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Chapter Text

   Simon's nightly cup of earl grey tea always allowed him to shake away that jittery feeling accumulating within him since the morning. If he didn’t follow his ritual, the nightmares would start up again. It felt like tea was genuinely the only thing keeping him sane. What had he become? A soldier who relied on hot water to do his job? There were worse crutches, he supposed.

  The man had been nauseous all day and hadn’t been able to eat because of his knotted stomach. The tea was the first meal he was sure that he could keep down. Bending his neck to sip was painful until the warmth spread over his chest and eased the pressure.

  He was quick to escape to his private barracks. When he left, he’d kept the window closed to keep the room as warm as possible. Now, during just the walk back from the rec room, he’d sweated through his shirt and immediately reached to open the window. The chills and sweats came and went in frustrating waves. He wasn’t stupid. He had a fever. 

  He was just pretending that the tea would cure him. Surely, his flu symptoms would blow over in time for his new assignment in two days. Price was counting on him, and Simon had no time for illnesses. 

  Wet clothes were left on the floor. It was unusual for him to want to be in just his boxers; Simon was  a man that always had be covered. He was sure that he’d die if his temperature went up another degree. He swore that he could feel the steam coming off the tea left on the bedside table. 

  The pillow under his head angled his head up, and the stretch of his shoulders was agony. It had him sighing and tossing the pillow onto the floor with his clothes. The ceiling swam. He put his hands over his eyes to stop the spinning. Three sips of his tea already had his belly churning. 

  A knock at the door entered his ears like a garbled mess; the noise instigated the turmoil in his throat and the migraine behind his eyes. 

  “Si? You in there?” Soap was on-time tonight. He’d put a lot of effort into finishing the rookie orientation quickly in order to see his lover at the end of the day.

  All Simon could manage was a hum. The door cracked open. 

  “Si?” A Mohawk peeked into the room.

  “Mhm.”

  The door closed. Still, he kept an arm over his eyes to block the dim light beside his tea. That light clicked off. Then, the bed jostled when Johnny jumped over him. 

  Simon groaned lowly at the movement; it took everything in him not to gag and lose his precious tea. 

  “Jesus, you’ve soaked through the sheets.” At this point, Johnny kept his words light and humorous. The man he was excited to see didn’t greet him with that deep, relieved kiss like usual. And he was down to his boxers. In the darkness, Johnny could feel the heat emanating off him and the way he trembled. The Scotsman sat up and knelt over his secret lover.

  “S’fine. I’ll be freezing again in a min’,” was his slurred response. He was thankful for Soap turning off the light. If his throat didn’t tighten at his first sentence, he would have added a thank you. 

  A hand on his aching forehead. He removed his arm just long enough to swat him away. 

  “Fuckin’ hell, LT. Ye’re on fire.”

  “S’the flu. Shut up.”

  Simon didn’t mean for Johnny to shut up. But, still, the silence was nice. It kept the pain more of a sledgehammer than a cannon against his skull.

  “Can I do anything?” God, Johnny knew what to do every time. He just laid down slowly, careful not to touch Simon’s sensitive skin, and rested himself on the pillow beside him. His voice was a whisper of undying Scottish love. 

  The older man had to take a few deep breaths before he could answer. Surely, his lack of food contributed to the weakness in his bones and the headache. He’d be fine as long as he could keep down the tea.

  “J’stay with me.” 

  It was bad enough that he had to admit his sickness to Johnny. Ghost didn’t get sick. Simon Riley didn’t, either, but Simon Riley knew that Johnny didn’t see Ghost in front of him. Ghost was gone. Now, Simon Riley was here, and he wasn’t feeling well. 

  Johnny didn’t need to promise that he would stay. He always did, anyway. 

  Simon erupted from the bed with a whine and flailing limbs. The ropes still bound him; despite the heat that had returned, Johnny had covered him in sheets, and they tangled around him like snakes. Oh god, the snakes were back. 

   In his scramble to escape, he only wrapped them further around himself, and the sheets went with him when he slid off the side of the bed and landed heavily on the linoleum. The coolness would have been soothing in any other situation. He wasn’t awake yet. It was coming back to him, but he could still see twisted visions of snakes and spiders and sinister smiles against the walls, even when he closed his eyes. Everything was wet and slippery with sweat—even his face. Especially his face. His eyes dripped sweat and tears and blood; whatever was all over him, suffocating him, was hotter than fire. Every scrape of bedsheet was like a cheese grater on his sensitive flesh.

  “ Simon ,” Johnny called to him over the roar of panic. Quick and gentle hands were tugging at the sheets like he was, but they seemed far more capable. Simon slid away and stopped when the wall wouldn’t let him go any further once he was free. All the walls were moving. They closed in. He buried his face in his hands as if pretending they didn’t exist would make them go away.

  “Simon, it’s okay. It was a nightmare. You’re awake.”

   Was he awake? He didn’t feel conscious. He could still feel snakes slithering up his spine. They wrapped around his neck and cut off the circulation so harshly that his brain was about to burst from his skull, like a squeezed balloon. The man leaned to the side and began dry-heaving. There was nothing in his stomach to vomit. Johnny’s hands were held up like he wanted to touch Simon, to right him, but he worried that it would only disorient him further. 

  Eventually, the man stopped dry-heaving and managed to take a few quick breaths. Sweat dripped off his nose. Johnny took the opportunity to gently place a hand on his fiery shoulder and push him into a sitting position against the bed. 

  “Are you with me? Simon, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Snakes,” was his incoherent mumble of a reply.

  Johnny huffed and raised a hand to Simon’s forehead. It almost burned him; he snapped his hand back. The man began retching again. 

  “I’ll be back. It’s okay, I have to go get help.”

  Simon whimpered between heaves. In the swirl of light and colour, he could only reach out for Johnny, whose rush of air kicked up his familiar scent. His hand made purchase on nothing. Johnny’s footsteps faded down the hall. 

  The snakes, spiders, darkness, and sudden loneliness pulled him under with all their twisted fingers. He was grateful that the pain disappeared, even for a little bit. 

  Someone was squeezing his scarred hand. It was odd to feel skin on his, no longer separated by tactical gloves. He cracked an eye open.

  Johnny was already lit up with joy at the realization that Simon was awake. Despite the grogginess that threatened to pull him back under, he had to mirror the smile. His head lolled to the side. He knew where he was; the sterile smell of the medical bay was unmistakeable. The entirety of his military career had been spent avoiding his place and ultimately failing. With Johnny beside him, maybe it wasn’t so bad. 

  “You with me, a leannan ?” 

  Simon took a deep breath. “Mhm.”

  “About fuckin’ time. Y’been under for days.” He wanted to be mad at Simon for making him wait for so long. The doctor kept insisting that he would be okay—that the infection was severe and would need a few days to clear up—but the team had been rotating in and out, desperately hoping to catch a sign of life. 

  “Wh’happen…”

  “Mate.” Some of the English around him had rubbed off. It was embarrassing to realize that his Scottish was being invaded. “It was meningitis. ”

  “How?”

  “Fuck if I know. Thought meningitis went outta style in the eighteen-hundreds.”

  The older man frowned. The pain was reduced to a faint ache. The stark lighting in the room wasn’t helping. Johnny squeezed his hand again to bring him back. Whatever was trying to pull him away, the infection or the sedatives, was strong, even for Simon. 

  “What do you remember?”

  “Snakes.”

  “When?”

  “Dunno. I got… tea. Last night. You were there.”

  “That was three days ago, Si.”

  “Am I cleared?” His eyes seemed to open wider, back straightening on the bed upon realizing that he’d missed his next deployment. What did Price do without him? Would he be selected for the next one? Were there casualties; could he have prevented them if he wasn’t sick?

  His question had Soap snorting with amusement and exasperation. Simon could literally be on his death bed and still asking about the next mission. 

  “Gabh fois, s’fine. Price pulled it back. Intel was bogus. Think he was glad; we all been worried. Apparently meningitis is pretty deadly.”

  “Fuckin’ hell. Imagine I spend twenty years in this job and get flatlined by an infection.”

  Johnny grimaced at him. He felt bad for the brief anger caused by his lover’s joking words. “S’not funny, Si.”

  Still, he chuckled. “Sorry.” He didn’t mean it; it was said to placate the man who’d been so sweet to him despite everything. Johnny had been worried. He could feel the relief every time his hand was squeezed and the Scotsman searched his face for a sign of pain. 

  “Sergeant, I’m sorry. Can’t have soldiers in here. Captains and generals only.” 

  The doctor only poked his head in. He’d come to know Soap well by now, with the amount of times he had to kick him out. It seemed like the sergeant materialized every time he turned his back for longer than an hour. Still, he recognized the concern he had for his teammate, and could only bring himself to gently remind the man. 

  Johnny smiled down at Simon as if the doctor hadn’t said anything. Simon winked back. He squeezed his hand just before he turned to step away from the bed. 

  The door closed behind them. Soap glanced through the little barred window to watch Ghost’s face loll back to the side, exhausted. The doctor—a lanky man with more field medic experience than everyone on the base combined—knew that there was no reasoning with Soap. He’d be back soon. The doctor was already walking back up the hallway. 

  “Wait—Doc.”

  Johnny was standing in front of him when he turned. He clicked a pen and stuffed it into his pocket. “Yeah, Sergeant? I’m sorry, I have to follow my rules. And I’ll do it again when you come back later.” It wasn’t an accusation. He’d made peace with Soap’s willingness to disobey orders. 

  “No—well, you’re right… I’ll probably be back. Definitely. Had a question.”

  The doctor waited. 

  “Could I have been exposed? To meningitis?”

  The man in front of him stuffed his hands in his lab coat pockets and tilted his head. “Maybe, if he coughed on you. Throat secretions, sneezing… you think you were exposed?”

  “Uh…” He pursed his lips. The doctor knew the answer from the way Johnny couldn’t look him in the eye. “Like, kissing? Could that do it?”

  When he looked up, the doctor was smiling at him with a comforting, knowing grin. It made him feel better. “Let’s go get you checked out, Soap. Just to be safe.”

Chapter Text

  A page rustled as it turned. Outside, an owl hooted, and both Simon and Johnny looked up at the wall to listen. The older was quick to return his attention to his reading. 

  Johnny’s gaze stayed on the wall. Across from their bed, photos stared back—Task Force 141 gathered in front of a plane, Simon holding Riley Junior to his chest with all his puppy drool dripping onto him, Simon and Johnny in front of a sunset over the Clo Mor cliffs, Johnny’s niece and nephew running through a water sprinkler. 

  The dog laying at the end of the bed didn’t sit up when he heard the owl, but his ears did. The owl hooted again. 

  Simon lounged between his legs so his back rested against his naked chest; he fit there perfectly, like he belonged. He kept the bedside light on, just bright enough for him to read whatever novel he was on today. The guy went through them like water. What else was he supposed to do? They both worried that retirement would leave them bored, but their days had been filled with reading or hiking or sex, and they never needed anything else. The log cabin they’d bought at the base of Ben Lomond treated them well. Johnny had spent a lot of time fixing it up by adding larger windows and a guest room for his family to visit. It was always warm, and smelled like old books and the homemade dog treats that Simon religiously made for RJ. 

  He returned his cheek to Simon’s blonde hair. Everyone’s hair had gotten shaggier since they retired from the Task Force. It was more for Johnny to run his fingers through, more for him to grab. He ran his thumb across the arm of Simon’s reading glasses. He didn’t react. A page flipped. RJ’s ears drooped as he drifted into sleep. 

  “Good book?” he asked his husband. His right hand came to rest on Simon’s shoulder; the wedding band on his finger was shockingly cold. When they retired, they’d each taken one of their dog tags and had a ring made out of it for the other. Johnny refused to let Simon get a skull engraved in his. The man he lived with wasn’t Ghost anymore. He would never hide behind a skull again.

  “S’okay. You can shut off the light if you want.”

  Johnny wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pulled him impossibly closer. The Scotsman shook his head. Simon could feel the motion and smiled to himself. Silence overtook them. He barely even noticed Johnny’s hand brushing over the bullet scar in his bicep. 

  Touching his scars used to be something that neared painful for Simon. He’d layer on clothes to prevent any skin contact or shy away from Johnny’s touches. The memories themselves were painful, but it was nothing compared to the physical burn of finger tips ghosting over his marred flesh. The first time Johnny dared to touch his naked skin, he thought the man was holding a lighter to him. 

  Every few weeks, the Scotsman had a ritual of tracing Simon’s scars. He memorized their sizes and shapes and origins like road maps. One night, he’d work up his legs. If he caught Simon on his stomach, he’d study his back and trace every divot in the skin. Simon no longer flinched at his touch. The guy could even sleep through it now. It was a sacrifice he’d made for Johnny when he recognized how important it was to him. 

  Simon had survived so much. After everything, he was here, sharing a quiet night in their home with their dog and the owl and his next book. 

  Again, he prodded the scar on his bicep. A bullet courtesy of one of Graves’ shadows during a shootout in Mexico. 

  Below it, a clean slice in his skin about three inches long. It was ice-white and puffed up, as it had never been sewn together. Six more identical scars had been slashed in a semi-ring around his bicep, just under his shoulder. These kinds of scars had been self-inflicted during a life which Simon endured before he ever met Johnny. It pained him to see, to understand the pain that his husband used to live with. There were more cuts on the opposite arm similar to the ones on his left bicep. Being left-hand-dominant never deterred teenage Simon from mutilating both of his arms and even resorting to his thighs when he ran out of room. Johnny had counted all of them once. It was in the hundreds, but hard to tell an exact number, since they’d faded and blended together with time. 

  He wouldn’t count them all tonight. Johnny’s ringed hand rubbed over his neck to assure him that he wouldn’t put Simon through that when he was trying to focus on his reading. 

  Besides the obvious old bicep and forearm cuts, Simon’s left elbow sported a rough, uneven patch where he’d scraped it on concrete following a fall from a moving truck. He was lucky to have broken nothing. 

  He’d always worn gloves while he worked, but they’d never been able to protect him from shrapnel. He’d been shot through the palm once. It left him with lowered mobility in his thumb, and he hated texting because of it. There were jagged indents on that same palm that followed an invisible line under his knuckles. In another life, Simon Riley had used a jawbone as a shovel and gripped it so hard that the exposed teeth bore into his flesh. Johnny kissed his scalp. That image was painful for both of them. 

  His gaze travelled back up the man’s muscled arm (well, they’d both gained some weight since leaving the military, but Johnny really only needed to feel his strength rather than see it to get off on it) and across his back. Each shoulder had stab wounds that almost perfectly mirrored each other, but had been received decades apart. 

  Simon’s right ear had little indentations as well. Those were from when Riley Junior was a puppy and mistook his earlobe for a chew toy. The memory made Johnny smirk. He glanced up at the dog who had begun to snore. The owl hooted again. A second one hooted back. 

  The only other things that made his right arm different from his left were the deep laceration marks around his wrist from a rope that had been wrapped around it. That rope had saved Soap’s life when Ghost grabbed it just in time to keep him from plummeting to his death off the edge of a building. It had immediately broken his wrist, but Ghost had still somehow pulled him back up over the edge despite the pain. 

  That right hand was near spotless. Well, except for a couple little nicks and the bite mark on his thumb when Johnny had gotten a bit cocky. He’d slapped Johnny for the bite. They both orgasmed about three minutes after that. 

  Every examination of his scars ended up on the same one: that massive, purple-pink, snaking cavern of flesh from the front of his chest around his left side. It was ugly. It still hurt Simon the most to be touched. 

  Just once, and never again, had Simon explained the origins of that scar. The worst parts of him seemed to come from Roba. He’d been hung onto a meat hook like an animal and left to hang for some time—even despite broken ribs and a punctured lung. Now, when it was touched, Simon could still feel the cool metal on his organs and churning fractured chunks of bone beneath his skin. He’d screamed like he’d been set on fire when Johnny once unknowingly ran his hand over the scar. 

  He could feel Johnny’s eyes on it. That scar felt everything. 

  “Don’ touch it. Not tonight,” was all he whispered. 

  Johnny just kissed the stab wound on the top of his right shoulder. The owls hooted. RJ snored. Simon turned to his next page.

Chapter Text

  Johnny always met Simon on the tarmac when all the soldiers (sometimes less men than they left with) unloaded and flooded into the base with dragging feet and hung heads. If he wasn’t unloading with Simon, he hung to the side, searching the crowd for his secret lover.

  They were friends. That’s what everyone saw. At night, when Simon flew in from exfil with all his gear weighing him down, Johnny was always there to remove it. It was ritual to do it together if they both returned from the same mission.

  Simon was big, and he always stood above the other soldiers, making him easy to find. Tonight, though, Johnny couldn’t find him. He pushed up onto his toes. That skull mask was always the first thing he saw. 

  A twinge of panic rolled in his gut. What if he’s not here?

  Price would have told him. Price wouldn’t let him find out like this. Still, his face fell, and his gaze turned frantic. Most of the soldiers were already across the tarmac at the double-doors that would lead them to warm showers and a hot meal. Simon wasn’t with them. 

  Then, when he turned his search back to the open cargo hold, a tall figure emerged from the shadows. It wasn’t tall enough to be Simon. It looked like him, though. He was slouched. Exhaustion emanated from him from across the concrete. 

  It took him a moment to look up. Those eyes under his mask were dark and lifeless; Simon wasn’t home. Some nights were like that. Johnny welcomed him just the same.

  He skipped across the tarmac behind the first group of men and met Simon at the base of the ramp.

  “Hey, LT.”

  Simon just glanced at him. Yeah, definitely one of those kinds of missions. 

  His cheery gaze softened into one of warm understanding. Ghost, always an undefeated weapon that acted without mercy or weakness, was breakable. 

  He wouldn’t want to be touched now. Johnny just walked with him slowly, breathing cool night air, with their shoulders brushing occasionally. He led them to a side door rather than the main entrance that would be crowded. 

  Short glances gave him little bits of information, like a visual story. Ghost’s right glove had been ripped at the back, revealing a shallow gash. A lot of his gear was torn—his mask had been ripped up the side to reveal a tuft of blonde hair, one of his elbow pads were missing, the one knee pad he wore on his right leg was scratched to smithereens, his other knee was bloody and ripped through his jeans. There would be extensive bruising, even if Johnny couldn’t see under the rest of his clothes. The man was blotched with dots of blood and mud and sweat stains. 

  The soldier wouldn’t allow himself to feel pain yet. That came when Johnny coaxed it out of him, when he worked to remind Simon that he was allowed to feel. 

  To do this, Johnny brought him to Simon’s private barracks. The water pressure on base was shit. Still, his room was larger than Johnny’s, and there weren't any clothes scattered all over the floor. The sheets had been washed since Simon left. Johnny had initially been jealous of Simon for his access to a private room (even some of the other lieutenants had to bunk with other people). Apparently, Simon’s last psych evaluation concluded that he’d do better by himself. Johnny disagreed; he’d been spending almost every night he could with Simon, even through the nightmares and the sneaking around before anyone else noticed him. Their routine worked. 

  Simon sighed. Johnny turned to press their fronts together, keeping that same soft smile. “Ready?”

  He nodded slowly. Only then did Johnny reach up to gently pull at his torn mask. The older man flinched when it brushed over his face and set shaggy blonde hair into his eyes. The Scotsman was quick to wipe it away from his forehead. The greasepaint around his eyes was smudged by sweat; blotches of blood spray formed rings where the eyes of his mask sat. He’d be gentle washing his face; Simon hated hands on his head. That was why Johnny always started there. The rest came easier.

  He stripped him of his gear first, unbuckling clasps and loosening cords, before moving on to his gloves and boots, and then undoing the belt on his jeans. There was an alarmingly large patch of blood seeping through his t-shirt when his jacket was removed that hadn’t been on the outside; it had come from within. 

  So, the t-shirt came last, once he stood in his boxers. Simon’s hands were shaking. It wouldn’t make a difference for Johnny to mention anything about that.

  “Did you check in with the medics?” was all he asked, not looking up. He played with the hem of the shirt before he started to gently lift it away. It stuck to his skin like the half-coagulated blood had glued it down. 

  “S’not deep. Just big.”

  The gash that met Johnny was ugly and probably agonizing, but it wasn’t life-threatening. 

  “How’d you get it?”

  Simon shrugged. He had—maybe—another handful of words left in him until he couldn’t release any more. He had to choose them wisely. Johnny could see his strength leaving him as his body began to understand… wherever he was, whatever he had done, everything Johnny lived for was to be there for him. 

  Johnny suspected that he’d fallen on something. His jacket was an extra layer of tear-proof protection to most things like rebar and blades, but Simon wasn’t indestructible, contrary to what his job always forced him to be. Those strong hands on him were almost too much, too similar to the enemies he wrestled with for his life. And then he’d look down at the man attached to him—his Johnny, always there when he returned, willing and waiting, like he was oblivious to how evil Ghost was. 

  “Shower?”

  Simon nodded. The smaller man was already leading him by the hand across the room. He’d prepared towels on the little counter and a fresh set of loose clothing for Simon. Here, clouds of scents wafted around the bathroom—Simon’s shaving cream, vitamin E lotion, fresh laundry. 

  The shower turned on while Simon stood unsteadily in the centre of the little bathroom, eyes fixed on the grout without really seeing it. It would be a while before Johnny could pull him back from wherever his mind took him. That was okay. Soap was a patient man. 

  Under the spray, which took time to heat up to the scalding temperature that Simon needed it on, Simon closed his eyes and turned his back to it. It washed away patches of dirt and sweat for Soap to see the purple blotches of skin beneath. One of the bruises followed the line of his ribs in purple and red stripes. A few were spotted over his kidney; they weren’t dark, but receiving them had to have been painful.

  Their fronts pressed together again. This time, they were both nude. Soap took his face in warm, clean hands. Simon blocked the entirety of the spray. It stung the cut on his ankle where his shoe didn’t reach high enough to protect him from a wayward chunk of metal jutting out of a wall. Maybe he should tell Johnny about that one. He’d demand a tetanus shot. 

  “Let me wash your face first?”

  “Can’t stand,” was his mumbled reply. It didn’t affect his duties, so Johnny stepped aside and let Simon’s wet back press against the wall of the shower. He slid down it. He sat there with his knees against his chest, staring across the white tiles as if he was about to fall asleep. Water cascaded over him; he lowered his head so the spray wouldn’t be directly in his face. 

  Johnny was sitting beside him a moment later. The man flinched at the shadow that had suddenly come over him, but it was only his lover holding a clean, white face cloth. There was hesitation when the fabric touched his cheek. He felt bad for needing to add so much pressure in order to remove the greasepaint. 

  “I think your stomach needs stitches,” Johnny mentioned. It must have been agonizing, the way the water dripped down his chest and into the wound. Long strands of pink water washed away from them, like he was being stripped of his pollution. 

  Simon didn’t move. His eyes remained fixated on the tiles. He’d only blinked once or twice. 

  Moments like these, as Johnny washed Ghost away down the drain, had him considering who he was to Simon. The fact that Simon trusted him to do this, to be a part of Simon when Simon himself didn’t feel whole, made him feel hope for the kind of person he could be one day. It made him want to stay, to nourish the man who often seemed to return as a weapon’s shell. 

  These moments also reminded him that he had a place. Simon would never allow Soap to be wholly trusted. Johnny had realized early-on that Simon’s ability to heal in that way didn’t exist. With everything that Simon did, his distrust in the world followed him, and Johnny could either take it or leave it. He’d thought about it a lot. Was loving Simon worth it? If he couldn’t have more than he did, would it be enough? Could he sit in a scalding shower and wipe that greasepaint off a stony, empty face forever?

  Trusting Johnny to wash the blood and rage and power away from his skin after a mission was one thing, telling him about the person Simon used to be—the person who died in Roba’s basement—was another. Simon only felt safe knowing that that person no longer existed. And sometimes, once or twice a year, he lifted his head above the waves and thought: was it worth it, if it meant that Johnny could never be his?

  So, they sat together on that hot tile stained pink and black. Johnny didn’t look at him. He focused on his work and wiped Simon’s skin near raw. The temperature of the water didn’t help. The heat gradually faded as the hot water dwindled. 

  When Simon was clean, Johnny stood in the spray and shook out his mohawk. He refused to be away from Simon long enough to take a second shower; either he cleaned what he could or he stank for the rest of the night. 

  He turned to the man on the floor. He was looking up at him, blonde hair slicked down and white scars turned purple in the steam. Those eyes were clear now. Blonde lashes cast shadows over dark eyes; greasepaint always made them seem lighter. Once the shadows were gone, Simon shone through. 

  Simon didn’t return his soft smile. Johnny didn’t need him to. He stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel to rough over his hair. The soldier sitting in the corner never moved. His gaze was back on the tile.

  Soap couldn’t make him stand from the floor. He had to do that himself; sometimes it took a few minutes, sometimes he sat there for an hour, however long it took Simon to come back. 

  “Clothes are there. Let me know if you… I’ll be outside.”

  Simon blinked.

  “Si?”

  He looked up with slow eyes that didn’t seem to see Johnny. 

  “Take your time, okay?”

  Simon blinked again. Johnny spoke his language fluently enough to leave the bathroom door cracked when he left. 

Chapter Text

  There was a reason why Simon had private barracks. Most other lieutenants had to share with at least one person. It had been because of a psych evaluation a year or two ago during which he’d let a little bit too much slip. Maybe it was for the best. Now, he had space to leave his dirty clothes anywhere he wished and he could hoard his private shower and sit under the spray for as long as he needed to before he could bring himself to move following a mission. He could take his meals back to his desk and eat without feeling eyes on him and his tea always tasted better when he looked out his window onto the tarmac in the early morning hours.

  It was always a completely private place that he’d come to worship. And then Johnny started spending more and more time there.

  He seemed to like it. Simon’s room offered them privacy to play cards at his desk or share drinks or–that one thing. Maybe they’d shared a few kisses, egged on by alcohol and privacy. Unprying eyes gave them power or stupidity. One of the two. When he was alone, Simon thought about that night and Johnny’s sketchbook, how it had been left open on his desk, how Simon had run a hand up Johnny’s neck as an apology for leafing through it. What was wrong with him, thinking that forbidden touch could act as a sorry? What was wrong with Johnny for forgiving him for it and leaning into his hand?

  Tonight, Simon had turned in early to have a cup of tea. He’d been having trouble sleeping lately; he hadn’t had an issue with nightmares in years. Part of him was sure that the subconscious stress would blow over. Another part of him knew that Johnny was the cause, and he couldn’t stop either of them from indulging in this terrifying practice. 

  Soap didn’t usually come around until late in the evening. He’d slink through the hallways, tiptoeing past Price’s office and a couple rec rooms after lights-out. Why did he feel the need to be so secretive?  Playing cards and drinking together didn’t need to be a secret. Was he scared, too? Was he sneaking around because he also knew that their trysts were more than friendship-adjacent?

  There was a soft knock on his door. Price would be working in his nearby office. No one besides Johnny would be nervous enough to knock so quietly. Simon knew him by the noise of his knuckles; Simon knew Johnny so intimately that it hurt to stand and open the door, knowing he would be on the other side. He couldn’t stop himself. He had to slice into himself and destroy the parts of Ghost that had put up so many walls because of his weakness, because he couldn’t resist the sensation of being with him.

  Johnny was smiling when the door cracked open. He stepped aside to let the Scot into the room. Soap closed it behind them. Simon took a heavy seat on the bed, careful not to spill his tea. It was the only thing keeping him sane.

  “Hey, LT. Thought you’d be at the gym. Went there first.”

  The lieutenant glanced up at Johnny where he stood in the centre of the room. His clothes were fresh and he’d recently showered. Had he done that for Simon, created a clean slate for them to dirty with their romantic flirting and fantasies?

  Simon shrugged and sipped. Soap looked around the room and tilted his head. “What’s wrong?”

  The words had been playing in his mind since he realized that he couldn’t live without the Scotsman. Every time he tried to put them together coherently, everything fell apart again. 

  “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  He didn’t mean to sound so disgusted. He was disgusted with himself, but he understood why Johnny immediately cringed away and assumed that the disgust was aimed towards him. Those blue eyes, always smiled, had never looked so wounded. 

  “Oh.” He didn’t need any clarification on what Simon was talking about, either. 

  Ghost felt victorious. He’d won. The walls could go back up. He didn’t have to worry about Soap anymore. But Simon was sick with a rolling stomach and a heart that fell so low, his stomach acid lapped at it. 

  “Ye haven’t been sleeping well, huh?”

  He couldn’t tell if he was delaying the inevitable or trying to make a jab at Simon as retaliation. Either way, Simon deserved it, and Ghost felt a rush of annoyance. 

  Simon just shrugged. His tea held him to the planet. Johnny stepped toward him with his hands behind his back. 

  “Okay. Well… have a good night, I guess. Enjoy your tea.”

  The silence stretched on as the Scotsman turned and forced his feet towards the door. Everything in him pulled him back. Frustration flared in him. Then, a heavy sense of dread. The door opened. He could feel Simon—Ghost—watching him leave. 

  Soap stopped before the door was open wide enough for him to leave through. He closed it. Then, he turned back to Simon.

  “Ye’re a pure bawbag, Si.”

  Oh God, here we go, was Ghost’s initial reaction. Simon could have cried with relief. Please, don’t go. We can’t keep doing this, but please don’t stop. 

  When Johnny turned back to him and crossed the room in two steps, those blue eyes that had always been incapable of glaring had filled with rage and narrowed down at him. 

  “Ye don’t get t’do that shite. Not t’me.”

  The anger made Ghost powerful. Simon wanted more than anything for this to be over. Johnny couldn’t be mad at him. He’d not be able to survive that. 

  Simon stayed stony, staring up with unwavering eyes from under his balaclava. He still couldn’t keep his hand from shaking while he tried to keep his drink steady. The man felt like he’d been cemented to the bed, and he wanted more than anything to melt into it. 

  “Don’t make this harder, Soap,” he sighed.

  “I’m makin’ this harder? Amadan thu—ye arsehole, y’don’t get t’hurt me like this. Not because ye’re scared.”

  “What the fuck am I supposed to be scared of?”

  “This!” It came out as a yell before he remembered their neighbours. He motioned angrily at Simon as he spat quietly, “Y’think I don’ understand? Y’think I’m an idiot? Ye’re scared because ye’ve never let yourself have fuckin’ anything.”

  Simon couldn’t look him in the eye. Even Ghost was silent.

  So, Johnny continued. He’d really set him off this time. 

  “I know ye got issues, Simon. That this weighs on ye. But ye aren’t the only human on this fuckin’ planet. Y’don’t get to make someone care about ye and expect them to say thank you when you can’t handle being a fucking person. Fuckin’ grow up.”

  “Are you done?”

  “Ask me that one more time. I swear t’god.”

  Johnny really meant it this time. Silence passed between them while Soap crossed his arms over his chest. 

  “I’m not leaving.”

  With that, Simon stood and pushed past Johnny to the bathroom. It was the only way he could escape; Johnny blocked the door, and it wasn’t like he could talk to him now without throwing a punch. Ghost wouldn’t let him. His anger and grief for the relationship he had with his sergeant tumbled in him like boulders in a washing machine, destroying organ matter and leaving his mind reeling.

  The door slammed. The water ran for a few moments. The toilet flushed. Then, the sink turned back on. Johnny was sure that he was using the noise to cover something—mumbling, crying, both. Part of Johnny felt burning guilt for what he’d said despite his truthfulness. But what else was he supposed to do? He couldn’t let Ghost walk all over him and Simon. Not after how far they’d come. He didn’t think he deserved it, and he knew that Simon didn’t. 

  By the time the bathroom door opened again, Johnny had taken up Simon’s seat on the edge of the bed. He looked up at Simon. He’d removed his balaclava. His glaring was gone, replaced by sad, hollow, bloodshot eyes and tight lips. 

  They stared at each other for a few heartbeats. The man seemed scared to move closer to Soap, like he’d have to apologize if he did. Ghost couldn’t do that. Simon couldn’t, either. 

  “I love you,” Simon said softly. 

  Johnny’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw ticked. He studied Simon’s form in the bathroom doorway. The guy definitely didn’t look like he’d been sleeping well; he was slouching, his feet dragged, he was growing darkness around his eyes. He wanted to reach out to Simon, to wrap him in his arms and convince him that he could sleep. Whatever was keeping him awake, Soap yearned to destroy it. 

  “I don’t want to go through this again. Losing everything. I can’t. It would kill me. For real, this time.”

  Johnny ducked his head and raised a hand to motion Simon across the room. The sigh he released when he sat down beside him on the bed had Ghost quiet for the moment; Simon was here now, and he was scared of loving Johnny, but he was willing. They leaned together, Simon’s head against Johnny’s warm shoulder. He could sleep here, he surmised, without threat of nightmares.

  “I can’t promise that I’ll be alive this time tomorrow,” the Scot mumbled. 

  Simon closed his eyes.

  “But as long as I’m alive, I’m yours, Si. If ye’ll have me.”

Chapter Text

  Simon raised his head from Johnny’s shoulder to look up at him with an expression that conveyed hope and fear. It would have been so much easier if Johnny walked away, but now that he hadn’t, Simon couldn’t refuse. Johnny was his if he allowed himself to take him. 

  Maybe he could have this. Maybe just until tomorrow. 

  He looked up to see Johnny’s lips, now released from their tightness, were soft and licked raw. He had a habit of biting them when he was thinking. Simon found it endearing, but it also reminded him of how good they tasted and how they felt against his. 

  He straightened and leaned in. Obviously, Johnny had the same idea, because he pulled them together with his hand on Simon’s cheek and his lips searching. He could damn near taste the promise on Johnny’s lips, the sweet words that he couldn’t trust. Well, maybe tonight, he could. It would make it that much harder when he was gone, but the way Simon craved him like a drug was far too powerful. 

  Johnny tasted like honey and beer. He’d been drinking a little, probably having shared a round with the rookies after their orientation. That sense of camaraderie was unfamiliar to Simon and simultaneously attractive when he saw it in Johnny.

  Before this night, their kisses (sometimes deep and longing, almost painfully so) had only progressed to brief tugs to be closer, but never any fondling. Johnny sensed that hesitation and was always quick to back off. Maybe it stirred some kind of memory from his time with Roba, or maybe something had happened even before then. Whatever it was, Simon would always pull back to take an extra few breaths that were a little too quick and heavy to be lustful. Rather, they bordered on panic. It killed the mood pretty quick. Johnny was a patient man. If Simon was ever ready for him, he’d give the man everything he could offer. 

  Simon seemed to welcome Johnny’s tongue when it slipped his lips and collided with his, at least. It showed promise. Their fronts pressed together and their hands wrapped around each other with hands on Johnny’s hips and more on Simon’s cheek and chest. Simon was bitter like gunpowder and tangy like metal with a hinting flavour of tobacco from his most recent cigarette. At first, Johnny couldn’t stand the habit, but now the smell that clung to the man afterwards had him salivating. 

  His erection pressed against his trousers desperately. If the Brit saw it, he didn’t move to do anything about it. Johnny didn’t dare reach for Simon. If it wasn’t wanted, the gesture could destroy everything they’d spent the last months building, and Johnny could wait forever if he needed to. 

  Simon responded to his sighs between kisses by bringing his hand down to trace Johnny’s stomach through his shirt. There was muscle there, pulled taut as that familiar knot of arousal played at the base of his spine. The touch was unexpected; Simon had never initiated contact like that, so Johnny hadn’t, either. His face fell in Soap’s neck. His pulse was strong there and heat emanated from his rolling skin as his shoulders tensed. His hand was sinking lower, slowly mapping a path under his belt. 

  Johnny’s hands stayed cemented to Simon’s sides. He couldn’t help when one slipped down to his hip; he righted it by putting it on the nape of Simon’s neck. Those lips on him, not divided by a mask, were like unspoken promises, speaking to Johnny about Simon’s love and devotion and—

  Simon’s fingers had quickly undone his belt and now allowed only a thin layer of boxer fabric to hold him captive. Finally looking down to see all of Soap seemed to change something in Simon. No longer were his lips peppering kisses or breathing lustful sighs into his ear. 

  In fact, Simon didn’t seem to be breathing at all. Soap leaned back to study those distant eyes and frozen features for a moment, unsure. 

  Then, Simon’s breath returned, this time laboured and loud. He was blinking fast. His hands, now pulled around himself, were shaking. Whatever he was looking at, Simon could no longer see Soap or his erection.

  Simon’s vision tunnelled. His ears weren’t ringing, but the blood in them was like a roar that cancelled out all the other noise. For a moment, he bit down on his lip, but then he realized that the sensation in his face had disappeared. He couldn’t feel his mouth moving, he couldn’t hear the familiar hum of Johnny’s breathing. His own breathing was obvious, but it was fast, and he couldn’t seem to slow it down. 

  Panic replaced his arousal and rose in his throat like acid. It was a carnal sensation, urging him to run or hide or do something before Simon was consumed alive. 

  He’d been fine. Maybe he’d pushed himself, but he knew Johnny. He was in control; the only person directing his touches was Simon. He’d been able to feel Johnny’s love for him when he brushed over his erection, pulsing in his boxers, but it disrupted his control over the panic. 

  Simon was back to square one. He wasn’t ready. It just sucked that he’d misjudged his abilities—again. 

  He felt himself standing from the bed and beginning to frantically pace. Part of him needed to escape, the other was just relieved to have some way to channel the panic. 

  Johnny was speaking to him. He could see his mouth moving when he glanced around the room. At least the Scotsman hadn’t stood with him. Simon just needed his world to be still. It would be over soon. Maybe. Sometimes these lasted as long as twenty minutes.

  “Simon, breathe—“ Johnny’s voice broke through the roar. When he was too breathless to stay standing, he had to bend in the centre of the room and put his hands on his knees. The posture didn’t help his restricted lungs, but it kept him from passing out. 

  “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just get through it.”

  Between gasps, Simon still felt that he needed to explain himself. Johnny didn’t deserve this—this broken man, who couldn’t touch another penis without detaching from reality. “Sorry—don’t—-I thought I could—“

  “It’s okay—“ the end of Soap’s reply was swallowed by the blood pumping in Simon’s ears again. He straightened and put his hands on his head. This time, his lungs felt open despite the burn in them. 

  “Just—give me a min’.”

  “I’ll be here. Just get through it,” Johnny assured. 

  Standing away from the furniture and the door helped the sense of claustrophobia just enough for the noise to die down. His throat was tight and made him feel like gagging, but the burning was lessened to a tolerable level. Maybe his breathing was still quick, but it didn’t make him feel like his head was in the clouds anymore. 

  Again, he put his hands on his knees. Soap watched and waited.

  “You okay, Si?”

  “Mhm.” He seemed to choke on his reply.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Just stay there. I’m okay. Almost. I’m so—“

  “I’m not gonna stay if you apologize again, Simon.”

  One final huff and he straightened. Johnny didn’t look angry. He waited patiently while Simon returned to his seat on the bed. This time, a foot of space divided them. The sheets scratched at his hands. He could feel his face again; it was hot. 

  The panic had been very brief this time, surprisingly. 

  “I thought I could,” he repeated. 

  “I’m not upset that you couldn’t.”

  “I don’t think I can do anymore.”

  “Simon.”

  Tired, guilty eyes found Johnny’s. There wasn’t an ounce of frustration to be found there. 

  “It’s okay.”

  He studied the man. It really wasn’t okay. Simon didn’t feel okay. He probably didn’t look okay. How he’d rejected Johnny’s love, how he couldn’t handle touching Johnny himself—nothing really felt okay, now. He hadn’t felt okay for a while, especially when the thought of anything more than kissing Soap made him sick to his stomach. He owed Johnny more than that, after everything he’d done for him, after all the love he’d offered Simon without anything in return, and he still couldn’t seem to repay him in the most basic way. He hated himself. 

  “I’m sorry for calling ye so many names,” Soap said sincerely.

  “S’okay. I deserved it.”

  “Aye, at the time. Y’don’t now. Was… it something I did?”

  Simon closed his eyes and shook his head while running a hand over his face. It relieved the tension there. “No. I’m just…” Broken. Every time Simon felt the urge for intimacy of any degree, Ghost was quick to remind him why he couldn’t. “I haven’t changed. Sometimes, I think I can.”

  Johnny raised a hand slowly to brush a tuft of unruly, blonde hair behind Simon’s ear. Without the mask, it fell into his eyes. Having people close to his head with tools and clippers was a bridge he hadn’t yet been able to cross, and he always fucked it up when he cut his own hair. Another reason to keep the mask on. 

  Three months ago, Ghost was flinching away from Soap when he tried to touch him at all. They could barely bump fists. Now, he was brushing away his hair like Simon didn’t even feel it. Haven’t changed my arse.

  “I think ye have.”

  “You’re saying that because you love me.”

  “Aye, I do love ye. And I’m a lil’ biased. But it’s true.”

  “Thank you. For not being angry.”

  “Y’know I wouldn’t be. Y’know I can’t.”

  Simon nodded. “Yeah. I know.” His words were usually true. Johnny had never done anything to convince him otherwise, but Ghost was intent on torturing Simon until he had no one and was no one. 

  While Simon stared at the floor, Johnny watched his jaw work and his hair fall back into his face. Yeah, he needed to cut it yesterday. Weeks ago. 

  Insisting that Simon was worth something, like trying to convince Price that his cigar addiction was a problem, wasn’t worth talking about now. Simon looked down at the floor with pure defeat. He looked guilty as well, but mostly exhausted. He wrung his hands in his lap, the last of his nerves still strung high. 

  “Do y’think ye can lay down? Sleep for a bit?”

  “I’m gonna go for a smoke,” was his prompt reply. He stood quickly, and Johnny’s hand dropped onto the bed. The Scot was trying his best not to look so hurt. Thankfully, Simon couldn’t look him in the eye, anyway. With his hand in one pocket and his mask in the other, he turned to Johnny. 

  “…But will you stay? When I get back, will you be here?”

  He lit up, heavy heart forgotten. Simon didn’t need to ask. The answer was clear in every kiss and touch they shared, no matter how hesitant Simon may be. 

  “Always, Si. Enjoy your smoke.”

  The door creaked open and Simon’s form took up most of the frame as he entered. There was a waft of fresh cigarette smoke coming from him, but he was quick to remove his boots, jacket, and pants to stave off the worst of it. Darkness encompassed the room, save for the square of light illuminating Johnny’s face from his phone in the corner. 

  Johnny had created a warm space under the sheets (those ones that smelled so much like Simon that they had him salivating and rubbing a quick one out in his absence) and moved aside when Simon entered. His mask was discarded on the floor before he pulled back the blanket to crawl in beside the Scotsman. He didn’t curl into Johnny like he always wanted to. Instead, he sat up against the headboard like Johnny did, with his arms crossed over his chest. 

  They didn’t look like a couple. Sometimes Simon didn’t feel like they were a couple, just because he couldn’t bring himself to always reciprocate his gestures. He hoped it didn’t reflect too much on what he wanted. Johnny had to understand. He had to know that Simon didn’t sit there six inches away, acting like Johnny would electrocute him if he touched him because he didn’t love him. Simon did everything because of Ghost—that violent, powerful part of him that had protected Simon for a lot of his life.

  Johnny was scrolling on his phone. Simon was the one who was always reading. Johnny hadn’t read a novel since grade school. When Simon looked over at him, searching for some kind of ill-feeling on his face, he only saw Johnny happily scrolling through cat videos. The man sensed his gaze and promptly turned his phone to show him a short clip of an orange tabby attacking a stuffed alligator plushie. 

  Simon couldn’t resist smirking. 

  “Good fag?” he wondered absently. 

  “S’okay. Helps the nerves.”

  “Tha’s good. Ye tired?”

  Simon shrugged and glanced around the room, trying to make shapes from the shadows. He’d never been afraid of the dark. Not after Roba. After that, Ghost vowed to be fear himself, the shadow that grew powerful in the dark. Eventually, his eyes ended back up on Johnny’s phone, which was still tilted towards him. This time, they both smirked at a video of a tiny kitten shaking its ass because it got extra paté for dinner. 

  When Johnny straightened up and continued scrolling, Simon spoke, “I hope you know that I want to do it. One day. I’m trying. I’m trying really hard.”

  Johnny knew how bad Simon wanted this, wanted him. Maybe Simon allowed his heart to lead him, but Ghost was quick to stomp it out. “I know you do. And I’m sorry. Again. I hate feeling like I’m pressurin’ ye.”

  The phone clicked off and plunged the room into complete darkness. 

  “It’s not pressure. I’ve… just never done it before. I can teach myself to do anything, but I can’t teach myself to do this.” 

  For a moment, Johnny stared into the blackness. Then, despite not being able to see a thing, he found himself looking in Simon’s direction. 

    Simon was doing the same in an effort to judge his reaction, waiting for the fire to start. He felt like he’d been lying to Soap for so long, and now that he’d shared his secret, he couldn’t help but worry that he’d made the wrong decision. At one point in his life, he would have been ill at the thought of sharing such an experience with another human. Now, Johnny seemed like an other-worldly exception. Everything was different now. Simon was stronger. Ghost was weaker. 

  “Wait, like sex?”

  “No, Johnny, like bingo. Of course I’m talking about sex.”

  There were very few times in his life when Johnny felt this stupid. He simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Not from Simon, the stoic man with the Greek god physique and glowing, blonde curls. “Ye’re tellin’ me that nobody’s ever wanted to jump your bones in all your thirty-four years a’ bein’ alive?”

  He would have laughed with Johnny. Not tonight, though. Not with the memories that this conversation brought. His fear at the very mention of sex only reminded him how irreversibly broken he was, how those parts of him had been crushed by Roba.

  “I have, before, it just—… it wasn’t because I wanted to.” Parts of Simon flared in anger at Soap for prompting all his secrets out of him, like the Scot tugged at an invisible string that undid everything he’d built around himself. It was almost worse now, to realize that Johnny knew every part of him, every secret he’d buried, and he was completely at the man’s mercy. His aggression was an involuntary survival tactic. Simon knew that Johnny would harbour this secret and protect it. Ghost didn’t agree. 

  The Scotsman stared at the dark figure beside him and tried to conceal his horror upon understanding Simon’s words. His only experience with sex had been against his will. It suddenly explained so much. He felt a terminal self-hatred upon realizing how disappointed he’d been each time Ghost pulled away. The silence, somehow, still communicated every emotion he had. 

  “Do I disgust you?”

  Johnny sighed. “Ye always think ye’re some disgusting, ugly, evil thing. Makes me sad, Si.”

  “M’sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing.” 

  Silence. 

  “You’ve made progress, y’know. Yer mindset always tells y’otherwise, but s’true.”

  This had Simon snorting. 

  “I’m serious, Simon! Remember when I couldn’t stand within a foot a’ ya? When no one could touch ye? When you couldn’t let anyone else make yer tea or yer food? Y’always make it into some little thing that don’ matter, but ye’ve worked so hard. And if ye want this, us, ye can do that, too.”

  “But how long are you going to wait for that? Actually wait?”

  Johnny threw his hands up. “Forever!”

  Simon really couldn’t believe what he was hearing, so he didn’t know how to answer. How much convincing could Johnny do before Simon was a lost cause? Didn’t he owe it to Johnny to believe him, just once? The apology stopped on his lips. 

  “I’ll wait forever. As long as I need to. As long as you need me to. Trust me, just this once, to tell the truth.” It came out as a demand. Johnny was sick of Ghost. He wanted Simon, and he was prepared to wrestle the man he loved away from that monster he’d created at all costs. 

  “I do trust you,” Simon whispered. He was thankful that Johnny couldn’t see the tears in his eyes. 

There was a warm hand on his shoulder suddenly, slowly following his collarbone and coming to rest under his jaw. Johnny’s thumb rubbed at his tight cheek. “Ye’re exhausted, a leannan. Get some sleep?”

  He could feel the slight nod of the man’s head and only removed his touch when he could feel Simon lean into him. The Brit landed with his head on the Scot’s shoulder and a soft, relieved sigh. Soap rested his chin on those blonde curls. Another thing that would have caused panic in Simon a short time ago.

  Johnny began humming lowly. His thumb ghosted over Simon’s stubble in such a way that instantly made him realize how tired he really was. When he was a kid, Johnny’s mother would sing him and his sisters Scottish ballads before bed. Simon suspected that Johnny’s humming was more for himself than Simon, but he wasn’t complaining. Loch Lomond put him straight to sleep.

Chapter Text

  Johnny spent a lot of time awake while Simon slept. He felt like it was a rare show he only got to watch a few times a month, when Simon allowed himself to lay down and get the rest that his body constantly begged him for. Sometimes, he was so delirious that he’d meet Johnny in his barracks and collapse into his bed without a greeting. 

  Simon moved a lot. He always kept himself so still and controlled during the day, it was like he saved it all for the nighttime. 

  Unable to sleep himself, Johnny stayed awake on the pillow next to Simon. The man’s even breathing could be felt on his shoulder. He’d switched his phone to the opposite hand so his cat video scrolling wouldn’t disrupt him. Simon was a very light sleeper, and even he may not enjoy being woken by cute cats. 

  He could see the reflection of Simon’s blonde lashes in the phone’s soft glow. His brows were pulled together slightly, like sleeping required focus. The light turned the scarring on his face into lines of glittering, white glass. Jesus, he was glad he took the opportunity to jack off while Simon had gone for a smoke. If he hadn’t, he’d be stuck with an erection in one hand and cat videos in the other while his lieutenant hung off his arm, none the wiser.

  Simon mumbled something and shifted his face to collide with Johnny’s shoulder. He didn’t move, fearful that he’d wake him. His breath was hot on his flesh and quicker than he’d like, but Simon stayed asleep, and that was all that mattered—

  Simon scrambled into a sitting position, chest heaving. Johnny jumped and dropped his phone onto the bed. It must have startled Simon when the cold metal slid down the sheets and onto Simon’s hand, because he suddenly reached back to fish under his pillow.

  The video of a cat licking another before promptly beginning to fight it illuminated the scene between them, and Johnny was eternally thankful for the light, because it allowed him to glimpse the shine of polished metal emerging from under the pillow. His stomach dropped.

  Johnny knew the knife was there—he slept with one under his own pillow, left behind in his room—he just never expected Simon to be using it on him. Simon’s presence was enough to make him feel safe. When Ghost was around, even the boogeyman kept his distance. 

  Ghost was definitely around. Johnny caught a glimpse of him in Simon’s unseeing eyes, the kind of look he had when he was surviving. Otherwise, there was nothing there, no hint of Simon or other life. His motions were calculated and clean, his breath even and determined. Maybe his eyes were narrowed and focused, but they didn’t recognize Johnny.

  “Si—“ the blade angled to the side as Simon swung at him, a leg hooking over the Scot’s waist to gain an advantage. Johnny deflected his wrist just in time for the blade to graze his cheek. 

  Maybe Ghost was lethal, but Simon wasn’t awake, and his slight delay in regaining focus was telling. He was knocked off-balance for a second before he clenched his knees around Johnny’s hips and squeezed. The man under him kicked his legs and tangled them in the sheets as he raised his arms, preparing for another blow. It came swiftly. 

  The knife swung down over his neck. Johnny blocked it with his wrist. Jesus, Ghost was strong. At least it gave him a moment, while Simon seemed determined to press the knife into him with all his strength, to plead for his life. 

  “Simon—Si, wake up! S’me! S’John—“

  He went to raise his knife again. Johnny grabbed his wrist before he could raise it high enough to gain power and tugged it back down to the side. His other arm wrapped around Simon’s neck. He hated doing this to him, touching him in a way that would only make him panic further. The mattress tore under the blade as Johnny rolled them to the side. 

  Ghost was sent tumbling to the linoleum floor, panting. The knife clattered beside him. 

  The impact changed something in Simon. Still, Johnny couldn’t risk it. He scrambled off the bed and picked up the knife before taking a step back, standing over Simon like the man had burned him and he was waiting for the next bout of fiery rage. 

  Simon looked up at him with clear but confused eyes from where he pulled himself into a sitting position on the cold floor. He was back, and although he was angry at being rudely woken, that feral part of him had sunk below the depths for now. 

    “What the fuck—why did you—“ Simon was about to go on an angry tirade before he swiped the sweaty hair from his eyes and looked up at Johnny, who’d turned on the lamp. 

  The man, once choking on his rage, grew a rock in his throat at the sight of Soap towering over him. He looked angry and scared, everything a wild animal portrayed before it fought for its life. They were both sweating through their clothes, he realized. Simon looked between his lover and the blade he held. 

  For once, he was frozen, and he wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to defend himself if Johnny came at him. 

  “Johnny,” Simon whispered. He forced himself to keep his fists on the floor despite his urge to hold them up. That familiar anger returned, but only because it worked to cover the hurt. This was it? Johnny had really, truly gotten tired of him? Had his words meant nothing? What, Johnny was going to try to kill him? Was that how exhausting he was?

  The realization added to the weight in his throat. It burned down his esophagus like lava. 

  “John, put down the knife—“

  “Are you awake?”

  “Yeah, ‘cause you just pushed me out of the fucking bed!”

  “I pushed you?!” Johnny put his hands on his head, knife still gripped in one. “Jesus fuck, Si.”

  Simon studied his lover with suspicion. He could see the bloody line on the man’s cheek—Johnny hadn’t felt it through the adrenaline. There was a bruise forming on his wrist where Simon had done his best to plunge the blade into his carotid. 

  “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t—,” but Simon’s voice grew small with realization. “Did I?”

  Simon Riley had done his share of sleepwalking, before he’d compartmentalized the horrible things he’d seen. He’d learned to swallow down his fear until it stopped manifesting as sleep disturbances. Once, he’d woken with Gaz over him, yelling something about taking his food. Ghost had no interest in his food. The phone camera that Kyle held up promptly informed him that Simon was laying in bed with chicken curry smeared on his face. 

  Soldiers had found him standing in the showers more than once. They had to shake him awake before he was conscious enough to snap at them for disturbing him. He was pretty sure that they didn’t even know he was sleeping. Maybe they assumed that he was just an odd person. He preferred that.

  He’d only turned violent a handful of times during his first year in the 141—from what Price told him, at least. The captain had been there when he was woken once, arms still around the man’s neck in a chokehold. Simon had also broken a window one night; the noise woke him and he stood there groggily while he cradled his bloody hand. 

  It wasn’t that Simon couldn’t believe he sleepwalked, it was that he couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to become so unstable. Ghost didn’t sleepwalk. Ghost was in control. 

  The thought of hurting Johnny made him feel betrayed by Ghost. What the fuck was the point of his self-preserving alter-ego if Soap was hurt in the crossfire? 

  With Simon’s realization and the horror that spread over his face, Johnny deflated as well. He set the blade beside the lamp with a sigh. 

  “Are you okay?”

  Simon almost scoffed at the question. Was he okay? Johnny could be dead right now if the struggle had gone another way. 

  “I pushed ye hard. Y’landed on your hip.”

  “I’m…” he was going to say fine, but the word caught on his tongue. Johnny wouldn’t have believed him, anyway. He reached out his hand for Simon to take, and Simon did so without hesitation. The touch conveyed forgiveness, somehow, on Johnny’s part. Maybe Johnny didn’t hate him as much as he hated himself. It was definitely plausible. 

  Johnny motioned to the bed. “Ye want t’try sleep more?”

  When he turned back, Simon’s arms were around him, this time without that desperation and rage. It made him freeze. Simon didn’t like hugging. Ghost hated it even more. But he squeezed Johnny to his front and held on for a moment before he leaned back and took his chin in his hand. The man was so gentle this time, as he turned Johnny’s face to view the gash under his eye. It would give him a pretty scar, but it didn’t need stitches. Most of the blood was already drying. 

  Johnny recognized that fear in Simon’s eyes, that realization that he was still a monster despite all his progress. The self-loathing came fresh to the surface. Soap was quick to take his hands in his. 

  “I’m okay. Ye’re lucky I got better skills than you.” His playful quip and smirk was an effort to make Simon feel better, but it didn’t work. His jaw pressed together and his eyes searched Johnny’s for any sign of fear or anger. They were both good at hiding their emotions; sometimes Johnny was even better than Simon. He didn’t find anything more than sincerity. 

  “I wasn’t even dreaming. I—I don’t even remember it. I swear, I didn’t mean it, and I’m so—“

  “Simon, it’s okay. No one was hurt.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He closed his eyes. “I thought it stopped. I used to—it used to be a problem. It stopped. I got better.”

  Johnny brought him to the bed where he pushed him lightly down. Simon sat awkwardly, watching as Johnny took the knife and set it inside the shelf on his side of the bed. Hopefully, he’d be able to get to it first this time. Then, the Scotsman climbed back under the covers like it hadn’t just come terrifyingly close to being his deathbed. He motioned to Simon. He stared back in disbelief. 

  After everything, Johnny called him back. He called Ghost and Simon and their midnight murder attempts and emotional constipation and distrust back. He couldn’t move. He just looked over his shoulder at him with watery eyes. 

  “You are better, mo ghrá. You’ve been stressed lately. And tired. God knows our pumpin’ keeps us up.”

  “What?”

  Johnny winked at him. Simon rolled his eyes and looked away quick enough to hide his smile. 

  “Shut off the light, would ya?”

  “You’re just gonna go back to sleep? Like this is nothing?”

  “It is nothing. Hold me. Ye owe me that. Sun’s up in a couple hours, anyway.”

  Who was Simon to deny him after everything he’d done to Johnny? Who was Simon to deny him after everything Johnny had done for him?

Chapter Text

  Simon never thought he’d have more than one human on the planet that he could trust—himself. His secrets were a revolving door of tightrope walking and midnight hallway stalking, a balancing act of avoidance and speaking to people just long enough to push them away. 

  Price, naturally, had to know the real him. He tried to convince Simon that the only things he saw on his file were his skills and who Simon wanted to be, whatever that was. Some days, he knew that Price didn’t care. As long as he was present in the team, he was a soldier, through and through. Other days, Simon had to resist the urge to kill his captain, to destroy that intimate knowledge in an effort of self-preservation. 

  And then Johnny found out. 

  They’d been friends for a while, Simon could honestly say. As much as Simon could be a friend, at least. Despite his cold shoulders and bursts of frustration, Soap kept coming back. He’d always ask him about his day when Simon found Soap and Gaz watching a game on the little telly in the rec room. Ghost would nod and hum while he cooked his own food, never anything from the chow hall. Johnny also made sure to have lighters handy when he inevitably lost his; he’d drag his feet and swear at Johnny, knowing he’d have to come back again in a day or two for a new one, before begrudgingly thanking him. It was these little things that Simon quickly realized took effort on Johnny’s part. He wanted to be friends with Simon. Ghost didn’t understand what that meant, or if it was a threat. 

  Johnny went for runs when he was stressed. Lately, that hadn’t been very often. Night runs, though, always calmed his mind, and he could be occasionally seen doing laps around the tarmac in the small hours of the morning. Simon usually noticed when he did that; he could see the man jogging past the gym windows. 

  Simon must not have noticed him that night. He pushed himself until he sweated through his clothes and his lungs were raw. It was a sure way to keep the Ghost at bay. He was eager to wash his weaknesses away in the shower and sleep knowing that he was strong—at least, strong enough to be the soldier his team relied on. There was always room for improvement.

  Simon always used the gym showers when he did his midnight workouts. It was stifling to exercise under a balaclava, so he traded it for a medical mask and used the time of night to do the rest. Technically, he wasn’t even allowed to be in the gym at night. Price had given him keys. 

  Still, though, the locker room didn’t have a key. Anyone could intrude on his shower, and it struck him with unfamiliar fear. He kept his washing quick and his changing even quicker. 

  He’d stripped, showered in record time, and only had his clean shirt and briefs on when the locker room door opened. 

  Simon felt stupid. His entire career, all his training, taught him how to keep from panicking under immense stress, but now that he’d been caught—literally—with his pants down, he froze up like a rookie. 

  The exchange was a brief second long; Johnny stood in the doorway and met eyes with Simon, who still held his folded pants. His shirt was clean. The room smelled like shower and Simon. It was reflex for Soap’s eyes to snap downwards, like he couldn’t resist getting a view of the man whose image made him salivate. He’d spent more than a few nights imagining how big Simon would be, and how well he knew how to use his size on other people. On this one, random night, the gods had smiled upon Johnny and awarded him a surprise that he never imagined he was so deserving of. 

  His suspicions were correct: Simon wore fun boxers. He was too much of a grump not to. Tonight, he wore a blue pair with bananas printed all over them. They were ridiculous, but they were tight, and clung to his thighs just like Johnny imagined they would. They were tight everywhere, he realized. 

  It took him a second—the last second before Ghost finally turned away—for him to realize that he’d been wrong about everything. 

  Simon didn’t have a penis. It was obvious, and as soon as Johnny realized this, he knew he’d made a mistake. 

  Simon ducked his head and turned away, pants clutched to his chest, without a word. It took a moment for the Scot to be able to form words. All he managed was a “Sorry, LT. Have a good night,” before he was turning out of the room. The door clicked behind him. 

  Johnny couldn’t fight the feeling that he’d just irrevocably fucked up. 

  Dozens of scenarios ran through his mind, but the most prominent one pictured him being ostracized from the team he’d worked so hard to be a part of. Alejandro and Rudy were just beginning to fold into the 141 like regular members, Kyle shared his smokes with Ghost while they chatted about tea and the upcoming football tournament. And Johnny was… something else. He fit into the team well, but it was uncertain whether his presence would leave room for something like this. When he thought about it more, Simon kicked himself. Johnny may not know everything about him until now, but he trusted him with his life, and this didn’t change anything. He’d still be Johnny. Maybe. Ghost always threw in that maybe. 

  He found himself hyper-aware of his teammates actions in the few days following the incident. He was so sure that Johnny would tell the people around him—he could never help himself when it came to gossip. Every word he shared with Kyle or Rudy or Alejandro was like a question, so Simon could judge their reactions for any sign of malice towards him. Any sign that they felt Simon had changed. He spoke with every member of his team while making a great effort to avoid Johnny himself. 

  So far, nothing seemed different. 

  When he was inevitably exhausted from walking on eggshells around the team, he resorted to catching the captain in his office one afternoon. It was an effort to knock instead of barging in looking for answers. He kept himself composed despite the terror he’d been experiencing for the last few days. Fear wasn’t something Simon was familiar with. He still didn’t understand how he could spend half his life in active combat and never feel a thing before this. 

  “Come on in, Ghost,” Price could be heard from the other side of the door. He whisked himself inside and shut it behind him before leaning back against it, worried that he would run if he didn’t. 

  The captain was hunched over mountains of paper and his keyboard with a cigar in his hand. The room was stuffed with smoke that didn’t make it out of the open window behind him. Simon liked John’s cigars; they were a nice change from his Pall Malls. 

  “Have a seat. Thank you for distracting me from this nightmare.” The captain didn’t seem influenced by anything the soldiers told him. He was sure that John still held the same views: be a part of the team, and the secret is safe. 

  Ghost was rigid as he peeled himself from the door and approached the desk. The chair in front of it was also piled with folders, and Simon had to set them on the floor before he collapsed into the seat. 

  “What can I do for you?” John was always comforted when his soldiers turned to him for answers, especially Ghost. Over the years, he’d learned that he didn’t have to do everything alone. Price had done something right. 

  He wrung his hands in his lap and slouched so he could keep his eyes on the edge of the weathered desk. “Have you heard anything about me?” His voice came out embarrassingly small. 

  Price’s brows immediately furrowed. He took a last inhale from his cigar before he pressed it out on a nearby ashtray. “Like what?”

  The look in Simon’s eyes when they flashed up to him was a good hint. The soldier didn’t otherwise answer. 

  “What happened?”

  “Johnny found out.”

  “Oh.” No more explanation needed. John swallowed the smoke in his lungs as he thought. “…And you think he’ll tell someone? Has he spoken to you about it?”

  Ghost shook his head. God, he wanted to trust Johnny. He wanted to think that he was safe with Johnny. Price sighed, leaning back in his office chair. 

  “Did you come here for advice?” He could never tell with Simon. Usually, the man who was normally stoic and strong just needed those words of reassurance to keep him going, like a junky going to his dealer for a fix before he continued on like normal. Price was grateful for every opportunity to connect with the soldier. This time, he didn’t want to overstep. Not when Ghost was so obviously disturbed. 

  “I just can’t—let it get out. I fucked up.”

  “I don’t think you did. What happened?”

  “He saw me in the showers.” He sounded so defeated, like Johnny having this knowledge would kill him and he was waiting for death to take him.

  Price crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. “Hm.”

  Silence passed between them for a beat. 

  “That’s it? ‘Hm’?”

  John shook his head. “Soap isn’t gonna tell anyone. I can guarantee that.”

  “How? What did you do to him?”

  This made John snort. “Nothing. I just know my men.”

  Ghost studied him. The captain seemed confident in his words, but he always seemed sure. There had to be gaps in his confidence. Maybe he knew his soldiers, but not like this. 

  “Why don’t you talk to him? If you’re sure he knows, then there’s no harm in talking about it.”

  “There is. Not everyone’s… like you, John.” His words left him like he had to pull them from his throat himself. Maybe he’d tried it once, allowing the people around him to know who he was and where he’d come from. It had ended in disaster. It had almost broken Simon. He wouldn’t survive a second round. 

  “No, you’re right. Not everyone is. But Johnny is, Simon. The fact that I haven’t heard anything can attest to that.”

  “He has no reason to keep it a secret,” Simon argued.

  John sighed. “Have you considered that maybe he would keep it a secret because he cares about you?”

  Ghost rolled his eyes. John pursed his lips while he waited for that frustration. There were some things which Simon just couldn’t wrap his head around. 

  “Go talk to him. You tried coming to me for peace. You need to talk to Soap now.”

  Simon couldn’t help that sense of betrayal despite the truth in John’s words. He hated talking about his feelings. He hated talking about himself. He hated revealing parts of him he wished more than anything to keep locked away. He hated that he wanted to talk to Soap, that it was the only way he could put the situation to rest. What would happen if he let the silent treatment carry on over the next mission; what kind of a soldier would he be if he allowed this to obstruct him from doing his job perfectly?

  He didn’t want to face Johnny. Price’s few words reminded him that he would have to if he wanted to trust his team again. 

  Simon stood, stuffed his hands in his hoodie pockets, and stomped out of the room. A few tendrils of smoke followed him, even after he slammed the door. 

  Simon didn’t actually grow the balls to approach Johnny until just before lights-out. The hallways were deserted, but he could still hear voices and laughter coming from the barracks as he passed them. Some rooms were communal—up to a dozen bunk beds stuffed into one corridor—others were meant for two soldiers. Johnny and Simon were both lucky enough to get their own rooms. It was the closest Simon had ever gotten to privacy in his life. It made him feel guilty for intruding on Johnny’s peace before he reminded himself why he was standing in front of his door. 

  He reminded himself that if he needed to, he would scare Soap into submission. He’d do anything. His first instinct was to imagine how he’d kill Johnny after he vowed to tell the entire base.

  He knocked lightly. There was little strength in his shaking hands despite the powerful emotions in his chest. 

  He could hear Soap pause his laptop (probably a soccer game he’d missed) and his footsteps approach the door. The Scotsman seemed surprised to see him, but the shock in his eyes quickly faded into relief. 

  “Hey, LT. How’s it goin’?”

  His gaze was hard. Despite his predisposition, Simon towered over Johnny, and it gave him confidence. Genetics, years of testosterone shots, and religiously pushing his body to its limit gave him that power over most of the people he met. He’d earned that. 

  “Can I come in?”

  Johnny nodded immediately. “Yeah. I’m just watchin’ the game. Scots are kickin’ arse today.”

  They both knew that Simon wasn’t there to watch football. Still, Johnny stayed chalant. He knew Simon was avoiding him. He also knew that he’d come back to face his fears when he could. 

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Simon stood tall in the centre of the room. Johnny sat on the bed without looking him in the eye. 

  “Did you tell anyone?” Simon was on a mission. 

  The Scot seemed to gawk at his forward question. He should have expected this; Simon was in survival mode. Get in, get the intel, and get out. 

  “About… what happened in the showers?”

  His silence gave him his answer. He knew it before he asked. 

  Johnny had the nerve to chuckle. “I seen loads a’ guys in the shower, LT. Been in the army since I was eighteen.”

  Simon frowned down at him. Johnny could feel it through the balaclava, through the harsh gaze that vowed to destroy him if he didn’t play his cards right. It washed his smile off his face and the man deflated as he gnawed on the inside of his cheek. 

  “Look, Ghost, I don’t… care. If that’s what ye’re here for. Can’t believe I gotta say it. Sucks that I had to find out that way, but…”

  “Did you tell anyone?” Simon repeated. 

  Johnny shook his head as if the answer was obvious. “No. ‘Course not. But even if I did, the team wouldn’t—“

  “If you do, I will slit your throat and skull-fuck you in your sleep. Do you understand, sergeant? This stays here.”

  The Scot was taken aback by his promise. He should have seen a threat like this coming. The way Simon’s eyes gleamed with hatred—maybe not directed at Soap, but at himself and the world—was genuine and chilling. It all felt so unfair to Simon, who he couldn’t help but be, how much he wanted to trust Soap’s words but couldn’t, how much effort he had to put into hiding. It was exhausting. All he could do to keep his head above the waves was to make sure that Johnny stayed silent and let him return to being the monster he’d created. 

  “Understood.” 

  Ghost turned to leave. 

  “Wait! Simon—“

  Johnny stood. Ghost froze with his hand on the doorknob. 

  “I’m sorry. I understand—I just—can’t ye wait for a minute? Damnit, Si.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” He still couldn’t turn to look at him.

  “I’m sorry I walked in on ye. I’m sorry this was out of ye’re control. Somethin’ like this, it should be ye’re decision who knows. But now that I do, I swear… no one will know. No one. Not from me.”

  God, Simon wanted to trust him. He wanted to release his breath and know that Johnny told the truth. Maybe he was, but the truth always wormed its way out of people eventually. Simon was the only person he could trust to keep himself safe. So far, Price had done his part, but that wasn’t sustainable, either. 

  Simon had lost control over the one thing he had for himself. The one thing he earned when he escaped his childhood, the one thing he’d worked himself to the bone for. 

  He exited the room, slamming the door behind him to discourage Johnny from following with any more useless, empty promises. 

  “What’d you do to Johnny?”

  Simon nearly choked on his cigarette. It had been nice, lounging in Price’s office on the old leather couch by the wall. The room was thick with smoke, suffocating, but it was familiar and warm in a way that numbed the cold in Simon. 

  “Shoulda fuckin’ known he’d report me,” was his grumbled reply. 

  John inhaled smoke and then tapped his cigar against his ashtray. Simon had brought his own, a little glass one that Kyle had given him last year. He’d made it sound like his glass blower friend had some leftover, but he’d commissioned it from her, knowing that Simon would like the blue and black streaks that curved through it. It was rather nice, Simon could admit. He brought it with him from base to base, one comfort he allowed himself. 

  He re-crossed his ankles at the end of the couch. Under his head, he adjusted the leather pillow. It reeked like smoke worse than the air. He was comfortable there with John. It shocked him the first time he’d fallen asleep on that office couch to the sound of papers crinkling and pens clicking. 

  “He didn’t report you,” John replied, “He keeps asking how you’re doing.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s none of his business.”

  “Y’know, one of his childhood friends is transgender. Did he tell you that?”

  Simon processed his words for a moment. Surely, that wasn’t true. Johnny would have told him. Johnny talked about everything. 

  When John saw his suspicious sideeye, he continued. “They grew up together. She’s in the military, too, now. Does work as a legal advisor or something in Scotland, I think. She hooked me up with a good divorce lawyer when I separated from wife number two.”

  “She?”

  “Yeah. Think Johnny said that she started transitioning… at eighteen? Johnny still visits her when he’s home. I send her flowers on my divorce anniversary every year to thank her for that recommendation. Really gave me freedom from the cunt, and I got to keep the house.”

  John took every chance he could to make a jab at his ex. It would have been amusing to Simon had he not been mulling over this information. 

  “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Cause you haven’t spoken a word to him in a week.”

  Simon had loads of excuses for this, but none he could voice to Price. Eventually, he sighed through another lungful of smoke. 

  “I wish I could be different, y’know. Johnny doesn’t deserve how I’ve treated him, but I can’t bring myself to regret it.”

  “I know. That mindset is how you’ve survived this long. But you know it’s not sustainable.”

  Price’s words were simple and calm… and true. Simon glanced out the window to look at the blue sky above them. The sunlight played on the smoke drifting through the room in bright tendrils. He blew into the air and watched it swirl above him. It was pretty to him. 

  “So, what, I go back and tell Johnny that he can say whatever he wants?”

  Price was used to Simon’s black and white thinking. It worked well in the military, but not when Simon needed to be a human. “Obviously not. And he wouldn’t, even if you told him to. But don’t you think he deserves to know that you don’t hate him for keeping your secret?”

  “I don’t hate him. And he’s not—“

  “He’s not said a word this whole time. Not even to me. You’re scared because you had no control over this whole mess, but Johnny’s proved himself. The whole team has. You know that. You’ve earned your place here. You’ve earned the right to be who you want.”

  Of course Simon knew that. After all the threats and the coldness and the hatred he directed at Soap to keep him quiet, the man was still willing to talk to him, to try and make it right. Soap would have been safe from Simon if he told the captain. But he didn’t do that. Johnny wanted nothing more than for his teammate to trust him. 

  Simon rolled into the back of the couch with a groan. “Fuckin’ hell. I hate apologizing.” 

  His position allowed John to smile without Simon seeing it. His oldest soldier took time, but he always came around eventually. He’d gotten used to his emotional constipation a long time ago.

  This time, Johnny was watching the telly in the rec room with Kyle. Maybe they cheered for opposing teams, but their love for the game united them—as long as their teams weren’t playing each other. Tonight, it was Scotland against Iceland. Soap lounged on one end with a beer while Gaz held the popcorn bowl on the other end, occasionally extending his arm to Soap, who took a handful and did his best to stuff the entire thing into his mouth. 

  They both glanced up when Simon entered. He immediately turned his back to them so he could get the kettle going and the tea from the cupboard. Soap’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than Gaz’s before it returned to the television. Simon rarely spoke to them during his midnight trips to the commissary; his tea time was a ritual that he didn’t usually like to share. 

  He leaned into the counter as he waited for the water to boil. The game droned on in the background. 

  “Look a’this bawbag, Kyle—scunner’s got his head up his arse.”

  “It’s those Iceland refs, man,” Kyle shook his head. They fell into silence to focus on the game. Simon found himself tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter. 

  As soon as the water began to hiss, Simon removed it from the base and poured it into the mug he’d randomly stolen from the cupboard. Tonight, he realized that it was green and shaped like a grenade. Stupid fuckin’ mug.

  It burnt his hand when he picked it up. He hated using handles. The heat reminded him of the sensitive scarring on his palm. 

  Instead of leaving like he usually did, he turned to the living space and stood there awkwardly. Soap and Gaz noticed his behaviour immediately, both glancing up. There was no way that Simon Riley was there to watch their soccer game. 

  “Hey, LT,” Soap smiled, “Come to watch the game?”

  “I came to apologize.”

  Johnny no longer paid attention to the telly. His gaze, searching for sincerity, locked onto Simon’s. “For what?” Kyle replied. He never looked up from the game. 

  “To Soap. I’m sorry. For what I said. You didn’t deserve that.”

  Johnny was quick to shrug. “S’okay. I… understand. To a point. But I get why ye were angry.”

  “Kyle?” Simon looked at the man next to them. The guy felt like he was intruding on something; he wasn’t supposed to be witness to the first time he’d ever heard Simon apologize to someone. Kyle’s eyes were slow to move to his lieutenant.

  “I’m trans.”

  Kyle blinked at him for a moment, then back to the game, then up to Simon. He seemed to be processing, at least, but there wasn’t disgust on his expression.

  “Like, you’re transitioning to a girl?”

  “No. I was born female.”

  “Oh. Okay… Bruv, that was totally fuckin’ off-side!”

  Kyle had shrugged and smiled, but it was quickly replaced by anger when he couldn’t help but glance at the television and notice Scotland’s unfair treatment. “Iceland got their heads inside their rectums.”

  Simon still studied him. His hand burned on the mug, but it kept the panic at bay. Johnny just stared up at him in shock.

  “Do you care?”

  Kyle shrugged again. “Not really. It’s 2025, bruv. You could identify as a toaster if y’wanted to. You still wanna be called a guy?”

  Simon nodded.

  “And you still want to be called Simon? Er, Sir?”

  Simon nodded again. 

  “Cool.” 

  And that was that. Kyle was once again enraptured by the game. Of all the arguments and disgusting looks he expected, he was shocked to stand there and find his shoulders relaxed. Most of the team didn’t know, and Kyle might still share the news, but it didn’t feel like a horrific secret anymore. Maybe he could live with his soldiers knowing who he was. It was a surreal thought.

  When he met Johnny’s eyes again, the Scot was grinning up at him like he’d won a competition. The team didn’t care. Simon was Simon. 

  “You gonna stay for the game, LT?”

  The telly buzzed at him with applause while Johnny spoke; the noise drew three pairs of eyes to the screen. Kyle and Johnny withered in their seats. 

  “Fuckin’ hell—“ Kyle had to turn away. 

  Johnny put his hands on his head and devolved into angry Gaelic cursing as Iceland’s score went up by one. Simon couldn’t help but smirk, thankful his mask concealed it. 

  “Is it worth it? Looks like Scotland’s getting pummelled.”

  “Did ye aye—haud yer wheesht an’ sit down, Simon!”

  The man snorted and sat between the pair with his mug in his lap. Somehow, the weight off his shoulders allowed him to sink deeper into the leather cushions.

Chapter Text

  Simon knew that it wasn’t going to be a good day as soon as he stood on the edge of consciousness. He wasn’t even awake yet, and he was already grimacing. 

  His alarm clock told him that it was almost four. He had four minutes before he had to be awake. Maybe he could lay there for that time and pretend that his stomach wasn’t churning with horror.

  His body was wet. It gushed around his thighs as he tested movement, rolling his hips over the mattress. He could smell it. It made him want to vomit. 

  Tears rushed to his eyes. He put his hands over them, forcing them away. There was no way he was going to cry. Simon hadn’t cried in years. He had no reason to, but the realization made him so angry. Not only did the self-loathing eat at him, he felt despair at the realization that he would have to spend the next thirty minutes taking care of himself. He’d be showering, changing sheets, trying to remove stains from his mattress, finding something to stop the bleeding. God, he had to stop the bleeding. Shit.

  He knew exactly what caused it, too. It was hard to stay consistent with his injections when he was on missions, but he tried to keep it one of his top priorities. Inconsistency brought these kinds of situations. Three weeks ago, he’d been whisked away by bullets and responsibilities in a two-week-long quarrel in Las Almas. It stole every waking moment from him and he could feel the syringes burning in his pockets the entire time. He’d missed a dose. Maybe two. And now he was paying the price. He’d been set back to the very beginning, like all the years he’d worked for this—for him—were worthless. 

  Simon could lie and tell himself that he was a man, that he’d earned the title, that coming out to Johnny and Price and Kyle was worth something, but moments like these reminded him otherwise. He could still bleed. He could never truly escape what he really was. 

  He slid off the mattress and dared to look back at where he lay. He’d been bleeding heavily throughout the night, and the black pool in the centre of the bed made his stomach drop between his knees like he’d swallowed iron. It was a disgusting feeling and a disgusting sight. Simon found himself pathetically whimpering at the sensation of soiled boxers sticking to his skin. Those boxers were one of his favorite pairs–they had little cartoon skulls on them–and they were ruined. 

  Part of him knew that he had to take better care of his body. Another raged on, determined to destroy the weak parts of himself, the female parts. Simon wrapped an arm around his stomach where the worst of the cramping settled like a cannon ball held up by duct tape. His nails sunk into his hip, tearing as well as they grounded him.

  His ensuite bathroom (it could barely be called such, as it only contained a toilet and a barely single-square-foot shower.) was cold in the morning, and the lights hummed for a second before they actually turned on. A sink was stationed just outside the door. His mirror had cracked a long time ago, but when he glanced into it, he could see the fractured parts of himself like he felt them inside. 

  With his shirt and briefs still on, he stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as it would go—which wasn’t very warm. Sometimes, he was tempted to try Price’s private bathroom to see if the water was hotter up there. The gym showers always had the hottest water, but that fact was what had gotten him outed to Johnny in the first place.

  The water trickled into the drain in long, pink streaks. Once he turned his back to the water and it had properly soaked through the fabric, the trickles turned into a darker red. The urge to vomit returned. 

  He waited long enough for the water to mostly run clear before he removed his clothes, letting them slump to the tiles in dripping heaps. His flesh ached for some kind of burn—water or fire or a blade—something to make his pain real, not just a detached voice that berated him or a gnawing pit in his belly.

  As much as he cleaned himself, the blood continued to come. The more he scrubbed, the more his skin burned raw, the dirtier he felt. Parts of the soul he’d forged—Simon—melted away during moments like these, and he never felt like he could get them back. 

  He turned off the shower. The towel hanging on the wall was grey. It would carry his stains like he did, constant and debilitating. He grimaced at it but continued to dry himself, refusing to look at the new smudges of blood the towel returned with. He wrapped it around his waist regardless. Simon would never be clean, anyway. 

  It was time to address his next biggest issue: he had nothing to stop the bleeding. 

  His little envelope of tampons and pads that had been stuffed in his nightstand had been thrown out in a fit of indignant defiance against those parts of himself he hated. He was a man. He didn’t need to coddle himself any longer. Now, he was nothing, like walking the line for so long had stuffed him into a purgatory between any kind of identity. 

  Simon could make the trek to medical. It was his best option; the doctor was at least aware of his status. But were the nurses? If he went up to the desk and asked for a tampon, what would he see in their eyes? They knew the Ghost—everybody on base did. His teammates kept his secret. Who would he be if Ghost's image were to be tainted? 

  His teammates.

  Johnny kept tampons and pads. For some fucking reason. The women on base knew that Johnny had a stash in his barracks, and he kept his door open in case anyone needed one. It seemed to be a secret between the female soldiers, but Johnny had mentioned it in passing conversation once. A year ago? Two? Did the stash still exist?

  He’d talked about growing up with three sisters and a mother that doted on him, but it also raised him with an awareness of emergencies. The women who raised him were proud of him. Now, Simon couldn’t quell the twinge of relief. Maybe he had an option—if he could make it across the barrack building. 

  He glanced down to watch a bead of red leave a streak down the inside of his knee, just under the cover of his towel. It made him gag. 

  Simon stood outside Johnny’s barrack door with his makeshift pad (half a roll of cheap, thin toilet paper wrapped around his underwear) riding into his ass. He swore that he could smell it. Cramping tore at his waist. Surely, he had pain medication somewhere. Upon trying to remember where he left some kind of painkiller, he realized that he’d thrown his Tylenol out as well. Ghost didn’t need pain meds. Remembering this made him feel weak now. 

  It felt like he stood there for hours, looking up and down the hallway but unable to knock or even put his fingers on the door handle. This was more exhausting than standing in the shower for the foreseeable future and letting himself bleed out. 

  Footsteps turned the corner at the end of the hallway. Part of him filled with dread while the other half became weak with relief upon recognizing Soap’s stupid haircut. The sergeant was unravelling earbuds as he walked and only looked up when he noticed the massive shadow in front of his door. 

  “Oh, hey, LT. Awright?”

  He’d just come from the gym showers and the strip of hair on his head had been roughed, sticking up in every direction. That grin on his face made Simon just as annoyed as his hair. 

  Simon didn’t want to say anything. He couldn’t. How the hell was he supposed to start this conversation? ‘Hi, I’m a man but now I’m bleeding from my vagina and I need a tampon. Please try to respect me as your lieutenant after this, thanks’.

  “Ghost?” Soap waited with innocent confusion. His lieutenant was blocking his door, but all he seemed to be doing was staring down at him. 

  “I…”

  Soap waited. 

  “I need your help.”

  These words had never been uttered by Simon—not to him, at least. It was surreal. Johnny had to consider them for a moment, unsure if he heard correctly. 

  “Oh. Okay. Uh… y’wanna come in?”

  Ghost could only nod and step aside while Soap unlocked the door and let them both into the room. Simon closed it behind him. Johnny dropped his bag on the bed. 

  “What’s up?”

  Simon stood awkwardly in front of the door like he was waiting for a reprimanding. He squeezed his gloved hands into fists, then released them, and then rolled them into tight balls again. “I…”

  “Simon, what’s going on?”

  It frustrated Simon more to realize that his anger and self-hatred came off as fear. Ghost was never scared. He wasn’t allowed to be in this job. Johnny should know that. 

  “Ineedathing—atampon.”

  “What?”

  Simon huffed. “I… I’m bleeding.”

  He could immediately feel Johnny’s eyes raking over him, looking for injuries. “What? What happened? Ye solid?”

  “No. I’m bleeding.”

  For another pause, Johnny still didn’t seem to get it, until his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He was quick to hide his surprise, though. He put obvious effort into shrugging and shooting him a comforting smile. “Oh. Yeah, I got some things.”

  The man was already turning and kneeling to pull the drawers to his bedside table open. He’d said it like he genuinely didn’t care, like it was normal for his lieutenant to be… this. 

  There were only old tissues and lotion in the first drawer, which he quickly shoved closed, and the second revealed another pair of headphones as well as his journal. The third one harboured a plastic pouch of colourful plastic—pads of all sizes and shapes and tampons of ranging sizes—and some bottles of pills.

  “Me ma drilled it into me. Always had t’have somethin’ on me ‘case m’sisters needed it. Saved a few hens on base with it, too.”

  He held out the pouch. Simon didn’t want to take it. Accepting his help, this help, felt like an admission. He was admitting to being less than he thought himself to be, less than everyone he worked with assumed he was. 

  Simon had to take it. He didn’t have another choice. He could either trust Soap, who he entrusted his life with daily, or reveal his deepest secrets to a random nurse. 

  It was a light bag, but it weighed a ton in his hands, and they were shaking. Soap could see. 

  “Hey,” Johnny began, reaching out for the bag again. He didn’t take it. Instead, he supported Simon’s fists with his palms. “You okay?”

  “I hate this. I hate…” Me.

  “Ain’t nothin’ I hav’n seen before, Si. Y’can take the bag.”

  Simon instead opened it, removed a single, tiny tampon (the smallest one that had fallen to the bottom) and then shoved the bag back into Johnny’s chest. He just wanted to crawl back into his hole. He’d gotten what he needed, for now. Maybe the bleeding would stop in a few minutes and he could go back to being a man. 

  “Ye’re… gonna use one? Never seen anyone with a uterus the size’a a grape.”

  Simon recoiled at his comment, wincing. Soap instantly understood his mistake, and his smile disappeared. His attempt at humour had failed. He should have known that it would. 

  “Sorry. Tried to—anyway, sorry. Can I do anythin’?”

  Simon studied him, unsure if Johnny was being sincere. Maybe he wanted to trust his intentions, but the man lived in a different reality that didn’t allow him to indulge in wants. After everything, why couldn’t Simon allow Johnny the trust he’d earned? So far, his secrets had been guarded closely. Even Gaz promised to keep his mouth shut without any threatening on Simon’s part. 

  The Scot continued to ramble, sweating under his stare. “Ah ken this stuff’s shite—makes ya gutted, like y’not yerself. Ah hope y’ken I don’t see it that way, Si.”

  Simon blinked. “I have no idea what you just said to me.“

  Johnny couldn’t help but snort. “Tryna say ye’re a man, Si. This shite won’t change that, even if it makes it hard. Take it all. I’ll get more.” He motioned to the bag and finally managed to push it into his arms deep enough for Simon to keep it. 

  He looked down at the bag, testing its weight again, and decided that maybe he could carry it. Well, it would be carried under his coat back to his room, but he felt an urge to prove Johnny right. He wanted to feel like a man when he was bleeding. He wanted to see himself as Johnny and the rest of his team seemed to. Again, his relationship with wants was a complicated one. 

  “Kyle and I are watchin’ another game tonight. Rec room. 19:30. Will ye join us?”

  He nodded over Johnny’s shoulder at his nightstand where he’d glimpsed the bottles of pills—probably melatonin and painkillers. “I’ll come if y’gimme one a’those ibuprofen.”

  Johnny was quick to smirk and return to the table. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

  With his weapon raised and his teeth chattering, Simon turned the corner. It wasn’t like he didn’t clear it—his first action was to aim into the shadows just around the wall. That was where an enemy would be, if there was one. He just didn’t expect him to be so close. 

  He could feel his shadow before she saw it. The man was huge, but he wasn’t who they were looking for.

  How many people had this guy killed with his IEDs? Hundreds? Thousands? Maybe he was a stray from their usual tussles with criminals, but he was just as dangerous. This soldier that met Ghost on the corner was only a minuscule stepping stone to the terrorist they’d been working to take down. 

  His fist entered Simon’s vision like an eclipse moving over the eyeholes of his mask.

  Shit. You’ve fucked up now, he realized. It was an unfamiliar sensation, to know that whatever happened next, be had no control over it. Ghost lived for the control. The next second, until he could right his weapon and get a clear shot, was the enemy’s. 

  He did everything right, though. How was he to block such a close-range attack in so little time? How could Simon avoid whoever was waiting for him around this corner when he had no choice but to turn it?

  His face exploded in agony. For a moment, his vision darkened into a realm of shadows, and then a rush of air prompted his arm up. His wrist collided with the man’s, but Simon still couldn’t see him through the pain. He pushed against him. Ghost used the last bit of his waning strength to keep his hand away—a knife, maybe? Had he just been stabbed? He could smell fresh blood, like iron and dirt, and it stank worse than the tunnels he found himself running through. The pain ate at him like it was consuming his strength, eating away at Ghost and his power. 

  Still, his movements were practiced. Simon could disarm a soldier blindfolded, even with his face on fire. He could taste the blood as well as smell it—the realization made his injury real. Shit.

  His vision was partly back. He could see the man’s eyes widen in pain when his own blade entered his shoulder. There was a squelching sound; the pain had paralyzed him, and he didn’t have time to recover before the blade was removed and cleanly severed the front of his throat, spraying black liquid onto the floor. 

  He was still sputtering when he landed, convulsing. 

  Simon’s head hurt. He knew that the man who’d caught him off-guard was dead, but it didn’t seem to quell the fire in his face. He tried to open his other eye to see through the blood. It was too thick. The front of his vest and gear were wet. He could feel the heat through his gloves. 

  One shoulder met the wall and he couldn’t seem to lift it off. Something was wrong.

  “Bravo 6 to Bravo 0-7, what’s your status?” John’s voice crackled through his ear piece. It was like a grater on his brain. It took Simon a moment to find the consciousness that allowed him to press the relay button on his chest piece. Obviously, it wasn’t quick enough, because John repeated himself, “Bravo-6 to Bravo-0-7, status!”

  “Bravo-0-7 to Bravo-6, one dead… in the tunnels. It’s not Marco. Bravo-7-1… he’s… coming your way.”

  There were a handful of words exchanged on the radio. He didn’t hear his own call sign and wasn’t paying attention, anyway. One of his knees gave out. Thank God for the concrete wall he set his weight on. The one knee that hit the floor was immediately soaked through by icy water tainted with blood. When his helmet tapped the wall, it sent agony ricocheting across his skull. No matter how many times Simon blinked, most of his vision was filled with bits of incoherent light and shadows, like a shitty amusement park dark ride. All of his training for this job had taught him not to panic under the worst circumstances. Simon wanted to panic. Ghost struggled to keep himself cool. More crackling in his earpiece kept that from happening. 

  Laswell had a private relay to everyone’s coms. When her voice crackled through, it was to him only. “Watcher-1 to Bravo-0-7, status report.” She wasn’t asking about Marco or his soldiers. She was asking about her soldier.

  “B-Bravo—“

  Maybe he finished his sentence without knowing, but he didn’t think so. The water, black like oil and glittering with debris, raced towards his throbbing head, and he was unconscious before he even hit it.

  Ghost was being jostled. There was no strength in him to do so himself—no, there were hands on him, pulling, pushing. And voices. For a brief second, someone was loud, but then their noise faded back into the water soaking through his gear. 

  Again, someone tugged his shoulder. A bright light invaded his vision (what little there was of it; the figures he caught when his eyes fluttered were demonic and shadowy). 

  His hand found the handle of the secondary blade he kept at his waist. If he was alive, that meant Simon could fight. 

  “No—it’s me! Stop!”

  Who was me? He tried to see. The pain made him want to vomit and had his legs kicking at nothing. A gloved hand had caught his wrist when he raised it to slash at his attacker. It was pathetic, how easily it slipped from his grasp and clattered to the side, out of Simon’s reach. 

  “Stop! It’s Soap! It’s me!”

  He knew that name. Still, he couldn’t see him. 

  “Soa—,” he mumbled. 

  The Scotsman took a calming breath. “It’s okay. We’re gonna get you out, yeah—here! He’s here!” His hand was still on his chest to keep Ghost from rolling away from him again. He didn’t want to sit still, and Soap didn’t blame him. He could see the blood—partially dried—soaked through the fabric of his torn balaclava. He just hoped that most of the carnage was blood, not mangled sinew poking up from where Simon’s left eye should be. It looked painful enough.

  Simon’s hand had escaped Johnny’s grasp and was headed for his own face during a moment of distraction. He was quick to grab Simon’s wrist and shove it away as gently as the stressful moment would allow. Footsteps and splashing water thundered up the tunnel. “Don’t touch it. We’re gonna get ya fixed, yeah?”

  “Shit. How bad?” Price knelt beside Simon and tilted his head back to get a better view. Whatever he saw made him grimace. 

  “Dunno. He can move. I carry. You lead.”

  “Fast. Exfill’s already here.”

  He moaned when Soap lifted his shoulders and pulled him over his own. The guy spent hours training to be able to carry any one of his teammates—he was prepared for this moment. Maybe Simon was difficult to lift by himself, but with all his gear, it was a feat. 

  The ground swayed violently. Again, the urge to vomit reared its ugly head. The pain was like a sledgehammer against his eyesocket, destroying the bones around it and pulverizing the nerves. Simon was unconscious before she could throw up.

  “Ho-ly shit,” Price mumbled. The base’s resident doctor stood to the side with a hard expression. The glow of the film panel lights illuminated the dim office. His x-ray was enlarged. A giant head stared back at the captain. It shouldn’t have been so bright. The metal made the image blurry. 

  He hated being responsible for people sometimes. Simon didn’t have any family to contact. Maybe that would have been easier, to force them to make decisions instead of him. Part of him wanted to ask Soap, but who was he to force this onto him?

  The blade had just narrowly, by a centimetre, angled beneath his brain, but it was still there, broken off at the handle. 

  For a man with a knife in his eye that nearly touched the front of his spine, he seemed to be doing okay. He’d tried speaking to Price on the heli, and although it wasn't a very coherent conversation, Simon was there. Even the physician seemed shocked that he was still breathing. He was ordering more imaging, but they couldn’t be done on base, and Simon would have to be transferred to the nearest ally hospital in Romania. 

  “How is he alive?” Price breathed, shaking his head. He couldn’t look away from the giant skull with a white chasm dividing it. 

  “It somehow seems to have missed his brain. It even missed his sinuses, his throat. I want to get an angiogram or a CT at the other hospital. Nothing indicates that it’s hit the internal carotid artery; minimal internal bleeding.”

  “So you can’t just pull it out?”

  “No. Not until we know for sure what’s around it. It’ll have to be done in a surgical theatre, Captain.”

  Again, he looked at the scans. 

  Simon’s career was flashing in front of John’s hard gaze. The man had worked so hard to get to where he was—he’d suffered unimaginably, he’d pulled himself from the ashes of who he used to be with an entirely new identity, and he’d somehow found home in the 141, against all odds. His skills were recognized across task forces. He was recognized across task forces. 

  “Will he lose the eye?”

  The doctor didn’t want to answer. An injury like this would take him out of service. Permanently, if he couldn’t regain vision in both eyes. 

  The doctor was right to be hesitant when he answered. “We won’t be able to know until it’s healed. It’ll be months.”

  Simon Riley hated the medical wing. It stank, and some of his worst pain had been endured there. They reset his broken wrist in room 2 and room 4 still held his groans of agony from when he fell two stories and landed on a piece of rebar. It was still sticking out of him four hours after exfil. The doctor at the time was new, and he was obviously nervous to remove it. Simon pulled it out for him. Boy, did Price go off on him for that. 

  Johnny, despite his personality, could also tolerate suffering. He could endure pain like he endured breathing. This time, he could feel the gravity of Simon’s suffering. He’d break a thousand bones before seeing himself injured like this; something about this time was different. Price was meeting with the doctor. Johnny had been asking to see him all morning. Gaz even went to the physician himself, hoping that he’d go against his oaths and tell them everything. 

  Johnny wasn’t supposed to be there, in the ICU. But he had to see him. And if he was awake, Simon would be desperate to see Johnny. Their souls pulled on each other. 

  Only one of the rooms was closed. Johnny glanced inside through the barred window. White bandages covered Simon’s face, but he could see that hair tousled over it. He could be sleeping. Still, he had to enter, even just to see his heartbeat on the monitors.

  The door was silent. It only made a noise when it swung closed behind him. 

  “Hey, m’eudail,” he said softly. Simon wasn’t a gentle person. Johnny’s words always somehow made him into something he’d never been before. Well, that and the sedatives certainly mellowed him out. 

  He didn’t expect the man to be awake. Simon inhaled quickly and tilted his head towards the voice lazily. Johnny could take Simon in, all of him, when he approached the bed, scared of what he’d meet. 

  Simon’s wrists were shackled by padded restraints that took Johnny’s breath away. He was treated like a caged animal, chained and blindfolded and obviously drugged. The man at his bedside—one of his oldest friends and, more recently, his lover—placed a warm hand over one of Simon’s restrained wrists. 

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “Price… tell you?”

  “No one’s told us anything. No one’s told me anything. All I know is that—yer eye. What, did he cut ye?”

  He squeezed his hand. It helped quell his anger. This wasn’t fair. He’d never seen Simon so… hurt. He didn’t think it was possible. 

  “Why the hell did they restrain you?”

  He didn’t reply for a moment. Johnny could tell that Ghost was struggling to stay conscious, grappling for the surface. It softened him. Soap himself hated the feeling of being drugged to the gills. Maybe it was for the best; he didn’t know what kinds of injuries were hidden behind those layers of gauze.

  “Kept tryna… pull it out.”

  “Pull what out?”

  “Doc said I got a knife… in… my eye. Hurts. They didn’t give me enough meds. Still hurts. Wouldn’t… let them sedate me. Don’t wanna sleep. Wanna wake up.” If he allowed himself, Simon would sleep. He was exhausted. His voice was slurred as he fought the waves trying to pull him under. Johnny also suspected that the doctors were having trouble sedating him at all—he was already the biggest guy on base, and his past opioid abuse had given him a tolerance to a lot of other medications. 

  He added a hand beside the one already squeezing Simon’s wrist. There was so little strength left in him. He’d never seen Simon so defeated. There was blood soaking under the top layers of gauze around his face, but Johnny still couldn’t believe that he actually had a blade inside his skull. Surely, he’d be dead. No one took a knife to the skull deep enough to break off at the handle and survive. 

  Well, if anyone did, it would be Simon, wouldn’t it?

  He moved one palm to Simon’s shoulder, still gripping his hand with the other. “Your eye…” Your job. “Well, you’re still conscious. That’s a good sign—“

  The door opened behind him, and he turned quickly, fearing the worst. He wasn’t gathering intel to spread to base, he was here for the man he’d been falling into love with since he joined the task force. Nothing could tear him away from Simon now, not when he needed him most.

  It was the captain with the doctor in tow. He didn’t seem surprised to find Johnny there. Still, his face was hard. It couldn’t be good news. Soap’s stomach dropped. Simon’s grip lightened on his hand. He squeezed it. The waves of sleep lapping at him were winning the battle. 

  “Johnny. This is Doctor Laine—Doctor Laine, my sergeant, Soap—“

  “I’m sorry, Soap. I really can’t have anyone in here if they’re not family. I know—“

  Price cut him off. “They’re married.”

  His lie stole Johnny’s breath. They weren’t married—their jobs didn’t allow them that luxury—but they were as close to it as they could be. They thought they’d fooled the team into thinking that they were good friends… their charade obviously hadn’t fooled the captain. It broke his heart that they had to have that confrontation here. 

  Dr. Laine blanched. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I would have explained to you first.” He stepped around Price to stand beside the bed. Soap slid to the side, closer to Simon’s head.

  The doctor called his name. He turned his blind, bandaged head back towards them like it took all of his strength to do so. “You with us, Simon? Still hurts?”

  “Tired…”

  “I know. I’m sorry we can’t just sedate you further. It’s… proving more difficult than we thought. And I don’t want to give you too much before we know when you’re having surgery.” He didn’t mention that Simon’s opioid abuse (although he’d left it behind him a lifetime ago) could easily return if the doctor was careless with his pain medication administration. It was unavoidable, to a point. Simon gave no indication that he registered the words or even heard them. 

    “When can ye take it out? Will his vision heal?” Soap couldn’t help but ask. Price had an unfamiliar expression on his face, something between horror and uncertainty. The doctor closed his eyes and shook his head. 

  “I don’t know.”

  Seventy-one days and nineteen minutes ago, Simon woke up from the surgery that saved his life and removed the blade from within his skull. Supposedly, it was as quick and simple as the surgeons could have hoped for. They kept telling him how lucky he was that the blade missed nearly everything. Nearly everything. 

  Sixty-three days and forty-one minutes ago, the bandages were removed from Simon’s head to reveal how his eye had healed. 

  The surgeons knew only minutes after the surgery had begun. Following it, though, they spoke with Johnny and Price and realized the magnitude of the loss. That man lived because his eye allowed him to keep his job. What would he do without it?

  They’d kept themselves up half the night, agonizing over this terrible, destructive news they would be giving Simon. Price couldn’t be there (he’d been flying between countries and the hospital almost daily, and it was impeding on his sanity and responsibilities) but Johnny was, throughout those entire eight days since Simon had gone in for the surgery. He didn’t falter as the surgeons carefully removed the bandages, his hand clutching Simon’s, as it often did. A councillor was on standby downstairs. Johnny ached at that knowledge; Simon could sense his despair. He had an unspoken, inkling feeling that foretold what was to come. 

  He’d blinked a few times in the bright light of the hospital room when the bandages were removed, but he was already looking for Soap. His good eye found him quickly; Simon had gone more than a week without seeing him. It was agony. 

  Simon knew that the eye was gone. He knew that no one in the room wanted to say it, even as a physician and nurse circled his bedside to examine him. It just hadn’t set in yet; there was still that useless hope that maybe an eye could regenerate, or the expressions on everyone’s face were his imagination. 

  Now, that hope was gone. Johnny had managed to get leave alongside Simon, thanks to Price, and it gave him the perfect seat to watch the life fade from Simon’s eyes… well, eye.

  He hated being away from the house for too long. It was a tiny cabin in Lanark, a good middle-ground between his home city in Scotland and Simon’s home city, Manchester, but it wasn’t isolated. Their neighbours were simultaneously kind and intimidated by Simon, or what little they saw of him. Simon didn’t leave the house much. Johnny could expect to find him in the same place he left him when he returned from buying groceries or dropping by the drug store. 

  There was a deep sigh of relief when he pulled into the driveway, gathered paper bags into his arms, and made his way up the three steps to the front porch. A blanket had been left on the bench in the corner, remnants from his fight to coax Simon to at least sit outside. 

  Inside, the air was stuffy. Simon never touched the windows; if they were left closed, they stayed closed. Nothing had been moved. Johnny was the only one who attempted to cook for them, but the few dishes he’d left in the sink were still there. The curtains had been left closed; Simon’s last eye seemed to be sensitive to light. The doctors assured him that it was more psychological than physical. 

  “Si? I’m home.” He called out into the shadows and dropped the groceries onto the counter. “Gonna make pasta for dinner. Si?”

  Silence yelled back at him ominously. It was normal for Simon to conserve his energy in moments like this; he didn’t have a lot to spend on the day, and by the time he’d made a trip to the kitchen or taken a shower, he was exhausted enough to stay in bed for hours. Chances were, he was sleeping. Or he’d heard and didn’t have the energy to reply. Unfortunately, both scenarios were normal. 

  Johnny left the groceries on the counter and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The only rooms there were the bathroom and the single bedroom. Simon rarely went downstairs, despite Johnny’s efforts.

  At the top of the wooden stairs, he was met with an open hallway closet and a mess of items sprawled across the floor where they’d fallen from the top shelf. The sight of them forced his heart into his throat. 

  He wasn’t stupid enough to keep guns and unnecessarily large knives in the house, despite the way the soldier in him screamed for something to protect himself with. Even still, Johnny had consolidated their gear, helmets, and small items onto the top shelf. The box had fallen. Mini medical kits, compasses, gun cleaning kits, gun oil, radios, and flashlights pooled in front of him in a mess. 

  “Simon?” he called louder this time. He glanced into the bathroom. It was empty. He thought that the bedroom was empty as well until he checked behind the door—instinct more than suspicion. 

  Simon sat on the carpet with his back to the corner, knees pulled up and his head in his hands. Fear shot like fire through Johnny’s lungs, pushing him forward. 

  “Simon?! Simon, are ye okay? What happened?”

  When he felt Soap’s hands on his arms, he flinched back and finally acknowledged his presence. Johnny searched his good eye for a sign of pain. The other one was lifeless, clouded with white except for a streak of permanent red that lined the corner. The doctors assured that the red would be gone soon, but Simon couldn’t look at himself long enough to notice it, anyway. 

  “Stop—m’fine.”

  “What happened?” he repeated desperately. His initial fear had faded. Maybe he’d found Simon curled in bed or asleep on the couch, but not like this.

  “Just…,” the man looked up at the entrance over Johnny’s shoulder out of habit. He hated himself for it, hated that he still felt like a soldier despite not being one. “Needed a towel. Needed—a shower. I freaked out.”

  Johnny’s fear dispersed and was replaced by sympathetic understanding. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought—.” Soap really couldn’t voice what he thought. There was a constant fear that he’d forgotten a knife in their closeted gear or that Simon would find the gun Johnny hid in a box under the bed with all their winter clothes and extra military gear. Old SAS habits died hard. “—Nevermind. I thought you were hurt. You still need a shower.” His words didn’t come out like a question. He was at least happy that Simon had tried to take initiative for his hygiene, something he seemed to be unable to do on his own lately. 

  The depression that Simon had been consumed by for the past two months had destroyed everything the soldier had been. He never made horrible jokes anymore, he didn’t make himself tea (Johnny had to do that every night; it was the only thing that helped the nightmares, and Simon seemed to benefit from the routine), and he was no longer interested in wearing his mask, even outside. It was like that last injury, the loss of half his vision, had finally cemented that belief in him—Simon was nothing. He was nothing, he could be nothing, and people who were nothing rarely needed to hide themselves. In another life, it would be liberating, but Johnny searched Simon every day for some sort of life, some sign of the old Riley. Most days, he was sure that his Simon was gone. The last part of him had been killed off two months ago and what he lived with now was a shell of a man that wouldn’t be re-occupied. 

  “I want you to get rid of it,” Simon mumbled, rubbing his hands over his face again. 

  “The shower? Si, I know ye don’t like—“

  “The gear. My old life. I can’t do it anymore.”

  Johnny had been naive to hold onto it. Maybe he could go back to work, but it wasn’t the same without his lieutenant. The gear was holding them back, preventing Simon from moving forward. Could Johnny symbolically say goodbye to his work, not knowing when he would return? The gear promised that he could go back any time he wished. 

  He bit his lip and sighed. Who was he kidding? He’d live in a cardboard box for the rest of his existence if it meant that he could stay beside Simon. 

  “Yeah. I’ll chat with Price. I’m sure he can pick it up. Worst case, we’ll toss it all.”

  “Really?” His only eye seemed to have trouble looking at people since the surgery, but now he met Johnny’s gaze with confidence. 

  “Really. You still feel like showering?”

  “M’tired.”

  “I know ye are. I’ll do the work? Ye’re halfway there with the towel. Ye strip while I go back downstairs and put away the groceries.”

  Simon sighed and studied him sadly. Despite his world tipped upside-down, he knew that Johnny would be with him through it… he just couldn’t understand why, or what he’d done to deserve this beautiful person. 

  “Si?” Johnny pushed curly blond hair out of Simon’s face. He’d had no reason to cut it, and he hated the thought of having unnecessary scissors near his head, but Soap could see that it annoyed him. 

  “Yeah. Yeah, shower.”

  Johnny smiled victoriously and stood, holding out his hands for Simon to pull himself up on. He seemed to live in his sweatpants and old metal t-shirts. He stank like sweat, no thanks to the nightmares he’d experienced the last two nights. 

  “Did you take your meds while I was gone?” Soap forgot to remind him before he left, but Simon was still in bed. Simon shook his head.

  “Can’t remember. Probably not.” The man’s words came out in slow mumbles. It seemed to be his only setting these days. That intensity was gone, replaced by something that Soap could only describe as a drug-induced haze. It hadn’t gotten better since he first spoke to him in that hospital following the fateful last mission.     

  It wasn’t like Johnny was letting him sink deeper into his depression. He dragged him from the house for doctor appointments and fought tooth and nail to get him across town to his therapist, who had slowly but surely been breaking down Simon’s walls. He made sure that Simon got his meds, he made sure that he brushed his teeth, that he got at least a little bit of vitamin D, and that he ate. He never thought of himself as a parent and knew that he wouldn’t be a good one, but he also assumed that this was what it was like. 

  Sometimes, Simon would shine through in brief windows. With soft words and unlikely touches, he conveyed how thankful he was for Soap, how thankful he was that someone wanted him alive.

  Simon wasn’t living for himself or his work anymore. He was living for Johnny. And that was good enough for them. 

  Simon dragged his feet across the hallway with his towel in his fist. Johnny passed him as he removed his shirt, carefully stepping over the debris on the floor. It all glittered up at him, taunting, beckoning him back into the life.

  Price had gifted that bottle of gun oil to Simon a year ago. The leather knife sheath near the baseboard had been engraved with swirls and leaves by Kyle’s friend for Soap’s birthday. It all made him homesick for the job. It was surreal, to realize that one man had pulled him right out of the only job he’d ever wanted to work.

  As Johnny stared down at the remnants, warm arms wrapped around his middle. Simon’s face pressed into his shoulder. Here, his eye hadn’t been lost, and Simon felt whole in Soap’s skin. 

  “I’ll get better. One day. Because you want me to,” were the words whispered into the back of his shirt. They raised goosebumps up his spine. 

  Johnny reached back to set his fingers into Simon’s scalp, eyes still fixed on the gear at his feet. “I know you will.” The words came easily, genuinely. “And I’ll still be here when you make it through.”

  Could he return to work if Simon wasn’t there with him? Johnny had seen soldiers fall into ruts like this, and they either excelled or it killed them. He was planning to give everything he had before it killed Simon. It had only been two months since he’d lost everything. It would get worse before it improved, Johnny was sure.

  No, he decided. If Simon never went back to the military, Johnny wouldn’t, either. His life wasn’t in his job. His life was with Simon.

Chapter Text

  On what planet did Simon land to be greeted with tea in the morning?

  Johnny sat over him, arm supporting him on Simon’s other side. He was surrounded by Johnny, in the sheets, in the man, in the home. Simon never craved his leave, and up until he stepped off that plane, he barely wanted it at all. And then he’d spend a night with Soap in that dusty old home they rented in Manchester and quickly realized that going back to work would be one of the hardest things he did. 

  For now, this time was his and Johnny’s.

  Simon sat up against the headboard to sip at the mug. Johnny knew how he liked it—two tea bags, earl grey from the specialty tea shop downtown, and no sugar or milk. He swore that Soap put something in it that he couldn’t resist. 

  “Sleep well?”

  Simon nodded. He was safe from nightmares when he was on leave. Here, at least. Johnny could have him in his entirety. 

  “Do you still wanna do it? What ye said last night?”

  Ghost was usually the part of Simon that took the night shift, but last evening, wrapped in the comforter and his naked skin pressed against Soap’s in the post-coital glow, Simon was there. He’d made a promise, more to himself than Johnny. Johnny worried that he’d sober up by the morning and realize how much the thought terrified him, but Simon didn’t show any evidence of this. He just nodded slowly, lips over the edge of his mug. Then, he set it on the bedside table. 

  “Yes. I think so.”

  The Scotsman lit up with a smile and kissed Simon sweetly. “I’m thinkin’ we get lunch. Stay there a while. Gonna be overcast today.”

  “What’re we gettin’?”

  “Wha’do ye want?”

  Simon sighed as he thought. Joseph always loved ice cream. He’d eat it for every meal if he could. His mother lived to eat pies—apple, cottage, steak and kidney, stargazy. Simon could still taste the apple crumble she used to make. His brother, Tommy, always preferred a fast-food burger, but his wife, Beth, always made him fancy salads to balance it out. 

  He didn’t know what his father liked besides alcohol. He didn’t care. His father wouldn’t be eating with them, anyway.

  “We’re gonna buy an ice cream cake.”

  Johnny stared, waiting for Simon to tell him that he was kidding. “Ye… want ice cream?” Simon wasn’t known for his sweet tooth. He couldn’t even drink tea with sugar in it. Maybe it sounded appetizing to Soap, but he was sure he heard it incorrectly coming from Simon’s mouth. 

  “An ice cream cake.”

  “Where the hell’re we gonna get an ice cream cake?”

  Simon shrugged, knowing that Johnny would go to the ends of the earth to get him what he wanted today.

  Their morning had been wonderful—Simon sipped tea and watched Johnny burn their breakfast (yes, he had to take over and cook it himself) before they drove out to the store to find an ice cream cake. It took them three shops before they found one at a small natural market. It was gluten-free, which Simon scoffed at. They’d forgotten spoons, so Simon waited in the truck while Johnny ran inside their house. 

  Cheadle Cemetery was a small plot of land about thirty minutes from their home. It was slightly wooded and quiet, which was nice, and the sun had emerged as they drove. Johnny covered the cake in his lap with his jacket so it wouldn’t melt too badly. Simon’s giant, black truck stood out when they pulled into the lot. 

  Johnny was the first to slide out of the cab and walk around to the tailgate to grab Simon’s bag. Simon looked out over the aged stone wall that lined the cemetery. The realization that he was doing this, that it wasn’t just an inkling thought that he carried with him, weighed on him. Could he survive seeing them? Could he survive seeing his own tombstone? Before Johnny, Simon was dead. Somehow, the Scot had resurrected him and extinguished the part of Ghost that held Simon captive. The tombstone was wrong. He just wished that Johnny could do the same for his family, the way he brought him back to life. It was like losing them all over again, regaining his will to thrive and realizing that they were still gone after all his time spent trying to heal. 

  The driver’s door opened and Johnny leaned into the cab beside him. There was a backpack over his shoulder and Simon’s bag over the other. Still, he put a hand on Simon’s thigh despite the weight. 

  There was a moment of quiet while Simon glanced up at the rows of headstones again before he looked to Johnny. The man was so patient and understanding, and he still couldn’t make Simon’s fear dissipate. 

  “Ye still wanna do this?”

  He was quick to nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I just haven’t done it in a while.”

  “Well, we can leave whenever ye want. Scottish exit.”

  “You mean an Irish exit?”

  “Nae. Scottish.”

  Simon snorted and motioned him away so he could step out. He slammed the door behind himself, locked the truck twice, and then stuffed both hands into his pockets while they walked together to the front gates. He wanted to hold Johnny’s hand, but keeping them in his pockets kept the shaking at bay. He did offer to take a bag, though, which Johnny refused. 

  “Ye remember where?”

  Simon motioned to the left of the trail worn between gravestones. He’d never forget. The air past the gate had turned suddenly cold despite the cloudy sunshine. He shivered in his leather jacket beside Johnny.

  They walked slowly under the dappled light shining through the trees. The grass was worn but vividly green under their boots. He tried to remember what it was like the last time he’d been there; he’d come without Johnny (he hadn’t even met Johnny at the time), he had been forced off of work due to an injury, he was just starting to find his place in the 141, and he stood there over his family’s grave—his grave—for a long time. At that time, he didn’t have a lot to live for. He didn’t have anything to live for. He’d been floating through life waiting for it to start again, and when he studied the sunset moving over the grey stone, he wondered why he kept waiting. It was easy to tell himself that he was waiting for Johnny. Really, he was just scared to kill himself, knowing that a fiery pit would be waiting for him on the other side… or worse, no punishment for his sins at all. 

  “Simon?” Johnny snagged his arm and stopped him in the path that he’d been blindly following. He realized that he’d walked past his family’s row and they’d almost reached the end of the tombstones. The Scotsman didn’t seem impatient, only worried. 

  “Sorry. Up here.”

  This time, he was present when he led them up a couple small, wooden steps onto the next level of grass and then cut into the thin trail between rows. He slowed when they got to the centre, but he couldn’t quite come to stand directly in front of the two headstones. 

  “This them?” Johnny asked him quietly. 

  He nodded. The Scot looked back down at them, reading the names.

  Nora Riley… 1953-2011

  Thomas “Tommy” Riley… 1987-2011

  Beth Riley… 1989-2011

  Joseph Riley… 2001-2011

  Simon Riley… 1983-2011

  Beth and Joseph had their own stone. Her parents wanted it that way, but agreed that they should be with her husband and his family in the same lot. Unlike the other graves around them, their stones were empty. Simon was the only one left alive to remember them, and it struck him with guilt that he’d never been strong enough to come back there. He’d somehow found another way to neglect them, even after death. 

  “Can I sit?”

  Simon nodded quickly. He watched Johnny remove a folded blanket from Simon’s duffle bag and splay it out over the lush grass. Then, he took a seat and crossed his legs under him. Those big, blue eyes looked up at Simon with not an ounce of expectation; Johnny seemed to be forever patient. He never asked for anything from Simon. It was as aggravating as it was unbelievable.

  “You okay?”

  Simon looked between the blanket and the graves, then out over the rows of stones beyond. “Mhm. Jus’… didn’t think it’d be this hard. Thought it’d get better with time.”

  “Did you want to leave?”

  He hesitated, but eventually shook his head, no.

  At this, Johnny raised his hand for his. “Well, sit down. We got ice cream t’eat. S’meltin’, m’eudail.”

  He immediately sat down beside Johnny, beckoned by his soft words and easy smile, like he forgot how terribly he’d betrayed the only people that seemed to love him. Well, the only people at the time. 

  The ice cream cake was much bigger than they could ever dream of finishing. The only kind they’d had were decorated with ‘Happy Birthday’ and an icing image of dinosaurs dancing around an exploding volcano. 

  “Well a’s morbid,” Johnny snorted when he removed the sweaty lid. Simon would have otherwise cracked a joke as well. Yeah, God realized that dinosaurs couldn’t give the church money.

  “Joseph liked dinos,” Simon said softly. The boy was an introvert, but any opportunity to talk about prehistoric lizards brought him right out of his shell. He’d had a collection of models that he brought everywhere with him. When they played together, Simon was always the Hadrosourus to be attacked by Joseph’s Spinosourus. Following the bloodshed, Joseph would explain that Hadrosourus and Spinosourus didn’t actually live on the same continent and this was probably the first battle they’d ever shared. He’d said it like it was an honour to unite two warriors. 

  Johnny passed Simon a spoon as he swallowed his first mouthful of ice cream. Most of his bite was chocolate and crunchy cookie centre. He left the vanilla section for Simon, who wouldn’t have more than a few bites, anyway. Simon’s words reminded him of Simon’s one prized possession he guarded with his life.

  He reached behind himself and pulled the green and blue sequined triceratops plush from Simon’s bag. It was worn beyond its lifetime; most of the sequins had fallen off and one of the horns hung on by a thread. He wanted to fix it, but a part of him worried that altering the triceratops would diminish its representation of the Joseph he knew. It didn’t seem rational, but the fear kept him from fixing it, and he instead opted to be extremely careful with it to not damage it further. Johnny understood this and did the same, carefully placing it between them on the blanket. “Like this one?”

  “A Centrosaurus.”

  “A what?” Johnny asked around ice cream.

  “I dunno. M’not very good at the names.”

  The plushy usually stayed safe at the back of their closet. Normally, Simon couldn’t stomach looking at it. It at least ruined his appetite for ice cream. The cake was for Joseph and Johnny, anyway.

  “Why did ye get your name on the stone, too?”

  “Beth’s parents added it. When they heard I’d…”

  “Do they know ye’re still here?”

  Simon shook his head. Johnny dropped the subject and leaned into Simon’s side.

  “S’good ice cream. Good idea, Si.”

  “S’for Jo.”

  They both studied the stone like they expected Joseph to say something back. 

  “He’d like you. You’re a lot alike.”

  “Ye think so?” The Scot looked up at Simon with those wide eyes and chocolate crumbles on the edge of his lips that he quickly licked away. Joseph was a kid—terminally innocent, curious, a trouble maker in a way that prevented anyone from being angry at him—and Johnny mirrored those traits often. Nothing could replace the pit that Jo left inside Simon, but when Johnny began to take up space, it lessened the suffocating size of Jo’s loss.

  He often wondered why Joseph weighed so much more on his mind than the rest of his family. He missed them all, every day, until the grief made him delirious and numb, but he could handle that. Thinking of Jo, the way they’d sit in his room when he was on leave and pretend that his dinosaurs were wreaking havoc on the streets of his race car carpet and Simon would make him extra-chocolatey hot chocolate before his mother came home for her to scold them. Joseph knew never to go into his uncle’s room when he stayed with them (Simon’s nightmares weren’t terrible at that time, but Joseph didn’t need to witness them at all) but he always waited outside his door for signs of life before the sun rose. Simon woke a lot of mornings with Johnny beside him, still expecting to hear Jo’s muffled ‘ka-pow!’s and ‘run, he’s gonna eat you!’s as the child knelt outside the door and entertained himself with his dinosaurs. 

  Simon had never gotten Jo’s childhood. He didn’t know what that would be like. He did know, however, that Joseph deserved everything he never had. Failing to see Jo grow into a teenager and then an adult like he deserved made him ache like Simon was being eaten from the inside-out. 

  Simon nodded into Johnny’s mohawk to silently answer his question. 

  “What makes ye say that?” Johnny asked. 

  “Y’both like ice cream. Too much.”

  Johnny playfully pushed him away. “Shut yer puss. Not ma’fault ye got the tastebuds o’a bodach.”

  “What?”

  “Aye, that’s what I thought. Eat yer damn cake.”

  Simon was smiling when he followed these orders, finally taking a bite for himself. The sweetness hit him like a train and he grimaced. Still, it was half-melted and creamy enough to get down. 

  “S’not that bad.”

  “It is,” Simon insisted. 

  “Bodach.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Good.”

  “What?”

  “What did Joseph look like? I’m tryin’ t’imagine what yer nephew’d look like.”

  The question made Simon pause. He licked his spoon clean and tossed it onto the blanket before sitting straight and pulling his jacket open. A slip of folded, dog-eared paper was fished from inside a pocket. The image wasn’t a secret and he hadn’t intended to hide it from Johnny, but it was his. Everything had been taken from him because his enemies knew that they were his weakness. Now that he’d lost them, he was determined to hold onto what little he had left. That included the photo they’d taken together during the last Christmas his family was alive. 

  At that time, his father was already dead for some years. His mother, Nora, had a glint of life in her eyes again, and it was evident even in the low light of the image. They were gathered in front of the Christmas tree, Nora’s blue blouse standing out in the glinting rainbows behind her. Simon stood tall beside her, his hair shaggy and eyes distracted—but there was life in them still. He was young, too. Johnny didn’t think he’d ever get to see an image of young Simon, especially since his previous military records had been destroyed. He woke up that morning completely confident that photos like these didn’t exist. 

  And here he was, gently taking the frayed photograph from Simon’s fingers and holding it up between them. 

  Beside Simon, a shorter, smaller man with slightly darker-blond hair held a fidgeting child to his chest. Joseph’s hair didn’t match his father’s nor his mother’s (who stood on his other side with a bright-orange bundle of hair gathered on the top of her head) and was instead a darker, dirty brown. He had Simon’s wide, dark eyes, though. The boy held a triceratops model tightly in his little fist. 

  “Steamin’ Jesus. This’s them!”

  Si nodded, pointing. “Mom made her toffee pudding that Jo loved. You can see it all over his damn face.”

  Johnny looked closer. He laughed. “Shite. He does. The bugger.”

  “And this’s Tommy? And Beth—.” He ran a finger over their faces. “This was taken in yer mom’s house?”

  “Out by Stockport. She moved there when Dad died.”

  “Jo looks like a trouble maker.”

  “Like I said, he’s a lot like you.”

  Johnny half heartedly elbowed him. He wasn’t done with the picture yet; the man swiped his thumb over that one familiar face and studied the graininess. It was Simon. The trauma and loss he’d suffered had aged him so many years, but Johnny was sure that he could still see some remnants of the man in that photo. He could see more every day. 

  He handed the photo back to Simon, who carefully folded it and slipped it back into his jacket, flush against his chest where he preferred it. 

  The pair sat under the shade of that gnarled tree for a long while. A songbird came to land on Beth and Joseph’s grave a handful of times, enticed by the crumbs falling from the centre of the melting cake. Johnny ended up lounging between Simon’s legs. His lips were sticky when he kissed Simon lazily. They had nowhere to be. Soap was eager to allow Simon this time he needed to make peace with uncovering all this pain; he didn’t know that Simon had almost died the last time he visited his family. 

  He never said when he was ready to leave. Johnny could feel Simon constantly glancing back towards the truck peeking over the farthest stone wall. He took this as his cue to begin packing up, and Simon never objected. He did look longingly at the stone for a last time, though, as Johnny put the dripping, sticky container of ice cream into a plastic bag and placed it carefully into his own backpack. He’d never allow the triceratops plushy to share a pack with the melted ice cream. The thing would never survive a bath.

  “I’ll take that one,” Simon mumbled, already taking the ice cream bag from Johnny’s hands. The man, shoulders tight and hunched, didn’t look back at the graves again when he turned and trudged away. he could only take so much guilt, Johnny supposed. 

  Still, the Scot took his time. He carefully folded up the blanket and returned the ceratops plushy on top of it.  Part of him knew that Simon would be miserable before he released himself from this burden—seeing his family was something he’d had to do, but it brought so many mistakes and regrets to the surface that he entirely blamed himself for. Simon would fold in on himself before he bloomed. Johnny would be there to ensure he made it through the other side. 

  Johnny pulled the duffle bag over his shoulder. Then, once he’d ensured that nothing had been left behind, he turned back to the gravestones. The fat little bird was back, chirping to its friends in the tree above. It danced over Simon, Tommy, and Nora’s stone warmed by the sun. 

  When he made his promise, he looked at the stone rather than the bird. “I’ll take care a’him.” Johnny then shot a warm wink to Beth and Jo before turning and following Simon up the trail. 

Chapter Text

  Simon was nocturnal. At least, that was the running theory. He always brooded around base like he was short on sleep (okay, maybe that’s just Ghost being Ghost), but few people actually knew where he slept. The rooks joked about a mystery room numbered 666, like a legend that ceased to exist after sundown. 

  The thought never really struck Kyle until he was awake in the wee hours as well, roused by cravings that brought him to the little kitchenette tucked away in the corner of the barrack building. Few soldiers knew of its existence and even fewer used it. By now, it was unofficially the 141 meeting room, complete with a Scottish flag hanging on the wall, cigars in a tray on the counter, leather couches worn by exciting footy games, earl grey tea, and beer in the fridge. It was close to home to Gaz. 

  When he turned the corner into the dim room, Kyle jumped at the shadowing figure standing across the kitchen. Ghost’s imposing presence was easily detectable; Kyle breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that he wasn’t going to die at the hands of a demon that night.  

  “Jesus. Y’scared me, Ghost. Getting tea?”

  The kettle was unplugged from the wall. There were no mugs or teabags on the counter. Simon simply stood with his arms wrapped around himself, staring down at the cigars in front of him. He was dressed for sleep, at least, with black sweat pants and a hoodie. 

  Simon wasn’t wearing his balaclava. Kyle felt honoured; he’d only seen Simon without his mask a handful of times. It had him doing a double take. The man’s scars were deepened by the only table lamp left on across the room. Ghost was scarier in the shadows.  

  “Hey. Couldn’t sleep?” He turned on the kettle and opened the cabinet above it to grab a bag of tea after Simon hadn’t responded to his first greeting. He was still waiting for an answer by the time he turned and took a mug from the cabinet beside Simon. 

  “M’trying,” Simon mumbled eventually. He still studied the cigars intently, fists balled at his sides. He was thinking hard—too hard for one in the morning. 

  “Y’want a cuppa?”

  Again, Simon didn’t respond for a few moments. Gaz shot him side glances as he pulled milk from the fridge and the box of sugar cubes from the drawer. 

  “Simon?”

  “Stop it. M’trying.”

  “Oh. Okay… trying to do what?”

  The silence certainly didn’t give Kyle any answers. The water was starting to boil slowly (everything on base was shit, and tea kettles were the last in line to get replaced. Johnny joked that Price used to have tea parties with Tyrannosauruses when the base first opened, and the destroyed kettles were proof) so Kyle leaned against the counter behind Ghost and studied him, unsure. It was like he’d been frozen there. 

  “Smoke.”

  “One of Price’s? He’ll kill you.”

  “Should’na left em’ out.”

  Kyle snorted at this. “True. Fuck it, lemme have one, too.”

  As his water began to steam quietly, Kyle turned to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Simon and pick up a cigar from the tray. They weren’t his favoured Davidoffs—he wasn’t stupid enough to leave those outside of the lock drawer in his desk—but there was always a stash of Flor de Copans littered around the places he visited most. He took a lighter and a cutter from the junk drawer beside Simon. Kyle sliced the tip of his own first, then Simon’s went into the guillotine. Simon took it when he held it out to him, instinctively put it in his mouth, and leaned in to catch the flame that Kyle produced. It took a few clicks of the lighter before it stuck, and Simon flinched at each one. 

  He could see the distance in Ghost’s eyes when he turned towards the firelight. He never made eye contact nor thanked Kyle, he just inhaled sharply and looked back down to the counter. Simon’s hand was shaking around the cigar. 

  “Are you okay, Simon?” Kyle himself savoured the smoke before he breathed it out with his question. 

  “M’trying.”

  “Trying to do what?”

  Instead of replying, Simon dropped the cigar onto the counter like he was too weak to hold it before whirling out of the room, shaking hands stuffed into his pockets. His quick, determined steps faded down the hall.

  Kyle had to peel the cigar off the counter and run it under water before it made a burn mark in the laminate. He wouldn’t tell Price; he’d flip his shit if he knew that Simon wasted a cigar.

  Johnny was used to sitting up with Simon during the night. They’d spent countless hours holed up in safehouses together, nights on watch duty, midnight meetings in the mess. Simon seemed to come alive at night. 

  On cool nights around base like these, Johnny missed Simon, but was thankful for the opportunity to reflect on the friendship they’d built. Exercise cleared his head and allowed him to think when the ringing in his ears was too loud. The gym always came first, then a few laps around the tarmac, guided by the glowing lights cemented into the borders of the runway. 

  He’d done four laps by the time he circled back to the base and was met by a familiar shadowy figure pacing outside the gym’s side entrance. His hands were stuffed in his hoodie pockets and he wore his balaclava, but it was obviously aggravating him. Simon pulled at the hem of it like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to remove it. 

  “Hey, LT!”

  Anyone could recognize Simon’s size. His shoulders were uncharacteristically hunched, but Johnny knew the man better than himself. His calling stopped the pacing and Simon froze to look up at the approaching soldier. He was sweaty and breathless, and it seemed that Simon was suffering similarly.

  “Hey. What’re ye doin’ ‘ere? Bit late fer a workout.” Johnny put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Simon was staring down at him—no, through him. The man never made eye contact (okay, maybe that was normal for Ghost), but his eyes didn’t seem to register the man or the tarmac below. 

  “M’walking. M’walking.” Simon mumbled it like he was trying to convince himself. 

  “Well, m’runnin, but we can walk together if ye like.”

  Simon didn’t respond. Johnny could see his fists curling and unwinding in his pockets, but he didn’t give any other signs of life—or consciousness. 

  “Are ye okay, Simon?” Now, he was walking tall and straight, breathlessness forgotten. He looked up and down over his lieutenant and deduced that he was dressed for sleep. He must have dozed off in his balaclava. It tended to cause nightmares when he did (that pressure on his face was stifling), and it was normal for Simon to get up and roam to walk it off. 

  “M’walking. Straight.” 

  “Well, shite, m’walkin’ gay, so let’s go together.”

  Simon didn’t give any indication that he heard the Scot, but he continued walking along the edge of the base anyway. Johnny fell into step beside him.

  “Ye okay, LT?” The worry that ate at him made Johnny repeat himself despite knowing how it would annoy Simon. He didn’t like to be coddled or doted on, but something was off that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Simon was talking and walking, but he didn’t seem to really be there. 

  It was easy to suspect, but hard to be sure of. Simon was sleepwalking. Even if he wasn’t, he certainly wouldn’t be walking around the grounds at night. Simon favoured the gym or a cup of tea in his room when he couldn’t sleep. Johnny knew him. 

  After a few minutes of walking back towards the base, Johnny had enough of Simon’s uncomfortable silence, and put a hand out on the man’s arm to stop him.

  He certainly didn’t expect his immediate reaction. A fist invaded his vision before he could register the shape and his jaw erupted into agony. His head swirled like the air rushing past him. When his shoulder collided with the concrete, that was equally as painful, and his body involuntarily curled in on itself to protect it from another attack. Simon had put his full weight into that punch; he hadn’t just playfully hit a friend.  

  “Fuckin’ Christ, Johnny. What’re you doing?”

  Once his vision had cleared and he could hear him through the ringing, he looked up at Simon, who had staggered, righted himself, and now looked Johnny in the eye. There was no anger there, only confusion.

  “Ye fuckin’ rocket, what am I doin’? Why the hell’d ye hit me?”

  Simon waited, shaking his head. “I… didn’t.”

  “An’ I’m the queen a’England.”

  “I don’t… I’m…”

  Johnny sat up onto his hands, studying Ghost’s wide eyes under his balaclava. He seemed just as surprised as Johnny to be standing beside the tarmac and watching his sergeant nurse his split lip. 

  “Sorry,” was all Simon could force out before he turned and walked quickly away towards the gym’s side entrance he’d left from. Johnny sat there bleeding and incredulously watching him leave while the chill from the concrete ate at his skin.

  Even though his coughing was keeping him awake, John Price was eternally grateful that he’d found his lieutenant walking past his room a week later. He’d come down with a chest cold, but finally meeting Simon in the hallway on his way to the rec room to get tea reminded him of more pressing issues.

  “Simon. Y’been avoiding us. Come back here.”

  The infection was making him short-tempered, but it wasn’t like it was unjust. As soon as he’d noticed Johnny’s split lip and bruised jaw, he’d asked who did it, and the fact that he wouldn’t tell meant that either Kyle or Simon had done it. He’d already managed to corner Kyle, but Simon seemed hell-bent on pretending that his team didn’t exist. Price could recognize the signs of shame a lifetime away. 

  Thankfully, Simon did stop and turn slowly, moping back down the hall to meet John outside his door. He kept his eyes down and his hands in his pockets of that ratty old hoodie. It seemed that the only wardrobe Simon owned were fatigues, sweatpants, or the jeans he wore on missions with either a t-shirt or a hoodie. He was a simple man who couldn’t stand tight clothing. Price knew him well. He just didn’t know why he’d punch his sergeant and friend.

  Simon didn’t wear his balaclava tonight, which was odd, as he wore it religiously if he wasn’t locked and sleeping in his room. His blonde hair stuck up in every direction and his eyes seemed hollow and distant. It was unsettling, but Price surely didn’t look much better. He devolved into a brief coughing fit before he could speak. 

  “What’re ya doin’ up, son?” The pain in his throat took some of his initial frustration, leaving his voice weak. 

  Instead of immediately giving him answers, Simon flicked out his wrist to glance at the watch there. He seemed sluggish, and his gaze didn’t exactly study the watch face, like he couldn’t focus. Still, he confidently and quietly replied, “Oh-nineteen-hundred.”

  It was oh-one-hundred. One o’clock in the fucking morning. And John didn’t have time for these games, but Simon’s reply was so ridiculous that he couldn’t bring himself to be angry. 

  “You’re a few hours off, mate. Hell’re you doin’ up?”

  “Waiting for her.”

  “Waiting for who?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “No one is.”

  Simon didn’t seem to like that answer, because his brows furrowed together and he gave John a suspicious side eye—like Price was the one playing games with him. John was quickly beginning to realize that Simon wasn’t completely present with him. Or maybe he was high. Surely, there was a better explanation than that. 

  “It’s not time yet,” Simon insisted. He glanced up and down the barren hallway. 

  “Time for what, Simon—?” John wanted to dig into his lieutenant, but another coughing fit shook him and had him curling to cover his mouth. Every breath moved like glass through his trachea. He wasn’t one for the med bay, but if it went on another night, he would start to worry about pneumonia. His fever hadn’t broken in hours.

  His coughing was startlingly loud and wet. He felt bad for the men trying to sleep around him. 

  When it was over, Price took a few deep, shaky breaths and looked back up at Simon. It was like the man he straightened and looked up at had morphed into a new one, recognizable. He met Price’s gaze and was filled with worry. He’d even swiped his blonde curls out of his face—a different man, the real Simon, not who he’d been speaking to a second ago. 

  Simon put a hand on Price’s shoulder to steady him. His wheezing was louder than he remembered it to be.

  “You’ve been coughing like that for days. Can’t even fuckin’ stand, John.” Now, Simon’s words were concise and clear, not slurred. He registered the things around him like he couldn’t before. It was surreal to stand up to find a different Simon. 

  “M’fine. What’s wrong with you?”

  Simon shook his head like he genuinely didn’t understand. “What’re you talking about? You’re burnin’ up. You really left it this long?”

  Honestly, John didn’t have the energy to argue. Maybe his fever was causing hallucinations. He swallowed back the pain in his throat and resisted the urge to wipe away the sweat on his forehead. He’d been sweating through everything he owned. It made him feel sicker.

  “Come on,” he insisted, pulling on the captain’s upper arm, “We’re going to the med bay. And you’re not gonna fight me on this.”

  Price liked this new Simon. The haze almost made him forget the walking corpse he’d been talking to before.

  An entire four-week mission passed over the Task Force without an incident. Johnny never admitted who’d split his lip, which was healing nicely. Kyle was scared to admit that he and Simon had been the thieves who’d taken two of Price’s cigars—did the psychopath count them? Regardless, the thought scared him into silence. Price spent a week on antibiotics for his chest infection and was well enough to eagerly join them in the field afterwards. They slept like babies in the safe house, waiting out their target. Simon felt like he was home. 

  It wasn’t until they got back to base, bruised and ready for the next assignment, that Simon began his night roaming again.

  This time, both Johnny and Kyle were up late catching the footy game they’d missed while they were gone. The pair thrived during football season and bonded over their rivalry. It was difficult to keep quiet at night, but they managed with beer and popcorn. 

  When Simon appeared in the doorway only illuminated by the television, Gaz noticed him first, and immediately thought back to the night they’d (tried) to share cigars. The tray had disappeared by now; Price had learned his lesson. Kyle tried to search Simon’s eyes through the opening in the balaclava, but he turned toward the counter too quickly. The kettle flicked on. That was a good sign, Kyle decided. 

  “Hey, Ghost,” Kyle greeted quietly. Soap looked up as well.

  “Hey, LT.”

  “Hi.” Was his deadpan reply. He didn’t even pay them a glance as he readied his tea.

  “Here to catch the game? Or smoke more cigars?”

  Simon stilled for a moment. Kyle waited. Soap glanced up with confusion—Simon didn’t smoke cigars. He hated them. He hated his habit altogether, and cigars only encouraged it, like an alcoholic offered the finest bourbon. 

  “I don’t smoke cigars,” he said, glancing at Gaz.

  He was still chuckling. “Oh. So that’s how we’re playing it. Love it.”

  Soap kicked him playfully. “What? Ye were the ones who stole Price’s cigs?”

  “Don’t tell him. Simon and I just had one… each. He counts them like fuckin’ Aunt Trunchbull and her chocolates.”

  “Ye’re a menace, Ky. Price wouldn’t even believe that ye did it, either.”

  When they looked back at Simon, wiping away their laughter and forgetting their game, he was standing with his mug in his hand next to the couch. “What’re you talking about?”

  Kyle still found this partly funny; the only thing that wiped the grin off his face was the genuine confusion in Simon’s eyes. He’d pulled his mask over his nose to drink, revealing a scarred mouth pressed into a hard line. 

  “You’re forgetting a few weeks ago? Gotta get you checked out, Si.”

  He shook his head. Part of Simon was worried that he was missing the joke: Kyle was roping him into his own scheme after he’d taken the cigars himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d misunderstood a play. 

  “I hate cigars. Wouldn’t take ‘em from John, they’re fifty pounds each. He has access to our bank accounts, mate.”

  Kyle tilted his head. His smirk was confused. “You really don’t remember? Found you in the kitchen and we smoked together. Guess you didn’t like it, cause you left pretty quick.”

  Soap had been listening intently, and although he found it amusing, he now looked to be deep in thought. “When was this?”

  “Week before we shipped out, I think. At least a month now.”

  “I’m offended that you mix me up with another soldier, Gaz,” Simon frowned. It was his best attempt at a joke, but it came out sounding too genuine.

  Kyle was about to object, but Johnny spoke up, “Do you remember a night around then? We were out on the tarmac?”

  “Yeah. Someone split your lip.”

  “Yeah,” he scoffed, “someone.”

  “What? Simon hit you? Why?” This was news to Kyle. He suspected that Soap had instigated another soldier and suffered the consequences. 

  “I—didn’t…”

  They waited for Simon to explain himself. They waited for anything. The man just stood there with his hand shaking around his tea and his eyes closed. 

  Then, he turned and left the room. His shoulders were hunched down again, hiding, obviously ashamed. Honestly, his departure ruined their game and left the two soldiers with more questions than answers. 

  When it happened a fourth time, Johnny recognized the signs instantly. Simon moped down the hallway with his arms wrapped around himself like it held him together. His gaze was distant and didn’t move from the path in front of him, like he’d been hypnotized and told to walk until he collapsed. Soap could see it clearly—the curl in his shoulders, the hands shaking on his ribs, the lack of acknowledgement when Johnny called his name from the opposite end of the hallway. Johnny had been sitting in the rec room the team had colonized texting his sister. He was tired, but it was a necessary sacrifice to speak to her when she was awake in her own time zone. It had barely been a flash of shadow passing over the doorway that he thought he’d imagined, but then those heavy footsteps followed, and he had no choice but to confirm his suspicions. 

  Johnny should have recognized it the first night it happened. He’d grown up with his older sister sleepwalking constantly as a child, and Simon mirrored her exactly. It just wasn’t something he expected; he assumed that adults didn’t sleepwalk. 

  Well, he surmised, Simon wasn’t normal. Trauma did odd things to the brain. 

  Simon’s back was to him when he stepped out of the living space. “Simon?” he called again, a little louder this time. Simon slowed down but didn’t stop. Johnny had to jog to catch up with him before he turned the corner at the end of the hall. He’d fallen asleep in his balaclava again.

  This time, he didn’t grab him. The thought made his lip tingle. “Simon? What’s up?”

  “Did you find them?” That familiar slurred speech. 

  Johnny fell into step beside him. They had another few hallways to go before they ran out of runway. “Find what, Si?”

  “Your rocks.”

  “What’re ye talkin’ ‘bout?”

  “I dunno. I’m just trying to make conversation.”

  He snorted with stifled laughter. He wanted to continue to find this funny, but a part of him knew that only immense stress brought about sleepwalking—especially since it seemed to only become a noticeable problem within the last month. Something had changed in Simon, and it didn’t seem to be for the better. 

  Soap wanted to take his arm. They were about to pass Simon’s hallway. Could he wake him and duck out of the way fast enough to avoid another reflexive attack? Obviously, calling his name hadn’t been enough to wake him, either. 

  “Wait, Si, this is our stop.”

  Soap was shocked when he actually did pause, turning his head in Johnny’s direction but never actually meeting his eyes. 

  “Come on. Let’s go t’bed, yeah? This way.”

  “M’tired,” Simon replied. Shockingly, he did begin to follow Johnny’s motioning down the hallway. “M’tired of bein’ tired. M’tired of bein’ awake.”

  It was hard to ignore the sense of sincerity in Simon’s words, like a part of his waking mind was poking through the fog of sleep. Johnny wanted to take his hand to both comfort and guide. 

  Reaching the end of the hallway felt to be both a blessing and a curse, because Johnny still wasn’t sure what to do. Normally, his sister followed him straight back to bed, and she never acted violently if he took her arm to lead her. Johnny opened Ghost’s barrack door. It was dark. He kept the space sterile; Simon didn’t have many belongings, anyway. 

  Johnny led him into the room. Miraculously, Simon followed without any prompting. He stopped there in the middle of the room and stared at the floor while Johnny pulled the messed covers back far enough for Simon to slip under them.

  When he turned around, Simon was pulling on the hem of his balaclava. The look in his eyes—the panic—made Johnny realize that he was trying to remove it. 

  It was difficult to do with Johnny so scared to wake him. Simon whimpered once, a tiny sound that Johnny barely caught, and ducked his head to try to escape the fabric. 

  “S’okay,” he breathed with relief when Johnny finally got it over Simon’s head and dropped it to the floor, “See? Tha’s better. Y’wanna get in bed?”

  “M’tired,” was all Simon could reply. 

  He’d need another push. Johnny stood there, hesitating for a moment, while Simon blinked blankly down at his chest. He hadn’t objected when Johnny touched him to remove the mask. And, hell, what was another punch? He’d already done most of the work. Maybe a dislocated jaw would be worth it after everything he’d already done. 

  So, Johnny took Simon’s hand in his own. His left palm had divots from scarring and a deep dent on one of his knuckles that Johnny brushed his thumb over. The touch didn’t seem to upset him. He took this as his cue to pull Simon towards the bed. 

  “Lay down. Ye still got a few hours ‘til wake-up call.”

  Simon miraculously did so. He allowed Johnny to lift the covers while he straightened himself on the mattress. The man bunched the pillow under him and curled his knees to his chest, facing Johnny. Johnny had quickly adjusted to the low light coming off the runway outside Simon’s window, and he could see the way Simon was shaking. 

  “Ye cold, Si?”

  He gave a brief groan and rubbed his cheek against his pillow. Something seemed to pain him with the way his brows were pulled together and his teeth made audible chattering sounds.  

  “Here. You’ll warm up in a min’.” Johnny pulled the covers over Simon and tucked it under his elbows to keep the heat inside. The lieutenant didn’t say anything, so Johnny took a deep breath, straightened, and turned to leave, assuming that his work was done. He’d succeeded in putting Simon’s haunting to rest.

  Simon’s hand shot out from under the blanket and grabbed his wrist. He turned back, searching for any sign of defence. Maybe he’d moved too quickly when he went to leave. He was facing away from the tarmac, so his face was cast in shadows that prevented Johnny from meeting Simon’s eyes, but at least his grip never tightened on his wrist. 

  All Simon mumbled was, “Stay?”

  Johnny sighed. It wasn’t something he had to think about. He’d spend the next week trying to justify it in his mind—he couldn’t say no to his superior, he had to make sure Simon was okay, maybe he was sleepwalking himself and he had no idea how they ended up sleeping together—but there was never any doubt to his answer. 

  “Move over.”

  This time, Simon’s movements were more incisive than they’d been before. He lifted the blanket and shuffled to the opposite side of the mattress. It was small, but there was enough room for Johnny to slide in beside him. He left his phone on the bedside table where it vibrated once: his sister’s last wishes goodnight after she assumed that he’d fallen asleep. 

  Pressed so close to Simon, the smell was overwhelming. He quickly became enveloped in that woodsy moss and gunpowder tang, like an old wood cabin that Johnny dreamed of living in one day. Simon smelled like home. The man was quick to curl against Johnny’s chest, his shivering eased to an occasional shake. Johnny instinctively pushed his arms around Simon’s back and trapped the man against his chest. He expected it to be suffocating, especially if Simon was still walking the line between sleep and consciousness. 

  The swell of their breaths fell into sync. Johnny could feel that soft, blonde hair against his lips, messed by hours of tossing under the mask. He could smell his shitty shampoo. He could feel every cascade of warmth on his sternum when Simon exhaled. 

  Simon squeezed Johnny’s shirt to indicate that he was still there—maybe not awake, but something close to it.

  Surely, Simon wasn’t awake. 

  “Thank you, Johnny,” he whispered into the cotton of his sleep shirt. Johnny rested his hand over the back of Simon’s head like it solidified their connection to each other. 

  “Try t’sleep, Si. I’ll be here the mawra.”

Chapter Text

  It was Simon’s fault that Johnny found them. He was the one who’d asked where his footy gear went after they’d compiled their belongings in the Scottish cabin they now shared. Living together made it worse when Simon had been pulled away on a mission in the Middle East, leaving Johnny alone for two weeks. He’d spent so many years with Simon that he didn’t know how to be alone anymore. The boredom was consuming him, and he didn’t know if there would be anything left by the time Simon got back. 

  Their backyard was overgrown and infested with a colony of rabbits (which they treated as family), but staring out at the empty space for so long made him think of his childhood in his mother’s front lawn, kicking a ball clear across the street into the neighbour’s living room. All of his summer paper route money went to replacing the window. Somehow, this had become a fond memory, more of how much he used to love soccer than destroying his neighbours’ peace. 

  So, he went on a hunt to find that box of childhood memories that he’d shoved into the storage room with Simon’s… not that he had a lot of physical childhood memories besides scars. He texted Simon first, who didn’t respond, so he went to the basement itself for answers. There were only a few boxes left that they hadn’t unpacked. They had no plans to unpack them, either; one of them was a box of Christmas decorations that Johnny brought with them, knowing that Simon would never agree to put them up, another was filled with cases or firearms that Simon only opened to maintain before locking them away again. Johnny assumed that it gave him some purpose that he left behind after he ‘left’ the 141 after Johnny’s knee injury that forced him into retirement. As bad as he wanted to follow Johnny into whatever came next, he couldn’t leave behind his life. Now, he took odd jobs that fell into Price and Laswell’s laps. 

  The box he’d been looking for was stuffed behind the Christmas decorations Tupperware bin. In the low light, he couldn’t clearly read what was written on it, but he pulled it out with a grunt anyway. Kneeling on the concrete was torture, even with the padded brace on his left knee. Painkillers rarely touched it, and on Scottish days like this—rainy, damp, and cold—it seemed to ache. Or maybe it was just because Simon wasn’t there. Simon’s absences were starting to correlate with his knee pain as well.

  As soon as he opened the edges of the box that had been folded over each other to keep it closed, Johnny realized that it wasn’t the one he was looking for. It still held his interest, though.

  It was half-empty. The first thing that stared up at him was a ragged triceratops plush with blue and green sequins along the belly (although most had fallen off and one of the horns had been ripped open for stuffing to bulge out). He did recognize this; it was the toy that Simon had given his nephew, Joseph, upon his birth. The boy had been holding it when he died. It still had blood splatter on the back that had never washed off. Maybe Simon never tried to wash it, fearing that it would destroy the last thing he had of his family.

  At least, the last thing Simon said he had of his family. Johnny had no reason to believe otherwise.

  He was careful with the plush as he picked it up to examine it. The plastic eyes were glittery but dulled by scratches. 

  Below the triceratops, Johnny realized that there was more, and it reminded him of what he was doing.

  This storage box was obviously not something that Simon wanted to revisit. He’d purposely hid it in their basement where he could forget about it. But he had to have known that Johnny would find it. This box wasn’t a forgotten tampon. This box would have burned a hole in Simon; it was the last gravestone he carried with him that marked the end of Simon and the beginning of Ghost. 

  Did part of Ghost want Soap to find it? Was it a matter of simply being unable to discard it?

  Regardless, Johnny had to see what else was in it. He grimaced at the sharp pain in his knee when he stood with the box in his arms and trudged up the basement stairs. 

  He set the box on the kitchen island in front of those bright living room windows, moving a still around to sit on. Taking the weight off his knee had him realizing just how much it was hurting today. Johnny put the triceratops on the counter and sat it up properly, like he was worried that he could offend Joseph’s spirit by disregarding it on the granite like a common toy. 

  The next item he pulled from the box was wrapped loosely in a Manchester newspaper. It was a framed photo of five people he didn’t recognize at first—then, those brown eyes on the man standing second-from-the-left sparked recognition in him. It was Simon, masked, a decade younger, and harbouring actual life in his eyes, but it was him. He’d never seen the others before. The woman he had his arm around was much older and smaller, but they shared that blonde hair colour that turned shimmery and golden in the sunlight. To his right, a man held a child to his chest. The kid held a plastic dinosaur model in the air as if it were a trophy. The boy’s mother leaned against his father, her orange hair pulled up into a bun and her smile bright. She and her son seemed to be so full of life that Johnny imagined them jumping from the photo. 

  He was looking at Simon’s family, the one that Simon promised he had no photos of. Maybe he hadn’t lied to Johnny’s face; maybe he convinced himself that their deaths meant the end of their existence in his own life as well. He struggled to not take this realization personally. Whatever reasons Simon had for pretending that there were no images left of his first life, they were his own. He set the photo on the crumpled paper beside the triceratops.

  He expected more photos. No, he hoped for more photos. He wanted more proof of what Simon used to be—maybe something akin to a family man, albeit traumatized, but a loving uncle and brother to a group of people who raised and adored him. He wanted to see what Simon did as hobbies when he was a teenager, he wanted to know what prompted him to become a butcher before joining the military. 

  The next item he pulled out was soft. It had him wondering why Simon would be keeping clothes that he definitely didn’t fit after gaining so much muscle. 

  “Steamin’ Jesus.” 

  It was an original band shirt from Slayer’s 1997 Diabolus in Musica tour. He was even further impressed when the next shirt under it was revealed to be from Krokus’s 1999 tour. The last shirt was a rarity, bought from one of Pitchshifter’s shows at the Ozzfest in England in 2000. He studied the designs carefully without handling them too much, like he was worried that the cracked prints would crumble and blow away after their time in confinement. It made him happy to know that Simon still harboured that love for music… even if it was disgusting metal that made Johnny want to gag and blast Auld Lang Syne. 

  He was excited to see what the surprise box produced next. He’d learned more about his lover’s childhood in the last five minutes than he’d ever learned from the man himself. 

  The heaviest parts of the package that had been buried under everything else were a stack of notebooks and a yellow manila envelope. One of the books was a frayed, ringed sketchbook. Johnny had always been the artist who carried his sketchbook through years of missions in the 141 before really dedicating himself to the craft when he retired. Simon loved his work, but never shared that he’d dabbled himself. 

  Maybe that was a good thing. The pictures that greeted him when he flipped through the pages were dark and angsty, monsters that twisted and turned over the pages and bared their teeth at Johnny for daring to peek. It was just the one sketchbook, thankfully, and it wasn’t full, so Johnny hoped that Simon hadn’t felt the need to release these monsters onto paper for too long. 

  There was hesitation when Johnny moved the box aside to study the stack of journals and manila envelope. Those books didn’t hold whispers of a forgotten soul, those books held distinct secrets and stories that Simon hadn’t told for a reason. He readjusted his aching knee and gnawed at his lip while he stared the books down. Now, he was sure that his knee wouldn’t be able to handle a run in the yard if he had found his old gear. 

  Johnny had some old journals in a box in his mother’s house, too. He thought about what he’d do if Simon read those. There would be embarrassment, of course, but anger at the breach of privacy. Some things were meant to stay in the past, not examined in detail by the man he loved. And whatever Simon had kept from his old life may not be something that Johnny could handle reading. Something told him that those dog-eared pages weren’t filled with teenage crushes and wholesome childhood milestones. 

  He blinked away the urge to reach for one. Instead, he focused on the weathered envelope that had turned brown with age. The piece of tape over the edge was dried up and no longer tacky enough to keep it closed. It was chunky but flexible. He glanced inside at folded paper. 

  Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to flip the envelope upside down, as a dozen more cascaded onto the countertop. They were smaller, letter sized, with varying degrees of aging. Some were so worn that the corners had disintegrated and Johnny could see the folded sheets of paper inside. None of them were fastened shut by tape or glue. 

  Upon further inspection, he realized that every envelope had a name written on the top corner in Simon’s near-illegible cursive. 

  One was addressed to a Markus. Johnny assumed that Markus might be Simon’s father, or maybe a childhood friend. Two were addressed to his mother, Nora, and two more to his brother, Thomas (or Tommy, as was written on the envelopes). One was made to Beth and another to Joseph. Johnny glanced at the photo beside him, studying those smiling faces. Did they know what these envelopes contained? Did he want to find out?

  Maybe he didn’t want to. He had to.

  The newer envelopes had slid further away and he corralled them back in front of him. These ones were addressed to the team, one each: John, Kyle, and Johnny. A fourth one was addressed to a Gary—maybe this was his father?

  Johnny searched his memory for Markus and Gary. No, Markus was definitely Simon’s father. It took him a moment to realize that Gary must be him, Roach. 

  Johnny didn’t know a lot about Roach. He did know that Simon had entered the military when he was fairly young, like himself, but he wasn’t great at making friends. Roach—Gary—was the one person that Simon tended to speak fondly of. Roach was also a memory that Simon guarded closely. He told funny stories of himself and Roach in basic training and eventually active combat. Sometimes, when he called to Johnny, he’d mix up their names. He’d brush it off like Roach meant nothing while hanging his head in shame. 

  This wasn’t something Johnny could resist. He grabbed the envelope addressed to him and slid the paper out. There were three leaves folded together to make one long note. The first page was dated September 1st, 2020. This was six months after Price had formed the 141. Kyle and Johnny had become close friends, and he was starting to grow on Simon, too. They’d started sharing things: midnight smokes, dinners in the mess, late-night footy games on the telly that Simon obviously wasn’t interested in but stayed for to lounge beside Johnny as long as he could. During this time, when this letter was written, something had sparked between Simon and Johnny that would change the trajectory of their lives forever. 

  At first, he was almost excited to read what Simon had written to him. Maybe it was an old love letter that he hadn’t had the guts to deliver. It was a naive thought. Maybe it was an apology for something he did, or apologies to his family for what he believed was his own fault. 

  They were apology letters, in a way. 

  It started kindly. Simon greeted Johnny with those phrases they always whispered to each other for no one else to hear—‘hey, love’ and ‘I know your dumbass doesn’t know how to read, so you’ll have to have this translated’. It was sweet and would have made Johnny’s heart swell, but something kept it tethered down. There was an impending doom that accompanied the first paragraph, after which Simon began explaining how much he enjoyed Johnny’s company. He wrote about how much he’d come to mean to him, how much Johnny had done to change Simon, a part of himself that Ghost was determined to kill off. 

  When Johnny read that first ‘I’m so sorry’, he couldn’t keep his eyes moving despite his attempts. He was crumpling the pages in his fist without realizing. He had to unravel his fingers one at a time to drop the pages onto the counter, and even then, he couldn’t continue reading. There weren’t many times in his life when he’d really been scared, but the way his heart was in his throat mirrored that sensation well. 

  Johnny pushed the papers away while his hand flashed out to grab another from the pile. This one was to Markus. It started very differently, explaining how much he hated his father for what he did to him. His father was the monster that created a monster; the man who created the Ghost. The first page held so much anger and rebellion against the man, Johnny could barely believe that it was Simon’s handwriting. It wasn’t like him to so violently lash out with his thoughts. He always insisted that that was what death was for; he’d meet his father in hell when he got there. One day. 

  The second part of his father’s note, though, was about Simon. He admitted that he was weak enough to carry what his father had done to him for so long, he admitted that he knew Simon would eventually turn into Mark himself, and he never once apologized for what he was going to do. He wrote that he knew how his father would feel. Then, again, he reiterated how much he looked forward to meeting Markus in hell when they were reunited. 

  Johnny’s heart never lowered from his throat despite his frantic skimming over the pages. He opened the envelopes like a man desperate, ripping some of them in the process. Gary got the most ‘thank you’s for the way he changed Simon in the letter dated from 2015; the way he’d taught him how to be human again. Simon explained to his mother, Nora, in the letter dated from 1998, that he’d always held such bitterness towards her for never standing up to his father; he also revealed that he’d come to understand why she couldn’t, and that he forgave her. Thomas and Beth were told how proud Simon was of them. Then, he apologized. Again. 

  He spent a lot of time on Joseph’s letter. It was almost seven pages long and told mostly stories—the emotional turmoil Simon felt when he realized how much baby Joseph meant to him, how the baby reacted when he was gifted his triceratops, how Simon and him would wake up early to burn pancakes for breakfast, knowing that Beth would scold them (Simon) for it. He wrote about how sorry he was that he wouldn’t be able to see him grow up, that he hoped Joseph would never be able to understand why he did what he did, and that he was destined for such unimaginably great things. 

  Kyle got many thanks for being such a good friend. Simon said that Kyle reminded him of Joseph, so strong and unwilling to allow the world to taint him. Price was equally thanked, but instead for being the father that Simon never got to have. Their letters were dated like Johnny’s: 2020. 

  Simon never once wrote that word. Suicide. He never revealed exactly why he wrote the letters at all, but his intentions were clear in each word. He’d spent a lot of words trying to justify it. 

  If you understood, you’d know that this isn’t something I want to do.

  I know how much this will hurt you, and I’m sorry for that. 

  Johnny didn’t want to finish his letter. He wasn’t sure if he could stomach it. He was proven correct, because when he read the last line, he had to get up from the table and sprint to the bathroom so he wouldn’t vomit on the floor.

  Just know that if your love could have saved me, I would have been better a long time ago.

Chapter Text

  Simon hated that long, stuffy trip back to Scotland on a military aircraft. It was always sweltering, and then he’d land in the UK and take a myriad of cold taxis, trains, and buses back home. Regardless, he’d take public transit to the ends of the earth if it meant that he could reunite with Johnny when he arrived. 

  He’d received the couple texts from Johnny when he was back in service but decided to leave them unanswered. If Johnny hadn’t found his football gear by then, he probably wouldn’t. It hurt Simon to know that Johnny still wanted to do so much—that was what retirement was for. He was supposed to be playing footy and running around with his niece and nephew. Most days, he was confined inside, especially with the cool weather in Scotland that seemed to agitate his knee. He’d been given a cane to use and hated it. Simon had only seen him use it a handful of times when the pain was unbearable. 

  The cabin hadn’t been changed. Every time he came back, part of him worried that it wouldn’t be there, like it had disintegrated with Johnny under the weight of his sins. He didn’t deserve that cabin to be standing there when he returned. There was always a sigh of relief when the taxi pulled into the gravel driveway and Simon looked into those windows. 

  He paid the driver and listened to him pull away while Simon climbed the front steps. Returning home sucked all the energy from him; it was exhausting to pull his keys from his bag and shove them into the lock. Johnny would be on the other side. 

  The cabin, however, was silent when he entered and dropped his keys on the table beside the door. His bag was dropped over the back of the couch next. Simon’s truck was still outside; Johnny hadn’t gone into town. He didn’t like driving, anyway. The vibrations angered his knee and he couldn’t stand to be sitting in the same position for so long. 

  “Johnny?” Simon called into the silence. 

  He entered the kitchen beyond the living room couches. Johnny liked to keep a clean house. The only item on the island was Johnny’s leftover coffee from that morning. 

  He picked it up to check its temperature. Ice-cold.

  Simon flinched at gentle arms wrapping around his middle from behind. He turned his head just enough to see Johnny’s shoulder over his own. “Jesus—y’scared me.”

  Johnny didn’t say anything. His breath was warm against Simon’s spine and he seemed to exhale a long sigh of relief that they both shared. The Scot squeezed him one last time before his arms loosened enough for Simon to turn and take Johnny’s face in his hands.

  “You okay? Knee hurt?”

  He could feel it in Johnny’s touch and see it in his endless blue eyes. Something bothered him, saddened him, and it softened Simon’s gaze. 

  Johnny shook his head, breaking past the man’s hands on his cheeks while pulling him down to lock their lips together.

  The returning soldier welcomed the kiss like a man starving, licking Johnny up and yearning for more. He pulled him closer so their fronts were flush together. Their scents mixed. Johnny had turned floral since his retirement—no more sweaty gun oil and canvas gear, just slow walks in Scottish flower fields and lazy morning coffee. Simon needed a shower after his long journey home, but he was joyous to realize that he could do that with Johnny. 

  It was like they could read each other’s minds. Feet tripped over boots and shirts landed in puddles up the hallway as they stumbled together into their bedroom. The bathroom had been used that morning. Despite the dampness, they entered the shower with their lips still connected. This was what Simon returned home for—not for a break from work or to vegetate in front of the television, but to hear and feel Johnny’s quiet, needy whimpering that fell into his mouth when he bit at his lip. One of Johnny’s hands pulled him by the waist so their erections pressed into each other while the other reached back to turn on the shower.

  Simon was initially gasping at the fiery pleasure of finally brushing his cock against the one man he’d been fantasizing about for weeks, but then jolting under the sudden spray of cold water from above. He hunched over Johnny to escape it and it had them both chuckling.

  “Sorry,” Johnny whispered halfheartedly between kisses. He was immediately forgiven when the water turned warm. 

  They had no time for washing. Not yet, at least. Now, all that mattered was the Scotsman’s hand reaching between them and wrapping around both their erections firmly. Their kissing had to part for a moment so Simon could breathe; he would have passed out if he hadn’t. 

  It was so easy to forget what he left when Simon was working. All he knew when he was gone was bloodshed and his mission and what he needed to sacrifice to complete it. Then he’d return to all this softness and never understood how he could leave it. The pleasure made him unable to even think about leaving Johnny again. 

  “Fuck. Fuck, Johnny,” he groaned, pressing their foreheads together under the spray. Johnny worked them, his calloused fingers squeezing them together and brushing his thumb over the dark, sensitive heads. Simon had to push his face down and bite at his neck to keep from thrusting up into the hand that gave him such immense pleasure. He hated being so selfish after all his time away from his love. They would have plenty of time to make up for those missed orgasms. 

  The base of his spine ached. His back always hurt these days, but the pleasure that had him groaning and twitching under Johnny’s control made it so bitter-sweet. 

  “Gonna come fer me, Si?” Johnny asked, barely audible above the hum of the water. He’d reached up and pulled Simon down by the neck with his free hand and nipped at his ear. Even when he was so hungry for Simon, to continue trying to convince himself that he was still there and that those letters had meant nothing, he couldn’t help but tease. He could feel those giant, scarred hands clawing for purchase on his hips. 

  He felt Simon’s frantic nodding against his shoulder as their hips stuttered together. It never took them long during that first reunion after a mission. The sex was always rushed and eager, like they couldn’t function until their orgasms resuscitated them. 

  Simon’s orgasm hit him just a few strokes ahead of Johnny. He dug his nails into the man’s hips and bucked his own up into each final pull; the rush of pleasure up his aching spine was so hot that the water seemed cold. It had him shivering. 

  The Scot shook with him and eventually leaned into his front, gasping for oxygen. The fading orgasm—muscles weak and throat strained by the steam—faded to reveal the real pain in his knee. He couldn’t stand for much longer. Still, he was so grateful to have experienced heaven with Simon for a few minutes. 

  “Are you okay?” Simon mumbled, partially drowned out by the noise. Johnny dropped their fading erections between them and wrapped both arms around Simon’s torso again. The steam had turned Simon’s sweat and musk almost intolerable. It made him salivate. 

  “Mhm.”

  “Knee hurts?”

  His mohawk had grown out and was now flattened by the water, but it stuck up when he nodded against Simon’s skin. “S’fine. J’s wanna stay.”

  They only parted briefly for Simon to wipe spunk off their chests and stomach. Then, he washed his hair, allowing Johnny to scrub it the way he loved. He’d take a thorough shower later—surely, they’d be sweaty and disgusting after the afternoon of sex that was to come. 

  The shower was silent. Simon didn’t need Johnny to say anything to suspect something unnatural in the man’s blue eyes, something more than pain. He was distant and thinking hard enough for his jaw to constantly be working. His lips angled up as if he was trying to swallow ill-tasting medicine. 

  Johnny stood out of the way and watched Simon angle his head under the water to rinse his hair. He didn’t miss that short sigh, like he’d been using all his strength to stay standing without the tile wall’s assistance. His knee was killing him, but it wasn’t the only thing that Simon detected. 

  Simon straightened. He shook out his blonde curls. Then, he shut off the water, but didn’t yet exit the shower. Instead, he caught Johnny’s eye from where he still leaned into the corner while reaching out for a towel to dry his hair. 

  “Are you mad at me?”

  He diverted his gaze at the question. Johnny shook his head. Simon wasn’t stupid. Maybe he wasn’t angry, but something obviously weighed on him. 

  “No. M’not angry. Just…”

  Simon waited. Johnny shook his head. 

  “Just get dressed. We need t’talk.”

  Nothing scared Simon more than that classic ‘we need to talk’. Nothing good ever came from those talks. He agonized over what he’d done to upset Johnny. Had he left the wet laundry in the machine before he left for Johnny to find a week later? Had something happened to Johnny’s family? Were his niece and nephew okay? 

  And Johnny knew how horrible that conversation starter was. He knew how it would torture Simon and leave his stomach in knots. This wasn’t a laundry mishap. Was Johnny going to leave him? Was he going to ask him to stay and leave his military career behind? Part of Simon knew that that ultimatum was coming. One day, he’d have to make the decision between his lover and the rest of his life. He knew he’d choose his lover. He just didn’t know if Johnny would stay long enough for him to decide. 

  Simon found him in the kitchen dressed in grey sweats and one of Simon’s old SAS tees. Simon was dressed similarly, but only in his boxers. Johnny had his back to him. He could hear water pouring into a mug. He could smell earl grey. This wasn’t looking good. 

  He’d spent his entire life learning how to remain calm under immense, life-threatening pressure, and yet he could barely keep his hands from shaking when he took a seat at the island. 

  Johnny knew how he liked his tea. He put it on the counter in front of him without a word or eye contact, replaced the kettle in the corner, and then crossed the room to the hutch beside the hallway. It had been hiding a stack of papers that Johnny carefully pulled out. Then, he dropped them in front of Simon’s drink and supported his hands on the counter, waiting. 

  It took Simon a moment to recognize them. When he did, it made sense. Everything made sense. 

  They’d all been opened. Seeing these notes again was like meeting an old friend who’d died, someone that Simon had once been tortured by and since learned to live without. 

  “This is what you’re upset about?”

  Johnny recoiled. Yes, this was what he was upset about. Simon had said it like he couldn’t believe Johnny had bothered to read them at all.

  “Did ye really just say that?”

  Okay, wrong tone. These notes that Simon had forgotten even existed had landed on Johnny like an asteroid. He didn’t think he’d even kept them… not that he could part with them. The realization that he might have to explain himself to Johnny hit him like a train. He wasn’t prepared for this. Maybe Johnny deserved the biggest explanation of all time, but would Simon survive that?

  The silence stretched on for a long time. He could feel Johnny’s gaze on him, boring through his skull like the bullet he’d once fantasized about. This betrayal that Simon could feel emanating off his lover was worse than any physical pain. 

  When he didn’t get an answer, Johnny asked another question. 

  “Did ye try to kill yourself?”

  Simon was shaking his head before he finished his sentence, still unable to look up from the papers. 

  “No. You never got the letters. I never did it.”

  “Then why did ye write them?”

  He leaned forward and set his head in his hands as if rubbing the stress out of his eyes would make the questions stop. Johnny was tired of the avoidance; he slid out a stool and sat, leaning in beside Simon. He didn’t mean for this to feel like an interrogation. He’d spent the last week trying to figure out how to have the conversation without pushing him away. He’d completed the first phase without issue: ensure that Simon knew he loved him, more than anything, before he started an argument that could end their relationship altogether. 

  “Simon, I’m gonna ask ye a question, and ye’re gonna be so fuckin’ honest with me. Are there more?”

  When he answered, it was the first time their eyes met. Simon was scared. Johnny was terrified. And angry. 

  “Yes.”

  Silence. Simon could hear Johnny swallowing thickly.

  “How many have ye written to me?”

  The pause already told Johnny that he wouldn’t like the answer. “Four.”

  He momentarily leaned back and his eyes closed like this information physically hurt him. It did. 

  “Ye’ve—four, Simon. Four times.”

  “I just wrote them. I never actually—I tried when I was a kid, okay? But I didn’t actually do anything. Not since I met you.”

  “Then why the hell are these notes sitting in front of me?! Ye’re apologizing for what ye planned to do. What the fuck am I supposed t’think?!”

  Simon exhaled harshly through his nose and shook his head. “They’re… a comfort. They help.”

  His voice softened and he leaned in, pleading for Simon to just tell him. Why was he the only person so disturbed by these letters? He knew that Simon wasn’t the most mentally-stable person, but he was better. He’d been through so much and reached the other side and found the love and life that he deserved with Johnny. He was quiet, sure, but Simon had never revealed himself to be hurting enough to write a fucking suicide letter—or multiple. In all the years he’d known him, Johnny couldn’t believe how blind he was. He felt like he’d betrayed Simon, like he’d lied when he said that he’d be there. 

  “I don’t fuckin’—that doesn’t make sense, Si. It’s a comfort to know that ye can just kill yourself? Just check out whenever ye want, and ye’ll have a letter ready to go when ye need it?”

  Simon raised a hand to motion to the papers. The man rarely raised his voice outside of his job, and never at Johnny. Gems struck a nerve. This time, Simon snapped at him, lips pulled over his teeth. “This is why I can’t talk about it. Because you don’t understand. You don’t get what it’s like to… need that. To need something—one last fucking thing—to fall back on, when I’ve lost everything else. You didn’t even fucking know that they existed until you found them! How the fuck am I supposed to believe that what I’m feeling is real when I can’t even see it? When no one around me can see it?! Fuck, Johnny.”

  They were both breathing hard. Simon wouldn’t let himself cry—not after the years he’d spent conditioning himself—but Johnny was. There were angry tears on his face that he quickly wiped away. He was angry at himself for being so blind to Simon’s pain, angry at Ghost for being so sick and torturing the man he loved, and angry at the world for hurting Simon so deeply. Simon had always been like a sponge, sucking up the world and holding it inside until everything overflowed, usually in a violent manner. 

  “I’m sorry,” Simon whispered after some minutes of silence. “I can’t do this if you're angry at me. I’m sorry.”

  “M’not angry,” Johnny insisted. It came out as a strained whine. 

  “You are.”

  “I’m angry that ye keep opening old wounds, expecting them to heal, like it’s the only way to prove that they’re real. But I’m not angry at ye. I just…”

  They sat in the torturous silence.

  “…I don’t want ye to be in pain anymore.”

  Johnny’s words came out as a desperate whisper, as if he knew that saying it to Simon would have no impact on reality. He stared down at the granite with the suicide letter, addressed to him, clutched in his sweaty palm. The tightness in his chest far outweighed the pain in his knee. 

  “I’m not,” Simon replied eventually. 

  Johnny shook his head, eyes closed. 

  “I’m telling the truth. M’not in pain. Not like I used to be. Because of you.”

  Maybe his words were working, because Johnny did look at him, albeit with a frown and those teary, hard eyes. 

  “I know this scared you. I know you… didn’t think it got this bad. But I don’t know how to make it better. I don’t know how to change. I don’t think I can. But I’m better.”

  The Scot suddenly stood off his stool, wincing at the sharp pain it caused in his leg, and fixed Simon with a harsh stare. The tears had stopped, at least. The hardened military man that Simon had first fallen in love with was at the surface, ready to bring war to whatever plagued Simon.

  “I can’t trust ye when ye say that.”

  Simon deflated. He felt horrible when his first reaction was to think of the sweet release suicide would bring him, an escape from Johnny’s unyielding words. He couldn’t survive any more anger.

  “I want therapy. I want you in therapy. If I have to fuckin’ drag ye there myself. And I want ye to promise me that ye’ll tell someone when it gets this bad. When ye feel like it’s yer only option.” 

  He hung his head. “Okay.”

  Obviously, Johnny didn’t think it would be that easy. 

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He stared. God, did he have to put him on suicide watch now? Did Simon hate therapy that much? What the fuck was he supposed to do with a man who didn’t want to change? He claimed he was better, but how could Johnny believe that when he had never seen the worst of it?

  “Okay, I’ll go to therapy. And I’ll tell you. I promise.” I’ll do whatever you want. Because you want me to be better. 

  Johnny had gotten what he wanted. He’d gotten at least some kind of promise that Simon would work on himself. That he’d give something to himself. Simon didn’t break his promises, especially not for Johnny. 

  He stood over Simon with that pain in his knee almost conjuring the tears again. The man seemed frozen, completely drained of all his previous life. All Johnny could see were those blonde curls that shook with each steadying breath. He couldn’t help but apologize. 

  “M’sorry for doing it like this. I didn’t know if ye’d stay for this conversation. I… didn’t know what t’think.”

  Finally, Simon looked up at him with those big, brown eyes that he’d fallen in love with. They were a little bloodshot and some of his scars had darkened with the heat in his cheeks, but he was stunning, and Johnny almost hated Ghost for wanting to take that—Simon—from him. 

  “I stayed for you,” Simon replied. “I’ll always stay for you.”

Chapter Text

  “He’ll be fine, Johnny,” were Price’s sincere words. At least he’d led with that. Johnny’s heart had sunk with fear when he’d seen that look in his captain’s eyes. It was to be expected; he knew that not seeing Simon exiting the debrief room was a bad sign. 

  Johnny repeated his question, “Okay, where is he?”

  “The med bay. Getting stitched up. He was walking and talking when I left him there.”

  He expected it to quell the anxiety that bloomed in his chest. Johnny readjusted the strap on his shoulder that kept his arm cradled to his front. No one would have let him into the field with a broken collarbone, but it didn’t help the way he ached to be there for Simon. How had they survived years before they met, when Simon would go on lonely missions without anyone at his back?

  Price put a hand on Johnny’s good shoulder, drawing his gaze back up to him. “He’s fine. We might have to nail him to the floor while he heals, but he is.”

  “What? Why?” They stepped to the side as a soldier passed them in the hallway. The initial group of weary soldiers had dispersed from the meeting room and allowed Johnny and his captain a quiet moment to debrief themselves. Here, Johnny wasn’t worried about keeping up the appearance of his and Simon’s relationship being platonic. It was an unspoken understanding that the captain had always seen through it, and Johnny genuinely didn’t care about his opinion until he knew that Simon was alive and well. If Simon really had died on the mission–the thought had Johnny tasting metal–Price wouldn’t have waited until after the debrief. 

  The captain sighed at his ridiculous question. Surely, he was feigning his ignorance. Nothing could separate those two, and he rarely had an issue with it… until he knew that their midnight reunions would hinder Simon’s healing. 

  “If he breaks out of the med bay, you send him right back. I’m serious, Soap.”

  “So he’s fine? If he can break out of medical, he’s fine–”

  “The man once dug himself out of a shallow grave with five broken ribs. He can break out of a damn med bay. Send him back. He needs to stay there to heal. Please, just humour me for a day.”

  Johnny squirmed and tried to act sincere when he replied, “Okay–Yes, sir.”

  Price sighed heavily, deflating. Why did he even try?

  It took about seven hours. The sun had set and Johnny had been awake, waiting, knowing. The red numbers on the clock beside his bed informed him that it was almost eleven. The knocking on his door was softer than usual, weak, but they were Simon’s familiar pattern of four little taps. 

  The door was open almost before the knocking stopped. Johnny had to stand there, shoulder aching in the sling, while he took Simon in, convincing himself that he was real. Worry did terrible things to his mind, even after Price’s assurances. 

  “Hey, Si.”

  The man that towered in the doorframe leaned heavily against it. He hadn’t even put on his mask. The clothes he wore stank–they were the ones he’d worn into the field and the ones he’d been injured in. There was dried blood covering most of the fabric. The realization had Johnny leaning forward and putting a hand on Simon’s chest.

  “Holy shite. They didn’t give you anything–”

  “Got a gown… had t’steal my own clothes,” Simon slurred. He was looking at Johnny, forehead supported by the door frame, but he didn’t seem to be seeing him. It dawned on him that Simon was hunched and frowning because of pain, and whatever drugs they’d given him for it were barely touching it. 

  “What’d they give ye?”

  “Dunno. Whatever they could wi’out killin’ me, I guess.”

  “Any narcotics?” It was written repeatedly in Simon’s chart and known within the team to never administer narcotics to Simon, but that wasn’t necessarily something that the medics regarded in life-or-death situations if he wasn’t allergic to them. Any pain medication was better than none… maybe not to Simon, but they didn’t know that, either. 

  “Dunno. I feel pretty good, though.”

  “Ye’re not even in the galaxy.”

  Simon looked over his shoulder like he was thinking hard about his words. Eventually, he frowned and responded, “Think you’re right.”

  The Scot snorted. Shaking his head made his shoulder hurt. Seeing Simon so stiff and distant in front of him, though, made the pain feel like a tickle. Simon waited for him while Johnny seemed to study the man, thinking, biting his lip. His breathing seemed laboured. He’d tucked his arm against his side and used his shoulder to keep him upright against the wall. Every breath seemed to pull his brows together and his jaw tighter. A broken rib, surely, but there was too much blood for that to be the only culprit.

  “So… I’m gonna sleep here tonight?”

  Johnny watched him for another moment. 

  “If I let ye in and John finds out, we’re both gonna be in the med bay.”

  “Okay. So am I sleepin’ ‘ere tonight?”

  God, he was weak. Simon made him that way. He sighed and stepped forward to take Simon’s hand. Instead of being led, Simon leaned into his good shoulder, and Johnny huffed at the sudden weight. The man couldn't even stay standing by himself. 

  It was torture for his healing collarbone, but Johnny managed to get Simon to his bed with only a few moments of grunting. Simon seemed to be doing much worse; he was limping, his breathing was only shallow and forced, he favoured his right side by clutching his arm to his chest and keeping his fist balled tightly there. He certainly shouldn't have been getting out of bed at all. 

  At least it was a good excuse. It wasn’t like he could, in good conscience, let him walk back to medical. 

  The only place to put him was the bed. Bending at the knees seemed to anger his pain; Simon had to grit his teeth through a grunt before he could settle onto the mattress, and after that, he just kept going until he was laying back with his knees still bent over the edge. It was awkward, but at least it wasn’t a gurney. Johnny tried to stop him by grabbing his shoulder–anything–to keep him upright. He obviously wasn’t interested in that. Simon was almost dead weight. When he landed, he gave a long sigh to expel the tightness in his shoulders. Stretching out his ribs like that lit them up in fire, but the scent that he’d kicked up with his landing eased it. 

  “No, no–Si, I can’t–damnit.” There went Johnny’s dreams of easily sliding his shirt over his head or readjusting him under the covers while he was still in a sitting position.

  “S’fine. M’fine.” Simon wasn’t sure exactly what Johnny was upset about. Whatever it was, he was sure that his slurred words would help. Johnny’s bed was soft and familiar. His room was smaller, cozier, than Simon’s. He liked it much more than his own. Maybe because Johnny was always there, too. 

  “Great. I can’t move ye, Si. Help me out here.” He was trying to make it clear, with his huffing and grunting and grimace at the pain in his shoulder, that he was trying to get Simon’s shirt off by awkwardly sliding it out from under him and over his head. He worried that Simon had already fallen asleep until he lazily lifted one arm to catch his thumb on the collar of his black quarter shirt. 

  Aye. Thanks, Simon, ye’re a big help. Ye get the neck while I pull a shirt off a fuckin’ tank– Johnny hated himself for wanting to curse at Simon. The pain in his shoulder frustrated him, but it was Simon who was in the most pain. He was high, floating, and had crossed a vast ocean of doors and hallways to get to him in the middle of the night. It wasn’t like he could say anything, anyway, because when Simon’s torso was revealed, he was rendered speechless. He had to pause and lift the shirt further before he stopped to stare.

  He’d definitely broken ribs. The bruising was almost black on his left side around that one giant scar that snaked across his chest. They decorated his pale skin in fireworks of yellow and purple. There were always cuts–little nicks and gashes that probably didn’t need stitches. There was a bullet wound under his armpit that had been stitched and bandaged. Most of the bandaging, however, was just above his right hip. It was far too big for a bullet hole. He must have ripped stitches beneath it, since there was red seeping through the first layers. 

  “S’cold. Lemme keep m’clothes on. Keep yer dick in yer pants.” 

  Simon’s words broke Johnny from his horrified trance. It allowed him to slide the rest of the man’s shirt off. There was bruising on his upper arms. He’d slid against something rough, judging by the road rash that decorated his right shoulder and back. 

  “Don’t move. I’m getting ye clothes. And my dick is in my pants. Doubt ye could even get it up right now.”

  “Come back ‘ere an’ see.”

  Johnny didn’t even dignify his retort with a look. He wasn’t sure if he had anything that would fit Simon. Definitely no pants. He’d have to give him a pair of boxers, but otherwise, all he had was a giant t-shirt he’d actually originally stolen from Simon himself. 

  By the time he returned to the bed, he could hear soft snoring. He felt both relief and frustration. The man probably hadn't slept in days. He’d forced himself to stay awake through bullets and drugs just to fall asleep on Johnny’s bed. He just wished that he hadn’t done so until he was actually dressed and on the bed.

  He took the opportunity to remove Simon’s boots (which hadn't even been laced and were not put on the correct feet) before replacing his pants with a pair of clean boxer briefs. Johnny almost chuckled at the realization that Simon hadn’t been wearing underwear under his ruined jeans, and whoever came looking for him tomorrow morning would only find his dirty boxers. 

  The newly exposed flesh of his legs revealed why he’d been limping: a stab wound through the meat of his thigh. It went diagonally through the other side, obviously having missed anything vital, but hitting every nerve in-between. The stitches had been covered by a plastic film sticking to his skin that turned it a deep yellow colour. It was disgusting and obviously agonizing to walk on. 

  All the pulling had woken him from his brief rest and had Simon reaching for Johnny with his good arm. Johnny tossed the clothing into the corner of the room. 

  “S’cold,” Simon repeated, “Lay with me.” It wasn’t like him to request such creature comforts. Underneath all that usual stoicness, Simon was in pain and desperately fighting to keep himself above the waves to stay with Johnny. 

  “I know, Si. M’tryin’. Try t’stay awake, okay? I can’t move ye myself.” This time, Johnny’s voice was gentle. His frustration had left him. He leaned over Simon and was trying to pull the comforter out from under him with one hand. They’d both need painkillers after this. His shoulder was screaming at him to stop. 

  Simon was blinking up at the ceiling slowly. That Scottish lilt made him warm and sleep pulled at him harshly, but Johnny’s muffled voice kept him above the ocean threatening to take him under. The depths would cure the agony in his ribs and the stinging on his back, but Johnny wouldn’t be there with him. What was the point in leaving if Johnny couldn’t come? The blankets under him moved like the ocean would. He almost panicked; he was being pulled under again, drowning, and the waves tugged at the wound in his thigh while lighting his back on fire. Then, his world settled again.

  “M’sorry, m’sorry, I know that sucked. We’re almost done. Gotta get ye on the bed. Can ye help me out, m’eudail?”

  Simon glanced up at the figure beside him with empty eyes. He wasn’t sure if he could. He just wanted Johnny there. Really, he wanted the pain to stop, but both these things were one and the same. 

  “Try t’slide up. Gonna pull yer legs onto the bed. On three?”

  Simon couldn't count. He couldn't do anything. Well, maybe he could try for Johnny. He seemed to be trying for Simon, for some reason. After everything–after probably scaring him to death–Johnny was still there, grabbing his ankles on his third count and trying to prompt Simon to scoot himself further up the mattress. The action pulled at the stitches in his thigh. The pain certainly woke him up.

  They were both breathing hard and releasing simultaneous sighs of relief when Simon’s legs were finally on the bed. He lay rather horizontally across the mattress, but he was on it, and he could stay there for now. 

  Simon had had enough. Either Johnny left him to the waves, or he joined him.

  “Okay. Okay, Si. M’here. Just lemme turn off the light.”

  It took Ghost a moment to realize that the whimpering was him. Pain raged up his side and sent his mind spiralling further, but nothing was as bad as not having Johnny next to him. He didn’t have much longer before the ocean won. 

  His world was plunged into darkness. It made him panic until the bed dipped and a familiar warmth slid under the sheets beside him. Johnny grunted as well. His shoulder hurt something awful. 

  That Scottish lilt he loved was hushing him. His world quieted. 

  “There. Ye don’ have t’stay awake now, Si. Ye’re okay. M’sorry that hurt.”

  Lips brushed his shoulder. Johnny’s words were whispers but rang in his ears. The words stayed with him, calming the waves. 

  “Stay with me,” Simon begged through lips that felt like they were caked in cement. 

  “Daonnan. Sleep, m’eudail. We’ll get ye some more painkillers in the mawra.”

  “Don’ need ‘em.”

  Johnny just snorted. “Okay. Well, I do.”

  “Don’ need ‘em when you’re here.” His words were barely more than an incoherent mumble.

  The clarification conjured a soft kiss on a clear, unblemished section of Simon’s neck before Johnny curled into his side further. He ensured that the blankets enveloped them fully. A moment later, Simon was snoring again. 

  John was going to kill them.

Chapter Text

November 29th, 2023

It’s been about a week since you died. I don't really know where else to start. I also don’t really know what I’m doing. You always journal, and it seems to be something that helps you. Helped. 

  My hands are always numb. And my face. My world doesn’t really seem real. Your death doesn’t, either. I feel like you’re still here with me, and I can’t wrap my brain around the fact that you aren’t. It scares me. Soon, it’s gonna hit me, and I don’t know if I’ll survive it. I can survive anything with you. What am I supposed to do now?

  I don’t think you’d like hearing me moan about this. Not that you’re reading this. Not that this matters. I hate this, and I don’t know why I’m doing it. It makes me feel like a part of you to write this, though. Makes me feel like I’m closer to you. I just wish I didn’t start making the effort until after you left. I’m betting that I’ll write for a week. Maybe less, before I stop and I’m never able to even look at these notebooks again. 

  It was John who suggested it, actually. Journaling. He mentioned something about what he was going to do with all your books, how he was gonna mail them to your sister. I took them. I took them all. I can’t read them. They’re all sitting in my barrack now, and I feel like an evil dragon hoarding all your shit. I feel selfish. Found a blank one and I’m using that. Smells like you. I want everything to smell like you.

  I’m realizing that if this is it, if you’re really gone, then my things are going to stop smelling like you. It makes me sick. 

December 7th 2023

  I didn’t think I’d come back to this so soon. Writing. I thought of something you said once. I think you were drinking. You wanted me to promise that I’d try to live if you died, and vice-versa. I don’t think I really understood what you were trying to ask of me, and even if I did, I still don’t think I could have made that promise. Still don’t think I can, either.

  It hit me yesterday. That’s what brought me back to the writing. For the past week, I’ve been feeling like I’m waiting for something. Like the constant nagging when I think I’ve left the oven on or something. Like my rational mind knows that you’re gone, but it’s so unbelievable that my body can’t accept it. It's the numbness. It’s everywhere now. Sometimes it spreads up my arms so I can’t feel anything below the elbow. It comes and goes. 

  John and I were just coming out of another briefing yesterday when I think my body caught up to you. The higher-ups are so desperate to know why one of their best soldiers is dead. They ask so many questions, and John can only protect Kyle and I from so many of them. I was working hard to make it not feel like an interrogation. I was doing a good job, I think. And then we got out into the hallway. I was walking and talking fine, and then everything just fell apart. I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t feel. My face was completely numb. I knew I was breathing, but I didn’t believe it, because I couldn’t feel the air in my throat, either. I could only think of you. I could only see you. 

  I haven’t experienced terror many times in my life. I’m not used to it. You always trained for everything like you were sure that one little mistake could lead to disaster, and I always thought it was ridiculous. I get it now. Exposure therapy only works if you expose yourself to what you’re most scared of. 

  It almost broke me. I swear. I thought I was drowning. Isn’t it odd, how we’ve all been trained to keep calm under the worst pressure, and I was scared of drowning? I was confused, trying to figure out why my body wasn’t working and why there was no air left. 

  John was there the whole time. He was so gentle in the way you always were, all soft hands and patience that I’ve never deserved. He sat next to me in that hallway for over 20 minutes until it stopped. Felt like days. 

  I’m sorry. I think it’ll happen again if I keep describing it. 

  I think my body is trying to miss you. I want to. I’m just too scared to do it. Every time I try to imagine your face, my hands go numb again. I keep trying to write, but the more I do, the harder it is to hold the pen. I’m frustrated. I think I need to sleep. Or do anything besides staying conscious. 

  G’night, love. Won’t be for me, but I hope it is for you.

January 5th, 2024

  I spent Christmas in Manchester in that stupid apartment you always told me to keep rented, even though I never live here. Guess it was a good thing I kept it. I don’t remember much of Christmas, actually. I think I was drunk for most of it. I hate the taste of alcohol. I don’t know how I even managed to do it. Been going through melatonin like water. I wonder if the pharmacy is worried that I’m using it to cook drugs or something. 

  At first, the minutes were going by like hours and the days were going by like years, but now everything is going so fast. I don’t know where the last month went. I can’t even remember when it happened. October? When did you die, Johnny? And when are you coming back?

  I’m tired now. Exhausted. I’m always tired. The sleeping pills keep my limbs from going numb, though. I feel better when I’m drugged to the gills and numbed from the inside instead of the outside. 

  I took all your journals back to this apartment with me, but I haven’t been able to actually read any of them. I probably never will. Would you forgive me if I did? You never let me read them when you were here. Makes me feel guilty, how I’ve scattered them everywhere and started using them as furniture. I’m using one as a god damn coaster right now. It’s getting a ring of tea stained onto it. I’m sorry. 

  I think John and Laswell are seeing my decline. Everyone kept it quiet, the way I haven’t been asked to return to base or to participate in any missions. It’s hard not to assume that I’m broken now, like you broke me. Laswell and Price visit because they know that I won’t buy myself food. It’s embarrassing. I’ve taken care of myself for almost forty years. Now I can barely bring myself to boil water or shower. The apartment reeks. Nothing will ever smell like you again. 

  That hurts so, so bad. My mouth is numb again. I have to take a break. 

  Do you think John and Kate know how bad the cravings have gotten? I want to hear how angry you’d be to know that I’m considering it. I want to hear your cursing and feel your rage when I tell you that I need that hit. John knows that I’m a junky through and through. Kate doesn’t understand it, but she will. It’s never something that goes away. You just find reasons to fight it. I don’t know if I have one anymore. 

February 4th, 2024

  I had another panic attack. I guess that’s what they are. When everything goes numb and I can’t hear and my skin rolls over itself and my throat burns like fire. It was bad this time. I spent almost a whole day pacing this stupid apartment, trying to make the itching and the burning and the numbness go away. If I sat still, I’d be consumed by it, and I wouldn’t be able to pull myself out. How is it possible to feel more alone than this? Surely, whatever is on the other side of that hole trying to pull me in is worse. I don’t want to find out. I just want to escape. I want a fix. Makes me feel like I’m in withdrawal again, like everything has sent me straight back to the beginning. 

  I called John. He was on base preparing to ship out for a week. Said he was glad that I’d caught him before he left, like the call didn’t scare him to death. I could hear it in his voice. I don’t think I’ve ever actually called him before. I think he thought I was dying. Maybe I was. Kind of felt like it. 

  No, death is sweeter than whatever is happening to me. Death is quiet. Death is comforting. 

  There wasn’t much he could do over the phone. He stayed, though. He sat there with me the whole time and just kept talking, first to try comfort and then I think he was just trying to distract me. I kept telling him how scared I was. I’ve never done that before either. I don’t think I’ve actually ever been scared like that in front of him.

  I feel like I’m going crazy. Panic attacks are supposed to be scary hyperventilation episodes. Now, I spend twenty minutes just trying to hold onto reality. I feel like I’m a pilot looking out from a ship through my eyes and I’m constantly slipping off of the controls. If I slip, I’m gone forever. I’ve spent a lot of time trying not to die. This is different. And exhausting. I’d rather just be waterboarded. I’d rather just be hung on a meat hook forever. 

  I think the leave I’m on is becoming permanent. How am I losing control of everything so fast? John has never given me another assignment, and I’ve never asked for another one. Can barely think of my job when I’m trying to stay alive in this fucking stupid apartment. Had to get rid of the mirror. I think it grounded me for a few days, but now when I look in it, I don’t recognize who I’m looking at. He’s blinking and moving, but I’m not. 

  I’m so tired, Johnny. The kind of tired that just eats away at me until I feel like there’s nothing left. And even then, I’m still tired. 

February 20th, 2024

  Everything is getting bigger and stronger and nastier. The fear, the hole you left in me, the rotting dishes in my sink, the beer cans stacked on the counter. I'm losing weight, somehow. Everything is loose on me now. Simon is dying. Or maybe it’s Ghost. I’m not sure, I just know that Simon isn’t here much anymore. 

  John texted me about therapy today. Didn’t send me anything, but he told me about some groups he found here in Manchester. I think he’s desperate. He knows not to suggest therapy to me. He wants Simon to live. Maybe I do, too. Still, I’m not going. Not gonna happen. You’d want me to go. Everyone wants me to go. Everyone wants the old Simon back, but I’m starting to realize that Simon died with you. The shell that our death left is crumbling, and whatever I’m feeling is just the final collapse. 

  I’ve turned into a right author, haven’t I? 

February 29th, 2024

  Didn’t think I’d be back to writing today, but I’m so, so scared of losing myself. I can feel myself crack a little bit more everyday. Can't it just end already? Why do I have to be the one to put myself out of my misery? 

  Nothing has been able to help. Nothing has been able to fill the hole that I keep falling into and trying to pull myself out of. I can’t taste the cigarettes anymore, the beer makes me so sick, the tea is gross, all my strength is gone so exercise is as exhausting as the panic attacks, and I can’t even masturbate. I literally have not been able to orgasm since you died. All my vices are dead. Every day, I think it can’t get any worse, that this is the day it ends. And then I wake up, and I try to smoke or drink or go for a walk and it all makes me so sick that I end up back in bed twenty minutes later. 

  There’s only one thing that I think about now, other than you. I want a fix so bad. When I reach for a cigarette, I think of my fingers wrapping around a syringe. I think of the way I could lean back and just float whenever I land on the sofa. It’s taking over everything I am and everything I want to remember about you. Now, I’m back in the mindset I was just after I went cold-turkey. Did all those years of resistance really not matter? As soon as I’m faced with weakness, I’m just back to being a junky? 

March 3rd, 2024

  Two days ago, I told John how bad I needed a hit. It just kind of ended up leaving me when he was talking me through another attack over the phone. I think my honesty shocked him. He was quiet for a bit. 

  Then, yesterday, John was knocking on my door. He literally came to Manchester. Realizing that he’d come to see me started up another panic attack. It was different this time, having him physically here with me. Or maybe it was because I could look at something new in the apartment. He just sat there on the couch and waited for me. I think he put on some music, too. I wanted to ask him what mission I pulled him away from so I could justify the way he cleaned up the apartment like a fucking mother. Nothing can justify it. He treated me like a child for an afternoon, and I hate myself for how much relief I felt, not having to try to function. John can’t cook, but he bought garlic knots on the way over. You loved those fucking things. I almost cried when I ate them. 

  But now he’s talking about a meeting. One of those meetings. I never talked about them with you because I didn’t think I’d ever have to be that weak again, but here I am, forced to consider it. John doesn’t seem to be letting up. He says he’s not leaving until he takes me to one. So I guess that’s the plan. He’ll drive me to one tomorrow night. He’s cooking something while I write this, and it smells so good. Didn’t think my nose still worked. John opened all the windows and I only realized how bad the apartment smelled when I breathed fresh air again. I pity him, the way he feels like he has to help me. I feel like a burden. I feel worse. And somehow, I’ve only had two attacks since he arrived. 

March 4th, 2024

  I’m writing this fast. John is in the kitchen. I went straight to the bedroom to lay down when we got back. The drive to the meeting and back was silent. As always, I was freaking out beforehand. I’m like a tweaker already, the way I’m constantly anxious. The meeting was quiet, though. All I had to do was sit there at the back and listen to those fucking sob stories. Made me want it more, actually. John sat outside in my truck the whole time. Hard not to feel like he was making sure I stayed in the meeting. 

  I’m realizing that I could have done it this whole time. All I’ve wanted was a fix, and there’s literally nothing to stop me. Nothing but you. I keep imagining your face if you knew I’d relapsed. If you knew how weak I could be. You’d be so angry and scared and defeated. I think John would be the same. The doom of the disappointment is worse than the actual relapse. Doesn’t make me want it less, but it gives me strength to resist. I’m glad I never disappointed you like that when you were here. 

  If I do it, there’s no going back. Maybe I’m not living now, but if I shoot myself up one more time, it will be what finally kills me. Could you imagine? All those gunshot wounds and explosions and then I overdose. I have to make the decision. What am I living for now? Is the resistance worth it? Do I want to die? John doesn’t. I don’t think you do. But it’s my decision, and I don’t know how much longer I can do this. 

  This day went by so fast. I feel another attack coming, and I can’t really hold the pencil anymore, but I needed to write this down. I love you, Johnny. I love you more than the drugs and more than myself. 

March 7th, 2024

  I’m trying to figure out if this journaling is helping me. I’m actually pretty sure that I’m beyond help, but it’s just become part of my routine every day. It’s the one thing I have to do before I spend hours trying to sleep. I still haven’t been able to read any of yours. Processing all the shit I go through during the day makes it harder to get rest, but it helps me live with it at all. 

  The nightmares are so bad. John left today, pulled back onto a mission with Kyle and Kate, but he was sleeping on that nasty couch while he was here. He’d come in when I started screaming. First time it happened, he thought I was in trouble, but I think he got desensitized after the third or fourth time. He’d just sit there on the end of the bed while I slowly came back to reality and the panic went down to a tolerable level. I wonder if I disgust him. I was his best soldier, once. How disappointed he must be to see me like this. 

  He took me to another meeting last night. Offered to come in with me. I can’t tell if it’s because he thinks I need support or if he doesn’t trust that I’m actually attending them. The cravings are so bad that I almost said yes. He’s walking on eggshells, like he’s scared to tell me that I’m not going back to the team. Not when I’m like this. I already know. 

  I don’t want to write about the addiction meetings. The people there are always so defeated. I feel the same. I remember how it felt when I was so deep in it, when the heroin was my entire existence. It was the only reason I opened my eyes or spoke to anyone else. The meetings bring it all back, and it just makes it worse to be in a room of people who all crave a hit more than life. I’m going for John. And for you. If you were here, I wouldn’t need to go at all, but you’d make me, and I’d do it without question. I’m starting to realize that the only reason I haven’t bought any is because I can’t seem to leave the flat. Every time I do, everything goes numb again and I can’t walk. It’s been so long since I could function. Is this forever? Is this just me now? John says it’ll get better. He says that a lot. I don’t believe him. 

  You used to sing to me. I miss it so much, almost as much as you. I miss your voice. I miss your skin and the way it felt. I miss everything about you, even the terrible gas you had when Alejandro made that Mexican food and how fucking stubborn you were. I miss you humming me to sleep and making me tea before bed. I’m realizing that I was a good soldier because you were there. I had a reason to get home to you. If I can’t be yours and I can’t be a soldier anymore, what am I? I don’t feel like Simon. 

  I’m trying to remember your Gaelic, too. I’d give everything I ever was to hear it again. Literally, I would sell my soul. I’d kill to hear it. I wish I had some kind of recording of it. 

  Because I’m in the apartment so often, all I do is think about you. I’ve started writing you down, too. Your stories, I mean. I kept thinking and writing about that time you harassed Price to tears before he let you hang a Scottish flag in the mess hall. 

  I’m going to make us a promise that you’ll hate me for. If I’m not better within a week, if the exhaustion is still keeping me inside this damn bedroom, I’m going to do it. I’m gonna shoot all the dope I can buy into my favorite vein, and at the end, maybe I'll be able to see you again. You’ll be so angry, but what other options do I have? I don’t have the strength to funnel my grief into my work. There's no energy left to turn my pain into motivation. It just keeps eating at me like a parasite that I can never cure myself of. All I do is lay in bed, paralyzed. Sometimes I can’t even breathe, like an entire planet of pressure is on my chest and the only man who could relieve it is gone. 

  If I’m going to get my shit together, I have 7 days to do it. I have a feeling I’ll see you soon. 

March 13th, 2024

  Your sister called me today. From Scotland. 

  I almost threw up when I answered and heard that accent again. I haven’t heard it since the day I lost you. Part of me never wanted to hear it again, thinking that I wouldn’t survive it, but when I did, it was like you were there to take the weight off me. John told me that I might be receiving a call from a friend. I assumed it would be Kate. She’s always changing her number. 

  I’m surprised I talked to Lorna for so long. She misses you. Your whole family misses you more than you’ll ever know. She made it sound like she missed you as much as I do. Your niece and nephew miss their cool uncle. She talked about you like you’re still alive, like she’s determined to keep you that way by talking to me, somehow. She talked about your mom as well. She’s devastated. I hate knowing that someone else is so broken by your death, but that was you, wasn’t it? You became the centre of everyone’s universe. You were everything. Lorna said that in more words. She seems more put-together than I am. She remembers you the way I’m trying to, by sharing stories of what you did and who you were instead of thinking about your end. Kept talking about how she used to terrorize you as your older sister before you learned to coexist in your teens. Sounds like you gave your mother a lot of gray hairs. I’m not surprised. 

  I was still getting over the surprise of receiving the call in the first place when she invited me to Scotland. I didn’t think I’d heard her right. She wants me to stay with her and the kids and your mom for a few nights. I don’t think she knows that I’m a junky. If she did, she probably wouldn’t have invited me. 

  I said yes. Didn’t even think of the promise I’d made us until after I hung up. I guess I’m going to Scotland. 

March 16th, 2024

  I got to meet Lorna today. She looks like you. I recognized who she was as soon as I saw her at the train station. Ended up missing the first departure because everything ended up going numb again when I went downtown, but she didn’t seem to care that she had to pick me up a couple hours later. Took me a while to even get out of the house. I’m just happy I’m here, even if this new place isn’t familiar. 

  I’m writing this entry from your old room, Johnny. Your mom turned it into a guest room, I guess. There’s not a lot left of you here, just some old blankets and a few pictures from childhood camping trips. I took one of them off the wall and it’s sitting beside the bed now. You were a funky looking kid.

  Finley and Skye are sleeping up the hall in Lorna’s bed. Your mom snores. Loudly. Is that new? I think she has trouble breathing because she was crying for a while before she settled. Everyone in this house is grieving you, but your mom is still the sweetest woman I’ve ever met. When she met me, she talked to me like I’m her son, like she’s known me forever. Did you tell her about me? Did John? Your mom can drink me under the table and snore loud enough to make me worry about earthquakes. 

  Everyone in the house looks like you, especially your niece and nephew. Finley carries your love of football everywhere he goes. He can rattle off the current game stats like a damn computer. And Skye is smart, like you. I’m sorry I never told you how impressive your brain is. She can build a nitrogen bomb. I’m serious, and she kind of scares me. Is she like you were when you were nine? She has all these note books like you do, but they’re filled with all the things she’s learned. She sucks up her world like a sponge. 

  I've only known them for about ten hours, and I’m already so proud of the kids you helped raise. Your sister is, too. We all miss you. We all miss you more than anything, and we’re doing it together. 

March 17th, 2024

  I played footy with Finley today. He’s so shy. I think I intimidate him a bit, too, but Lorna kept encouraging him to show me no mercy. I’m not very good at it. I’m really out of shape. It turns out that wasting away in an apartment doing nothing for 5 months ate away at the soldier in me, too, not just the man. I had another attack afterwards. Honestly, I’m impressed with myself, because it was the first one I’ve had in almost 24 hours. Lorna found me in your old room and I think it scared her at first. She seemed to recognize it after a bit. She sat with me. Said she used to get them when she was a teen. No nightmares last night, at least. Just an hour or two of uninterrupted sleep. It was incredible. 

  Despite everything, I think they’re happy I’m here. Your other sister, Mara? She flew over from Canada and landed this morning. She can’t stay long, but she’s staying the night, at least. I offered to give her my guest room. She was determined to take the couch. Mara is so much different than Lorna. She’s exactly like you, a damn trouble maker with an edge. Bet you two wreaked havoc on the Mactavish household back in the day. Says she’s been working in law in Canada for a few years now, and she loves it. Even with all the distance between everyone, I think she knows the most about you. Mara talked a lot about how you liked working with the 141, how you felt like your work made a difference. I think she was the person you talked to when things got hard, or when you couldn’t talk to me. She was so interested in who I was, and I barely had answers for her because I realized that I’d become no one since you died. I used to like things. I loved heavy metal and tattoos and animals. I used to play guitar. I think it’s still in the flat in Manchester, somewhere, rotting. I haven’t touched it in years, but I bet I can still remember some sick riffs. Remember when I started feeding that cat on base? I told Mara about that. She loved it. 

March 18th, 2024

  Your mom gave me a box of things today. They’re all yours. I realized that this gift might not be from a mother to her son’s friend. 

  Did John tell them that you and I were… more? Did you? I think you did. I think you told them how in love we were. And I’m okay with that. Didn’t think I would be, and I think you knew that. That’s why you didn’t tell me. 

  The box she gave me is full of your old football gear and trophies. You never told me you had a soccer ball signed by Andy Robertson. There’s a couple textbooks—high level university ones on chemistry and mathematics. You’ve made notes in them on every blank space you can find, but I can barely read your terrible writing. You probably can’t read mine, either. The words here are too big for me to pronounce, anyway. Maybe I’ll have to get Skye to translate for me. 

  There are old t-shirts in here, too. Why were you so embarrassed to admit that you went to Celtic Woman’s 2022 tour? You’re such a sap for old white woman music. When she gave me the box, your mom talked about how much she appreciated that I was here. It made her feel closer to her son. She wants me to stay for a while. I think she was serious, too. Makes her feel less alone, I think, like part of you is still here when I am. The feeling is mutual, I’m just not very good at saying that. 

  They don’t seem to mind that I’m not very good at talking about you. Or anything else. Maybe I’ll let your sisters read some of these notes. Not all of them, just the ones I wrote to remember who you were. They don’t need to read my sob stories. Those are just for us.

March 19th, 2024

  Lorna and I are at the cliffs now, where they spread their portion of your ashes. She’s reading. I’m writing. The grass is fresh and sweet and the air stings my face. I can actually feel it. Nothing is numb. It’s salty. My hands are cold. I can feel when they’re cold now. It was a long drive packed together in her little car, but I’m so glad she took me. She made most of the conversation on the way over here. Lorna is so funny. Her sense of humour is sarcastic and dry, kind of like how mine used to be. But she also spent time talking about how she liked having me here in Scotland with the rest of the family—and she said it like that. Like I’m part of it. She wants me to stay for a while longer. She thinks that I have a life to get back to, a job, but I told her that I didn’t. I bared my fucking soul to her. I felt stupid and ridiculous, but I felt like I was talking to you again, and I couldn’t resist. 

  I told her that I’d like to stay. For a little while, at least. I can feel that hole you left in me less every day I wake up in your old room. It’s not gone, but the things I get to feel here are taking up the space around it. I’ve also noticed that the cravings are easing. I don’t have time to think about a fix anymore, and where the hell am I supposed to find dope in Scotland? The only drugs you guys have are scotch and Scottish pheromones. 

  I want to stay. I’m going to. For a while, at least. I don’t know when I’ll be able to go back to work, but I don’t think I’ve overstayed my welcome yet. 

  Kyle reached out to me this morning. He and Price are in Russia right now. He sent me a pic of the sunset over the village they’re in, said it makes him think of you. Your death was hard on them. They’ve been taking care of each other, I think, like John took care of me. 

  Your family is doing well. Mara flew back to Canada this morning. It was a short trip. We all miss you, and we will until we get to see you again. Say hi to Joseph for me, if you see him up there. He needs an uncle like you. I’ll see you soon, but hopefully not too soon. Skye challenged me to a chess game tonight after dinner, and I have to make that. 

  Love you,

  Si

Chapter Text

  “I know the lights are painful. Just a moment, Simon.” The base’s resident doctor–Simon couldn't remember his name–kept his voice low. Surely, the sterile hospital smell and hum of those stark lights weren’t going to help his migraine. 

  Under him, Simon’s bed sheets scraped into his skin and lit it up with fire. He’d sweated through his fatigues and had to put on new pants and a tank-top to survive this time. It was all he could do to hum and swallow back the bile in his throat. Like a dog recalled, the physician’s voice conjured all the vomit in his throat to the surface. Simon gritted his teeth as his throat burned, eyes shut tight against the light, until the doctor shut them off. 

  This was almost worse than sitting in the little waiting room for the past hour. He was lucky that he was seen so soon, but that was only because he’d vomited four times within twenty minutes and couldn't answer when a nurse tried to ask him what she could do to help. This place wasn’t familiar to him; before this, he’d barely ever needed to see the inside of a hospital. Okay, maybe he needed to, but he could at least bring himself to refuse. The migraines sucked everything out of him these days. 

  The captain had been the one to notice his sluggishness and obvious discomfort. His soldiers were always in top shape, and it was unnatural to see Simon leaning against the wall during one of his visits with a hand against his temple. Of course he noticed how frequent the migraines were. When he dropped him off, Price insisted that he take as much time as he needed. He also reminded him that he might not be able to pick him up, as John had to catch a seven o’clock flight out of Manchester. 

   A civilian hospital wasn’t like a military hospital, and his team members weren’t waiting for him to be cleared for work. No one was waiting for him. Being discharged for a head injury from the only job he’d ever known might be worse than death, he was beginning to realise. 

  The migraines were getting longer and more frequent. Normally, a handful of aspirin allowed him to sleep it off, but this one was unbreaking. 

  The lights flicked off. He cracked open his eyes and released a sigh of relief. Then, the small stool beside the bed creaked when the doctor took a seat, and his eyes slammed shut again. 

  “Simon, how long have you had this migraine? Are these normal for you?” His voice was kept as low as possible. 

  “Not… like this,” he managed. His voice was only a breath of air. The doctor had to lean in to hear him. 

  “I don’t see that you're taking any prescription medication for them. I think it would be best to give you some pain meds for now, and we can talk about why this is happening afterwards. Does that sound okay?”

  He pushed the palm of his hand into his eye, just over where his cranium pulsed. A portion of his vision was static, his hearing was mostly gone, and every breath felt like glass flowing through his lungs. It made it hard to breathe, to function, but even through it all, he was conscious enough to refuse harder meds.

  “N-No. No opioids.” He hated the way his voice came out as a sob. Against his palm, he could feel the wetness. God, he would sell his soul to rid himself of the pain, but he would never willingly expose himself to addiction. Never again.

  “Okay. I’m going to give you Triptan. It’s not immediate, though. It will take an hour or so to start working. I’ll keep the lights low. There are buckets to your left to throw up.”

  Simon couldn’t speak. He just nodded slowly.

  Even through the pain, he could still feel his loneliness aching in all the places his migraine couldn’t reach. He was lucky to have walked away from that head injury with his life and the relative ability to function; a lot of soldiers he’d seen weren’t so lucky. But, really, was it functioning when these migraines and memory problems were all he had left of his career—and his life 

  “Pain out of ten, one being close to none and ten being debilitating?”

  “Three.”

  “You’re ex-military, right?”

  Simon cringed. That was what he was now. Ex-Simon. He nodded. This time, it wasn’t so agonizing to move his neck.

  “And you’re sure that three is truthful?”

  He closed his eyes and nodded again. He’d felt a four and five and even a fifteen, and the hours after the worst of a migraine always sat at a comfortable, familiar seven. If he admitted to anything higher, the doctor would offer more medication, and he would be forced to say no despite his cravings.

  “Okay.” The physician, Dr. Akashi, pushed his glasses onto the top of his balding head and produced a small flashlight. Simon held himself still while he examined his patient.

  “We’ve gotten more of your chart from the DMS. You were released from the military for a head injury, correct? Have they linked your migraines to that? Done any testing like a CT? Ruled out everything else?”

  “Full neural exam and everything. Said my memory is shot, too, but I don’t notice it much,” he admitted, feeling dirty.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Uh… I mostly remember stuff, just… in the wrong order. Song lyrics, old conversations, books.”

  “Do you have family and connections in the UK?”

  He thought about his family in the 141. The way Johnny looked at him when the team was informed of his permanent departure. It turned him silent. For some reason, John occasionally visited him, like he felt some kind of pathetic responsibility for what happened. 

  “How would you feel if I set you up with some resources? To chat with a therapist?”

  Immediately, Simon was straightening and rolling his eyes. “Oh, Jesus.”

  Dr. Akashi put his hands up and shook his head. “No one is here against their will, Simon. You’re free to leave whenever you’d like and never come back, but I think it would help you to speak to someone. It’s not to grill you on your time in the military, it’s to help you figure out how you can move forward with this injury. In the meantime, I’m going to send you home with the Triptan to help with the attacks and order some more scans. Maybe we can figure out exactly what’s causing the migraines.”

  He gritted his teeth. God, was he considering it? This weakness? Was he that desperate? What was the point in being desperate if he knew he’d never go back to his old life? Couldn’t he just wait in his apartment for something to happen—his heart to stop, or for his food to run out and cause him to starve? Dr. Akashi didn’t seem interested in this. Neither did Price. 

  As soon as Simon entered his apartment, he dropped his truck keys on the kitchen counter with his jacket. The nurse, a kind young woman in sweatpants and a badge hanging off her hoodie, had given him a myriad of resources after he’d spoken to Dr. Akashi.

  The nurse had grilled him in the most polite way. They’d gotten enough out of him to warrant a return trip to their psychology department with an experienced therapist that specialized in combat PTSD. He’d meet with a neurologist next week to get a second opinion on his migraines and memory issues. But tonight, he’d have a cup of tea and sit on his single little sofa and listen to the freeway behind his home. He’d also pretend that he planned to return to the hospital and not cancel last-minute when his anxiety inevitably reached its breaking point. What a pussy his forced retirement had turned him into. His team would be ashamed. 

  The comfort that the tea offered nagged at the homesickness he had for his team. When he joined the military, he never thought that his home would turn into a group of people, and he certainly never thought that he’d have to say goodbye to them like this. Surely, he was supposed to die in combat a long time ago.

  His migraine had finally receded to the constant, gentle ache that he’d come to live with, like a strain behind his eyes from staring at light for too long. In the darkness, he closed his eyes, and relished in the warmth between his palms.

  On the kitchen counter, his phone pinged. It would be Price. It wouldn’t be Soap, but there were only two people on the planet that had his phone number. He wasn’t motivated to get up to read it. He wasn’t motivated enough to sip his tea, either. He’d sleep there, on the couch, and pretend that the freeway was an airstrip. 

  It took about thirty minutes for his phone to ping again, at which he stood from the sofa and turned off the ringer without reading the screen. He’d been trying to sleep, which he couldn’t seem to do well lately. Fighting for survival in a warzone had turned into a fight for rest, to keep his brain working. His anger motivated him; they texted him like he was a friend, like he was still part of their family. Simon eventually came to realize that his entire life was in the military, and when he left it, his life would end as well. He wasn’t even lucky enough for his job to kill him before he’d have to do it himself. 

  He may very well be drinking his last cup of tea. What the fuck was he supposed to do in Manchester? He didn’t have family left. He didn’t have a job. And if he did, it wasn’t like he could fold himself back into reality. He left his cell phone, silent, on the end of the kitchenette’s counter. He could hear its muffled vibrating at another text as he laid back down on the weathered couch.

Chapter Text

  Simon never really got angry, but it was difficult not to when someone was knocking on his door, especially after tossing and turning for so long. He’d danced in and out of sleep overnight and had only really gotten comfortable a couple hours ago. He was thinking of all the swearing he would do when he opened that front door. It was such a good opportunity to release his frustration and sleep deprivation. Surely, a neighbour or handyman for the building was about to have a ruined day. 

  Simon grabbed the pistol off the kitchen counter as he passed and held it to his side, just out of view when he stood against the door. 

  The door opened. He froze. Hesitant blue eyes stared back at him. Somehow, he’d forgotten what he was so mad about. 

 “Hey, Simon.” The greeting was wary, like Johnny didn’t know if speaking would make Simon shatter. He hadn’t seen him in a month, but Simon hadn’t been eating. He looked weak. Smaller. He didn’t smell great, either. Johnny stood there with a duffle bag over his shoulder. He’d prepared himself for Simon to look like shit… he just didn’t expect the guilt of not visiting him to come crashing down as soon as they locked eyes. 

  Simon still wanted to do some swearing. What did he expect, though? Guilt hit him hard when he realized that what he and Johnny had—those lingering touches and quiet, private sessions in Simon’s barracks before Johnny snuck back to his own bed before their wake-up call—wasn’t something that continued when he was no longer useful to the military. It wasn’t something he’d earned. Whatever Soap was expecting from him, he wouldn’t get it, and it just made him angrier to know that Simon would let Johnny down again. 

  “Why are you here?” Simon genuinely didn’t mean for his words to convey so much venom. Johnny tried to conceal his hurt by lowering his head. 

  “Ye weren’t answerin’ my texts. Or calls. ‘Was in the area. Figured I’d drop in. See ye.”

  “You were in Manchester?”

  Johnny shrugged. He was resisting the urge to look over Simon’s shoulder. The apartment didn’t smell good; he was scared to see what it looked like. If it was anything like Simon’s appearance, it wouldn’t be pleasant. 

  “How’s the head?” Johnny couldn’t stop thinking back to that moment—he’d been there when Simon was shot down. Maybe his body had since healed, but the brain wasn’t something that bounced back as easily. He could remember the crack of his skull and the way Simon’s eyes had rolled into the back of their sockets. Seeing the man again—the man he loved—brought every memory to the surface. Maybe he’d been avoiding him. Maybe he was scared of what Simon had become. John said he’d changed. His memory was different. His personality was, too, and it was hard to tell how much of that was anger over being discharged or the injury itself. Johnny had been hiding in his job while Simon rotted. Finally, he’d made the decision to face the music. He wondered if he’d made another mistake. 

  Simon shook his head at his question. He hated what he was because he couldn’t recognize himself anymore. 

  “Head’s fine.”

  “Oh. Okay… well, can I come in? ‘Been travellin’ all day.”

  “You said you were in town.” Simon’s tone had Johnny feeling worse. He was living his worst fear, showing up at Simon’s door and being hated. He’d made a mistake by allowing his fear to keep him away from Simon, but part of him hoped that Simon would forgive him. He’d forgiven him before. Was this the betrayal that ended them?

  No, Johnny wouldn’t let that happen. He’d come too far. He was determined to make this right.

  The silence hung between them for a moment. Johnny fixed him with those blue eyes that could always convince Simon of anything. One puppy stare and Simon would be burying bodies for him. 

  It still worked. 

  The Brit huffed while he stepped back and opened the door wide enough to let Johnny and his duffle inside. 

  Yes, the apartment was certainly in rough shape. Dishes rotted in the sink. There was a collection of beer cans and bottles littered around the apartment, accented by rings of cigarette butts that had been discarded because the ashtray on the coffee table was full. There were cigarette burns in the couch, too. They reminded Johnny of the cigarette burn scars that peppered Simon’s arms from his childhood. One of the windows was open; it helped with the smell. Still, they’d have to get rid of those dishes. 

  “Don’t say anythin’. I know the place’s shit. Wasn’t expectin’ company.”

  It was rare for Simon to be in such a terrible mood. It was like wanted Johnny to mention the squalor he lived in so he could start that fight. Was this how he lived now? Was this how he’d changed? Johnny had heard of people with TBIs becoming different people entirely, but he didn’t think it was that bad. It was bad enough to have Simon discharged, though, wasn’t it? 

  “S’fine…” As Johnny stepped further into the main room of the apartment, Simon passed him. He hadn’t noticed the gun in his hand until he slid it haphazardly onto the little round dining table in the centre of the room. After all his time around firearms, Johnny never really feared them until now. Did the captain know that Simon still had his guns? Johnny understood the urge to feel protected after so long in survival mode, but there was a fine line between self-preservation and trying to hang onto control like a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf. 

  “Ye eaten yet?” It was eleven in the morning. Johnny couldn’t imagine why Simon would want to stay in the apartment. He absently opened the fridge. It was empty, save for the leftover bread in the corner. He didn’t even have any butter to add to it. 

  Simon shrugged, arms folded over his chest and leaning against the counter across the kitchen. “Dunno. Yeah. Probably.”

  “Like, today?”

  He shrugged again. He wouldn’t look Johnny in the eye. 

  “Okay. Well, ye feel like Chinese? Heard Manchester has some good spots for a curry dish. Whatever ye call it.”

  Simon felt like he hated everything. He hated his new life (could this be considered a life?), he hated his new home, he hated the thought of eating, and he hated the prospect of staying alive for another day. But he just couldn’t bring himself to hate Johnny. 

  Maybe he hadn’t been there when he wanted him most—Simon didn’t need things anymore—but Johnny had always been his light in the darkness, and that could never be tortured out of him. He couldn’t stand there and be angry at Johnny. 

  “Please?” Johnny asked. Those eyes again. He was begging Simon to give him another chance after the last couple weeks of radio silence. He didn’t deserve a second glance from Simon. They felt weak against the other’s assault. 

  The man deflated. A mumbled ‘okay,” followed as he moved to grab his jacket off the back of the sofa. Johnny wasn’t someone he could say no to. He was stupid to think that he could. Johnny left his duffel bag on the counter beside Simon’s pistol.  

  Johnny didn’t know the city of Manchester well. As they walked together, shoulders almost touching, he wondered if Simon knew it any better. He’d grown up there and lived there when he was forced off of duty, but Manchester was never really Simon’s home. 

  He wished he knew it well enough to direct Simon down quieter back alleys. Loud noise, like the construction they passed briefly, seemed to agitate him. His shoulders hunched and he covered one ear against the noise, trying not to seem like he was ignoring Johnny’s rambling. He anxiously felt that he needed to fill the space with words before he had a chance to apologize. Johnny was starting to realize that Simon couldn’t handle senseless noise. Not like he used to. 

  “S’up here.” Simon motioned to an inconspicuous alley to their right. At the end, a little window and doorway presented a neon ‘open’ sign. Johnny held the door for him. As Simon entered, he seemed to be wiping the stress from the street off of his brow. The noise gave him a headache. Maybe he’d have a few hours before it worsened. Maybe not. Maybe he could get Johnny to leave him alone before then. It wasn’t like he wanted him to leave, he just knew it had to happen. 

  Simon didn’t belong in Johnny’s world anymore. The fact that he hadn’t seen him in almost a month attested to that. 

  “What d’ye usually get? Right—called a spice bag. They good? We can share one.” The Scot was pointing to the menu after he’d waved a greeting at the small woman behind the counter. The middle of a random weekday afternoon wasn’t a busy time for them. 

  The man that towered beside him just shrugged. He spent more time glancing around the shop and out the windows to the alley than he did looking at the menu. Johnny got the sense that he didn't care, not that he was ignoring the menu because he’d memorized it. The guy had to be hungry. 

  Well, he seemed to be living on cigarettes—they made him smell like shit—but they could only replace food for so long. 

  Johnny ordered them a meal that the woman promised was big enough to feed four. The old Simon could eat enough for ten and still have room for dessert, but Johnny didn’t suspect that he’d eat much. He led Simon to the corner where he sacrificed the seat facing the door for the man most obviously on-edge. When was the last time Simon had left his flat? 

  Hell, he might as well ask. It didn’t seem like anyone else was going to make conversation. Or eye contact, as much as Johnny tried. Simon never looked at people before, but there were always moments when he would look at Johnny so lovingly, like he was the only thing Simon ever needed to see. Were those days gone?

  “So… ye been out much? When’d they release ye?”

  Simon shrugged. “While ago… week or two after it happened, I guess.”

  Johnny hadn’t left Simon’s side in that cramped medical bay room for that first week, but his job pulled him away. That was what he told himself. “And ye been in Manchester since?”

  Simon nodded. More than 3 weeks, he’d been in Manchester, rotting away. It felt like a lifetime. Time wasn’t something he kept track of anymore, anyway. When he couldn’t remember what he’d done and when, time didn’t move the same. 

  “John been t’visit ye?”

  “Took the flight over with me. I wasn’t really with it. Bought me smokes and told me to go to my doctor appointments. Guess he’s visited once or twice since.”

  He was sure that John had done much more than that. He said that he’d been trying to orchestrate those doctor appointments, but Simon really had only attended one. He’d bought him groceries that obviously hadn’t been maintained, and he promised to keep in touch and visit whenever possible. John had sent him messages and calls. Most had never been acknowledged or returned. Johnny at least had something to report back to John: Simon was alive, at least, for the most part. 

  “Have ye been going, at least? How’s the head?”

  At one time, Simon would have said something like, ‘No complaints yet’, but times were different now. He leaned back in his chair with another shrug. “S’shit. Wouldn’t be as bad if the headaches stopped.”

   “Headaches? How bad’re they?” As much as they’d spoken, John seemed hesitant to tell Johnny how bad Simon’s head injury had really been. He wasn’t a vegetable, but beyond that, no one really knew what would become of it. Sometimes they got better. It was possible that Simon would devolve, too. The man was obviously withdrawn, but it was hard to tell what was brain injury and what was depression. 

  “Was in the hospital last night.”

  “Ye—took yourself? It was that bad?” Johnny had seen Simon walk off broken ribs. He’d never enter a hospital by his own will. Still, Simon was nodding. It struck Johnny then how badly Simon was struggling and how badly he wanted to get better. 

  How could he have let his fear and job keep him away for so long? Johnny felt pathetic. He deserved all the coldness Simon could offer. 

  “How often do ye get ‘em?”

  “Every other day. Every day when it’s bad.”

  “D’ye have meds for ‘em? What painkillers can they give ye?”

  Simon just shook his head and shrugged. Johnny could sense the end of the subject. “Doesn’t matter. Dunno if they even work yet.”

  The little women who’d taken their order came around the counter with a tray of food that looked and smelled delicious. She wasn’t smiling when she placed it between them and they thanked her, but Johnny could tell that the food was homemade with love that only small, family-owned restaurants could offer. They had never actually been on a lunch date before—Johnny reminded himself that this certainly wasn’t a date—and he regretted that. 

  “Shite. Smells good.”

  Johnny picked up his chopsticks first. Simon followed hesitantly. 

  “…So, where’s John had you working?” It was the only question that came to mind when Si felt the weight of his conversational incompetence. Johnny had come all this way for him. He hated himself for hating him. 

  “Actually been working with Kortac lately. It was a long fuckin’ deployment. Cap’s been in the Middle East. Dunno where Gaz is. He took a week with some friends in the US, I think.”

  Simon rubbed his forehead with a knuckle. It took everything in him not to jab his chopsticks into his eyes to ease the ache. His first bite went down like gasoline. 

  “Honestly, I don’t really wanna talk ‘bout work,” Johnny admitted, “Just say somethin’ else.” He was loving the spring rolls. Simon didn’t seem to, though. His brows were pulled together like they always did when he was stressed or in pain. His shoulders were hunched and his knuckles were white on the utensils. The man was never very talkative, but it seemed that the conversation worsened his mood. It was an unfamiliar feeling to Johnny; Simon never shied away from Johnny. Their conversations always seemed to ease his stress.

  The man he sat across from wasn’t the same one he’d known before he hit his head. The understanding that was setting in pained Johnny. 

  “Um… John’s been in Manchester a few times. I think. I can’t really tell; everything blends together.”

  “Memory gettin’ worse? Still?”

  “No. Well—I dunno. I don’t notice it when I don’t have other people to call it out. It’s just… the migraines.”

  Johnny set his chopsticks on the table beside his plate. “Ye got one now?”

  “The start of one.” Simon didn’t meet his gaze.

  “Did ye wanna leave?”

  The question was so tempting. All he wanted to do was climb back into his hole and hide. He also wanted the old Johnny back, the one he loved before he was left alone in the damn hospital. Johnny had left him. A part of him was sure that Johnny had once promised never to do so, but who was he to trust his memory now?

  “I got time. Takes hours to get bad.”

  “‘Kay, but I don’t want ye gettin’ sick here. We can leave. Would be more comfortable on the couch.”

  There was that old Johnny, the one that would sacrifice the world to please Simon. 

  Simon closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face, nodding. “Take it t’go?”

  “‘Course. Gimme a sec, I’ll get us boxes.”

  They walked slowly back to Simon’s flat, a bag of takeout boxes hooked under Johnny’s fingers that swayed beside him. Simon never used to walk so slow. He used to walk like he was on a mission, with a confident sway to his shoulders and his head high. He had pride when he was working. 

  Johnny studied him. Not conspicuously, but out of the corner of his eye. They passed a corner of construction that had Simon wincing and turning away from the noise. Cars honking elicited the same reaction. He was brushing up against Johnny repeatedly, and the Scot was quick to realize that Simon was using him as a guide as he tried to walk with his eyes closed against the light. Johnny wished he could turn off the sun. He would, for Simon.

  Eventually, Johnny was the one walking them to Simon’s flat. Simon was simply following Johnny blindly, nearly stumbling twice. He rubbed at his temples a few times. Johnny kept glancing at him with silent worry. 

  “Ye okay?” he asked once.

  “Mhm,” was Simon’s whispered reply, almost too low for Johnny to hear over the city noise. 

  Simon suddenly stopped on the corner before his apartment building. Johnny only noticed when he was a step ahead, and he immediately turned to him. He was about to ask if he was okay again, knowing the answer, but Simon squeezed his eyes shut, removed his mask with one hand, and supported himself on the grimy brick wall with the other as he leaned over to vomit across the sidewalk.

  It wasn’t like he had much to throw up, but once the dry heaving started, it seemed to begin a horrible cycle that Simon couldn’t stop. Each gag instigated the next. 

  Johnny put a hand on Simon’s trembling shoulder and rubbed. They were half-hidden by an alley, thankfully. “S’okay, Si—“

  “Don’t—“ Simon’s words were cut short by another gagging noise and jolting shoulders. He hid his face in his elbow. Johnny’s hand froze against his jacket. Simon was quick to clarify, “Don’ talk. S’the noi—.” He was cut off by another gag. He spat saliva onto the soiled sidewalk under him. A passing couple glanced at them and quickly continued on. “—noise.” 

  Johnny’s lips moved into an apology, but he cut himself short. Instead, he brushed down Simon’s back until his breathing was more even and the gagging had stopped. He straightened, elbow against the bricks and his face still pressed into the crook of it. 

  They didn’t speak. Johnny needed to get him home, though, so he tugged gently on the man’s sleeve to guide him. He was surprised at how pliant he was. 

  Simon’s hands were shaking. He could barely keep his eyes open; the light was torture. Johnny carefully laced his arm around Simon’s elbow and led them around the corner. He went at Si’s slow pace, even when the apartment building came into view. 

  In the elevator, Simon leaned into him, the other hand supporting the rest of his weight on the railing that lined the four walls. The lights were bright there. Surely agonizing. Johnny didn’t want to make any more noise than he had to, so he rooted in Simon’s pockets (he stuffed his hand into two before he found the keys in the back of his jeans) and was careful to clutch them silently in his palm to prevent them from clattering together. 

  He let them into the apartment and immediately dropped the takeout bag beside the door to guide Simon into the bedroom. He stumbled a little and landed hard into the sheets with a pained grunt. Johnny made sure he was somewhat on the bed—eyes squeezed shut and hands in fists that occasionally dug into his temples in an attempt to ease the pain—before he closed the blinds on the other side of the room. The dim light seemed to help. He closed the window to stifle most of the noise from the road. 

  Wordlessly, he pulled at Simon’s sleeves as gently as possible to get his jacket off. Next were his pants. Simon didn’t seem to care. As long as he wasn’t the one doing the moving and there was silence, he could melt into the cushions and wait for the pain to stop. And it would. It would take hours, maybe days, but it would end, and then he’d have one or two days before it all started again. 

  The Scot eventually managed to get him under the covers. Simon was grimacing each time Johnny touched him. His sister used to get migraines; he knew the triggers. Last time she’d had one, Johnny’s hand on her back had caused her to vomit. He didn’t want to push Simon if his symptoms were similar. 

  Still, Soap was desperate to ease the pain. The covers had been pulled up to his shoulders. His twisted face lolled to the side. Johnny worried that death might be impending, but Simon’s breathing was still there, albeit laboured. 

  His hand found Simon’s shoulder as he leaned over the man. He was hoping that his gentle shaking would be enough of a warning that he was about to speak. Hopefully, Simon would be able to hear his question through the pain and the blood pounding in his ears and the accent. “Where’s your meds?”

  “Please… sh… dunno. Can’take ‘em.” Somehow, Simon’s response was even quieter, barely more than a breath. He’d put all his effort into speaking. It terrified Johnny to know that the pain paralyzed Simon like venom that had consumed him in only an hour. Was it going to get worse? Was this normal? How bad did it get for Simon to go to the hospital?

  “I need to know where they are, ghrá,” he whispered, trying not to sound like he was begging. Simon probably wouldn't be able to swallow them now, but this couldn’t go on for much longer. Surely, Simon wouldn’t survive it. 

  Simon just raised a trembling hand to his ear, covering it against Johnny’s noise, as his face contorted into a silent sob that only angered the pain.

Chapter Text

  Simon woke to only a gentle ache behind his left eye. He’d opened his eyes once or twice before this time to realize that the pain had only worsened. Those times, though (within that last ten or so hours), Johnny hadn't been beside him. Still, the cloth over his face was always damp with cool water that only stayed soothing if someone replaced it regularly.

  Had Johnny already left? Did he mention that he was only there for a short time? How long had Simon been out? He laid there for a moment, breathing hard, trying to remember something. Everything blended together. Had Johnny visited him before the captain did? Was he remembering Johnny’s visit from two weeks ago? Had he visited then? He was so sure that Johnny had been there with him in Manchester; he remembered opening the door and hating himself for hating Johnny. It was a torturous reminder of how his brain was failing him. He felt like his memory worsened with each migraine, chipping away at him until there was no Simon left. 

  The room was dark. The roadnoise was quieter; the window had been closed, and usually that would have all the horrible smell trapped inside the room, but all he could smell was him. Johnny’s scent surrounded him like a horrible, agonizing reminder of his faults and what he’d lost. 

  It took a moment for those soldier senses to kick in. He slowly became aware of that presence beside him, the one he once thought he would never be capable of forgetting. He wasn’t alone in the room. He could hear soft breathing that wasn't his own. 

  A pale, scarred hand ghosted under the comforter, over mountains and valleys of the bed sheets, until they reached a wall. The arm he found was warm–certainly not his own–and when he followed it to the attached hand, he could feel the familiar scar on Johnny’s thumb and the back of his hand from when he once tried to pet a chihuahua.

  Simon carded his own fingers through Johnny’s like he was testing for any signs before the limb dissolved back into his memory and the experience was revealed to be a dream. His fingers tightened. Johnny didn’t disappear. Their hands moulded together under the blanket between them in the most delightful way. It reminded Simon of when their relationship was in its youth. There were very few times in his life when he felt truly whole, but being with Johnny always made that feeling bubble to the surface. 

  He rolled onto his side with their hands still connected. Johnny laid facing him from across the mattress like he thought being close to Simon would hurt him. His free hand came to rest on the side of Johnny’s neck where it connected to his jaw. He couldn’t see much in the darkness. Feeling him was all he needed.

  Johnny’s sharp inhale was the only indication that he was waking.

  “You’re here,” Simon whispered.

  Again, Johnny breathed himself back into consciousness, stirring slightly. The hand around Simon’s squeezed. 

  “Mm… hey, ghrá. How’s the noggin?”

  Simon just rolled into him, seeking that warmth he’d been missing for so long. 

  “Ye with me, Si?”

  “Mhm,” he replied, nodding against Johnny’s chest. At least he was never pushed away. Rather, he was folded into Johnny’s arms like he belonged there. Again, that feeling of wholeness returned. 

  “Welcome back.” His voice was still slurred with sleep. Warm breath cascaded over Simon’s scalp. “Are ye okay? Still hurt?”

  “M’okay now.”

  “Ye weren’t fer a bit. Thought I’d have t’call an ambulance.”

  “It wasn't that bad. I’ve had worse.”

  The arms around him tightened instinctively. Making Johnny feel bad wasn’t the intention. 

  “Ended up finding yer Triptan. And a bunch of medical paperwork. Ye missed a therapy appointment yesterday.”

  “I got an excuse. I don’t remember.”

  “Ye’re better, though. Your memory is coming back. It’s just slow.”

  Simon shook his head. His neck was still stiff. “How the hell would you even know?”

  His words silenced Johnny. There was a sense of satisfaction that would never have occurred in the old Simon when he knew that he’d hurt him. As much as he wanted to stop talking and just enjoy the man pressed against him, he wanted to pack on the hurt he’d been feeling. Maybe his brain injury had turned him nasty and rotten. Maybe it was the time he’d spent alone. Maybe he’d already been that way for years. 

  “I spent a week in that hospital alone. You texted me, what, twice? And then I came here. John never talked about you. Always said you were on some no-contact mission. Figured you just… couldn’t do it any more. I know I’ve changed. I just didn’t think it was that much.”

  Johnny was quiet for a moment while he formulated his reply. The lack of explanation made Simon’s blood boil. Johnny had left him.

  “… I was with ye. In the med bay. And when they flew ye over to the big hospital. Ye were there two weeks, not one. And ye—“

  Johnny swallowed his words. Simon waited. 

  “—ye were violent. Like I’ve never seen before. Ye were sick an’ angry. They… told me they didn’t think ye would change. That it was just the TBI.”

  “I am sick. And angry,” Simon replied defiantly. 

  “No. That first week, ye weren’t there. Ye couldn’t remember names or faces and ye lashed out at anyone who tried to fuckin’ help ye. Almost beat in some nurse’s skull. I couldn’t stay. Not if ye weren’t Simon anymore.”

  Surely, he was lying. Simon could remember that week in the hospital. He was alone and angry, and he certainly did have some choice words for some of the people who helped him, but he was never violent. He searched his mind for that week that came before the one he remembered. It just wasn’t there.

  Johnny still felt the need to fill the silence. “So, I shipped off. I asked John about you all the time. Said ye were doing better. Still strugglin’, but better. Ye… said horrible things to me when I was there, Si. I don’t think ye even remember it. Didn’a’ken if I could come back. If ye’d be there. If ye’d still be Simon.”

  He gritted his teeth. His hands, scarred by incidents he didn’t completely remember, clenched on Johnny’s shirt. “Still don’t think I am.”

  “Wouldn’t’ve come back if the old ye was gone.”

  “I’m still… bad, though. The migraines and the memory loss are daily, but sometimes I just get so… angry. Tried going to that shop on the corner to get smokes and they didn’t have my brand. It wasn’t even a big deal. I like the other ones they offered instead. I just… was so mad. They almost called the cops on me. Sometimes these things just slide off me like they’re nothing. Sometimes they set me off. I never know. I never know myself.”

  “Should’ve been there. Would’ve helped.”

  At this, Simon released Johnny and sat up on the mattress. He turned away from Johnny to swing his legs over the bed. Yes, he should’ve been there. No amount of Johnny’s regret would give back the last few weeks Simon had spent fighting for his life in a way that was so much worse than fighting for his life as a soldier. He’d been fighting for his life against himself. 

  He could feel Johnny moving behind him. The mattress dipped. A warm arm hugged around his front while Johnny pressed his cheek into his back. It was where Johnny belonged. It was what made Simon feel most whole, what made him forget how fractured his mind was. This time, he didn’t mind forgetting. 

  Johnny breathed Simon in. He reeked like sweat and cigarettes and desperately needed a shower, but under all that, Simon was still there, all pine scent and gunpowder tang. 

  “I’m sorry. I was scared fer ye, and I let it keep me from ye. I want t’fix this. I want t’help ye. I love ye Simon, an’ I’m sorry my actions made ye think otherwise.”

  Simon deflated. “Y’know I can’t be mad at you. I want to, but I can’t.”

  “I deserve it. Jus’ let me stay.”

  “Please. Please stay… but only if you promise not to leave again. I’ll get better if it means you’ll be here.”

  The man behind him guided his face to the side by his jaw and their lips met in a desperate, wet kiss. He could taste the salt of Johnny’s tears and feel the wetness smudge between their faces. 

  “Ye are better. Ye’re still Simon,” Johnny promised against his lips.

Chapter Text

  “Ye look cold.”

  Simon didn’t miss Johnny’s tone when his first words were both a greeting and a coy invitation. The Scot leaned over the back of the rec room sofa where Simon had been sitting for the past twenty minutes. The mug of tea in his lap had cooled, to his vexation. Soap’s presence instantly warmed him despite the chill in his fingers. 

  “M’not anymore,” he replied softly, leaning his head back to meet Johnny’s gaze. Those piercing blue eyes that he’d come to etch into his brain would have been cold, too, if there wasn’t so much warmth behind them on Johnny’s behalf. 

  Those eyes folded into mock offence. “No, ye’re supposed t’say that I can warm ye.”

  Simon snorted. “Oh, sorry.”

  “Y’should be.” There was never an ounce of anger in his voice, only loving humour that Simon never thought he’d be lucky enough to be the recipient of. “Y’done brooding? Wanna go… to bed…?” Johnny’s invitations were always like that, full of love and deviance without an ounce of pressure. If Simon didn’t want sex tonight, they wouldn’t have it, and no one would be upset in the least. 

  He stood off the couch with a sigh. His mug ended up in the sink and he immediately stuffed his hands into his hoodie pockets as they walked together down the hallway. Johnny was humming as he walked; the comforting noise didn’t stop when he let them into Simon’s private barracks. The noise did, however, stop when he immediately turned around and pressed his lips to Simon’s. His back met the cold door; it added to his chill. It only made Simon lean into Johnny, searching for more of him—his smell, his touch, his heat. Eyes closed. That mohawk that had been lately growing out felt right in his fist when he used it to secure Johnny’s face to his.

  Instead of its intention, the touch had Johnny jumping and leaning back to break the kiss. One of his hands left the neck of Simon’s hoodie and covered the one on the back of his scalp. “Jesus, Si, ye drinkin’ iced tea now?”

  “Wha—?” Simon immediately released him and dropped his hands, thinking he’d pulled too hard. So far, that had never happened, and he was sure that it wasn’t possible. Johnny was quick to grab both of his hands in his own and stare down at them in horror. 

  “Fuckin’ fingernails're blue, love.”

  It made him ashamed to be so overcome by relief when Johnny’s hot hands cupped his, trying desperately to warm them. He only attempted for a few seconds before he looked back up at the Englishman. That glint in his eye was constant and unmistakable.

  “Bet I got a good cure t’fend off that cold.”

  “Show me, then,” Simon replied without hesitation. Whatever Johnny did to him, warmth followed. 

  One of those cold hands were gripped tightly as he was led into the adjacent bathroom. Could he call it that? He was lucky to have a private one at all, and the water wasn’t always warm, but he was thankful for the privacy it offered them. They had to get creative sometimes; shower sex in a two-by-two-foot stall was certainly a craft they had to master. 

  Johnny stripped them. It left Simon close to shivering. The heating obviously wasn’t working on base that day. It was never this bad. When the Scotsman turned away from him to turn on the water, Simon took the opportunity to bite into the meat of his shoulder. The result was one he never grew tired of, Johnny’s breath catching and his hand squeezing around Simon’s. He licked over the bite with a long stripe before beginning work on a new hickey. He loved playing that game, seeing how dark he could make it before Johnny came to his senses and swatted him away. Of course they were always set in the patches of skin most difficult to hide. Really, he wanted to be closer; Simon wanted to melt into Johnny more than anything. If that meant sex and awkward shower makeouts or desperate grabbing, he would take it, because anything was better than being cold. 

  The water took time to warm to a comfortable level. They kissed against the tile wall outside of the spray while they waited. Their fingers folded together at their sides; Soap was obviously trying to keep them something close to warm while they waited. Simon was lost in Johnny and the way they began unconsciously grinding, like he was whole when he was there doing those obscene things to him. He never thought that pleasure could be that much more than carnal relief before Johnny.

  Hot hands pulled him into the shower and they were quickly enveloped by the spray. By then, Johnny had taken his growing erection in his palm (which was so hot that he was sure there would be a handprint burnt into it by the morning) and stroked him slowly, kissing Simon through his little gasps and the soft twitching of his hips. Simon put his hands on Johnny’s hips. He winced at the freezing touch, not even eased by the water, which had grown hot. The steam made their scent intoxicating to each other. Johnny jerked him in wringing motions; his thumb swiped slowly over the tip every other stroke. It had Simon digging his nails into Johnny’s tanned flesh. 

  There reached a point when Simon was too overwhelmed by pleasure to keep up with Johnny’s hungry mouth. By then, he dropped his face into his shoulder and whimpered little pleas for Johnny to continue his torturous unravelling that freed him from his chill. He could feel his hands and feet again. 

  Then, Johnny was sinking to his knees. There was just enough space for him to fit when Simon pressed his back into the wall. Maybe it was a little warmed by the steam, but it was cold, and contact with the tile had him grunting. A second later, Johnny’s mouth was around him, and nothing cold nor hot mattered to him any longer. 

  His head fell back against the wall. His eyes closed. The base of his spine was alive with electricity, stirring with each pass of the man’s tongue. He’d dedicate his life to being cold if it meant that Johnny’s mouth was always around him. 

  At least when he put his hand on the back of Johnny’s head, it was in the spray, and part of him had some heat source. 

  It prompted the Scot’s throat to envelope over the head of his cock, and it was all Simon needed to unravel. He came with his hips bucking into Soap’s cheeks, his fingers covered in shaggy mohawk, and his spine quivering from the cold and fiery heat. 

  Simon’s panting filled his lungs with steam. His thumb—the one that always ached from the arthritis aggravated by temperature—found the edge of Johnny’s mouth and dipped inside. It was just as hot as he remembered from a moment ago. Remnants of Simon’s orgasm dribbled out the side of his mouth around his thumb, mixing with the water. 

  Soap sucked at his thumb before his mouth closed to swallow. Those blue eyes, not distorted by the constant waterfall, never left his, and it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. It was like Johnny was determined to break that record every time they fucked. He could see that Johnny’s hand was wrapped around own cock and had been absently pumping himself since he hit the floor. The purple head looked back up at him, begging him to do something about it. 

  Finally, there was nothing in Johnny’s mouth. He grinned up at Simon, whose cheeks held a deep rose colour and whose mouth was slightly open for air when he looked down at Johnny. They were the little things he searched for to ensure that he’d done such a good job for Simon. That thumb in his mouth had still been cold despite all his efforts. 

  “Still cold, mo ghràdh?”

  “Think I need a ‘lil more t’warm up,” Simon replied honestly despite the glint of mischief in his eyes. Johnny seemed much happier with this answer than he expected him to be. 

  “How come you always wear gloves, Simon?” 

  That was how it started. Kyle had noticed for a while how often Simon wore gloves and his hoodies and long pants and thick wool socks, even in the middle of summer in some Middle-Eastern base. John had been in the room when he asked, trying to make conversation to stave off the boredom after the three of them had spent the last twenty minutes doing inventory of everyone’s gear. It was paramount to their success on missions and the part of preparation that Kyle always dreaded. It was so tedious to test every strap and blade he owned. There were so many better things he could be doing… like watching footy with Soap, who’d been put on mandatory leave following his run-in with a faulty pipe bomb. It was a long story, but after he’d gotten over his worry, Kyle was just jealous that he got to lay in bed and do nothing for a week.

  Simon hadn’t been expecting the question and he certainly didn’t know how to answer it. It wasn’t like he had a problem with it, despite what the doctors told him. He was cold all the time, sure, but his solution was to bundle up. Less skin showing, less cold, how uninviting it made him look to everyone else—triple win. But Kyle’s question made him think about it.

  “M’cold,” was his lame response. He hadn’t even looked up from his helmet as he pulled on each connection. Night vision worked, communication cables were untouched, and the goggles’ hinges were smooth. The extra quarter-second he’d need to fiddle with them if they were stiff could mean his life, or worse, a team member’s life. 

  “Cold? It’s thirty degrees, mate.”

  “Yeah. M’always cold.”

  “Maybe you should get that checked out?” John chimed in. He was working hard, sweating, to get every one of the pockets on his vest zipped closed. The little room they stored their gear in was warming up, but it still wasn’t enough. Simon missed his heated blanket stored in Johnny’s barracks, currently halfway across the globe. 

  Simon rolled his eyes. “Nah. Just run cold.”

  “You’re like a snake. Cold-blooded, bruv.”

  “Doc says I got bad circulation. Probably ‘cause a’the smokin’. And stress. Dunno. Don’t tell Johnny. He’ll make me stop.”

  Kyle chuckled and shook his head. “Secret’s safe with me.”

  And it was. But John knew the secret, too, and he also knew everyone’s birthdays… even Simon’s, despite his constant work to keep it a secret as well. Celebration made him uncomfortable and he hated attention; why would he want someone to know his birthday? Even Johnny hadn’t been able to get it out of him—yet.

  But when that week rolled around that he’d honestly forgotten had any meaning, Simon was reminded by the black unlabelled box that met him on his desk a few months following that fateful gear check with Kyle and John. He honestly thought it was a bomb at first. He contemplated calling Johnny. Who the fuck was leaving him unmarked packages? He would kill whoever tried to assassinate him. It wasn’t even a good attempt. 

  A little slip of paper had been folded on top. It was the only reason he didn’t call in the bomb squad. It was only a handful of names:

  Simon

  — John / Kyle / Johnny

  John had nicer handwriting than most. Much better than him. It was hard for him to hold pens with the way he’d injured his thumb last year and the constant chill that aggravated his arthritis. It didn’t seem that John had those same problems. 

  Reading the note and realizing what the box was—and what week it was, when he was born forty-one years ago—made him wish that the box was concealing a bomb. Dying at the hands of an assassin would be much easier than accepting a birthday gift from his teammates. 

  This was what family did, no?

  It hadn’t been wrapped. Nothing held the lid of the box down. There was no click to indicate a coming explosion, much to his disappointment. Instead, with the lid discarded, he was met with dark fabric. The package wasn’t big enough for a sweater or pants. He lifted the first piece of fabric and unfolded it to reveal a pair of black and white gloves. They were similar to the working gloves that had been painted with white stripes to mimic the bones of the hand, but these ones were of far better quality and definitely intended to look like bones. They were thicker, lined with fleece that made his cold hands twitch. The outside had thick leather that didn’t easily tear, unlike his other canvas ones. 

  Under them sat a pair of socks with similar designs. They were long enough to cover his ankles, just how he liked. These ones weren’t necessarily working socks, but lounging ones, with a much softer texture that would surely have him slipping on wooden floors. A part of him felt like he was being made fun of. Another part had him salivated at the promise of warmth. 

  From the bottom of the box, he pulled out the last gift: a box of his favorite tea, a limited-edition raspberry chocolate earl grey from a specialty shop in Manchester. He’d taken John there once for a drink, who later went there with Kyle. Johnny didn’t share their love for tea, but Simon had to admit that it was nice to share his hobby with someone. He’d been teaching himself how to enjoy his time off. Now, that included seeing his teammates—his family—when he was on leave, not just on the battlefield. 

  John knew what he was doing when he left the box in Simon’s office. He knew it would be found just when he was settling down to spend the next few hours with his head buried in paperwork. Simon was grateful for his family, especially when they recognized how cold his life was without them.