Chapter Text
Johnny hadn’t expected round three to be quite so literal.
Shooed out of the kitchen and out of the way the moment the door into the house opened, the sergeant and his lieutenant ended up back in the living room. It was far less crowded now, with Mrs. McKenna and Margaret in the kitchen with Fiona, and the kids upstairs playing. Mary and Megan were back on the loveseat; they were far closer together than they’d been earlier in the day, and there was a part of Johnny that wondered when Margaret would pull Mary aside to have the talk with her. Tone it down, don’t flaunt your lifestyle, etc., though he supposed it wouldn’t happen because they were just being friendly with each other! And wasn’t that nice to see?
Thomas was busy growing roots in his armchair, blue eyes glazed over as he stared blankly at the television. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there. At this point, Johnny was convinced his da was actually dissociating entirely, and he couldn’t blame the man for it one bit. What really sold Johnny on that thought was the way his da would occasionally bring his empty glass up to his mouth to try and take a sip, then blink when nothing ended up in his mouth before settling down again.
And lest he forget, David was there too, sprawled across as much of the couch as he possibly could in a truly impressive display of manspreading. It left him and Ghost in the same position as earlier - Simon with his knees nigh on touching his chin so he could fit on the folding chair and Johnny on the floor between his thighs.
It was hard to forget David’s presence, though, given how he was regaling the room (Megan, honestly) with tales of what a prat he was as a teenager and how he’d evolved into a sentient wankstain masquerading as a man. He trotted out all the classics, from the time he’d stolen Johnny’s sketchbook to the time he’d asked out one of his classmates as a joke. She’d been a bit awkward and on the quiet side, but David hadn’t helped things any by doing that. Poor lass had been a shell of herself afterwards. Christ, Johnny could still remember how him and his mates had congratulated each other on a prank well-delivered.
He also distinctly remembered how David’s best mate, Ian Ferguson, had been unhappy about the entire thing. Actually, now that he thought about it, there were several stunts his brother had pulled where Ian hadn’t been shy about making his displeasure known. Which was probably why they’d never heard from the lad again once school had ended. Almost twenty years on and Johnny knew if he brought that up, David would still be sore about it, and heaven forbid that happen.
When David started in on how he’d joined up at a gym last spring was when the trouble really started.
“And you’re liking it so far?” he asked politely, because Christ knew no one else was going to. Not that he was particularly interested, but it beat his brother pulling out the Taggish story for the hundredth time.
“Sure am! I don’t mean to brag or anything, but when I started I was only benching thirty-five kilos, and now I’m up to seventy,” he seemed so genuinely pleased with himself that Johnny couldn’t bring himself to burst that bubble by divulging his own lifts. Besides, the training he underwent for strength and stamina went beyond just being for his job, but could be the difference between life and death. Comparing that to a man who was doing it for fun in his off-hours wouldn’t be very charitable of him.
Not that David deserved him being fair, or would even understand that’s what was happening.
He tuned back into the conversation just in time to hear his brother say, “and get this! One of the guys a few months ago told me he thinks I have a lot of potential and so I signed up for muay thai at his place!”
Oh. Oh fuck no.
Behind him, Ghost sighed deeply.
“That’s nice,” Mary said with the air of a tired parent watching their child perform the same trick for the fifteenth time that hour.
It was too late to stop the man, though, the trajectory of the time they had left until dinner would be served clear before him.
David would bluster on about how well he was doing in muay thai and how accomplished he was after so little time spent training, and how everyone clapped and cheered at all his incredible successes on the mats. Only once he had established himself as a martial arts prodigy would he move on to the next stage of desperately trying to impress a woman who was never going to give him the time of day.
After all, what good were those vaunted muay thai moves if he didn’t show them off right then and there? And who better to show them off with than his younger brother, the SAS sergeant with a decade’s worth of experience under his belt? Naturally, in David’s mind, this was a foolproof plan. He would smack Johnny around like they were kids again and come out the winner, which would be very impressive to everyone and have the added bonus of embarrassing Soap the way the The Pickup Artist had failed to.
Sure enough, his prattling about different strikes and stances eventually turned to demonstrating said manoeuvres and Johnny heaved a sigh at the cocksure grin being sent his way.
“Absolutely not,” he snapped before his brother could even take the breath needed to ask. The toothy grin turned into the beginnings of a petulant frown and Johnny had to fight to not roll his eyes.
“But-”
He cut David off right there, “steamin’ Jesus, no, David. There’s a time and a place for everything, aye? And Christmas Day in the family living room is neither of those things.”
Besides, it was just asking for trouble with Margaret, and that was something that nobody wanted, especially him. She was already on her worst behaviour, there was no need to invite more.
“Nobody wants to see you two rolling around on the floor, so how about you just save it for the gym,” Mary suggested, exasperated and huffing irritably as the frown only grew in ferocity. “Don’t you have a video of your last fight you can show us instead?”
“It’s not the same,” David pouted. Actually pouted, Johnny noted. His arms were crossed over his chest and his lower lip was looking distinctly puffed out. He couldn’t help but think his brother looked more like their niece and nephew when they were younger than an actual grown adult man.
“John’s got a point, son, your mam won’t be too happy to see her boys fighting again,” Thomas said, finally blinking the room back into focus instead of just staring at the television. Nice to hear him siding with his younger son, for once. His voice sounded conciliatory to Johnny’s ears and it brought to mind all the other instances where his da had been trying to keep the peace that day alone.
“Mam’ll be fine with it,” David claimed with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing he was Margaret’s darling eldest boy who could do no wrong in her eyes. Johnny on the other hand? He’d never hear the end of it.
“I don’t know about that, are you sure?” Megan chimed in hesitantly. “I don’t really want-”
“Yeah, mam won’t mind,” he interrupted loudly, like the poor lass he’d latched on to wasn’t in the middle of trying to tell him she didn’t care one whit about his ‘demonstration.’ “Don’t be such a big girl’s blouse, Taggish.”
Thomas sighed, sagging in his recliner, and met Johnny’s eyes across the room with a painfully resigned expression.
“Christ, you just can’t take no for an answer, can you, man?” he asked irritably. He wasn’t even going to touch on the return of Taggish. That was just to be expected at this point.
Two paths laid before him: either tell David that no meant no and deal with him sulking like a child the rest of the day, followed by an argument with Margaret about how they’d upset her precious boy, or avoid David’s pathetic whinging and have another go with Margaret about how they were fighting on Christmas Day and couldn’t she just have one day of peace in her home, and how inevitably that would all be Soap’s fault.
It was plain to see that Thomas had come to the same conclusion already.
“What? Yeah, I can! You just need a push is all, you fanny,” there was a mean smile stretching across his brother’s mug as he realised he was going to get what he wanted. Soap sighed and climbed to his feet, stopping when thick, pale fingers closed around his wrist and tugged until he was facing Ghost.
Big brown eyes flicked pointedly from his face to his healing shoulder, and Johnny smiled fondly down at him.
“Aye, I’ll be careful,” he murmured under his breath. Words meant for them, and them alone, but David was at the top of his game today it seemed.
“Aw, ‘be careful?’ Scared he’s goin’ to get hurt?”
Simon didn’t say anything to the taunt, opting instead to just ignore David entirely. Johnny knew without having to look that it would bend his brother even further out of shape to not get a rise out of the man.
“Scared? Hell, but you’re dense,” Mary exclaimed, throwing her hands into the air. “You ever stop to think that maybe John’s got a wee bit more experience than you?”
“I dunno, have you ever stopped to think that people like to share their interests, Mary?” David was quick to retort. Quick to throw Mary’s words from the other back in her face, too. “Besides, he doesn’t know muay thai.”
“And you do? You’ve been at it for just a few months,” she pointed out, and bless her heart for trying, but David only frowned harder as he unzipped his hooded jumper and slid it off. Revealed was a plain polo shirt that looked more like Margaret’s choice than David’s.
“Yeah, sure, but Jason said I’m like a prodigy at it, best rookie he’s ever seen,” he explained proudly, and maybe he was. Maybe David really was the most impressive student to muay thai this Jason prick had ever seen, despite his age and level of fitness working against him. Or maybe Jason was just hyping his brother up and David had taken that as the gospel truth instead of seeing it for the tactic to keep him paying the gym that it was.
Who could say?
“I’m sure you are,” Soap agreed, heavy on the patronisation and annoyed as he shed his own jumper to take up a loose ready stance on one end of the living room. He could hear voices from behind the kitchen door and just- he’d had such a bad feeling about today and it was all slowly but surely coming to pass. If his luck held, Margaret would come out just in time to see how this absolute farce was going to end.
Soap’s plan was to treat it like the practice fights he regularly had with the 141; he’d keep it clean and get to the point. Part of him hoped that if he was quick about demonstrating how outclassed his brother was that they could lay this whole thing to rest before it all went tits up. David would hopefully be too humiliated to ever bring it up again and this would be another crisis averted. He wouldn’t even show off too much, and honestly, what more could his brother want?
David slid into position on the other side of the room, hands up and at the ready.
There was a moment where the room went still, like the house itself was holding its breath, and then David moved, rushing forward to kick out at him. His form wasn’t half bad, Soap thought as he deftly avoided those first strikes. He still didn’t want to entertain this for long. The fists and elbows thrown his way he simply redirected with his forearms, letting them slide by harmlessly.
After a few more foiled attacks he could see David starting to get irritated; his hits were getting less controlled, less careful. While he wasn’t bad, he was no match for Johnny. Finally, after letting his brother think he was getting somewhere besides tired, Soap decided that he’d entertained this travesty of a fight long enough.
The next strike thrown in his direction, Johnny caught, his fingers sinking into the meat of his brother’s forearm with the strength needed to grab him.
Bastard wasn’t pulling his punches anymore.
David’s growls of frustration shifted to pained as Soap forcefully manoeuvred him until his arm was twisted up behind his back. He tried to yank himself this way and that to free himself from the simple hold, but as Mary had so helpfully pointed out: Johnny had a lot more experience than his brother did in hand-to-hand combat.
“Tap out already for Christ’s sake,” he grunted, tightening the hold further.
“Fuck off,” David hissed, struggling harder.
It was only when Soap brought the hold to the point where he could potentially dislocate his shoulder that his brother finally tapped out, cursing and swearing the whole way.
“Best two out of three!” he barked as soon as Soap let go of him. How fuckin’ predictable.
Christ, he used to be just like that when they were young, too. Anytime Johnny got the upper hand in anything competitive, it turned into a best two out of three, then four out of five, then six out of seven, until young John got bored and gave up, and then David would claim he’d won whatever it was they were doing.
Running a race? David won by default because John got tired. The six sprints that had come before the last one where David had finally wore him out didn’t count, naturally.
What should have been a casual, friendly game of footie? Same thing.
It was either let the little bastard win or the petulant prick would find a way to get back at him later; he couldn’t count the number of times he’d taken the fall for something David had done. Flowers ripped out of the soil instead of weeds blamed on John, never mind that he was the one who planted and cared for the damn things in the first place. He damn well knew the difference between a daffodil and a dandelion. Or the time David had plugged the sink and turned the faucet on to let the bathroom flood, and when Margaret had gone stomping up the stairs he’d told her John had done it. Even though John had only just got home from an after-school club and couldn’t have had time to do that.
Weeks and months spent he had spent grounded while his brother looked on, smug as could be.
Soap wouldn’t let it play out that way today, though.
“Give it a rest, mate,” Johnny said firmly, watching the storm cloud of David’s expression darken further.
“Just one more go!”
“Enough, David,” he snapped, turning back to Ghost.
But David Robert MacTavish always had been a sore loser, and Christmas Day was no exception.
“I said I’m not done yet,” his brother snarled, reaching out with one dry, calloused hand to roughly grab Johnny by the upper arm and yank.
It was awful luck that his thumb was pressed directly into the healing entrance wound, and even worse luck still that his grubby fingers were pressed into the mess of purple scar tissue that made up the exit wound. The sudden, violent pressure on such tender skin forced a hoarse shout from behind clenched teeth as searing hot pain flashed through him.
Johnny wrenched himself out of his brother’s grip with a hiss and smacked right into Ghost, who’d been on his feet the very second David had reached out. Simon wasted no time manoeuvring them until the bulk of his body was between him and his brother, his warm hands running up his arm to roll up the sleeve of his shirt.
The ugly wound was darkening now that it had been disturbed, and fuck, now that the initial pain was fading it left an ache like he hadn’t felt since it had first started to heal up. Ghost inspected the area, turning his arm this way and that to get some light on it and check for any new damage.
Meanwhile, the room fell into chaos around them.
“Och, now look what you’ve done, David!” Mary’s voice was uncharacteristically high and shrill, he could hear as she hollered.
“I barely even touched him!”
“John? Are you alright?” Megan was nearly drowned out by the brewing row between Mary and David, but the concern was appreciated. With his uninjured arm, he gave her a thumbs up.
“Nothin’ to worry about,” he replied.
It was about all he could manage with how focused he was on how Ghost had moved to act as a shield between him and his family with no hesitation, putting himself between Johnny and everyone else like it was second nature. The heat from Ghost’s hands seeping into his skin was a bonus, soothing his nerves as he brushed them up and down Soap’s arms.
“Christ, he got me good, eh?” he tried to chuckle, gritting his teeth when Ghost’s gentle touch reached a particularly tender spot. For as far as he’d come with his recovery, even being allowed back into the field so soon after it happened, the damn thing still needed some babying and doctor-prescribed exercise.
“Might have to amputate,” Ghost replied gravely, fond humour hiding in his dark eyes as he let go of Soap’s arm with one last, lingering touch. Elsewhere in the room, Johnny could hear Thomas getting involved to tell his oldest son he was out of line. Too little, too late, because David just laughed at him. Maybe a decade ago it would have meant something.
“Aw hell, you think so? Think I could get one of those fancy replacements for work?” Johnny asked, doing his level best to ignore his brother’s obnoxious guffawing. Bleeding Christ, but he was fucking irritating. He held his hands up as if to inspect them. They were as rough as Ghost’s were, though he had more burn scars to show from working in close proximity to explosives as often as he had.
Ghost was looking down at him, his eyes crinkling slightly the way they did whenever he smiled behind his mask, and he looked like he was about to speak when the door behind them flew open with a bang!
“What on Earth is going on in here?” Margaret’s shrill voice cut through the din like a knife to the throat. Johnny didn’t need to see her face to know it was pinched up in that nasty way it always was when he was around, narrowed eyes roving over each of them. He knew what she would see; David in the centre of the room, stretching his shoulder out like Johnny hadn’t made sure to not hurt him, and him with his jumper off and Ghost holding his arm.
“Wait- were you two fighting?!” she shouted, and Soap sighed. This would be his fault, just like he thought. “You bloody well were! It’s Christmas Day, and you’re scrapping in my living room!”
Simon’s eyes rolled skywards and he shifted to get a better view of the room, still keeping himself between Johnny and the rest of the room still.
“David started it!” Mary was quick to point out.
“I just wanted to show Taggish what I’ve learned,” David said innocently, beady eyes lighting up when they just barely met Johnny’s own. Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing; the rush of anger that flared in his gut had his skin prickling uncomfortably. He took a deep breath; they were almost done with the day, he just needed to keep it together a little while longer.
“I don’t care who started it!” Margaret shouted before rounding on him. “You couldn’t just get along with your brother for one day, could you? Couldn’t keep your bloody hands to yourself, hm?”
No mention of how David couldn’t be on his best behaviour for one day either, but Soap hadn’t expected any less. He was surprised when Mary didn’t back down, though.
“It’s David you should be yelling at, mam! Got so bent out of shape over being told ‘no’ that he grabbed John and hurt him!” his younger sister yelled back. She was on her feet in front of the loveseat now, art book discarded in Megan’s lap as the poor lass looked on at the typical MacTavish dysfunction in action.
“Not my fault he can’t take a hit,” David was loud and defensive, his mouth curled into a hateful sneer. “You’d think he could take a pounding, though, the fuckin’ poo-”
One moment, he was listening to David spout off and in the next scorching hot rage was burning through his veins, incinerating every effort he’d made to not completely lose his temper and leaving naught but ashes in its wake. He would’ve shoved his way past Ghost if he’d needed to, but his LT had turned to look at David and that was all the opening Soap needed.
He’d fuckin- if it was a proper fight David wanted then it was a proper fight he’d damn well get. The fact that Margaret was standing right there didn’t even register in his mind, let alone the way she was screaming bloody murder as she demanded to know what he was doing. There was only his fist meeting David’s face and wiping that smirk clear off it, knuckles sinking into the soft flesh of his cheek and pushing into his teeth until he bled.
Or there would have been, if Ghost hadn’t snatched him by his uninjured arm to haul him back. He struggled until furious brown eyes met his own and Johnny froze; he’d never seen Simon truly lose his temper at anything before. Even in the most heated of situations, he was a man who could keep his cool like no one Soap had ever met, but not now.
“That’ll do!” Ghost barked in what Soap recognised as his ‘work voice;’ it was the one he used when he needed to make himself heard in the chaos of the field. He’d forgotten what it was like to hear Ghost raise his voice like that for the first time, but he would never forget how his focus had immediately snapped to his lieutenant, how he’d been all ears for everything that followed. It was no different now, either. Johnny was still infuriated, but the rolling boil of anger fell back to a simmer with just those two words.
The MacTavish and McKenna families weren’t much different, if the sudden silence in the living room was anything to go by. Ghost even took the wind out of Margaret’s sails, ending her shrieking tirade before she could really gather steam. She was left standing there in her festive sweater, face slack and mouth hanging open in shock.
“You really think that your piddlin’ months of practice mean anything here? Against years of training and experience?” Ghost demanded, equal parts incredulous and furious as he stared David down. Simon cut him off before he could respond, continuing with a dismissive, “be real, mate. You got in a lucky hit, nothing more, so you can shut your fuckin’ gob.”
Johnny knew he was strong, and capable, and he knew he was good at his job, but to hear Ghost tell his brother that like David was an idiot to think otherwise? Especially in front of his family? It had his heart tripping over itself, warmth blooming in his chest as he watched Simon draw himself up to his full height. Gone was the unobtrusive, quiet house guest, and in his place was a man with a deeply commanding presence - the hideous earrings did nothing to detract from that.
David, for his part, had the good sense to do as he was told. His mouth snapped shut, cheeks ruddy with emotion as he looked to Margaret for backup. Christ, some things really didn’t change.
“Johnny’s tougher than you’ll ever know, and he’s got the scars to prove it.”
Margaret wasn’t looking at her precious baby boy, though, instead her wide, hazel eyes were stuck on Soap. It was like she was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. Like she was realising that ‘the scars to prove it’ was more literal than she’d ever known. From the old scratch marks on his arm that had been there for so long he couldn’t remember how it had happened, to the healing cut on his cheek that had been bandaged until just a day or so ago, then finally the fresh scar on his bicep. It made for an ugly sight; so newly formed it was still almost purple in colour, with red marks of irritation around it from how roughly David had grabbed him.
She wasn’t the only one looking, though.
“John?” Fiona asked. She was white as a sheet when their eyes met, horror clear in every line of her thin face. “What…?”
Johnny winced, the burning fury from earlier easing in the face of his sister’s distress. When he’d returned home after making it through selection and been told his accomplishments were nothing in the face of David’s utter mediocrity, his triumph scattered like so much ash in the wind, he’d resolved to tell them nothing.
No tales of the pulse-pounding, adrenaline fuelled moments that made him feel like he was truly alive, alone in the field as he often used to be. No news of the medals and honours he’d received for his skill and bravery in the field, and certainly no stories of the heavily redacted missions that had led up to him being handpicked for Taskforce 141.
But, that also meant that he hadn’t told them about the dangers that came with his job. The close calls where he’d seen his life flash before his eyes, where he’d wondered how he’d ever make it out. The moments where he’d just happened to be in the right place at the right moment and avoided death by sheer, dumb luck alone, all of it. He’d kept it to himself; they didn’t deserve to know.
At the time, it had felt like he had something that was all his own, something that they couldn’t take from him, but now he couldn’t help but wonder if he had done them all a disservice.
Maybe it was time to rectify that?
Part of him wanted to lash out at them; he hadn't offered that knowledge, but they had never asked, either. That ever-burning anger that he'd curled around his painful insecurity demanded he throw it in their faces, test them by telling them everything in lurid detail and seeing if they cared about all that he'd been through, if they cared about him.
Would that be helpful right now? No, likely not, and Soap knew that, but fuck, that didn’t make it less tempting.
He swallowed the cruel words that threatened to spill into the air.
“Didn’t want to get into it today,” Soap explained quietly instead, but what else was new? Nothing was going the way he’d hoped it would today. Christ, he wished they’d just given it up after the disaster that was the other night. But no, he just had to decide to see it through. He glanced at Ghost. “But I got shot, what? Two months ago now?”
Fiona looked decidedly peaky at the news.
“You were shot?” she echoed weakly. Seemingly without her knowledge her hands had come up to fiddle with the ends of her hair, tugging and worrying at them incessantly in a way Johnny recognised as a holdover from when they were children. She did that any time she was nervous or upset; a far cry from the other night when she’d been so excited to regale them with the tale of how Simon’s family had met their ends.
Guess it was a bit different when it was her own brother.
“Aye, hurt like a bastard, too,” he tried for a rueful chuckle, but it fell short of the mark and ended up in the realm of pained and annoyed more than anything else.
“Sure, it hurt, but did you die?” David butted in, snide as could be and chortling at his own joke like he was the funniest bastard alive. Soap could only stare at him in complete disbelief. He expected jokes from the taskforce and fellow operators; people who understood the gravity of what a bullet wound meant. How close of a call it was to hitting something vital, and how lucky he was that it hadn’t.
But David? David had no idea how close of a brush with death that had been. A shift in angle from Graves and that bullet would have gone through his head instead, and the trek through Las Almas would never have happened. He would have dropped dead right there on the asphalt and left Ghost to wind his way out of the city on his own and-
He didn’t want to think too much more about that, actually.
David wasn’t deterred by the silence that met his joke, nor was he put off by the flat, angry glare Ghost was sending his way.
“Seems to me like you’re actually not all that good at your job,” his brother went on, a sharp grin stretching across his face as he met Soap’s gaze.
“Seems to me like I told you to shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Ghost’s cold voice cut through the heated emotion that simmered just under his skin, chilling it before Soap could boil over into violence. David always did have a special way of knowing exactly which buttons to press, along with a burning need to press them. Just because he could, and because he knew Margaret wouldn’t get after him for it.
And normally, this would be Margaret’s cue to kick up a stink about the foul language being used in her God-fearing home. Never mind the rubbish her oldest son was spewing; that wasn’t what she took issue with. No, it would be Ghost she took issue with, snapping at him in her waspish way to watch his bloody language while David ran roughshod over everyone as usual.
Johnny waited with bated breath, but the scolding never came.
Chancing a quick glance in Margaret’s direction found her staring at him with a look he couldn’t quite decipher. He didn’t get a chance to, either.
“Why? I think Taggish needs to hear-”
“What you need to hear is how much of a bloody twat you are, Christ. You think you’d have done better?” Ghost asked with a derisive huff.
David spluttered indignantly.
“You think muay thai would save you from getting shot? Maybe save you from the PMCs who’ve got orders to hunt you down? I’m sure they’d put their guns down for a polite dustup instead of putting you down like a rabid dog,” Ghost continued, his contempt for David a living, breathing, tangible thing that filled the air around them. “What do you think, Johnny?”
Looks like he would be thinking about Las Almas whether he wanted to or not. At least it was Ghost who was doing the talking.
“Between murdering civilians and searching for us? Could’ve squeezed in a good, fair fight, sure,” Soap bit out, more scathing than he’d meant to be. It was hard to keep that whirling mass of feeling clenched behind his teeth, especially now that he had a kindred spirit in Ghost.
“I’ll spell this out for you, David, nice and slow. After we were betrayed and Johnny was shot, he had to fight his way through an entire town while those PMCs hunted him so we could fight another day. And he did that, alone, with a bullet through his arm and a graze to his gut,” the man explained slowly, and the the undercurrent of praise against the chill of his voice had a shiver going down Soap’s spine. It was so at odds with the rest of what he was feeling and yet, it fit right in. A pleasant little something to hold on to in the face of everything else.
His mother gasped.
“Think we might be remembering that differently, darlin’. I had you in my ear talking me through that mess, didn’t I?” he reminded Simon. The sweet hint of pink that rose above Ghost’s surgical mask was a balm to Johnny’s roiling emotions, even as his mind went briefly hurtling back to the aftermath of that hellish night. The light of dawn that just barely illuminated the dark room, the smell of stale hay, old wood, and dirt floors, and Rodolfo Parra passing a tactical knife back to Ghost. ‘No one fights alone,’ his LT had said that morning.
True then, and true now.
“Be serious, I know for a fact my demolitions expert sergeant did not need instructions to put together a molotov,” Ghost scoffed, fondly exasperated as their eyes briefly met.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Johnny replied, softer now as his heart thumped hard in his chest at the sight. “You kept me focused and grounded there, kept me alive. And you did it again in Chicago.”
“Just kept you company while you did all the hard work,” his LT waved him off, like his voice in Johnny’s ear while he’d frantically raced around that Chicago tower, avoiding Hassan’s men at every turn, hadn’t been a huge factor in his survival.
“You made the perfect shot when it counted,” Soap insisted. “Would’ve been a long way down, otherwise.”
“You called it, Johnny,” Simon told him, and maybe it was his imagination, but he sounded just a wee bit gentler than before.
“Ugh, are you done yet?” David asked, his disgust palpable. Some things would never change.
“Well, I think it’s quite sweet,” Mrs. McKenna piped up. “I think it’s just wonderful how much you two care for each other, and it’s clear that John has grown into a smart, brave young man.”
“That he is,” Ghost agreed. “The night after he got shot, he faced down the commander of a terrorist cell and stopped hundreds of deaths. Maybe that’s why you’re such a cunt, David - you know you’ll never measure up.”
A pin could have dropped in that moment and it would have been heard clear across the country. Across the world, maybe.
The stunned silence lasted only a moment before the room erupted into chaos. Margaret gasped, one shaking hand covering her mouth as she stared at Simon, her eyes round with horror. Thomas, for his part, just blinked his watery eyes at them, though Johnny could have sworn his moustache twitched. Just a little bit. Whether that twitch was disapproval or laughter, who could say? He found worry there, too, something he wasn’t sure he could remember seeing since he was a teenager. There was a sudden motion at the door; Fiona slipped out of the room with a swish of the brightly patterned cardigan she favoured so much. His older sister never had dealt with confrontation well; it left her flustered and upset even when she wasn’t involved.
It was David he was most interested in, though. His perpetually smug face shifted into fury, a snarl curling his lips as his cheeks got ruddier than Johnny had ever seen before while he puffed up like an angry cat.
“What the fuck did you just call me, mate? Are you serious right now? You wanna have a go? You wanna have a fuckin’ go, right now?” he demanded, stepping up into Ghost’s face in an attempt intimidate the man like the beginning of every barfight Soap had ever witnessed.
The effect was rather ruined by how much bigger and more imposing Ghost was; it was more than the ten or so centimetres Ghost had on him in height - it was his strength, visible in the bulk of muscle he carried, and his general presence. David could hit the protein for the next century and never come close to how intimidating Ghost could be when he wanted to.
“C’mon then, let’s fucking go!”
The image of David desperately trying to square up with Ghost was so comical as to border on the ridiculous, and it would be engraved in his memory as one of the funniest things he’d ever witnessed. It was the way he kept aggressively rushing at Ghost, while his LT stared impassively back down at him. The only show of being effected by the display was the mild crinkling of the delicate skin around his eyes - humour, not any kind of fear.
The offensively huge, hideous earrings that still hung from his ears only added to the tableau before them, and it was a struggle to not burst into laughter.
“Oh, oh, I can’t believe- David Robert will you give it a rest!” Margaret finally mustered, shrill and nigh hysterical as she fanned at her reddened face. Incredible how one quick aside to her oldest son was enough to have him clamping his mouth shut where Thomas got nothing but laughter. “Our John did all that? Is it always that dangerous?”
Oh, so he was their John now, was he?
“Don’t know why you’re surprised. What did you think being in the SAS entailed, exactly? Tea parties and pushing papers?” Ghost asked, sarcasm dripping from every word. Around them, there were a lot of uncomfortable looks being shared amongst the MacTavish family as reality set in. Soap wanted to laugh; they really had no idea, did they? Some of the fault for that laid with him, but even a smidge of critical thought on their parts would have gone a long way.
“We didn’t- John never told us anything,” Margaret said weakly.
“And why would he?” Mary asked, gesturing to the room at large in disbelief while Megan nodded her agreement.
His mother looked like she had more she wanted to say, but she refrained, keeping her mouth blessedly shut for once.
“I tried to tell you when I first made it, but you didn’t care then. Figured you didn’t care now, either,” he explained.
Whether anyone else had something to add to the ongoing disaster of a Christmas Day was a moot point. The door to the kitchen swung open slowly, revealing an anxious looking Fiona. Her hands were pale and shaking where they clutched at the draped fabric of her sweater and Johnny felt a pang of guilt despite his issues with her. She’d unknowingly hurt Simon with her single-minded obsession with true crime and her propensity for judging others harshly, and she had never been the best sister, but she wasn’t all bad, either. Her eyes darted wildly around the room as the attention of everyone gathered inside fell on her, and she swallowed heavily.
“Dinner’s ready,” she announced, her voice only shaking a little bit. Very different from the other night when she had so confidently relayed Simon’s life story to the entire family, or when she had so proudly explained her method of cooking the worst cottage pie he’d ever eaten.
It was a blatant attempt at defusing the situation by way of distraction, but it was an effective one.
The look Margaret shot at him as they dutifully filed into the kitchen told him that the conversation wasn’t finished, not at all. Johnny was so close to being done with the holiday, and thus the visit, that it hardly registered to him. Maybe him and Simon would slip out before the post-dinner drinks were poured - go back to his flat and share one between them in peace instead.
The kitchen table had been pushed closer to the door to the garden at some point since him and Simon had come inside, leaving more space for the lot of them to congregate while they waited to get at the sideboard that Fiona had laid the serving platters on. They had pulled out the nice dishes for the meal; the set with blue flowers that his great-gran had gifted to Margaret and Thomas for their wedding more than three decades earlier.
“Mam set the table in the dining room for tonight,” Fiona explained. A bit obvious, given that the kitchen table was bare, but his oldest sister could be a nervous talker. “Grab a plate and dish up. I don’t think there’s any specific seating arrangement.”
“Thank you for finishing everything up, Fiona,” Margaret said with a pleased smile. “Sit wherever you like!”
Johnny didn’t like the sound of that.
There wouldn’t be an obvious plan, no, Soap thought as Ghost followed him to the door that led to the seldom-used dining room. Margaret would find a way to try and push him to sit close to Megan, while Megan would try to sit close to Mary, and David would be trying to sit between them, and it would feel an awful lot like musical chairs.
The dining room looked to have been freshly cleaned in anticipation of being used for the holiday with garland hung around the perimeter to add a bit of festive cheer. Margaret had a printed painting of the Last Supper hung on the far wall, with several other pieces scattered about that he knew belonged to different saints.
Not that he cared to remember them all now.
A large table sat in the centre of the room for the adults, with a smaller folding table set against the far wall for Fiona’s children to sit at. Margaret had pulled out her best tablecloth and table runner for the occasion, all freshly pressed and neatly arranged on the table. Sat in place of pride was a hulking gold and white centrepiece, full of shiny gold vegetation, blue and gold ribbons, and white candles to go with her place settings; Johnny swore he could see some bells in the monstrosity. The table was complete with the matching cloth napkins he used to have to press and fold every year.
There was just one wee problem.
He counted eight elaborate place settings sat at the ready on the table. Two simpler settings sat on the kids’ table.
There were nine adults and two children.
The math wasn’t difficult to perform, and Margaret’s intent wasn’t a challenge to divine. A rush of heat washed over him as Johnny stared at the table and his heart thumped painfully in his chest.
There was no space set aside at the table for Simon. It felt an awful lot like there was no space at the table for him or his happiness. No room in the MacTavish family for it and no room for him. No place at the table for John “Soap” MacTavish, just for the John MacTavish of his mother’s imagining.
And there never would be, he realised. From the moment he had agreed to return home and his parents had so hopefully informed him that Megan would be there, all the way up to this exact moment… The entire trip was proof of that. Every interaction with parents, with Margaret, was proof of that.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, shaking him from his thoughts.
“Alright, Johnny?” it was Simon, checking in when he had doubtlessly already noticed what Soap was looking at. Ghost, who knew the score and knew what it meant.
How could he even respond? No, he wasn’t alright. Of course he wasn’t, and he knew that wasn’t really what Ghost was asking.
What next? That was the real question.
He met those soft, honey-whisky eyes and shook his head, turning to find Fiona staring at him. Her eyes flicked from him and Ghost to the table behind them, and he had a front row seat to the horror dawning on her pale, drawn face.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, looking back to him and Ghost with a stricken expression. “I can’t believe- I can set another spot, I-”
Johnny knew, without a doubt, that Simon would stay if he gave any indication that he would accept this like he’d accepted so much else from his mother. Ghost would put up with this insult and let it roll off him like he had with every other slight his family had offered, and he would do it for him.
That’s why he wouldn’t let Fiona set another spot. Simon deserved so much better than this, and so did he. It felt like an overreaction for just a missing place setting, but it was so much more than just that.
He was done.
“No, Fiona, it’s alright. It was nice to see you,” Johnny replied with a strained attempt at a smile. “Give my best to your husband aye? And say bye to the kids for me.”
Her face fell as they made for the door back into the kitchen, skipping the awkward hug this time.
“You’re leaving?” he heard her ask, quiet and sad, and fuck, he felt awful.
“We are,” Johnny confirmed. He felt bad, but staying would be worse.
“Cheers,” Ghost said as they rejoined the general pandemonium that came with having so many people in a space meant for half that many. David had already grabbed a plate for himself and was focused on making sure every dish on the sideboard was accounted for on it while Joshua and Rebecca pushed their way through the throng in an effort to reach Fiona.
In a show of the good manners Margaret had instilled in most of them, his father was standing back to let the McKennas have their choice from the serving platters before him. A lesson David seemed to have missed. Margaret was next to him, looking… expectant? Soap wasn’t sure how to interpret the look on her face, but it wasn’t one he liked. She reminded him of David when he was waiting for the reaction he wanted so badly.
Maybe she was expecting him to make a scene? He could, he could do that easily. Rant and rage and let the desperate anger that lived in his gut take over until every relationship in the room was beyond repair. Or maybe he was meant to clatter about the place looking for all the pieces to set another spot at the table, loud and passive-aggressive the way Margaret was when she wanted to be? Or, was this an insult he was supposed to roll over and accept? Was this some kind of test in her mind?
Whatever it was, whether a game or test, the only way to not play was to remove themselves entirely.
“Mary, glad we got a visit in, it was good seein’ you,” Johnny said, pulling his younger sister into a quick hug. The conversation she was having with Megan and Cathy came to a screeching halt, and she pushed him back to get a closer look at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Soap could see his da snap to attention.
“What do you mean? You’re leaving already?” Mary demanded, confused gaze searching his face. “Why-”
“Aye, seems we’re not welcome at the table, so we’ll be seeing ourselves out,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the din. Her face fell, and Cathy pursed her lips in a disapproving frown.
“Not welcome?” she echoed with a tilt of her head. “Margaret, why are your son and his boyfriend not welcome at the table?”
She looked to his mother, as did everyone else. Realising that whatever she was doing was in the process of backfiring, the smug expectance on her face faded into something akin to fear. Her hands fluttered nervously at her side.
“Maggie… what did you do?” Thomas asked, slow and quiet in the quiet that followed. Even David had paused in his careful arrangement of his plate to pay attention to this. What would she say, now that the focus was on her?
“Oh, I seem to have forgot-”
No. Absolutely not.
“Cut the shite,” Soap snapped with an sharp gesture.
Slack-jawed and red in the face, Margaret stared at him in shock. This was the second time today that Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish had made an appearance, and it took her by surprise just like it had the first time. She didn’t know what to do with a Johnny that didn’t play along, meek and cowed into compliance.
“Mam, why didn’t you set a place for Ghost?” Fiona asked from the doorway. She seemed genuinely confused and upset; bless her heart, she somehow hadn’t picked up on the tension that had underscored the entire visit so far. That was just like her, though.
“Maggie…” his da sighed, exhausted and resigned.
All eyes were back on Margaret, who was glancing about wildly with wide, bright eyes, and a flush high on her cheeks. She reminded Soap of a cornered animal, ready to lash out at any second, and he wondered which play she was going to make.
“All I wanted was to have a nice Christmas with all my children under one roof so we could show our John how nice being home can be,” she sniffed, dabbing at her eyes for dramatic effect. “Is that so bad? Wanting my youngest lad to forget this army nonsense and settle down close to home? Makes me the worst mother in Scotland, does it?”
The victim route, then. Designed to have them all rushing to tell her that she wasn’t a bad mother and conveniently forgetting what started this all off in the first place, even as she doubled down. A classic tactic that had left him looking like a heel on more than one occasion when he was younger. Un-fuckin’-believable. Margaret went on to say, “I just want my John to be safe and happy, is that so bad?”
That was fucking rich, coming from her. He hadn’t been her John since he was thirteen! Or had been twelve? How had that gone again? ‘No son of mine’s goin’ around, acting like that!’ she had shouted after David had ratted him out.
In the present, Soap could admit the chin wobble and wet eyes were a nice touch. Based on what he’d seen this week, if left unchallenged, then Thomas would step in to try and placate Margaret enough to make it through the dinner without further incident. Anything to keep the peace.
“You want me to be happy?” he growled, low and angry. He wasn’t letting that happen today, not yet. His family could wait to manage Margaret and her temper until him and Ghost were done and out of there; he had some things that needed saying before they left.
“You know we do, John,” his mother cried.
“No, I don’t think I do, actually,” he shot back. “I wasn’t happy when I lived here as a young lad, and I can’t say anything has changed! I wasn’t feelin’ very happy or safe when you asked me to stop flaunting my ‘lifestyle’ when it offends your delicate sensibilities, and all ‘cause we, what? Held hands? Had a wee cuddle? Be real, here.”
Margaret opened her mouth, likely to try and spin herself back into being the victim somehow, but Soap wasn’t done yet.
“You didn’t stop there, though, did you? No, you followed us out to tell me not to get the ‘wrong idea’, that you love me. I think I have it exactly right, though. You love a John MacTavish that doesn’t fucking exist, some version of me that you made up when who I really am didn’t fit what you wanted from me! You don’t love me,” he continued and- fuck it felt good to say that. To finally get it all out into the open, no more letting the wounds his mother left on his heart fester. Margaret just stared at Johnny, mouth opening and closing soundlessly as she paled in the face of the pain he had ignored for so long.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his family’s reactions, and in that moment, he was struck by how tired his father looked. David was watching quietly, for now, though who knew what was brewing behind those calculating eyes. Fiona looked to be genuinely on the verge of tears, unlike Margaret’s performance. His younger sister was some potent combination of horrified and furious, and Christ did it ever burn him up inside.
Where was this outrage before? Where was it when Thomas would hardly acknowledge his existence? When his pictures had been pulled off the wall like he didn’t exist anymore? Or when he’d been sent away like a badly behaved dog just a couple days ago? Where was it then?
Was it just because the McKennas were there?
Or were they so used to how Margaret was that it didn’t even register for them anymore?
“If you really cared about seeing me happy, you’d welcome the first person I’ve ever brought here with open arms. But you can’t, can you? Because Ghost doesn’t fit into your vision of who I’m supposed to be,” he snarled the accusation, trembling with emotion as he watched Margaret flush a bright red. “You can’t even be happy that I’m happy!”
“That’s not true!” she shouted, soundless no longer. She clutched at the festive knit that covered her heart. “I just- I worry for you, John! The life you’ve chosen to lead, between the army and-” she waved at Ghost “-it’s a sin, a blemish on your immortal soul, and I just can’t bring myself to support that. It’s unnatural.”
Of all the- could she not hear the words coming out of her own mouth? She wanted him to be happy, but she didn’t like what made him happy? The dissonance there was enough to boggle the mind. Beside him, Ghost let out a humourless sound.
“Interestin’ how that works,” he commented, quiet enough that only Johnny could hear. He snorted, watching as Margaret looked to Mrs. McKenna beseechingly.
“Well, Margaret, I suppose I can see where you’re coming from,” Cathy said, and Soap sighed. Of course she would agree - they attended the same church and ran in the same social circles, after all. It was disappointing, but not unexpected. Birds of a feather, and all. “But I would be over the moon if Megan brought someone home for me to meet, whether man, woman, or one of those folks in-between. As long as she’s happy, that’s enough for me.”
Oh. Now that was unexpected.
Megan inhaled sharply at the revelation, while Johnny felt a pang of envy join the chorus of pain and anger that burned in his chest, along with a healthy dose of guilt. It was a relief to know that Cathy wasn’t like his own parents, and he should be grateful that Megan would have a chance to come out on her own terms to a mother who would love her just the same, but fuck.
“So this is fine to you, then?” his mother demanded, gesturing wildly at them. Cathy dutifully followed her motions and looked at him and Ghost, then gave a quick wink and smile.
“I think it’s lovely,” she replied simply.
“Christ, what I wouldn’t give,” he muttered under his breath. Louder, he continued, “so it was all that motherly concern for my soul that had you strong-armin’ me into a visit so you could find me a nice young lass? I’m sure it was that same ‘concern’ that had you takin’ my photos down? My mistake, aye? Feels more like embarrassment where I’m standing.”
“John! How could you think-” Margaret didn’t get to finish whatever denial she was trying to spin to save face.
“No, definitely embarrassment,” David had put his plate down and was now leaning against the counter, watching the proceedings with a sneer curling his lips. “Wasn’t enough that you had to like shagging lads, but have you seen your hair? No wonder you’re not on the walls anymore.”
“This, coming from the git who looks like he uses Boris Johnson’s barber? Nah, mate,” Johnny dismissed him with a snort. Felt like there was nothing his brother could say that could hurt him anymore. “Now shut it. The adults are talking.”
“Hey, what the fuck? You don’t have to be such a prick about it,” David retorted with a whine, reaching up to pat at his hair and frowning when he found it messy and overgrown. Margaret must not have scheduled him an appointment in some time.
“Me? Take a look at yourself, David. You’ve been the worst sort since we got here, and you’re telling me to ease up? Go fuck yourself,” he scoffed, satisfied when his brother’s frown shifted into a pout like earlier. The freedom to let it all out instead of biting the words back was a heady feeling, one he could get used to.
“Don’t be like that with your brother, John!” Margaret snapped, immediate and waspish.
Just like that, the mask was off and the Margaret MacTavish he’d grown up with was front and centre for everyone to see.
“Why is it always ‘don’t be like that with your brother’ and ‘I can’t believe you’d say that to your brother, John,’” he said, pitching his voice high in mocking imitation. “It’s never David getting told to knock it off. Wonder why that is?”
“Your brother had something he wanted to say,” she said, full of condescending patience that had him gritting his teeth. Well, he had something to say too and once he was done, him and Ghost would leave. He doubted she would hear him, though.
“Oh, aye, that was a very insightful addition,” he agreed bitterly. “Not hard to figure out who the favourite is, is it? God forbid David’s told to shut his fuckin’ gob for once; I’d never get away saying half the shite he does. It was like that even when were kids, too. Couldn’t do anything right, but you’d think the sun shone out his arse.”
“When we spare the rod, we spoil the child,” Margaret explained, and he could have screamed in frustration. He’d heard it a thousand times growing up; it’d struck him as a load of shite then, and it felt the same now.
“Explains a lot about David,” Ghost murmured. Soap huffed, fists clenched at his side.
“Every child is different. Some just need a firmer hand than others,” his mother continued. To be kept in line was how that phrase had always ended when he was a boy. Now, more than ever, he understood exactly what she meant by that. It was never about being a good child, it was about obedience, and being what his mother wanted him to be. Johnny took a deep, shaking breath.
“I didn’t need a firm hand,” he said, swallowing against the sudden ache in his throat. “I needed you to be there for me, to care about me! And I got nothing from you both but hurt that you couldn’t love me like your other children.”
He paused then, his breath hitching painfully in his chest, and looked around the room at the MacTavish family. His mother stared back at him, cold and flinty the way he had come to expect of her. His father was red faced and his moustache bristled, his watery eyes fixed on Soap with something he couldn’t interpret. It didn’t matter.
Ghost shifted closer to him, a looming presence at his side that brought him a measure of comfort and steadiness.
“I tried being good to get your attention, and when that didn’t work I thought maybe I could get it by being half as much of a wanker as David, but that didn’t work either,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Took me a bit to figure out that it doesn’t matter what I do, I’ll never measure up to your favourite, will I?”
Knowing the answer didn’t lessen the hurt, old or new, but it was satisfying to see his mother squirm under Catherine McKenna’s unhappy scrutiny. Good. Let her be seen for who she really was.
“You once told me you couldn’t understand why I was so dead set on joining the army, but this,” he gestured to the room, “is why. I hated it here, I still do.”
He sucked in a trembling breath around the lump that had taken up residence in his throat, and released it slowly. The purposeful brush of Simon’s sleeve against his arm was the exact amount of reassurance he needed; he wasn’t sure if he could handle being outright touched right now. It felt like he might fly apart at any moment.
“If I’ve been such an awful mother and you hate being here so much, then why don’t you just go ahead and leave?” Margaret suggested with a furious frown, pointing at the door to the living room. It was a bluff, he knew that. Was well-acquainted with the script, too. This was the part where they were all supposed to raise a fuss about not wanting to ruin the holiday, and why doesn’t everyone just take a breath, maybe pour a drink, relax.
He was going off-script this time.
“Think we’ll do exactly that, thanks,” he nodded, then turned to Ghost. “You with me, LT?”
“Always,” Ghost’s response was immediate and appreciated. The fact that he didn’t move, still looking to Johnny for the final decision the way he had this entire time was something he wouldn’t soon forget.
Johnny took the first step to closing the distance between them and the door.
“You’re really going to go?! After all the work we’ve put into making a nice dinner, you’re going to leave? Just like that?” his mother screeched her bewildered indignation. Soap wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry; there was no winning with her, and there never had been.
“Just like that,” he replied, deceptively easy, like he didn’t want to scream and cry and laugh all at once, and then he was in the living room with Ghost close behind. In the kitchen, Margaret was huffing and pacing, breaking out the classic ‘well, I never!’ and ‘I can’t believe this!’ loudly enough to be audible as Johnny scooped up the gifts he cared about and kept going. There was a clatter as Ghost removed the earrings and dropped them on top of The Pickup Artist.
“Choices have consequences, Margaret,” he heard Mrs. McKenna say slowly and clearly, like she was speaking to a small child. “Your choice was making sure John and Ghost knew they weren’t welcome, and the consequence is that they’re leaving. And so are we. I’ve seen enough. Are you ready, Megan?”
“Yes, mam!” was the much quieter response, followed by footsteps and the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing.
Well, holy shit.
The fallout was loud and instant.
Margaret’s wailing about how she just wanted to have a nice Christmas and how everything was ruined now could be heard from the front entry way where him and Ghost were shoving their feet into their boots and pulling their coats on. Thomas thundering at her to quit her complaining, it was her own damn fault was equally as audible as they spilled on to the front step. Christ, he could even hear his sisters and his brother getting involved now. A distant part of him wondered if this would have any long lasting effect, or if things would go back to normal after the argument blew over.
“Bloody fuckin’ hell, glad that’s over with. Alright, Johnny?” Simon asked, digging into his pockets and fishing out his crumpled pack of smokes and lighter. He was quick to shift the medical mask and light one, the end burning bright in the scant light offered by the street lights and porch lamp.
Was he alright? Soap took a moment to take stock of himself as if they were in the field. Elevated heartrate, shaking hands, quick, shallow breathing, sweat dampening his skin and chilling him in the night air… all signs pointed to an adrenaline rush that was quickly fading. Emotionally?
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. It was all a tangled, complicated mess of a tapestry in his mind, and yet incredibly simple, but he didn’t have the energy to start plucking at the threads. The events of the day had left him feeling drained and a strange kind of distant. Like he was disconnected from both himself and his surroundings.
Ghost held the smoke out to him, and he accepted it gratefully.
“And you don’t have to know right away. Let’s start with the basics, yeah?” Ghost said, casually wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling Johnny into his side. The pressure felt good, and so did the warmth.
“The basics,” he repeated. Would he ever come back to this house again? Or would this be the last time he ever saw the MacTavish family home? It was a bittersweet thought; for all the misery he had endured here, there had been some good moments, too. Few and far between as they were.
What were the basics?
Catherine and Megan McKenna stepped out of the house at that moment, bundled up against the cold in their coats and scarves. The frown pursing Mrs. McKenna’s lips disappeared when she caught sight of them, and she bustled over to where they stood.
“Good lord, what a nasty display that was, hm?” she offered by way of greeting.
“Not one I’ll forget any time soon,” Simon agreed, plucking the cigarette from Johnny’s fingers and bringing it to his own lips again. He inhaled deeply before blowing it up and away.
“I don’t think any of us will,” she said, even as they could still hear the muffled sounds of the rest of the MacTavish family shouting within the house. Was this what the neighbours had been treated to when he was growing up? Christ.
“Well, can at least say it was good to meet the two of you, even if the rest of the day was a wash,” Simon commented, gently running his hand up and down Johnny’s arm.
“Aye, was nice seeing you both again,” he said absently. Would he see any of his family again? Or was this it? He could meet with Mary for sure, but Fiona and her lot? Would he get the chance to cultivate a closer relationship with his niece and nephew? With Fiona herself? What would that look like, without his parents or David around?
“Yes, that was about the only good part,” Catherine mustered a smile for them, her eyes drifting to her own home a short distance away. “You boys must be on your way home, though, don’t let me keep you.”
“That’s right. Before we go, any good takeaways ‘round here?”
Catherine had directed them to a nearby Chinese restaurant that had the good grace to be both good and open, remarking that she would likely be ordering from there herself in a bit. Open was the only criteria they’d been interested in, the fact that the food wasn’t bad was just a bonus.
Simon had been a godsend the entire way home, navigating placing their order for dinner and getting them back to Johnny’s flat with the same efficiency and single-minded focus he brought to any of the missions they’d been on so far. Without him, Soap would have… well, he wouldn’t have gone anywhere. He would have still been back at the house, in all likelihood.
Tomorrow, he would find the words to express what that meant to him.
Tonight, he sank into his cheap couch and ate the food Ghost had picked for him and paid for, then accepted the generous dram of scotch the man had poured. His mind was picking through every detail of the day, and yet felt utterly empty at the same time. The entire time, Simon was a comforting presence next to him. Even better, he didn’t ask Johnny about what was going through his head, instead just letting him work his way through it on his own time.
Somewhere between Simon putting on the first movie and switching to the second, the emotional rollercoaster took its toll, and Johnny fell asleep right there on the couch, curling into Ghost all the while.
Movement woke him briefly, but the room was dark, and he was warm and secure with Simon’s arms wrapped around him, and he couldn’t bring himself to truly wake up. In the morning, he would remember that blip of consciousness when he wondered how he’d ended up tucked into his bed with Ghost.