos were still on under his protective trousers. That made his dick jump, obviously, but then the feeling in his gut morphed to one of humiliation.

Somehow, that made it worse.

The man patted the seat behind him, which on any other day would have been his dream, but not today. He felt childish and wondered again why Simon had come to get him in the first place. Surely, he knew that as soon as he realised that he was lost, he’d just have called a taxi.

Beneath him, the bike rumbled to life, and Simon pulled him closer.

“I’ll not go fast,” he yelled over the sound, loud enough so Johnny could hear him through the helmet, “but I need you to hold on in case we slip in the rain, got it?”

He returned a shaken thumbs up, fully aware of the closeness of the visor disrupting his already tongue-tied mouth. Sheepishly, he placed his hands on either side of Simon’s waist, absolutely cognisant that this was the most they’d ever touched whilst sober. The damp cotton didn’t stop the dull warmth radiating from his torso.

“Closer than that,” he heard, before being yanked chest first into the man’s back. His hips slid more neatly into the seat, something he’d been avoiding, for now there was no hiding the fact his hard cock was now pressed into the man’s tailbone. “Atta boy Johnny, now… stop wriggling.”

Gracious of him not to mention the boner. Diabolical of him to encourage it with words like that.

He was so fucked.

What would have been an easy ride on a nice day ended up with both men sopping wet, and Simon avoiding a police officer giving them a shady look by riding through the Aldi car park and out through the back roads. When they finally came to Johnny’s abode, he insisted on coming inside for a cuppa, for the shirt on his back was now entirely see through. They didn’t talk much. Mutual embarrassment, probably. But Johnny made him tea how he liked it, and didn’t mind that he’d sat on his bed still soaked through. Not like he could have offered him a chair.

After half the cup was chugged, it was Simon who spoke. “Sorry for scaring you.”

“Hm?” John replied, genuinely confused.

“I was just jokin’, in the alley. Wasn’t nice of me-”

“Wait…” Johnny interrupted, and then laughed. “Did you come get me because you thought I was scared of you?”

“You seemed bloody scared to me. Took off without a word, went entirely the wrong way. Fuck knows what was going on in that bonce of yours.”

“I was embarrassed.”

“Why?”

“You fucking know why.”

Simon gawked in response. 

“You’re telling me that you didn’t feel even a little awkward all… pressed up against me like that.”

“I mean I thought you’d be into it, that’s why I was teasing you.”

“I was…”

“Right. But then you ran off, and I thought shit- I don’t know what you’ve been through. If you’ve been-”

“Oh Jesus, no. Nothing like that.”

“Good. That’s good.” Simon repeated, and the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders seemed to melt away. “That’s a relief.”

Something in his demeanour had changed.

“Simon?”

“Don’t.”

“Right, sorry.”

For a moment, the man on the bed wasn’t tougher or older than him. It was like looking in a mirror.

“You can always talk to me, yeah?”

“You’re not my therapist Johnny.”

“As a friend, ya’ dick.”

“Mhm.”

That was the end of that conversation.

So, he hadn’t found out where Simon went after work. In the grand scheme, it was barely a dent. But, that little opening, that crack, it gave him some hope.

“Johnny,” Simon spoke, after he had finally squeezed his damp body back into his jacket. The air had mellowed, and they’d already had a couple of rounds of digs at each other to pass the time. “Don’t use my arse as wanking material later, I’ll know if you do.”

“Fuck off,” Johnny sneered, but felt his face redden once again. He knew he hadn’t gotten away with the boner… “Can’t help yer’ bike vibrates like a motherfucker.”

“Not the worst passenger I’ve had,” Simon laughed. “Had Price on the back one time, I stand by my former statements about the… size.”

“Or lack of?”

“You got it.”

There was an awkward shared goodbye, as much of a goodbye as can be had on the bottom floor of the self-storage unit with shop staff zipping wares up and down the aisle behind them. But John knew, somehow, that it wouldn’t be long until the two of them met again. 

There had been a shift in the tide.

Chapter Text

John Price

Status: [DO NOT DISTURB] 

The news of Valeria’s return had shocked a few people, but not Price. The choice he and Kate made on the day she left allowed for that. Just a couple of old acquaintances in that part of the world, paid to ‘keep an eye’ on things - an entirely immoral venture, he was aware. But, when you’re dealing with close kin of one of Mexico’s most prominent Cartel branches, it’s best to expect more than just friendly business rivalry.

Every member of that board room, barring Kyle, had known of this connection in one way or another. Rudy through his childhood, Alejandro through his frankly horrific choice of a partner, and then Simon, Kate, Alex and Farah through various military and homeland security ventures. He’d fill Kyle in later, if needs be.

To further his concerns, he didn’t trust the brass one bit. If Valeria was reproducing their merchandise, no doubt cheaper and with the backup of the Cartel, there was nothing stopping Shepherd and Graves from jumping ship as they had already done once before.

He pinched his brow, aware that the knotted tension of a headache brewed behind his eyes.

“John?”

Kyle lingered by the door, clearly calculating whether now was a bad time, or if the expression on Price’s face was one caused by his presence. 

“Come in,” Price eventually relented.

The man entered and shut the door softly behind him. Really, there was no need, for the only people remaining here so late were too busy to notice him approach. “Thought you’d like some company,” he announced as he curled up into his usual chair, “and I wanted to know more about the situation with Valeria… Kate’s been acting weird.” 

Everyone had been acting weird, not just Kate. He’d noticed Simon checking corners every time he walked into a room, and that Alejandro barely left the spare meeting room that he seemed to have turned into a barricaded office. Hell, even Alex was antsy, and that man had iron bollocks – possibly literally from what he’d been told.

“Valeria is a dangerous woman,” he spoke plainly. “We had… run-ins, with her choice of companions in the past.”

“As in, the army past?”

Price could only nod. He watched as Kyle’s eyes scanned the stern expression on his face for any sign of weakness, but he could not allow himself to feel fear. Not when he had a company composed of young civilians and jumpy, PTSD-riddled ex-service personnel.

“She has connections with the Cartel.”

“The Cartel Cartel?” Kyle repeated. “Like... in Breaking Bad?”

Price’s mouth opened and then closed, unsure exactly how to respond. He settled with an agreement. “I suppose like in Breaking Bad…”

“Is that why you’re all worried? Will something happen to us?”

“I’m not going to let anything happen, Kyle.” He affirmed, but there was a slight waver in his voice that thankfully passed undetected. “We’ve contacted the authorities on this, we’ve got protection.”

He spared the man some of the more brutal details. The fact that he’d moved his gun locker to his bedside table, or that he currently had a decently sized combat knife taped underneath his desk. It was probably an insane overreaction to have resorted to those measures, and considering how long it had been since he’d lunged one into another man’s sternum, he didn’t know how effective it would be if things did go south.

Prepared for anything he had mused, as he crawled around the underside of the office furniture before anybody else had come into work this morning. He knew Kyle could sense something was off, but that he was choosing not to press it further. The man wasn’t daft, after all.

“You almost wrapped up?” Kyle prompted, to which Price glanced down at the time. In all his years working here, he was sure he’d never had one quiet day, and always worked too late. “Was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink, just one this time, I promise.”

“It’s never just one, is it?” He teased, but admittedly, he was parched. “Just one, sounds good.”

Price gathered his things, and handed off lock up duties to a besmirched Nikolai who looked like he wanted to be home hours ago.

“Noticed that Simon and Tav are still in,” Kyle pointed out as they made their way out of the glass-fronted doors, “funny coincidence, isn’t it?”

A quick glance skyward revealed the light in Simon’s office was indeed still on. And, not that he’d checked for MacTavish, but he’d also not seen him skedaddling for the door as soon as the clock struck five.

“What do you think about… Them?” He questioned, without revealing any of the conversation he’d had with Simon days before. He would never give up words said in confidence, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t gossip with the information the two of them both knew. “They’ve spent a lot of time together since… well.”

“Since I put Tav in the hospital, yeah, yeah.” He started, and Price bit his gum regretfully as they turned the corner to the Castle. But then Kyle continued, “I think weirdly they work for each other, they’re both stubborn arseholes.”

Seemed a bit harsh on MacTavish’s part, but he one hundred percent agreed with the analysis on Simon. He placed his hand on the cool, tarnished brass of the pub door, and pushed it open for Kyle to enter.

“I don’t think you’re wrong,” he laughed. “I just wonder whether either of them will make a move.”

Thankfully the pub was near dead, and they could slip into a booth near the back of the room. “Well, if Tav is involved, he’s probably already come onto him several times.”

“You taken the brunt of that?” Price joked, somewhat envious of how easy Kyle made it sound. He hadn’t forgotten their conversation at the river, but now he’d been given something of a go ahead, he didn’t really know how to start the actual flirting part.

Kyle rolled his eyes. “The first thing he ever said to me was a joke about getting in my pants, and I don’t think much changed the entire time.”

“I mean, I see why he did it,” He replied, low and almost quiet enough to not be heard. But Kyle did hear, and as soon as he was about to make that fact known, Price hopped out of his seat and approached the bar.

In the time it had taken them to settle, a few more punters had trickled in. The bar was now relatively lively.

The redheaded young lass was serving, who was always too chatty on slow days. He rolled his eyes at the amount of time he’d be waiting whilst she yammered on to some poor soul. But it would buy him time for Kyle to forget what had just been said, so it was probably a blessing.

Then he heard a familiar voice.

“Aye, two pints of Guinness please.”

A large pillar separated the two halves of the bar, and he found himself migrating towards it. Surely, it couldn’t be… The lass made some offhanded comment about the man’s accent and Guinness, to which there was a round of laughter. 

“Thanks for the compliment love, but I’m not Irish…”

“Yeah,” a gruff voice followed. “Don’t call him that or you’ll get a thump.”

“You can shut up.”

He froze in place, near certain he’d be caught if they stepped back from the bar. The only thing he could think to do at the time was to pull the cocktail menu from the bar top and hold it comedically in front of his face. Clearly, those two numbskulls were too busy giving each other the goo-goo eyes, because they passed without seeing him.

“What was that you were saying?” Kyle prompted, as soon as he returned with the drinks. But there was no time for that, with his latest revelation.

“Simon and MacTavish are here.”

“What?”

“They’re down the other end of the bar.”

Kyle looked at him and, for a moment, Price thought he didn’t share even a hint of the same excitement as he did. After all, it had been his dream for the past ten years to see Simon attempting to flirt, but Kyle hadn’t known him for even half as long.

Then Kyle stood up faster than Price could blink. “We’ve gotta go see this.”

There was nothing more disconcerting to witness from afar than two fully grown men sneaking on their tiptoes across an open public space. Price in a way that resembled a covert SAS mission in which the operative had just undergone a hip replacement, and Kyle’s attempt looked straight out of a Scooby Doo film. They managed to find a vantage point on the raised platform that was, back in the day, the indoor smoking area. Their seats were shielded by a frosted glass screen, and Price had made sure that Simon, the more likely of the two to spot them, was sitting in the chair that faced away from their perch.

Neither he nor Kyle were sure exactly what they were listening out for. 

They sipped their drinks in total silence and listened to the utter drivel that consisted of dick jokes, hypothetical arguments about film plots, the sound of a TikTok clip being played both out loud and on repeat, and one of them farting, although it was impossible to pin down who, since both burst into a peal of laughter right afterwards.

“This is torture,” Kyle whispered.

Admittedly, it was nice to see Simon getting along with somebody for once. But not like this... He was far too old to be acting like a teenage boy, and it reminded him so much of the first week they’d spent together on the field, where the much younger Simon had challenged one of Price’s more conservative sergeants to a “helicopter” competition. It was only when he dropped trou that Price understood the gravity of the situation and had him scrubbing floors for weeks when they finally returned back to base.

“At least they seem happy,” Price grumbled, and stuck his face into his glass hoping that he’d be swallowed up by the lager within.

It was a moment of great relief when Simon excused himself to the bathroom. So much so that the two sleuths forgot that they weren’t meant to be there, and so when Simon returned from the restroom and spotted them, he made a great deal of announcing their presence to his still-seated companion.

“MacTavish,” he started, which was the first sign, since he had exclusively called the man Johnny throughout the entirety of their private conversation, “look who’s come to see us.”

Tav was soon to follow, stupid mohawk appearing around the corner before the rest of him. “Oh hey, how long have you been here?”

“Long enough,” Kyle muttered under his breath, loud enough for only Price to hear. The deadeye from Simon seemed to quell this act of rebellion.

Simon, intimidation tactics in full play, pulled out the seat directly next to the shorter man and sat down with a heavy thunk. Tav followed and brought both of their drinks to their new table where he seated himself next to Price. He seemed unbothered by the invasion of their privacy, unlike Simon.

There was a moment of silence, as Price took in the scene. Simon’s eyes were locked onto his every move, clearly the more upset of the two. Tav, who shifted nervously in the seat next to him, seemed more bothered to be in the presence of Kyle. And Kyle, who was troubled by the presence of both, stared directly at the table in the hopes that they would go away.

He broke the silence the only way he knew how.

“You two talk some right bollocks, you know that?”

“Oh yeah?” The blond half-shrugged, half-laughed, but seemed to have simmered down a little. “I’m sure the conversations between you and Garrick are bloody riveting.”

“They are thanks – we can actually act our age.”

MacTavish snorted, and punched his arm in a friendly, teasing manner. “What, old?”

Price knew he’d tempted that response, but it didn’t help coming from him. He frowned in the younger man’s direction and hid again in the deep amber which filled his pint glass. The remainder of the drink was chugged rapidly, and their conversations continued in a somewhat stunted manner. Price had no qualms with any member of the table individually. Yes, Simon was an arse, and yes there had been his stint of jealousy towards MacTavish, but it shouldn’t impact the group like this.

Kyle had, in all that time, not once made eye contact with the others.

John MacTavish

Status: [Offline]

It seemed that a rekindled friendship with Kyle was still not on the cards. He seemed terrified, and John struggled greatly to understand how such a big dafty could instil a sense of fear in anybody who knew him. But he guessed that was the problem, Kyle didn’t want to know Simon, and he knew Simon felt the same way.

A check of his phone revealed the weather to be a brisk six degrees and glumly overcast. He wouldn’t complain, as he preferred to run in the cold so as to not have to spend so long in that freezing cold shower scrubbing out sweat on the other side. It had become habitual now, and in those mornings, nothing could touch him.

Apart from when it did.

He took the same path as always, and as he rounded the corner onto Great Ancoats Street, absolutely clattered into a person slowly unloading from a taxi directly on the street corner. He bit down his instant reaction, which would have involved a wonderful plethora of swear words at the taxi driver parked on double yellows. Instead, he managed to placate himself by rubbing his now-jarred right shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” came a small, laboured voice from behind the taxi’s open door. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

The accent was American, but American in the same vein as a badly acted part in GCSE drama assessment. Nonetheless, John passed off the strange tones, and instead decided to address who they were coming from. “You should watch yerself lady, don’t want ye’ getting hurt.”

When she finally tackled removing herself from the car door, she promptly shut her cardigan in the door seal and dropped her case on the floor in the process.

John had entered into what could only be described as a trance of disbelief, as he watched her wrangle the several bags she had remaining in her hands. It was only as she bent over to pick up the dropped case that he jumped into action, and scooped the handle up for her.

“You in a hurry love?”

“Something like that,” she laughed, and tucked a long slip of her black, sleek bob back behind her ear. “I’m meant to be uh- scoping this place out. I’ve got an interview soon and oh boy am I nervous.”

John turned to where she was pointing, directly towards their office. He checked the time on his phone, and as planned, he was early.

“An interview now?”

She backtracked, and John’s suspicions rose inadvertently. The strange accent was one thing, and the seemingly overacted clumsiness was another, but no visitors were ever invited before the hustle and bustle of the morning had passed and so it was unlikely she was due for a while.

Something in the woman’s eyes changed.

“No, no, not now,” she laughed. “Sorry, I’m doing a terrible job of explaining myself. Would you grab my case? I’m at a hotel, just around the corner-”

Although that had been asked as a question, it had been phrased as a demand. John sighed and reached down to the handle; fully aware this little side quest was going to cost him his shower time.

“So, I got a cousin, and her friend’s brother works here. Or is it her friend’s cousin? I’m not too sure.”

“Okay…”

“His name’s Rodolfo? Mexican guy, dark hair, got a mole right about here?” She gestured to her own face as an example.

“Oh, Rudy?” He chirped, happy to finally be on somewhat the same page. “You know him?”

“Well, not personally, but I know of him – he’s a veteran right?”

“Yeah, think so.” Damn, this case was heavy, and the woman showed no signs of stopping her yammering. He changed the subject. “So uh, what position are you applying for?”

“Oh, well, it’s not a particular position. I’ve been talking to a man called John…  Price? I work in product development.”

“Yeah, I work for Price. Sound guy.” The last part was said through ever so slightly gritted teeth, for right now, he wasn’t the highest in John’s estimations. “So do you work in the uh, fixings industry?”

She stopped suddenly and adjusted her shoe. He wished he would have taken the shouting at the taxi driver approach.

“Something like that,” she mumbled towards the gum littered paving slab beneath her. “So, what do you do there?”

There was something off about the whole conversation. This woman, she seemed to know just enough for this to not be some strange kidnapping tactic, and yet she wasn’t exactly the most forthcoming with her answers. Every question was turned back against him, as if she was fishing for an answer that he hadn’t yet given.

“I uh, I’m a cleaner,” he lied. “To be honest, I don’t know much about manufacturing.”

“Hm.”

Before he could question her passive dismissal, she had already set off walking again.

“What’s your name?”

“Gavin.”

“When did you start working there?”

“Not long – two weeks tops?”

“Is it a big office? Where would I be sitting?”

“Probably downstairs.”

She stopped abruptly. “Well, this is me.”

“Here?” John questioned, for they had not walked to a hotel as she first implied, but rather an innocuous side street with a couple of small admin businesses.

“Thank you, Gavin.”

She took the case from his palm, and instead replaced it with a sense of dread. John could not for the life of him figure out her intention, but all the alarm bells within his body were screaming, and so he turned and ran. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” His hand trembled as he slammed his finger down on the contact bearing Simon’s name. “Pick up…” 

The phone rang twice before a voice crackled through into his wireless earbuds. “Johnny?”

“This is going to sound crazy, but I think I’m being followed.”

A black cab had rolled by just moments before, and at the pace he had sprinted by, he was only fifty percent sure it was that same damn BMW that was parked on the kerb.

“It’s a small scary woman, she needed help with her case-”

“Johnny, are you running?”

“I’m being fucking serious right now-” a glance back revealed the car performing a stunted three-point turn. He ran through traffic halted at the junction, back onto the main street. “I can see the office, just- stay on the line.”

“I’m staying – I’ll come to the door.”

He swore he hadn’t sprinted so fast since sports day, as all the lactic acid in the world tried to burn a hole in his gut. In the distance, the door to the office peeled open, and his finish line was in sight. Simon had to step back, because he damned well wasn’t stopping in case he was sniped from afar, or whatever else might happen based on the action movie scenes playing on repeat in his head.

“Fucking hell, you look a right state,” Simon laughed, and ended the call. Johnny appreciated him doing so, for his voice was rattling into his head twice, and driving him even crazier than whatever the hell just happened.

He rushed to the bathroom, vomited, and then collapsed into the shallow basin of the shower fully clothed. Simon followed him. It seemed the gravity of the situation had finally struck him. “Johnny?”

“C’min,” he panted, fully aware he looked like a fool.

Simon shut the door gently behind him, and John clocked instantly the change in his face. “This woman… what did she look like?”

Simon Riley

Status: [Busy]

Three weeks had passed since the incident with the woman that they suspected to be Valeria. None of Johnny’s description, save for the height, olive skin, and dark bobbed haircut had matched her last known depiction, but in a way that worked against her. He had recounted that she spoke in an excitable accent, a hint of the West Coast, and was clumsy to the point of ridiculousness. The perfect act for someone usually so attuned and, well, not American. 

But why Johnny?

He wasn’t there in the meeting, and didn’t know the risks. In fact, Price had specifically asked Simon not to tell Johnny, or anybody outside of their ‘military circle’, save for Garrick who somehow weaselled his way into the boardroom. So, when it happened, Simon had commended him for spotting the potential breach, and for the lies he had told to navigate and remove himself from the situation. That was his Johnny boy alright, sharp as a tack. 

There was still something nagging in the corner of his mind, and it wasn’t the reaction to mentally referring to the man as his.

If that cab with the blacked-out windows was Valeria’s vehicle, then to have parked on that corner just in time for Johnny’s morning run meant she had been watching him. Or at least someone had been, for there’s no guarantee she was working alone. How much did she know? How far had she followed him? For how long?

Had it just been at work, then there wouldn’t necessarily be an issue. Anybody can see people coming and going from a building – it isn’t particularly dangerous or unusual. But if she knew where he lived? Knew the route he took home, or the bus he boarded, or the time he left late at night…

A phone call distracted his mental downward spiral.

“Simon,” Price’s voice came through the speaker, slight crunchiness of his tone a telling sign that he’d been smoking a little too much that morning. “How far out are you?”

He looked around, regarding the scenery he passed every day, and the first buds appearing on the sycamores. “About two minutes,” he confirmed, “why?”

“We’ve got trouble… Come to my office.”

“What trouble- Price? Hello?” He questioned into the void, as the man on the other end of the line had hung up as soon as he’d given the order.

Trouble was no good. There’s trouble like ‘the coffee machine has run out of tea bags’, and there’s trouble like ‘Valeria and her Cartel lackeys have raided the building and are holding hostages’. Trouble was not enough information on whether he could walk into the building, or if he needed to run in and check corners as he went.

He tried not to panic but picked up the pace despite the protestations of his leg.

It hit him like a din. There was no sobbing or screaming, so he assumed trouble type B was not the case, but people were loud. He didn’t even get to his desk to drop off his briefcase before being approached by a concerned Alejandro, wrinkles pressed deep into his forehead.

“It’s bad cabrón,” he started, and before he could elaborate was pulled away by the phone ringing off the hook. Rudy hovered nervously by his station, leaning in to catch the voice on the other end of Alejandro’s speaker.

“Simon…” The voice made him spin on the spot, and was probably the only person who could have stopped him from making it to Price’s office first thing. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Hey Johnny.” He grinned like an idiot for at least five seconds before realising the man before him was waiting for a response. Ignoring his own embarrassment, he turned to Price’s door as he spoke. “No idea, I’m about to find out.” 

“You’ll tell me yeah? I hate being out of the loop…”

He really had been shaken up by the incident with Valeria, despite the brave face he put on in Price’s office. Price had no choice but to tell him all the details after it happened, and the risk that might come with it.

“I’ll tell you,” Simon responded, but knew if Price swore against it, he would have to keep schtum. “Give me a few.”

He left Johnny to his mithering and entered through the door. Price was upright, reading glasses perched on the end of his crooked nose, shirt collar askew.

“You look like you got dressed in the dark,” Simon half-joked, and gestured to John’s shirt.

Price looked down, huffed, and started to fix himself up as he talked.

“Simon, we have a problem.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Eighteen accounts.”

“What about them?”

The man finished his faffing and picked up the paper he had cast aside moments ago. He handed it across the desk, and Simon took it up in his outstretched palm.

“We’ve lost eighteen accounts, including Hanley, Oscar, PlexGroup and Johnson International.”

“That can’t be right,” Simon scoffed as his eyes grazed the words on the paper. “I turned over seventy grand of stock last week with Johnson International, they bought the whole new line. Delivery to all branches…”

Price handed another paper his way. An invoice marked with RETURNED in a big red stamp, dated from yesterday.

“They rejected the invoice?”

“Yep,” the man groaned. “Outside of their usual trading hours, too.”

“You think-”

“I don’t think Simon, I know.”

A third piece of paper left Simon wondering how long Garrick had stood at the printer that morning. It was an email, sent in error to Price’s inbox that very morning. The subject line, INV202436-ALMASLTD .

Almas… Las Almas. There were three people he knew who that could relate to, and two of them had alibis by their presence in this room.

“Shit.”

The situation quickly became all hands on deck. Simon scarcely managed to fill Johnny in, giving him a quick sign not to worry, before he closed the door to his office. It had been a while since he’d done that, and the four walls of the room seemed cold and empty without the constant interruption of that daft Scottish accent.

He started making phone calls. They knew eighteen accounts had fallen off the books, but that wasn’t to say more wouldn’t follow. Then there were the traitors who jumped ship, and the begging which followed, asking them what it would take to get back their loyalty.

Money. It came down to the money.

Las Almas Construction LTD, as Simon discovered the new trading name of Valeria’s group, had undercut their prices by over forty percent. Unless the goods were made of melted down scrap or junk metal, they were selling at a loss. It made no sense, and as he reported back to Price, it hadn’t gone amiss to either of them that this was fishy.

“You think the higher ups are involved?” He had asked.

Price had responded with a frown. “There’s no way they can’t be… Not like this.”

Chapter Text

Simon Riley

Status: “Email reports on customer invoices as soon as received”

March had started with a thud, and then continued with several more, like riding a bike downhill over cobblestones. If he had much sensation left in them, Simon would joke that his balls ached from the blows, but jokes were sadly the last thing on his mind. In a way, that depressed him more than the situation at hand.

He was sick of the crisis talks, of the constant phone calls and the late nights. The late nights were fun when Johnny had been able to stay, but there wasn’t much he could do sitting in the corner of Simon’s office in silence as he made chase after chase call to his entire client roster.

Johnny had instead cooped himself up, keeping himself busy with random tasks, and drawing up designs for floats that nobody paid much mind to. In a rare moment of silence, the Scot had proposed that maybe now was the time to open to the domestic consumer market but was met with concerned grumbles and brushed off back to his closet.

So, nobody really noticed when he’d disappeared for a while. Not until Simon caught wind that he wasn’t in the office and asked him where the hell he was spending his time.

“Price rented me a workshop,” he had said on the phone, plainly.

“A… workshop?”

“For the float, duh. Keep up.”

“Right.”

With the way things were going, and Price stooping as low as buying single ply toilet paper for the management floor bathrooms, he was shocked that the man was pissing away money on something like this. He knew Price’s exact thoughts on the bloody business parade. The man basically only agreed to it because it was special to Farah, the only person other than Garrick who held any sort of sway with him.

MacTavish did not hold sway. It was probably the opposite of a soft spot, more like a calloused patch or just plain old sandpaper.

“It’s only a garage, but it’ll do. Was going to have to set up shop on the ops floor otherwise.”

“Right,” Simon repeated. “And Price has done this… because?”

“Dunno,” Johnny’s reply came, momentarily muffled by the clang of something large and metal hitting the ground, and the string of swear words that followed. “Probably to get me out from under yer’ feet.”

Simon didn’t like that. Sure, he’d been a little intense with the Valeria situation, and may have insisted in the week following the incident that Johnny be under the office version of an armed guard, but it was for good reason. He’d chilled out at least a little since then, although it still worried him to think of Johnny going alone on the bus, so as many nights as he could manage, he’d seen him off at the door before returning to his desk.

Maybe that was the problem.

“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it… You’ll call if there’s a problem right, Johnny?”

“Yeah,” he replied, distantly.

Their usual problem of finding a gap in the conversation to hang up the phone was seemingly not an issue today. Simon could tell he was ruminating on something, but there wasn’t the time nor the space for him to figure out what. The landline phone that sat on his desk had already rung out three times, and he could feel the unease building as his email inbox slowly flooded in his eyeline.

“Alright Johnny, I’ll see you around.”

John MacTavish

Status: “In the garage - call if u need me”

Bullshit. That’s what he thought of this whole situation. First, he’s left out of conversations, then he gets stalked by a potentially dangerous crazed woman, and then every suggestion he brings up whilst the place is going up in smoke is ignored, ridiculed, or both.

Even Simon had been ignoring him, although he wasn’t sure he realised. 

So, fuck ‘em, he was going to come to this shitty, half-furnished garage and play with what was essentially a glorified ride on mower until everything had blown over.

The “workshop” as he had sympathetically named it was only a street away from the office, tucked behind a ramshackle petrol station that had long since closed. On the other side, a large building swamped the small forecourt in front of the rollers and painted the stony frontage in a perpetual shadow. It was cold, of course, the first days of March being as unpredictable as they were, and so he’d wrapped himself in a few thick layers and stolen some fingerless gloves from whoever owned the place before.

“Right ye’ bucket of rust,” he muttered under his breath as he ratcheted a bolt in the engine. “It’s show time.”

Sure, he couldn’t legally drive a car, and he sure as hell wasn’t qualified to fix large, motorised vehicles, but that hadn’t stopped him in his youth. The move away from Glasgow was tough, at first, but there were a great many joys to living in the arse end of nowhere. The garden at the back of their rickety end terrace sprawled onto the old village green and was the perfect place for his dad’s many project cars, old junkers, and various pieces of dock equipment he’d agreed to service as a favour to his colleagues. 

Every time little John was by his side, with scrapes on his knees and grease smudged across his freckled face, eager to learn.

He'd driven his first car at thirteen, dad in the passenger seat, and three of mum’s decorative throw pillows under his buttocks so he could see over the steering wheel. 

The memory kept him still for a moment, before he shook his head to scramble it away. It wasn’t worth moping over his old man now, it’s not like tears would bring him back. But in his memory, he could at least fix up this busted engine and hope for the best.

One uncomfortable scramble into the ultra-low seat, and a turn of the ignition switch, the engine spluttered to life. Sure, it wasn’t exactly healthy sounding, but considering an hour ago the damn thing didn’t have a fat chance of starting, he was quite proud of his progress.

“You beauty,” he chuckled as he dismounted just as awkwardly.

His phone rang for a second time that morning, making an almighty racket as it vibrated against the metal toolbox lid he’d abandoned it on. Surely it wasn’t Simon again, not after he’d gotten about six words from him for the entire rest of the week. Probably a spam caller…

He wiped the oil from his brow as he eyed the screen. “Hello?”

“MacTavish,” Price’s voice crackled down the line. The reception was terrible in this area, with all the tall buildings swamping him. “How are things?”

“Uh… good.”

Why Price was taking time out of his overly busy schedule to ask him about his day, John would never know.

“I’ve just been looking at the HR system – you haven’t taken any of your annual leave since you joined. The rollover is in April so…”

That much was true, unfortunately. Even Simon had managed to use the remainder of his days with that venture he took before the ‘incident’.

“Yeah,” MacTavish replied, whilst scratching the stubble on his face. “I don’t really… Have a reason to be off. Can I not just roll the days over?”

From the other side of the line, he could hear Price yapping orders into the office with his hand poorly covering the speaker.

“Sorry about that,” he grunted. “No can do on the rollover. You’ve accrued ten days, so fit in two weeks leave before the first of April and you’re solid.”

Two weeks? What the hell was he meant to do for two weeks? It’s not like he had any family who were willing to see him, and what little money he’d saved he was ferociously saving so he could move out of the crack den he called home. Before he could argue back, Price had said his goodbyes and hung up the phone.

The room fell quiet. Not silent, with the ticking of the wall clock and the rumble from the street beyond, but quiet enough that he could hear his own thoughts again and all the nasty tongues they spoke in. He’d felt that tight sensation in his chest more and more frequently, and suddenly he was suffocating against the restriction of his own airway.

He was alone, and he’d be even more alone soon.

John left the garage dead on five, knowing full well the rest of the office would be there all night. He’d made decent progress on the chassis, enough to get the old girl in somewhat working order, but now home beckoned. It was only when he’d clocked himself in the reflective plexiglass of the bus stop that he realised just how long his hair had become. To call it a hawk was now a bit of a stretch, with the tips of the back reaching the tops of his shoulder blades. He’d been able to keep the shaved sides short and cropped but was sick of the nicks and cuts on his scalp which bled for far too long.

He needed a barber. Or rather, he needed his barber, and maybe his forced absence was exactly the push he needed to travel back home. No need to see his family of course, but he could catch up with a few old friends, run some errands, and finally pick up his dad’s wristwatch. Hell, he might as well see his dad – it had been a long while after all.

The bus pulled in, he scanned his ticket app, and then as he took his seat flicked through Airbnb until he found the dingiest, most budget-friendly property in the Wick area. He did wonder, as his hand hovered over the booking confirmation, whether to clarify with Simon that he’d be away for a week. But their usual after pints had been rudely interrupted as of late by this so-called-disaster disaster, and so he supposed the man wouldn’t miss him too much.

He paid for the lodgings and booked the several train tickets needed to get remotely near Wick. A long journey lay ahead.

The earliest train had departed at just gone 07:00, and with a few pit stops along the way, he’d arrived at Wick Station by dusk of that same day. It was only after he yanked his backpack over his shoulder, and departed through the one, double-doored exit to the station, that he realised even the first hurdle of meeting the lodging owner could be fraught with danger.

He was thankful that an older English couple greeted him at the door, and not one of his mother’s friends. Only time he’d ever be thankful to see an Englishman in these parts, especially ones scooping up cheap apartments in his hometown to turn into tourism money.

The place was small, but it scrubbed up nice enough. Then again, this review was coming from someone who had been living in a storage room with no windows for the past two months, so really, he’d have been happy anywhere. He saw off the overly forward English couple with a wave and kicked his boots off against the rickety shoe rack which stood by the door.

Home felt… strange.

It had been second nature when he stepped out of the station and walked the three streets it took to get to the quay. The property overlooked the sea front, which had been plastered all over the advertisement for the place, but John knew it wasn’t the nice, picturesque seaside that tourists would find themselves getting conned into. He knew that the upper window would face into the harbour itself, and the boats would bob and creak and shine bright lights throughout all hours. It didn’t bother him one bit, and instead he found himself drawing back the curtain, and admiring the big tankers swaying on the choppy water.

The Harbour Authority building was visible from the sitting room, but the days of running laps around old dockworkers’ feet whilst his dad pondered at the head desk had long since passed. Another small comfort that felt strangely alien to him now.

It was too late to make plans that night, but he found himself understandably ravenous from the journey. As these places often did have, a plethora of takeaway menus hung unceremoniously from their colourful thumb tacks on a gritty old corkboard. As he perused, he spotted an old favourite. The Great Wall, a menu which hadn’t changed in the past ten years. Perfection in a number 147 and an egg fried rice.

The TV aerial was shitty, and the takeaway was just as average as he remembered it, but the sound of the sea birds coming to roost was just enough to keep him from losing his mind as he tossed and turned on the lumpy mattress.

“Fuckin’ hell, that you Tav?”

Probably should have called ahead, as by the time he got to the barbers, it was heaving. The voice came from the dark-haired man at one of the chairs, who talked through gritted teeth around a comb.

“Alistair,” Tav replied, and nodded to a few other familiar faces who had turned to the door in disbelief. “You got time for me today?”

“No,” the man laughed. “But look at the state of ye’ – I cannae have ye’ leave my door in that condition mate.”

John smirked, very much used to the earfuls he got from the man any time he let his hair grow out. It was an hour’s wait, but he didn’t mind after being led to the singular basin in the barbershop, which he did consider a luxury. Alistair rambled on about nothingness as he massaged a generic, manly-smelling shampoo into his scalp, and John remembered all the times he would come here following a breakup just to feel this sensation. Not that he’d tell him that, of course, because to him this was just work. To John, tactile human touch was everything.

It was over as soon as it started, and he felt himself dozing slightly to the sound of the clippers running clean and injury-free lines over his poor, battered fades. Alistair remarked about the smattering of self-inflicted injuries behind his ears, but John paid him no mind. Then the cut, which he performed to his usual, high standards, and an expert application of that perfectly crisp salon-grade gel.

“Look more like yer’self now,” Alistair snorted as he thumbed the fee into the till’s worn buttons. “Don’t let it get that bad again – almost thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth with how long it’s been.”

“Well, I moved out.”

“Aye,” he replied absent mindedly, and John assumed he hadn’t heard what he’d said. “Stupid fuckin’ thing...”

He glanced out of the window whilst Alistair fought a losing battle with the cash drawer. The sky had been ominously dark that morning, and the scent of the sea lingered heavily, as if a storm was due. But that could just be his imagination, and the fact that the only thing barraging his nostrils as of late had been the choking aroma of smog and car exhaust.

“Your folks doing well?”

John turned back. “What?”

“Your mam, how is she?”

“She… I don’t know.”

The drawer finally opened with an almighty crash, knocking the unsuspecting barber in the bollocks and sending him reeling. John, half in pity and half in avoidance of the conversation, asked him to keep the change and began to say his goodbyes.

“Oh, and Alistair? If you see my mam- or Jack- I’m not here yeah?”

The man’s face was still warped in reaction to the pain, but he gave a thumbs up of acknowledgement, which was just about enough for John to leave.

He was limitlessly thankful for the whip of cold air that smacked him right across the face. It was November when he fled the town, and now, in the midst of March, did people even know he was gone? Did they know that he’d not exactly parted on the best of terms with his mother and that English prick? That stinks of her doing, trying to paint herself in a better light. Can’t polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter as the saying goes…

Time stretched far beyond him as he realised he’d already completed one of only three errands he had to do in the five days he had booked into the accommodation. He could always go for a walk, or grab a pint, or text a few friends, but there was something ominous about that interaction in the barber’s that had made him want to just lay low.

He grabbed a coffee to go from one of his old haunts, but the young lad behind the counter must have been barely eighteen, and so there was nobody to recognise him as he swiftly dashed back outside with his scratchy paper cup.

A buzz from his pocket.

Strangely, he hadn’t thought of Simon yet today. The man had occupied at least twenty percent of his brain capacity since he first spoke to him in December, so that was certainly unusual. Perhaps it was the sea air. Perhaps he knew he didn’t belong in Manchester.

Si, 09:56: Didn’t tell me you were going on leave.

His eyes skimmed the message, and then rolled in his skull.

Tav :), 09:59: Pot calling kettle, Si…

As his thumb hit send, he realised perhaps the scathing remark was too harsh, however true it was. Simon had needed to work through some shit, whereas John just needed a haircut, and was being forced to do so against his will.

He softened the blow with a selfie, tongue lolled out like a dog, grey sky encompassing the background. Simon replied with a thumbs up, and killed the conversation with that one, yellow emoji. 

No comment on his hair? The weather? No sarcastic joke, or arsehole behaviour?

It crossed his mind to call, but a glance at the time made him disregard the thought. Simon would be buried deep in client calls and paperwork, and there was not much point in listening to him grunting about numbers and making vague noises of agreement whilst he clearly wasn’t paying attention.

“Whatever…” He mumbled aloud to himself and made haste back to the accommodation.

“Hey dad.”

This had always felt stupid, even when they had just put him in the damn ground. His mum had told him to say a few words as they lowered the casket, but he had just stood in a bleary-eyed silence, words all caught up in his throat.

“Life’s been interesting.”

He can’t exactly care. If he had a soul, not that John believed in that sort of thing, it would long have fucked off up to heaven or however it’s meant to go.

“Met a guy. He’s a good friend. Kinda… wish he was more.”

It caused him to grimace, saying those words out loud. Funny that his dead dad was the only person he’d actually come out to, not long after the first incident with Jack. With everyone else, it was just an accident, or gossip, or some horrible, traumatic experience.

“Work is busy. Got that office job you always wanted me to get… It’s hard to fit in- feels like I’m not wanted- or needed, I’m not sure.” He stopped for a moment and crouched down on his haunches. “They’ve got me fixing up an old kart right now, for one of them parade floats. Got her working near good as new, she’s gonna be a beauty. Using everything you taught me.”

A gust of wind nearly knocked him over. The cemetery wasn’t exactly the prettiest of places, no church or old stone surrounding the vast collection of headstones. Over the low, concrete wall the main road rumbled, and the lights of the Argos superstore shone brightly through the fog which had hung low over the town that morning.

“Jesus, dad,” he said with a grimace. “I wish I’d have gotten you out of this place… You were right. More to life than this.”

Which was the first time that had ever slipped from his mouth. He wore it like a badge of honour most days, being a rough lad from a small town and proud of it. It was something not many folks understood, or cared to understand, that limit you force upon yourself like a barrier. It’s not like John didn’t have ambition. Hell, when he was a wee lad, he was convinced he’d be playing for Inverness in the Premier League and upsetting the Old Firm. Maybe he feared growing up. Maybe it was the reluctance to move on, as he watched all those people that he considered friends in school leaving for new lives, better lives, and he could only stay and watch, staunchly opposed to the idea.

He pondered for a while, and only stood when his legs began to shake from the strain of crouching, and totally not because of the sickened feeling in his stomach that he didn’t belong here, or that in the space of five minutes his whole world view had shifted.

The goodbye he said to his father was brief, for he’d run out of words to say whilst nobody listened.

Whilst navigating the exit to the cemetery, he heard a right ruckus coming from the roadway. It was a car, pulled up on the roadside, honking several times. There hadn’t been an accident, he’d have heard it if there was, so why?

John rounded the corner, before hearing his own name.

“Tav!” That voice was so familiar, if not older than before. He tried to pretend he hadn’t heard, but visibly jumped when the car’s horn sounded again, and found his cover rumbled. “Get over here!”

He sighed deeply and turned to the shitty yellow Golf. It only took him a second to traverse the grassy banking, but it felt like hours with the inhabitants of the car watching him with beady eyes.

“Tom…” Ex-boyfriend, resident heartbreaker, and the one that started all his problems with Jack. “Sorry, I don’t think I’ve met-”

Tom grinned and turned around to the baby sitting in the back seat, completely neglecting to introduce the female passenger who was, presumably, the kid’s mother. She was just a wee thing, probably not even a year old. “This here is Amelia, say hi sweetheart.”

Amelia gargled and squirmed in her car seat in what John merited to be a response. He had nothing to say to this man, or his family in extension, and more than anything he wanted to just leave.

“Mam is gonna be chuffed to bits you’re in town – have you been to the café?”

“I- uh… I went yesterday. She wasn’t in.”

“Yeah, my brother helps there some weekdays. You’ve got to stop by,” he rattled on, ignorant of John’s discomfort. “I’ll even let her know you’re coming, get her to make some extra tablet aye?”

“Don’t!” He started, too urgently. “I uh, I’m here as a surprise, laying low and all that.”

“Ohh okay, right.”

Tav scratched his chin, the scar gently raised beneath his fingers a reminder of why he couldn’t be seen around. “I’ll see you around anyways,” he finally managed, and ignored whatever babbling the man followed up with.

Shit.

This wasn’t good.

He’d expected to run into a few people he knew, after all, it was impossible not to. But Mrs. Baird had no filter and knew nearly every person in town. If she found out, everyone would find out, his mother included.

The journey back was made with his hood pulled over his ears, despite the funny looks from residents over the age of seventy. He had to get off the streets, and quickly. The route passed the coffee shop in question, so he quickly dipped across the road and strode behind a parked-up work van. Mission success. Then, as if he’d never been outside, he slipped through the painted blue door and back inside his current cocoon of safety.

Sleep found him quickly, and unwillingly. He’d only lay on the bed to make use of the short wire of his phone charger, but the emotional rollercoaster he’d spent the past two days riding had knocked him for six, and his eyes had become heavy before he could move to stop them.

The bang on the door was loud enough to wake the devil, and John reacted in part as he jumped directly up to his feet from where he was half-hanging from the mattress. A nauseous sensation washed over him. It’s not the first time his door had nearly been thrown off its hinges by a knock like that, or the first time he’d awoken from a slumber with his adrenaline running so high that he could throw a punch within seconds.

It could be nobody else.

As a second barrage of knocks came, he checked his phone. Of course, his mother’s number had been blocked from the moment he left the house, but he could still assess the damage by the fourteen other texts sent by various peers, old neighbours, and even one from Martha at Crown Bar where he still hadn’t settled his last tab…

“Shit…”

“JOHN!” Came an all too familiar shriek of a voice. “Please, open the door!”

He should have stayed outside of the town and caught one of what felt like only three trains which arrived every day. Hell, he could even have camped out by the road with a pack and a pop-up tent. But hindsight is a wonderful thing, and he had chosen to plead ignorance to this situation being a possibility.

“Your mother is speaking to you!” Came a second voice, with that accent that made him never want to step foot in the city of Birmingham. “Get down here you ungrateful cunt!”

That caused infighting between them, and clearly, they hadn’t discussed their angle of approach. John listened from behind the doorway for long enough to overhear Jack storming away, yelling something about waiting for her in the pub.

Now or never, he supposed.

He waited just enough time for Jack to have entirely vacated the premises, and then opened the door part-way. The woman who stood before him obviously hadn’t aged egregiously in the time he had been gone, but her face looked a little sallower, and her usual, blond-dyed hair had grown out by a few inches at least revealing greying, brunette roots.

“Mother.”

“John,” she gasped, and surged forward, stopped only by the door. “Will you please talk to me?”

“You’re not giving me much of a choice,” he grunted in response. “What do you want?”

“I just want tae know you’re safe baby,” she cooed.

He didn’t buy her act. She never wanted to know he was safe after spending six hours getting stitches in Caithness General Hospital, or when he’d end up missing for a day or two, sleeping on some dodgy mate’s couch.

“I’m safe now I’m away from that bastard.”

“Don’t talk about him like that- he’s just passionate.”

John scoffed, to his mother’s disdain. “Mam, he’s a bigoted arsehole.”

“He just has his own views love, that’s all.”

“Aye, and now I’ve got permanent facial scarring – did you forget about that?” 

She seemed to back down for a moment, and John thought that perhaps she was prepared to admit her mistakes.

“You know he didn’t mean it love; he was just shocked. It’s one thing seeing… that on the telly, but under his roof? It was different.”

He stood there slack jawed, listening to the same old tripe she’d told him a hundred times before. It was worse this time though, having not heard it in a while. Before he’d grown accustomed to it, and the words meant nothing.

Now, the words hurt.

“There was no that mum, I wasn’t exactly taking a cock up my arse-”

She gasped at the vulgarity and steadied herself against the railing of the front step. Ironic really, as Jack dropped words far more vulgar in normal, everyday conversation.

“John- that is not how I raised you.”

“You’ll get over it,” he replied, and began to shut the door.

“Wait! I just need you to see my side of things, please love-”

Her side of things, which usually framed herself as the victim, were the least of his concerns. But, if this was the last time he’d ever see her, he supposed he better hear her out.

“Jack was there for me when John died, you know that.” The waffle had started out strong, as big blobs of mascara pooled in the corner of her eyes and threatened to fall at any moment. “He put a roof over your head John, can you not see that?”

“Dad put that roof over our head. Damn house was nearly paid off.”

“And we’d have lost it if not for Jack – your dad sure wasn’t bringing in any money by-”

“By the time he died?” The word lashed his throat as he spoke it. “Of fucking- cancer mum? What more did you want him to do?”

She was agitated now, and it showed in the frantic waving of her hands. “It was hard for me as well! I lost my husband!”

“Well,” John laughed bitterly, and his mouth tasted like iron, “you found a new one soon enough. I’ll never get my dad back.”

Clearly, he won that part of the argument, since she now circled wildly back to his sexuality.

“You like girls, love. Why can you not just find a nice lass and settle down? I want a couple of wee bairns running about the place, they can come visit their grammy-”

“Listen to me.” It had been a long time coming when he finally snapped. But he wasn’t loud or violent when he spoke, his voice instead unexpectedly calm. “I don’t know who you’ve become since you met that man – the mum who raised me would love me regardless. I’ll love whoever I want tae love, and if I ever do have kids, they will not step foot in your house with that man still there. You understand that?”

“You don’t mean that-”

“I mean it, mum. Every word. Your husband is a violent, abusive narcissist and if you think I would expose children to him, you’re just as crazy as he is.”

“John-”

“I’m disappointed in you. I really thought you would apologise.” The words flowed into the space between them but left a silence in their wake. No apology followed, as he sighed and took a step back from the gap in the door, armed to close it. “It’s time to leave now.”

After the door closed, she sobbed, yelled, and banged on the wood. John felt the shakes set in, and soon enough he had slid down the back of it until his backside met the dusty wooden floorboards. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but after a while the noise outside was gone.

It was only one in the afternoon, but it felt as if the day had lasted forever.

He picked up his phone, to see more texts from people he knew. Knew was the operative word. Who on this list cared about him? They certainly hadn’t when he’d appear on nights out with black eyes and bruised knuckles. There was one man he could turn to, and he was too tied up to bother.

Still, John called.

“Johnny?”

It took him a moment to get the words to form, and it was a moment he didn’t have, as he could hear the ringing of the desk phone in the background.

“Sorry, I know yer’ busy, doesn’t matter…”

Something in his voice clearly gave him away.

“You okay? Has something happened?”

John laughed. It was something, alright. “Yeah I uh… My family found where I was staying. Came to chew me out.”

“Fuck,” Simon started, and there was a great clattering on the other side as if he’d dropped something. “Are you hurt? Was that prick there?”

“No, no I’m not hurt… He left when I refused to come out. But I spoke with my mum and- yeah.”

“Are you coming home?”

“I- I don’t know… I need to run a few more errands.”

“Alright, you’ll stay safe yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go, hang tight-”

It was nice to hear his voice. His new normal, he supposed. But the attempt was futile, for the man was nearly five hundred miles away, and there was nothing he could do.

Johnny didn’t leave the house after that. He ignored the texts from old friends, and instead flicked the telly onto some reruns channel and ate what little scraps of Chinese he had left in the fridge. He was scared, truth be told, that Jack would still be about. Worse even knowing he was getting pissed at the local. 

At least here he could barricade the door if push came to shove.

Chapter Text

John MacTavish

Status: [Offline]

Somewhere between his fourth nap and Countdown, his phone rang again. He wasn’t exactly in a rush to pry the damn thing out from under his arse. The majority of people who had his number had expedited themselves to the “do not answer” list following today’s events.

He caught it before the final ring. It was Simon.

“Hey,” he groaned, “thought you’d still be at work.”

“I need your current location.”

Johnny rolled onto his side, and peeled himself from the sticky pleather of the sofa. “What? Why?”

“Got a surprise coming for ya’, now give me the location.”

He rattled off the postcode and the house number without hesitation, but wasn’t sure exactly what he had to be prepared for. If it was a delivery, he hoped he didn’t know the postman.

Simon wasn’t any more forthcoming. The only instruction after a moment’s silence was, “give it ten minutes.”

John found himself by the small mirror, as he attempted to smudge away the dark circles that had enveloped his eyes in recent days. He grabbed the key from the table and waited by the door for this apparent delivery. Was it flowers? Dinner? There wasn’t even an inkling in John’s mind as to what could be in store for him.

Until he heard the bike.

In disbelief, he stared at the time on his phone. He’d called the man just past 13:00, and the time now was only 20:00. From Manchester, it was an eight-and-a-half-hour drive. The brief touch-up in the mirror he’d done for the delivery man now seemed insufficient.

The sound came to a delicious, rumbling stop outside. He could barely see through the peephole, the unwashed glass obscured by God knows how many months of dirt and sea salt. One final straightening up of his clothes, and he opened the door before Simon even had a chance to knock. He cringed slightly at how desperate that seemed, but the blond didn’t seem to care as he kicked his leg over the bike and dismounted.

“My arse is killing me,” he grunted after he removed his helmet.

The offhanded comment in place of a hello made him laugh, and a grin spread across his face for the first time since he’d been back here. “You’ve got a way with words, Si.”

John was about to continue with some other stupid joke, or a comment on Simon’s helmet hair, but he didn’t get the chance. Instead, he found himself scooped up in an instant, into a hug which would be hard to escape if he tried.

He didn’t try.

Sometimes John would act tough. He’d pretend everything was fine, when clearly it was not. But not today. It had been a long damn time since he’d received an honest to goodness hug, and he snatched up the opportunity without a word.

He didn’t know when he started to cry, and although he acknowledged Simon’s shirt was likely getting the full brunt of the snot and tears, he didn’t let go. Unbothered, Simon brought him closer, until his strong arms formed a protective shield around the younger man’s body.

For years now, this hurt. He finally had space to cry about it.

“S’alright Johnny boy, I’ve got you.”

The weight of his body buckled his already shaken knees, and he fell further, until Simon was the only thing holding him upright. This man. This ridiculous man. This man who had clearly broken several traffic laws and abandoned his work to come to him. The man who wrangled him back inside, and placed him down onto the sofa, and immediately started taking care of business.

When a warm cup of coffee was placed into his hands, possibly ill-advised at this time of night, he finally caught his breath.

“Sorry…”

Simon clocked the back of his head with the embroidered tea towel. “Don’t be daft.”

The entire sofa shifted when he took his seat on the opposite end, petite teacup swamped inside his large hands. “You cut your hair.”

“I basically came back here to see my barber…” He only half joked, before he struck a pose. “What do you think?”

Simon seemed to genuinely consider the question but responded only with a long sip of his brew.

“Do you not like it?”

“Looks tidy,” he nodded, before Johnny kicked his leg for more information. “I liked it long.”

Johnny scoffed. “You said it looked stupid before!”

“It grew on me,” the blond replied, with a chuff of air almost as if he didn’t believe what he was saying.

It dawned on Johnny that they were in a house, an actual house, and not the four small walls of his storage unit. They were sharing a sofa, drinking tea, and Simon’s feet had mounted the coffee table whilst they paid a small dose of attention to the quiz show playing in the background. Surely this went beyond the means of an average friendship. 

“Why did you come…?” He finally brought himself to ask.

Simon exhaled a laugh again, eyes set not on John, but at the small amount of tea left in the bottom of his cup. The Scot watched his expression closely. It seemed as if he was trying to think of some excuse, like he knew that this was excessive.

“Could just tell you needed me,” he finally responded. “And I… wanted to help.”

Johnny pushed again, and this time, made sure to catch Simon’s eye. “Couldn’t have waited for me to get back?” 

“Jesus,” he exclaimed, and stood up to avoid the pointed gaze John had thrown his way. “Just ridden seven hours to see ya’ and you’re already fuckin’ annoying. What was I thinking?”

“Aw c’mon, don’t be like that…”

As expected, to imply anything more than the service of a friend was one push too far. But that didn’t hide the gentle flush that occupied the man’s pale cheeks, or the fact that he paced the kitchen without purpose to hide that fact.

“Anyways,” Simon interrupted, no longer satisfied with moving the same few dishes around. “We’ve got work to do.”

“What?”

“Yer’ a fighter, aren’t you? Let’s go put the world to rights.”

Johnny tripped on his ascent from the sofa, still not entirely recovered from the weight of the world falling on his shoulders. “I’m not… fighting my mum.”

Simon sighed. “Figure of speech you dolt, now put your shoes on.”

Simon Riley

Status: “Family emergency - OOO”  

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .

As he blasted down the A74 going far too fast, he realised this might seem crazy. Then a second time, as he pulled up on the roadside outside Johnny’s hometown, he realised this may possibly even scootch into stalker territory.

Johnny had of course told him the name of the place in prior conversation, but would a coworker remember a detail like that? A friend? Sure, their friendship had grown considerably in a short amount of time, but even so – he could barely remember Price’s address without checking his phone book.

When the door opened, fake smile plastered on his face, it wasn’t hard to tell how much he was hurting. Underneath that tough exterior, the cracks began to show. But other people seemed to ignore the cry for help that pressed deeply into the skin beneath his eyes, dark and morbid circles.

Not the first time he’d felt that weight, the full-on press of a broken man into his chest. There were plenty of soldiers, young, old, it didn’t matter, who just needed to let go like that. All of them the same afterwards though, embarrassed apologies, avoidance, hell, even anger. It wasn’t unusual for a fight to break out moments after a firm clap on the shoulder, or a squeeze of an arm.

Johnny wasn’t a soldier.

He was a fighter, that’s for sure. But despite that exterior, there was something that begged for someone to hold him and not let go. To care for him, unlike anybody had cared before.

Simon cared. Too damn much.

The questions were clearly pointed, but it’s not like Simon hadn’t had those thoughts himself. Had thought it on the way here, and as Johnny’s snotty nose had been pressed into his pecs, and as he made him coffee exactly how he liked it. But now wasn’t the time to talk about those things. Now he needed to fix Johnny up, without thinking about how he missed looking at him this week, or how nice he smelled when his chin was buried somewhere in his chest.

“Where can we get a drink around here?” He started, as he tugged off his leathers to change into the few clothes he’d stuffed into his backpack.

Johnny did his best impression of a goldfish, where his mouth flapped, and no sound came out. He did that quite often. Simon didn’t know whether he knew he was doing it.

“If you’re worried about that cunt being around, remember I’ve got a knack for making people disappear.”

“You can’t disappear my mam’s husband.”

“He doesn’t need to know that though, I’ll just threaten him a bit.”

Johnny seemed to relent at last, and insisted on also getting changed, which ended with him stripped down to his boxers in the living room.

“You’ve got no shame,” Simon joked. Really, if not for the scars and the leg he was still insistent on hiding, he would have done just the same.

The man grinned back at him. “I’ve nothing to be ashamed about.”

It infuriated him that he was so right, and that he had to try hard to not let his eyes stray downwards to his skinny-fit boxer briefs.

When he’d arrived it was already dark, and with his sat-nav sending him on some questionable roads through the town he hadn’t really had a chance to check out the scenery. But now, as Johnny took charge, and led him through winding roads along the harbourside, he could finally admire the place’s… quaint charm.

The area Simon grew up in was, as others would describe it, rough. Moss Side, inner Manchester. But as most places in the inner city had been, money was pumped in, the ruffians priced out, and now it just looked like any other more impoverished borough.

But here, it was as if the town had never changed.

He’d never been, of course, but the lime on the walls of houses peeled and chipped, and the ruins of buildings half-demolished lined common, residential streets. It wouldn’t fly in the city. The more he looked, the more he understood Johnny’s chip on the shoulder attitude. They were all too alike, in some ways.

As they approached the pub, John hesitated. It looked like any village local, a little rough, but nothing Simon hadn’t seen before.

“Jack was out earlier, when me and mum...” He trailed off before finishing the sentence and instead peered through the window nervously. “He might still be here.”

“If you see him, point him out to me.”

Simon wasn’t usually one for inciting trouble, but he wanted more than anything for that prick to be standing on the other side of the door. No such luck. After a tense moment with the barmaid, as Johnny fumbled to pay money he owed from past visits, they settled in a quiet corner.

It wasn’t as private as he liked. Not when every fucker in the pub came to talk to the man at his side, who dropped more tension from his shoulders with every sunken pint. Nobody questioned him, and nobody was hostile. They just wanted to talk to John and “the big fella”.

Which was fine by him, so long as Johnny was happy.

He needed him a little drunk for the next step. Not sozzled, just nicely steamed.

“Eggs?”

“Glad your ears are working.”

“Why eggs?”

The two of them sauntered to the only open shop in town. In town was perhaps not the best locational description, as it was the big Tesco on the town’s outskirts. Still, Johnny seemed happy for the fresh air and the company.

“Mischief.”

The Scot gave him a mean side eye, but didn’t complain otherwise.

“Oh c’mon, you’re not telling me you never egged someone’s house.”

“I mean yeah… But not since we were about fourteen.”

“Egg -sactly.” He scoffed. “They’ll never assume it was us.”

“Fucking hell…” Johnny reeled at the joke, but it didn’t stop that little gleam in his eye that told Simon he was ready.

Nobody questioned two grown men and their purchase of twenty-four eggs. Maybe they really fancied an omelette, or a spot of late night baking. The store was practically closing around them as they made their escape back into the night.

“Mum’s a light sleeper,” Johnny warned. “And Jack keeps his golf clubs by the door.”

“Rapid fire Johnny, we’ll lob them all before they can even crawl out of bed.”

“What if they recognise us?”

“Recognise you? That could be trouble. But me? Not like they know me… And don’t give me shit about the police – I’m already wanted in three countries.”

“Wait what-”

“Shh,” Simon whispered, as they rounded the street that Johnny had thumbed hastily into the navigation app on Simon’s phone. “Put yer’ hood up, and put this on.”

Simon yanked the mask from his face and hooked it around Johnny’s ears. He hoped the man hadn’t noticed the longing expression which crept onto his exposed features, as he brushed a stray lash from Johnny’s freckled cheek. The mask looked funny on him, and the hood which obscured the majority of his face didn’t help. He was made to be seen, not hidden. That’s why he was so fucking beautiful-

“Shit,” Johnny grunted, and ducked behind a fusty coloured Dacia parked up on the kerb. “That’s Jack.”

The dimly lit street obscured his vision for a moment, as he shuddered away the thought of having to visit the opticians. But then, stumbling like a newborn deer, came a stocky, bald twat in too-tight jeans.

“That’s him?” He questioned, not intending to doubt or belittle obvious fear of the man crouched at his side, but seriously contemplating how he had managed to ever square up to Johnny in the first place. “You could knock him out with your pinky, Johnny.”

“And I have,” he grumbled, “but doesn’t win you any favours with your mam when you knock her fella about.”

“He’s not looking so steady,” Simon pointed out, as the man tripped over his own feet and nearly barrelled into a neighbour’s hedge. “Is he always drunk like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Heh, watch this.”

If he hadn’t joined the military, he might have made a half decent cricket player. Something he used to enjoy on their downtime in dusty, far-out strips of nothingness. Anywhere with enough room for a set of wickets, a bit of space to run, and no glass windows.

The egg’s shape was unusual, obviously. Couldn’t exactly perfect a spin bowl with a form that wasn’t round. The yolk bobbed around as an unruly counterweight inside the precious shell, daring him to try regardless. Without second thought, he accepted the challenge of the tricky yellow blighter.

His first throw whiffed the man’s head by an inch, and that was only because he bent half-over, as if he was about to hurl. Simon tutted, and grumbled some excuse about the wind blowing the wrong way, completely cognisant of the blue eyes fixed on his form. He wanted to know what the man was thinking, other than that he’s a lunatic.

The second egg cracked across the man’s broad chest, and he stumbled backwards, as his hands grabbed and smeared the gooey mixture which ran down his shirt. Simon thought that one would do it. If that egg were a bullet, that would be a fatality.

Somehow, whether he’d not realised that he was being pelted with poultry projectiles, or he just didn’t care, he carried on walking.

“Like the goddamn walking dead,” Simon laughed. 

A glance to his side showed the shorter man fraught with anticipation, and perhaps a little fear. Sure, to Simon this was like a poorly done CGI horror film, but to him, this was his waking nightmare.

Lucky number three. The last egg soared through the air and cracked him dead across the mush. It could have been the shock that did it, or perhaps the fact that an egg to the face at high speed is quite painful, but finally the man collapsed.

“Nighty night,” Simon chuckled.

Johnny stared directly at him. “You know, you’re actually a massive nerd.”

He was temporarily dismayed that Johnny hadn’t appreciated his cracking headshot. For a moment, he might have even pouted, although he wouldn’t tell anybody that.

“Somehow it makes you more attractive,” he finally added.

Simon laughed again. He had plenty of words to describe himself, funny, stubborn, or honestly a bit of an arsehole. Attractive never made that list, and coming from Johnny, it felt like fire running up the back of his neck.

“That’s just the beer goggles,” he joked with a punch. “Come on, got the rest of these eggs to use up.”

It was like a mission as he weaved between cars, and checked every few moments that the old geezer didn’t wake up. He took point first as Johnny let a barrage of eggs sail up the wall, and made damn well sure to get them in all the tricky bits. The adrenaline reminded him of the good old days, only then it was more life or death rather than the risk of a wrist slap by some understaffed local police department. He then cannonballed a couple of eggs onto the roof, making sure the yolks ran down into the gutter where they’d get nice and warm by morning.

Then, when both cartons were out of ammo, he turned to the man by his side.

“Roses?” He asked and pointed to the immaculately trimmed bushes which were admittedly still a little sparse with winter’s passing.

Johnny nodded. “Mam’s favourite, why?”

“I gotta take a leak…”

He waited for the response, which could have either been mortification or howling laughter. Thankfully, after a worrying pause, it was the second.

“Jesus fucking Christ Simon,” the man snorted, “you’re a right minger.”

Simon let out the last of his pints all over the thorny bushes and laughed as he did. He felt like a kid again, getting caught in the neighbour’s garden and jumping the fence, playing stupid games and winning stupid prizes. If the prize this time was Johnny, he’d hit the fucking jackpot.

“Zip up,” Johnny gasped through his laughter, “Jack’s waking up.”

He probably waited a bit too long, but his bladder wasn’t young anymore, and once he got going there wasn’t much he could do to stop. But a quick buckle up, and he was away like a whippet, following Johnny as the two of them cackled. 

His socket hurt from the run. Sure, he could run on his prosthetic if needed, but he had a blade for that. Part of him understood why Alex wore his full time, on display. It made the silicone and steel seem just as human as the rest of him.

“Let’s sit somewhere,” he finally panted out, not willing to complete the eight-hour journey back with a bum leg.

Johnny teased him, naturally. “Out of puff already, old man?”

“I’m really not that old,” he replied, somewhat a beg for him to drop the misconception. 39 is the new 29, after all. “You try getting exploded and see how your joints hold up.”

The man took him an annoyingly long way to say he wanted to sit down, but as they rounded the corner, he realised it was worth it. It was a quiet spit of land, some small houses and businesses dotted about, but not much else. Probably because it could all fall into the ocean at any moment, the cliff below them a sheer and stark reminder that they were at the edge of the country.

“Go on then grandpa,” Johnny teased again, and the punch against his shoulder felt like fireworks.

“Seriously, I’m not that old…”

“Well, you never told me a number!”

“You said you were guessing!”

Johnny’s smile lit up the dark between them, metaphorically at least. It was addictive, and Simon was an addict. But he couldn’t let himself cling to that, not with the power it would take to turn him away.

He lit up a cigarette instead, the orange glow burning brighter than that flash of white teeth.

“You’re not forty yet,” Johnny surmised. “Can’t be, not acting like that.”

“Lotta big kids out there Johnny.” Simon replied and smirked a little. “But you’re correct.”

“You’re forty soon?”

“Too soon.”

“Next year?”

“I wish,” he exhaled. “This year, October.”

He knew the creases beside his eyes gave him away, and the grey hairs which flecked in-between his natural blond. Really, he was surprised he kept the colour for so long, especially with the stress.

Johnny smiled. He didn’t seem put off by the decade and change which separated them.

“Twenty-seven soon,” he said matter-of-factly.

Simon dreaded the end of the cigarette, although he could always light another at the risk of a telling off. It was the only thing keeping him from leaning closer. “How soon?”

The man pulled out his phone. 23:57.

“Erm, three minutes.”

He choked on his own breath, or maybe a speck of ash went the wrong way. He wasn’t sure. “The fuck did you not mention that for?”

Johnny seemed to shift uncomfortably. “Not a big fan of my birthday.”

“You don’t say…” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck . The cherry of his cigarette caught his fingers, and he flicked it to the ground instinctively. “Wish you’d have told me sooner, would have brought you a gift at least.”

“Today’s been more than enough,” Johnny laughed, and then sighed. He could see the man’s eyes had settled on the time as it ticked down another minute.

“So…” Simon stalled, trying to stem the tide of what he knew he was going to do. Had to do. What other choice did he have? “What, uh, what did you want for your birthday.”

“I’m nae a kid, Simon,” Johnny reprimanded. “Don’t need a gift.”

23:59.

Fuck it.

His hand moved, instinctively, until it cupped the man’s sturdy jaw and turned it. He’d already leaned closer, but not close enough as to trap the man unwillingly. The space wasn’t necessary. He knew Johnny wanted this. He knew he wanted it. It was this unspoken thing between them, with every touch, laugh and tease.

“Happy birthday Johnny,” he whispered, unsure whether his voice could still be low and sweet after all these years.

They crashed together like savages, fuelled by booze, adrenaline, and the thoughts of aging and their own impending doom. Johnny kissed well. Too well. Simon was all teeth and bumped noses, but surprisingly, the younger man didn’t seem to care. It was almost as if he was into it, the desperation and the loss of control. So much so that it wasn’t long before he’d scooted closer still, and then climbed onto Simon’s lap, where he straddled his strapping thighs and pressed close.

It could have been an hour, locked in each other’s lips. In reality, it was ten minutes, but neither of them counted. They broke free, then unsatiated, returned desperately for more. Simon’s hands ran up Johnny’s back, admiration of the strength he carried under the fabric of his shirt, and then up into his hair where his fingers searched longingly for those longer locks which had run down his back days before. He felt the man shiver beneath the gentle touch.

Only after the headlights of a passing car caught them in their moment of bliss did Johnny finally relent his position. In the only way they both knew how; they laughed to break the silence.

“Suppose… Maybe birthdays aren’t so bad,” Johnny sighed, as they departed the bench.

Simon barged him gently with his shoulder. “Didn’t leave me much choice, I’d have bought you a pair of slippers otherwise.”

Johnny’s cheeks were flushed, which Simon almost couldn’t believe. Surely, he of all people didn’t feel embarrassment. “Preferred that gift much more,” he said with a smile.

They didn’t speak on the way back to the accommodation, nor was there a further attempt to get close. Although, on the few times their fingers accidentally brushed, or when Johnny swayed gently into him, he relished the contact.

“You take the bed,” Johnny demanded. “Your old man bones can’t deal with sleeping on the settee.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Johnny wasn’t exactly wrong. His arse was still sore from the long ride, and running about like a delinquent had not helped.

“I’d offer to top and tail… but I don’t want to boot you in the gob.”

“You get nightmares?” 

Well, he caught onto that one surprisingly quickly. Part of him wanted to deny it, but it was probably better he knew, in case he woke up with a yell. “Sometimes, yeah.”

“You want me to wake you up, or is it best to leave you?”

“If you want to get pinned into an armlock, you can always try.”

“Hm,” Johnny ruminated. “Actually tempting…”

They parted with a whisper of goodnight, as Simon closed the door of Johnny’s temporary room. It was a feeling he wasn’t used to, sharing a space with another, and his stomach turned at the thought of Johnny entering whilst he didn’t have his guard up. 

It was just a leg. 

It was just scars.

It was imperfect, and Johnny deserved more.

Damn thoughts ate away at him as he removed the socket from his limb and shifted the stretchy cotton sock which helped keep everything situated. The numbness was sometimes a blessing. Alex mentioned the searing pain, ghost-like, in the calf that was no longer there.

Johnny wouldn’t care – he’s not the type of person who cared about those things. He couldn’t rid himself of that doubt, nonetheless.

Chapter Text

John Price

Status: “Any figures for Simon, send my way”

To say John was annoyed was an understatement, when the door to Simon’s office remained closed for a second day. He’d come in and raved about some family emergency seemingly forgetting, or otherwise not caring, that Price knew most of his family were deceased. He had enough of a headache as it was, and the latest batch of reports that landed on his desk were no different.

“Getting late boss,” Kyle nudged, as he placed them in the now-overflowing letter tray. “We should call it a night.”

It was seven, which was late by the standards of most, but Price hadn’t left the building before nine for the entire last week. Hell, he’d even dropped by after taking the girls home on Sunday, just to keep things moving along.

“Can’t,” he groaned, “Shepherd wants me to pull these figures by Monday.”

“It’s Thursday, John, there’s always tomorrow.”

He gave into the softness of that voice, understandably exhausted. They all were. There wasn’t a single person who wasn’t putting in one hundred percent, even those he would usually consider a drain on the company’s resources.

Friday came, and Friday went. Still no Simon, who would now be getting more than a bollocking for his actions, and another late night in store for the two of them.

The office killed him slowly. No matter how much cash he splashed out on ergonomic chairs, he would never get used to having a rigid backrest and rolling casters beneath him, and not the thin layer of pleather padding on the back bench of a converted personnel truck. He ignored the aches that were caused by his aging joints, and instead blamed sitting down for a living.

“I might take this home, Kyle,” he sighed, and glanced at the pile which seemingly hadn’t moved since the very same conversation the night before.

Kyle hovered for a second, and then grabbed his tote.

“What are you doing?”

“Coming with you.”

Price scoffed. “Don’t be daft, I’ll be up all night with this.”

“Then so will I,” came the reply. “Well, I’ll get an Uber back when it gets too late.”

“I can drive-”

“Don’t give me that,” he started. Price watched as he busily packed up papers, and started to do the same. “Besides, I think a couple glasses of wine would go down lovely with this, don’t you?”

“You’re terrible Kyle,” he sighed. “Red or white?”

The back of the kitchen stool was not much better for his aches and pains, but it was a welcome change of scenery. Kyle had settled in surprisingly quickly, and had just poured two large glasses of wine.

“I think we need music,” he said. “Let me grab my phone.”

“Put the radio on,” John interrupted, as he pointed towards the DAB radio balanced on top of the microwave. “Don’t use up your phone battery, don’t have an iPhone doodad laying around.”

“A doodad… Jesus Christ…” Kyle turned on the radio, and then stood in bemusement as it played some jingle for a local car saleroom. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get my phone, there’s no ads-”

Price shook his head and beckoned Kyle to sit. “The ads are just part of the experience; how else will we know where to buy a used car?”

“Google it?”

“Sit your arse down, Kyle.”

They were there for the long haul, that much was certain, but by the time Price made the final amendment to the document it had long passed one in the morning, they were down two bottles of wine, and Kyle snored softly with his head against the cool kitchen counter.

He felt woozy as he stood, more so from the lack of movement for the final two-hour stretch than the merlot, but that was certainly a contributing factor.

“Hey,” he whispered, as not to startle the sleeping man, but to rouse him from what must be an uncomfortable napping spot. When he didn’t budge, Price raised his hand and gently placed it on his shoulder. “Can’t be that comfortable.”

Kyle’s eyes fluttered open, and Price found himself staring at the lights on the ceiling to not become overwhelmed by some domestic sense of wonderment. It was his favourite thing in the morning, forever an early riser, to watch Beth’s tired eyes open to greet him.

“Shit, how long was I out?”

“About an hour – it’s late.”

The man stretched, and the turtleneck jumper he had a penchant for wearing on dress-down Fridays rolled up over the bones of his hips. Nothing Price hadn’t seen before, following his recent Instagram ventures, but even more beautiful in person.

“I better get that Uber.”

“Why don’t you stay?” Price interjected. “Sleep in the spare room – it’ll be plenty comfortable. I’ll just need to move my ironing.”

“You don’t need to do that for me, I’ll crash on the couch-”

“What sort of a host would I be if I made you do that?”

Price did, reluctantly, think back to the night on Kyle’s sofa following the incident with MacTavish. That was out of necessity, of course, but his back hadn’t been the same since.

Kyle seemed hesitant to come upstairs, as if the flight between floors was a trespass on his personal life. The hall was lined with pictures of the girls, but the photos of his wedding that were once a huge part of the display were now tucked away in the back of his wardrobe. Beth hadn’t wanted to keep them, and he hadn’t had it in him to throw them away.

“You don’t mind?” Kyle clarified, as he finally made his way up. “I can still call a cab.”

“It’s late Kyle, you need to rest.”

He cursed work for keeping him from his household chores, as he balanced stacks of clothes, towels and underwear on the dresser. Maybe tomorrow he could get around to it, or maybe, he’d take the whole damn day to sleep.

“I’ve a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. Just take one of the towels on here if you want to shower, they’re clean washed.”

Kyle laughed nervously. “I never offered you a toothbrush, sorry.”

Price shrugged. “Comes with the territory, kids and all. Oh, it might have Peppa Pig on…”

“Fine by me, she’s an icon.”

“A what?”

“Never mind…”

It had been a long time since he’d had a guest stop over, one who wasn’t the girls, at least. In the morning, he would cook him breakfast, and then after a chat and a cuppa he could drive him home, or maybe out somewhere if he wanted. After all, Kyle had suggested they spend a weekend together soon, after their agreement made by the stream.

He dreamt strange dreams that night, as he often did when he drank red. Someone was knocking at the door, and the girls were yelling excitedly for him, and-

Shit.

That wasn’t a dream.

A glance at the clock revealed it was 07:30, which was not only far earlier than they usually came, but he swore this was Beth’s weekend. He definitely had the kids the weekend prior, because Esme had insisted that they go to the park on the way home, but his impromptu visit to the office meant that there hadn’t been time. She was holding that against him.

He rushed to dress himself, hyper aware that there was a man sleeping in his spare bedroom who most certainly shouldn’t be there. Not considering he was the one Beth was convinced Price had been cheating with.

As soon as the door opened, a whirlwind passed through the threshold as it always did. It wasn’t Beth, but Mark, her ‘new’ partner. New was perhaps a little worn, since the man had been around for almost two years.

“Mark?”

“Morning! Rough night?”

He was a nice enough guy, closer to Beth’s age than his own, and really there was nothing wrong with him. Good job, great with the kids, looked after Beth – he really couldn’t ask for more. But there was always that nagging feeling in the back of his mind that this man thought poorly of him, which was partially deserved, but he hadn’t really had a chance to show him his good side.

This clearly wasn’t helping that image.

“I thought it was your week with the girls?”

“Beth called you to swap a couple weeks ago,” he clarified, as he traipsed the travel bag back from the back of his Nissan. “We’re visiting my mum, and you know the kids just rush her off her feet.”

Price chuckled, knowing full well that the girls could not sit still, but the sinking feeling in his gut cut that short. He had agreed this with Beth, but with work, he’d not thought to pen it down. “Yep, I remember now,” he confirmed, “work had just been mental – that’s why I look like shit.”

“Dad! Swear jar!”

Reluctantly, he fished a fiver out of his wallet that had been left on the console table by the door and passed it to Lacey.

“Have a nice time with your family,” he said with a smile, before he added, “when do you need them back?”  

“We’ll pick ‘em up tonight but if we get held up, tomorrow morning.”

“Alrighty.”

He saw the man out of the driveway with a wave, as Lacey stashed away her cash, and Esme clung to his leg like it was her only hope of survival. This was the last thing he needed today, with the slow thrum of a hangover forming, and a need to now come up with an escape route for the man upstairs before the kids jumped him.

His knees cracked as he crouched down to Lacey’s eye level. She was possibly his only hope in the form of a bossy twelve-year-old. “If you look after your sister for ten minutes, I’ll make you dippy eggs.”

“With soldiers?”

“Yes baby. And extra butter.”

“And you promise you’ll do ‘em runny? Cuz’ last time they were rubbish.”

He took slight offense but would admit he didn’t have his timings exactly right when it came to boiled eggs. “If I mess them up, I’ll even make you a new batch. Do we have a deal?”

She pondered for a moment, clearly wondering what else could be bargained from this, but soon agreed with an enthusiastic nod of the head. Then came a yell, as she chased Esme down from where she was doing somersaults on the couch. The younger of the two erupted, angered by the power imbalance which had now formed, but Price had no time to waste.

The stairs had, thankfully, hidden Kyle’s presence from the girls. Somehow, he expected the man to still be asleep, or at least pretending to be, as he so often did when he heard the girls wreaking havoc far too early in the morning. It was a shock then when he opened the door hastily, and found him standing in his boxers, a very concerned look plastered across his face.

“Is that the girls?” He asked, desperately trying to find his discarded clothes.

“I have a plan,” Price assured, “but first let me grab you a t-shirt, you spilled wine on your shirt last night.”

He rummaged around in his wardrobe for an old shirt that no longer fit him. It was nice enough, fully cotton, a plain round neck. Kyle seemed to disapprove of the style, but that wasn’t a surprise. Still, he didn’t argue back, and let the material fall baggily over his smaller frame.

“Okay so… I forgot Beth and I had arranged to swap weekends.”

“I can tell.”

“But I’ve got Lacey watching Esme, and we can sneak you out of the back door.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “I’m not a one-night-stand, I’m your coworker, John. Can’t you just say we were working late?”

“I could… But you know that would go straight back to Beth.”

He watched as the man shimmied into the tight trousers he’d worn yesterday and tried not to let his eyes travel south. Nothing had happened last night, but they both damn well knew that if circumstances had been different and the mountain of work hadn’t come between them, Kyle might have been here for other reasons.

“Right,” Kyle sighed. “Lead the way.”

Price crept down the stairs, woefully aware of the loose boards that only he knew the pattern of. Whilst he didn’t cause a creak as he stepped, Kyle did, and any attempt to mitigate that only caused further creaks and much murmuring under breath.

It was quiet downstairs, too quiet, which could mean only one thing.

“FIRE!”

Nerf bullets flew at high speed through the living room door, where a series of ruckus giggles and squeals revealed the enemy’s location.

“I’m reloading – take point Es!”

A second barrage, this one with poor aim that overturned a plastic Paw Patrol cup full of water, left perilously close to the edge of the side table in the hall. The water, and then the cup, crashed to the floor with a clatter.

“Shit,” Lacey muttered under her breath, with no regard to the former swear jar rules. “Fall back!”

Price sighed as the two scarpered towards them, but managed to catch Esme by the triceratops hood on her dinosaur jacket, and shot Lacey a look that caused her to fall into line.

“You’re both being detained,” he mocked a gruff accent, and walked into the living room to analyse the damage. A full, fortified foxhole built from the sofa cushions, coffee table, and various objects which were not made to be used as a military bunker. “Clean this up girls, we uh, have a visitor.”

Kyle took his opportunity to step into the room. There was a sheepish energy radiating from him, which the girls didn’t seem to feel, but Price certainly did.

“Thanks for having me over,” he said with a smile.

Price wheeled Esme around by her hood. “You both remember Kyle, right? Daddy’s friend from work?”

“Hi Kyleee,” the smaller one droned school assembly style, a wide grin with both front teeth missing after a recent bump, and an impromptu visit from the tooth fairy. “Do you want to play in the fort too?”

“He’s too busy to play in the fort, and you need to clean this up, remember?” He said, as he finally let her go in a hope the place would get any cleaner.

It did not.

“Why were you hiding him upstairs?” Lacey asked.

The girl knew too damn much for her age, and Price tried to wheel the conversation back to a sensible answer that wouldn’t get reported back to the head honcho.

“We brought some work back from the office sweetness,” he pointed to the stacks of paper still littering the kitchen table. “I let Kyle stay in the spare room because we didn’t finish up until late.”

“Hm, okay.”

Her suspicions seemed to be somewhat quelled, but she had a wary look plastered on her face. Still, it’s not as if he was lying. If Beth questioned him after that, then so be it.

“Now,” Price coughed. “Who wants breakfast?”

Kyle cleared the papers from the table, the girls attempted to reset the living room to its regular, non-fortified standards, and Price made eggs and soldiers despite the failed mission to sneak Kyle out. There was no point hiding him now, after they were already rumbled, so he might as well feed him whilst he was being held hostage by a stream of questions from the rowdy six-year-old.

After being forced to name his favourite colour, animal, breed of dog, Disney princess and predatory dinosaur, he already looked exhausted.

“Daddy, are we still going to the park?”

Price looked up from the pan of boiling water. “Sure baby, we just need to drop Kyle off first.”

“You promised you’d take us first thing,” Lacey contested. She was just being a brat now, because Price damn well knew she complained about being ‘too old for the park’ last time they went.

“Well,” he sighed, “I’m sure Kyle has better things to be doing with his weekend than coming to play with us. Right, Kyle?”

Kyle choked on his juice. “I, uh, I mean-”

“If Kyle comes with us, can he push me on the swing?” Esme chirped.

The man shot him a look that said help me, and Price could only sigh. “Kyle, would you like to come to the park with us?”

“Pleeeeease!” The youngest added.

After a moment’s consideration, the man nodded. “Sure, I’d- like that.”

So, in a turn of events that Price had not expected that morning, he was indeed taking Kyle out for another Saturday outing, only this time with two kids in tow and the day bag strapped over his shoulder. His companion seemed pensive, but had slightly softened to the situation, and had offered to hold one of Esme’s two soft toys that she had of course insisted on bringing. Then when they piled into the Jag, despite the accusatory watchfulness of Lacey in the rear-view mirror, it seemed as if he’d gotten away with the whole thing.

“Coffee?” he asked, and jabbed a thumb towards the portable truck parked up on the grass by the playground. “I’ll get you a spiked one if it’ll help you get through it,” he added with a laugh.

“Just a latte is fine,” Kyle replied, and placed his hand on the large green diplodocus occupying his lap. Its neck flopped over limply from much love. “I’ll keep an eye on the girls.”

The truck was in view of both the bench he’d left Kyle to guard, and the playground itself. He wasn’t so evil as to abandon the man with his little terrors.

Esme had warmed to him with no second thoughts, but he worried about Lacey. She wasn’t stupid, was old enough to know a thing or two, and was closer in age to Kyle than he was, which was a truly frightening thought. 

He had worried about this for a very long time.

In a decade and some change, Lacey would be the age Kyle is now. If she brought home an old fogey like him, Price would be having stern words about her choice in men. So, why was it fair to do the same thing? Because Kyle was a man? Because there was no risk of pregnancy?

Then again, Kyle wasn’t fresh out of university anymore. Sure, when Price had first noticed those feelings, he had been around twenty-three. But now he’d passed the threshold of his mid-twenties. Would things be different when he hit thirty? Thirty five? The gap in their ages would never change, though. Maybe one day, Kyle would realise he didn’t want to help an old man bathe, or even worse come visit him in the nursing home.

He shuddered at the thought.

But as he watched closer, ignorant of the fact that the poor bloke in the coffee truck had been trying to pass him his lattes for at least ten seconds, he saw the smile on Kyle’s face as Esme presented him with a piece of a bush she’d ripped out from a planter.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe, things would be okay.

Kyle Garrick

Status: [Offline]

He twiddled that hunk of twiggy foliage in his fingers, and listened to Esme babble on about the dog she saw pooping from her vantage point atop the climbing frame. It was just like talking to Sienna, as in, the resemblance was slightly uncanny. 

Or maybe all kids under seven were obsessed with gross things, Kyle didn’t really know.

It was difficult for him when Sienna was born, being away at university. He visited often, but every time, he’d missed out on a lot. Her first words, and her first steps, and when she went to nursery for the first time. The year he’d spent between his graduation, and the return to Manchester for work, was probably the longest he would ever spend under the same roof with her.

“Hey,” Price whispered, so as not to make him jump. 

He must have zoned out, for his coffee was held inches from his face, and he hadn’t noticed. 

“Oh, cheers.”

“Something on your mind?”

“She reminds me a lot of Sienna,” he shared, and wrapped his hands around the warm, paper cup. “I can’t keep up with how fast she’s growing. I don’t want her to think I don’t care about her, since I’m the only one who moved away.”

John smiled warmly. “I see these rascals every other weekend, and hell, I’ve missed a lot too. But that’s what all these modern swanky phones are for, right? You can always call.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I don’t call enough.”

“I missed Esme’s first school play, I don’t know if you remember. Shepherd called me down to London.”

“Yeah, I’d not been here long then.”

“Mhm. To this day, I regret that. It’s not like it could be helped but… well. I don’t think I’ll be having another kid.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Was the last of the firsts,” the older man sighed. He ran his fingers through his chops like he so often did as he pondered the big things in life. “I just hope they trust me enough to be there for their other firsts. First crush, first boyfriend, first… lady time.”

Kyle rolled his eyes at the prudish comment, but knew the sentiment came from the heart.

“I’ve been thinking about the future,” he started, and placed his lips to the hole in the lid where the liquid burnt his skin. “Ouch- hot.”

“About kids?”

“Kids, family, marriage…”

“You don’t want to get into that last one,” Price laughed, and received a kick in the ankle for doing so.

“I think… I think this is kind of the perfect situation, don’t you think? I mean I want kids, but I don’t know how I feel about the treatments, or surrogates, or anything like that. And adoption? That’s like, a full-time job. We’re busy enough as it is.”

“We?” Price cocked his brow as he asked.

Kyle kicked him a second time. “I’m talking hypothetically, obviously. We’re not…”

There was a loud crash from the playground, followed by a shrill screech. Price jumped up reflexively, and it was only Kyle making a grab for his coffee cup that stopped it from spilling onto the floor. He supposed now wasn’t the best time for any sort of deep conversation, but being surrounded by such domesticity, it had just slipped out. He watched intently as Price went dad mode , which did something for him he really didn’t understand as someone very unlikely to have a child of his own.

“Where does it hurt baby?” Price cooed comfortingly, as he swept Esme up from the ground.

She cried big tears, which streaked the rosy redness of her cheeks, and pointed to her leg. The fabric of her leggings was torn, and a nasty looking scrape formed on her kneecap.

“Oh dear, let’s get it fixed, shall we princess?”

Kyle shuffled up on the bench to make room for the impromptu nurse’s office and found himself lumbered with the day bag. He rummaged inside to find the tube of Germolene and a packet of dinosaur plasters.

“I don’t like the stingy cream,” Esme bawled as he handed Price the tube.

Price brushed the little black rubber pellets from her knee, and uncapped the antiseptic. “I know, but it’ll make it better-”

“NO!”

She kicked out her legs as hard as she could, which wasn’t very hard at all, all things considered. But it was enough for Price to have to avoid a light up trainer to the face.

“Hey Esme,” Kyle created a distraction, “do you want to pick out the best dinosaur plaster with me? I can’t choose which is my favourite.” 

Together, they thumbed through the catalogue, which ended with a lovely pink and green brontosaurus plaster for her knee, and a red and blue t-rex plaster for Kyle.

“You need to wear it,” she insisted, after Price had administered the plaster onto her knee.

Kyle laughed. “I don’t have any poorlies right now.”

“What about this one!” She had scurried close and pointed to the faint scar on his cheek. He hardly noticed it anymore, so it surprised him that she’d been so vigilant. 

“Baby-” Price began to chastise her, not knowing how Kyle would react.

Kyle smiled and shook his head. “This one? This is a really old poorly, it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Does it need a plaster?”

“Hmm… Do you think it would look cool?” 

She nodded her little head enthusiastically, and Kyle handed her the plaster. 

“Go on then, you can be the doctor now.”

Doctor Esme got to work, whilst Price went to collect Lacey from wherever she’d been skulking. Her small fingers jabbed his skin in a way that wasn’t exactly spotless bedside conduct, and at one point she did try to stick her finger into his nostril, but that was okay. Whatever imaginative surgery she was doing was a good distraction from the pain in her knee, and the tears on her face had all but dried out.

“What do you think, Doctor? Am I going to live?”

“For a hundred, thousand, million years!”

“Wow!” He laughed, warmed by the absurdity of the statement. “That’s really effective treatment you know. Have you considered selling these plasters? You’ll make good money if people can live a hundred, thousand, million years...”

“They only work on my friends, so they worked on you.”

It was so sweet that he could feel his teeth itch. But the moment didn’t last for long, since Price had now returned again empty handed and with no mopey pre-teen in sight.

“Esme, where’s your sister?”

“She was chasing the boy,” Esme replied, half the story.

Price frowned. “Which boy?”

“The one who pushed me off the slide,” she gestured, making a falling motion with her little hands. “She was chasing him and using a lot of bad words.”

“Kyle, grab the bag.”

As most things seemed to become when they were together, another military operation ensued, with Price carrying Esme on his shoulders and Kyle being lumbered with all of the luggage. They shouted for Lacey, with Price cursing between every yell that Beth was going to murder him.

“I’ll check this way,” Kyle suggested, when they reached a fork in the path. “I’ll call you if I find her.”

“Right,” Price agreed, as they separated.

Although he absolutely did not want to face the wrath of Price’s ex-wife, Kyle hoped that he wasn’t the one to find Lacey. Much like her father in his youth, she was a firecracker, as Kate had told him over too many glasses of wine on one of their last staff dinners. There was absolutely no doubt she was trying to stir the pot over breakfast that morning, and he had the feeling that she wasn’t exactly fond of him.

So, as luck would have it, the next corner he rounded left him face to face with the girl and her bruised knuckles.

“Lacey!” He called out, letting her know that she had been spotted and beelining in the other direction was no longer a possibility.

She grumbled something under her breath, as he’d seen Price do many times, and then finally addressed him directly. “What do you want?”

Kyle dropped the bag and beckoned her closer, which thankfully, she obliged. “I know you can look after yourself,” he started, “but your dad is worried about you.”

“Well, he seemed too busy to notice,” she muttered. “He looks at you… funny.”

“Funny?”

“He looks at you like he looks at mum, I don’t like it.”

Ah. She was perceptive, this one, and rowdy to boot. No matter how much her dad disagreed, Kyle could see her following in his footsteps and joining the service.

“Let me look at your hand,” he diverted, not at all ready to approach the conversation of what he was to the girl’s dad. “Looks like a nasty bruise that…”

“It’s fine,” she moped, but passed her hand over regardless.

Kyle assessed the damage, but without a pack of frozen peas, he didn’t know exactly what to do. That’s how Tav had always dealt with bruised knuckles, anyways...

It was the first time he’d thought of Tav in a while.

“I had a friend who was always punching people,” he laughed. “It didn’t do him much good – sometimes words work more than fists do.”

“Dad is the one who uses his words,” she rebutted, “he wasn’t there, so… I used my fists.”

Kyle checked her face, and clearly she had lamped the poor kid, because other than her knuckles there was not a mark on her. Then, he phoned Price. Probably best not to leave him in suspense when he’d now got one injured daughter, and one missing one. They agreed to meet up at the fork in the path.

The walk back was best described as awkward, as Lacey maintained a whole six foot gap between them.

“How’s school? Your dad always says you’re a bit of a brainbox.” He prompted. An attempted distraction technique.

It didn’t work. She looked him dead in the eye and asked her own probing question. 

“Is dad gay?” 

Kyle tripped on his own foot and nearly stacked it on the cobbles. Kids these days were brave. He wouldn’t have dared to ask that to an adult at her age, especially one he hardly knew.

“I- uh- I haven’t asked him,” he replied, which wasn’t necessarily a lie, despite them having had multiple conversations about the topic. “What makes you say that?”

She pouted, momentarily unwilling to answer, but the sight of the forked path on the horizon seemed to push her to do so.

“Mum met Mark, and I- I didn’t like him when I met him. But she is happy now, and Mark is nice, and he takes us bowling.” Kyle slowed down a tad, to allow time for her tangent. “But dad never met anybody.”

“Maybe it hasn’t been the right time? Work has been really busy-”

“He talks about you a lot.” She said, implication heavy in her tone. He felt a hot prickle up the back of his neck, like he was privy to knowledge he shouldn’t know. “So, is that why?”

“I’m not seeing your dad,” he choked. “But I think this is a conversation you need to have with him. He probably doesn't realise you even know what gay means – trust me, I’ve been there with my folks.”

From a distance, they heard Esme holler Lacey’s name. The two groups rounded their respective forks in the pathway, meeting in the middle imminent.

“I- I don’t care if he is gay,” she added, urgently. “I just want dad to be happy.”

Kyle nodded. It wasn’t a guarantee directed at him, but he was glad she accepted Price for whoever he was, and for whatever happened. Somehow, it felt like permission.

“You’ve got some answering to do missus,” Price started. He grabbed both of her shoulders, and her face returned to its usual, eye-rolling, pre-teen pout.

“Leave it, John,” he interrupted. “It was my fault; I, we , should have been watching. You just took care of business, right Lace?”

“You were the one who taught me how to punch, dad.” She added, pushing her luck.

“You’re going to give me a heart attack one day, you know that kid?” He sighed as he dragged his hand across his face. “But thank you for looking after your sister. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”

The girls reunited, and soon enough, were running laps around the goalposts on the open field. Price glanced across at him, and smiled softly, which Kyle knew was a very stressed-out way of expressing his thanks.

“Is it always this crazy?” Kyle laughed.

The man let out an exhausted sigh. “Yeah, more often than not…”

Esme insisted they got ice cream, and Kyle watched as Price cracked after just one set of puppy dog eyes. He was absolutely going to hold that against him in the future. Not only did Esme want an ice cream, but she also wanted everybody else to have an ice cream, which led to the two kids sitting in the open boot of the car for fear of getting sticky ice cream puddles in the leather seats. Kyle and Price stood an ample distance apart, where he made a conscious effort not to suck on his rocket lolly whilst making any sort of eye contact with the older man.

It was a comfortable awkwardness, which gave him butterflies in his belly, and a blistering bout of brain freeze.

“Does Kyle really have to go home?” Esme asked on the way back to the flat.

Kyle laughed, as Price rounded the corner to Princess Street. “My washing won’t do itself – being an adult is hard.”

“Will you come to the park with us again soon?”

He looked across to Price, who gave him a nod of affirmation, before he turned back to the girl in the backseat. “That would be nice, maybe next time we can have a picnic.”

“Dad’s never taken us for a picnic,” Lacey mumbled.

Kyle smiled at her. “Even more reason then, I make a mean focaccia. Your dad can just bring the barbeque.”

He ignored Price’s complaints that more work had been dropped on him and gathered his things from the footwell. “This is me, you two behave for your dad.”

Before he could leave the car, Price placed a deliberate hand on his knee. The touch through the thick fabric of his trousers was electric, despite the separation. “See you later.”

“Catch you on Monday,” Kyle replied, and squeezed his arm. A quick and passive touch that would hopefully rouse no further suspicion following his earlier conversation with Lacey.

He left the car, but stood on the steps until Price drove away so he could wave to Esme in the back seat. The smile on his face was genuine, one of those that tugs at your muscles until it hurts. Then, when the car was out of sight, he made his way upstairs and flopped down onto the couch in some sort of disbelief.

Whatever this was, he was finally ready.

Chapter Text

John Price

Status: [Offline]

Whatever this was, he was one more arm squeeze away from a heart attack. He burnt the kid’s tea, as his mind drifted to thoughts of Kyle, which was rather impressive considering it was just beans on toast. Lacey had rolled her eyes, and Esme was thankfully none the wiser. When Mark came to collect them, he barely managed to make it through the regular human interaction, and when the door finally closed, he let out all the breath which had been stuck in his chest since Kyle left the car several hours earlier.

All the apprehension surrounding the kids had gone. Esme loved him, which wasn’t exactly abnormal, but he had been so glad that he’d shown some affection back and not been scared off by her intensity. Kids are… a lot. His kids, specifically, but Kyle had taken that in his stride. He’d even managed to see eye to eye with little miss troublemaker, which was perhaps more impressive.

Things got worse when he checked his laptop for emails and noticed he had posted online. He would never admit to the man himself that he’d bookmarked the tab, or that he checked back every couple of days.

There he was, posed in front of the mirror in his oversized shirt and not much else, t-rex plaster still adorned on his cheek.

This couldn’t wait any longer.

He called Kyle’s number, worried to disturb him so late at night. It was a surprise then, that he picked up on the second ring. The conversation started slowly, the usual greetings muddling along, until he finally bit the bullet.

“Do you want to get dinner tomorrow?"

“I’d like that.”

No snarky comment or test. Had something happened to him? Maybe when they separated in the park earlier, he was replaced by some android version of Kyle. Or, maybe Price had been watching too many sci-fi films when the bouts of stress-worsened insomnia took over late at night.

“Somewhere nice. I owe you a place you can get dolled up after Castleton…”

“That you do,” came a soft, flirtatious reply.

“I’ll get somewhere booked, be ready for seven.”

Kyle hummed, and Price swore he heard him already rifling through his cupboard, the shrill screeches of coat hangers against a rail audible in the background. “Want me to Uber?”

“Don’t be daft,” he laughed. “I’m doing this properly; I’ll pick you up from the door.”

“Thank you.”

The night wasn’t exactly kind to them, with Sunday’s weather being nothing but rain from the moment the sun rose until late into the night, but Price came prepared. He rummaged in the boot for his umbrella and set off inside the building.

Usually, he’d wait outside, but when he said he was doing this properly he meant it.

The stiff collar of his shirt irritated his neck a little, not because of the fabric itself, but because of the nervous sweats which he had passed in and out of for the past few hours. It was probably amusing to those who knew him in a working capacity, for John Price and nerves didn’t compute on the field or in the boardroom.

Romance was a whole different ball game.

He’d been to the florist, and spent at least forty minutes deliberating over flowers, before finally settling on a dozen red roses. It was cliché, probably old school, and the florist herself had told him so. But then again, so was Price, and he was sure the man wouldn’t complain.

As he approached the door, he cleared his throat nervously. This was one of those rip off the plaster situations, and if he didn’t knock now, he’d have to start all over again.

Three swift knocks against the door, and then he stood back and waited.

He heard Kyle yell from the other side, and knew he’d probably still be getting ready. Not like he was in a rush, it had only just turned seven after all, but he did have to mentally clock that his knees were not locked in fear he might pass out when Kyle opened the door.

The lock turned from the other side, and finally, Kyle appeared.

Fuck.

In an instant, Price forgot all the words he’d rehearsed on the way over. The man had outdone himself on the dolling up front, so much so that Price felt underdressed. He wasn’t, of course, but Kyle looked like a fucking supermodel in black and gold.

“They’re going to think I’ve paid for you,” he blurted out, and realised that was probably the worst hello he could have given.

Kyle feigned an offended look for a moment, before he flashed that signature smile and laughed. “You can certainly pay for my dinner.”

The flowers were likely crying for help in his grip, and it wasn’t until Kyle glanced down that he realised he hadn’t handed them over.

“These are for you,” he prompted. “I had a very long conversation with a florist and then disregarded everything she said, so I really hope you like roses.”

“You didn’t have to,” he laughed, and took the bouquet gently from his hands. “These are beautiful.”

“S’only right then,” Price nodded. “They match you perfectly.”

With the roses safely in a vase, Price led him to the car with the umbrella shielding him from the rain. He opened the door for him, as always. They had a drive to the town centre ahead, the Northern Quarter, where he paid an extortionate amount to park overnight at the closest car park to the restaurant.

“You gonna tell me where we’re really going?” Kyle asked playfully when they stopped outside the glass double doors. “This place has a Michelin star; you can’t book this on the day.”

“You can if somebody owes you a favour.”

Kyle nudged his shoulder, and laughed again, before realising he was serious and getting just a little bit excited. John led them inside and gently slipped the long coat from Kyle’s shoulders where a rather dapper looking doorman received it, and then helped John with his own coat.

“So,” Kyle whispered, as they were led to their table. “What favour were you owed exactly?”

Price looked around, cautious that someone might overhear. “Technically it’s confidential, but let’s just say the owner was in hot water with a rogue crime cell in France.”

Kyle looked too stunned to say anything, so opted for a silent nod.

Price pulled Kyle’s chair for him, and then allowed the host to do the same for his own seat. In the moment they came through the doors, he’d reached a silent, joint agreement with the guy.

“French?”

“Mhm, I thought about Italian, but I know you’re not big on pasta.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever been to somewhere that does Parisian food,” he said with a nervous smile. “Bit rich for my blood.”

“And mine,” Price grinned, “but when we were stationed in France, the food was some of the best. The seafood? To die for. As in, literally… I nearly got KIA’d on my last visit.”

He realised he’d probably been a little loose with stories of his past, ones he didn’t usually tell the man for fear of scaring him, but the look in his eyes told him he was interested and possibly even a little attracted.

“Will you be having wine tonight?” Asked the sommelier, who Price only knew was the sommelier because he was wearing a different outfit with a neat little dickie bow.

“We will,” he agreed, “we’ll start with a white and a red, then I imagine you’ll know better than we do with the food.”

The sommelier smiled and started to rattle through wines which neither of them had ever heard of. It was a bit intense, but if he was doing this, he was doing it right. Even if that meant watching Kyle sample three wines and then choose the most expensive one without consulting the wine list for the bottle cost.

“Sir has chosen our menu dégustation tonight, is this correct?” Asked another waiter who was surely putting on that French accent…

“That’s right.”

He scurried away, and Kyle looked across at him bemused. “We’re doing what now?”

“Taster menu, it’s seven courses.” He began, and then when Kyle continued to stare at him, expanded his description. “Honestly, I’m not sure, I just agreed over the phone. It’s good to try new things.”

“What if we don’t like these things?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten food I didn’t like,” John laughed.

All was going well, with a steady supply of delicious and mortally expensive morsels being placed on neat plates in front of them. He watched Kyle pull out his phone and take pictures of every one of them, no doubt featuring on an Instagram post later that evening. Not really the done thing in these parts, but he wasn’t going to complain, so long as he was enjoying himself.

“The oysters, Sirs.”

The French one and a petite young lady placed large domed cloches in front of them, before pulling away the lid to reveal an oyster in its shell with lemon and herbs sprinkled about the plate.

If he could capture the look on Kyle’s face somehow, he would save it forever. “Bon appetit,” he joked.

Kyle squinted at the plate, clearly unsure exactly if he wanted to take a picture of this. “What is that?

“Oyster.”

“How do you eat it?”

“You just tip it into your mouth.”

“With your fingers? Surely that’s frowned upon?”

“That’s what the water is for, to clean your hands,” he said, and nodded to the water dishes left at their side. “I always thought you were a bit of a foodie, surprises me you’ve not eaten some of these dishes before.”

“Never had the chance…”

“What, not even on your holidays? Nice bucket of muscles in France?”

The man looked down at the tablecloth, as if he was embarrassed.

“You’ve been abroad, right?”

“Never.”

“Wait, really?”

“Why would I lie about something like that?”

It’s not like Kyle ever brought up travelling, but he always seemed interested when Price rambled on about his various adventures to all the ends of the Earth. Maybe it was his educated turn of phrase, or his enjoyment of sushi and tapas that had convinced him of such.

“Sorry,” he said, apologetically. “I’ll take you abroad someday, if you’d like that.”

“You’ll show me how to eat this monstrosity first,” Kyle insisted.

John did his best to explain without actually eating the oyster. He demonstrated the separation from the shell with the little fork, the best way to tip the slippery bugger into your mouth, and how to catch it before it slipped straight down the gullet. It’s not like Kyle didn’t watch him often, rather he was used to the comfort of his eyes resting on him as he was doing something passively. This was different. He could feel his cheeks flushing in a way not particularly becoming of a man in his late forties.

“Why are we eating these again?” Kyle shuddered as he picked up the shell.

Price manhandled his own shell and let out a small chuckle. “If it helps, they’re supposedly an aphrodisiac.”

That seemed to be all the convincing he needed, as Kyle counted them in. The oyster was lovely. Not as nice as those he’d had in Cancale, which he just so happened to visit in October, possibly the best month for them in the region.

Surprisingly, Kyle didn’t gip like he’d done eating his first oyster sometime in his early twenties. “I could get used to this life,” he finally joked, and dipped his fingers into the water dish to wash away the salty debris.

Price smiled. It was nice to have someone to enjoy these things with, even if it meant footing the bill. He could already see the vineyard tours, nice delis, and the weekend getaways.

Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself.

Several more glasses of wine, and the remainder of the courses, brought them to coffee. Price declined, knowing that even a decaf would trick him into being up all night, but Kyle took an Irish coffee to round out the night of drinking.

“Going to have a right hangover tomorrow…” He laughed, but clearly that hadn’t stopped him as the spiked coffee arrived at the table with a fancy little tuile. “Thank you, for this.”

“My pleasure,” John laughed. “Nice to have good company.”

“Your place or mine?”

He didn’t mean to, but the tap water he’d been sipping escaped his mouth in a comedic spray of shock. “Christ, you’re eager.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “For a coffee, obviously .”

That was absolutely not what he was implying. Price could tell by the way he looked from under his lashes, and the fact that they had played a game of footsies under the table for the past five minutes. He didn’t even look at the figure on the bill as he put his pin into the card machine. The sting on his wallet could come in the morning, alongside the hangover.

“Let’s go back to yours,” he suggested. “I’d rather you not Uber alone.”

Back to Kyle’s flat, and back up the stairs, he waited at the door as Kyle fumbled with his keys. Nights like this were few and far between when he was a youngster, and now he felt even more out of place. Some poor neighbour probably thought he was a stalker.

The last time he was inside of the flat was after the incident, and the time before then was tucking Kyle into bed after his fling with some random geezer. There weren't many good memories in this place, as of yet.

“You want tea? I’ve got decaf.”

“That sounds nice.”

He took a seat on the sofa, reluctantly remembering the bad back it gave him when he slept here last. Kyle approached with two mugs and handed him the one that didn’t smell like booze.

“I’ll just drink this and I’ll get out of your hair,” he said.

Kyle pouted. “You don’t need to rush off you know-”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he interrupted with a nervous laugh. “Sure, we used to use the excuse of coffee back in the day, don’t get me wrong…”

“Why are you so nervous?” The man probed and slipped slightly closer. “We’re not in any rush, like I said, we can just have coffee if that’s good with you.”

Price paused; hands wrapped tightly around the cup as if it was the only thing giving him life. Kyle looked fucking beautiful. He’d looked beautiful from the moment he saw him at the door, and all of the moments since. But there was that awful voice again, the one in the back of his head, that told him this was wrong and that he was making a huge mistake.

Kyle’s head flopped down onto his shoulder, the curl of his hair tickling his neck. He smelled of sweet citrus, and it drove him insane.

“You know, even as a joke, I’ve never… kissed a man.”

Kyle snorted. “Thought that’s what you guys did for fun back at the barracks.”

“Is it different?” He asked; a slightly leading question.

“Wouldn’t know,” Kyle responded. “I’ve never kissed a woman.”

“Oh yeah…”

The man raised his head again, and then an eyebrow following that. “Was that your attempt to ask me to kiss you?”

Rumbled, he shuffled uncomfortably on the damned sofa. This thing will burn when Kyle moves out, and Price will have the pleasure of holding the match.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” He continued.

Price sighed, and placed his mug down gently. “I suppose if I gave you your first oyster, you can give me my first…”

“Gay kiss ?”

“Yeah…”

The man placed his own drink down, and Price watched with eyes that he didn’t realise were as wide and frightened as they were. It was as if all the receptors in his brain were telling him this was wrong, but his heart felt soft, gooey even, and leaned into whatever came next.

“Close your eyes,” Kyle whispered, and so he did as he was told without needing to be told twice.

It had been so long since he’d kissed anybody. Did he remember how to do it right? Were his lips chapped? Beard scratchy? 

Plush lips pressed into his. They tasted sweet; newly applied Chapstick and a plate of July strawberries. He savoured that moment, maybe a little too long, before he pushed back with his own resistance. With his eyes closed, it was different. But he couldn’t keep his eyes closed the entire time he was with Kyle, not when the man was so beautiful. It would be wasteful.