Chapter Text
Vzzt.
Vzzt.
Vzzt.
Johnny woke up slowly, blinking wearily against the dim light of the wintry morning outside his curtains. The first thing he noticed, besides his phone vibrating away on the nightstand, was the deep exhaustion that threatened to pull him back under, and the start of what promised to be a throbbing headache behind his eyes. He felt like he’d gone ten rounds with all his old hand-to-hand instructors just for the hell of it.
The call going to voicemail was a relief, the vibration no longer drilling its way into his brain the longer it went.
Simon was quiet behind him, his sleepy puffs of breath just barely audible in the stillness of the room, and Johnny let it soothe him into closing his eyes. Sleep called to him, a siren’s lullaby that had his breathing slowing again as he began to drift…
Only to be interrupted by another call coming in, the buzzing of his phone jarring him fully awake. He groaned into his pillow when Simon’s breathing changed, signalling that he’d been woken up too. Who the fuck was trying so hard to call him on leave?
Johnny reached out and snatched up his phone to look at the call display.
Christ al-fuckin’-mighty, would Margaret MacTavish not leave him alone?
She’d already made her position more than clear; what else was there to say? He declined the call and watched in horror as it joined the legion of notifications on his lock screen. Just how many were there? Horror shifted to dread that sat heavy in his stomach as he unlocked his phone and saw the sheer volume of missed calls, voicemails, and text messages waiting for him.
“What the fuck?” he whispered to himself, expanding a notification for one of the texts so he could get a sense of what waited for him without letting Margaret know that her messages were being seen.
-cant beliebve you think you can just leave us all behind the way you did and come back and have the nerve to tell me im a bad mother that i did wrong by you no son of mine acts like that look i know i made mistakes im not perfect but what was i supposed to do my youngest son going down a path of sin i was trying to help you and you were dead set on it-
Yeah, no, he didn’t need to read any further than that. Apparently, there was a lot more Margaret had to say, and if that one message was any indication, it was all a continuation of what she’d been on about the night before. And that was just the text messages! If those were anything to go by, the voicemails would be a real treat to wade through as well. Probably just Margaret nigh screaming into the receiver about what an awful son he turned out to be and the perils of ignoring her, and did he know how much trouble he was in?
Like that meant anything.
The rustling of blankets beside him drew Johnny’s attention to Simon, who had rolled over and was squinting at him, pale brows drawn together in concern. His eyes were a deep brown in the dim light, nearly black, and they shifted from his face to the phone and back.
“S’goin’ on?” he rasped, and oh, his voice was a barely there rumble from disuse, quiet and sleepy. It had Johnny’s heart leaping in his chest, a counter to the anxiety curling in his belly, and he would give anything to hear more of it. Preferably every day.
“Mam’s a wee bit upset about last night,” he replied with a sigh. He went to roll over so he could face Simon, but he was stopped by a warm weight pressing into his back and a heavy arm draping itself over his waist.
“Sounds like an understatement,” Ghost said, settling in behind him.
As if on cue, the screen lit up again as yet another call came through. Soap sighed and dropped the damn thing on top of the sheets. It felt like it was mocking him, the constant buzzing a taunt to try and force him into answering, all while beckoning that headache closer and closer. Surely, it would be some long-winded diatribe that rehashed the numerous messages in his inbox; he was a horrible son who had single-handedly ruined both the holiday and her life, and she would harangue him until he felt compelled to apologise just to make it stop. Another attempt to force him back into the fold so she could keep playing at making him into the John MacTavish she wanted. Not something he wanted to deal with.
But if he didn’t eventually pick up…
Margaret wouldn’t stop just because she wasn’t getting a response. If he knew her at all after thirty years as her son, then he knew that she would only escalate until she got a reaction from him, maybe to the point of showing up on his doorstep to get it. The prospect made his palms sweat and his stomach churn just as much as it irritated him, and it left Soap feeling a bit ridiculous. He was a decorated sergeant with the SAS, and yet his mother held this kind of sway over him?
The arm around his waist moved as he started to reach for his phone, and then Simon’s hand was loosely gripping his wrists and pushing them back down to the mattress.
“Simon,” he murmured admonishingly, wiggling his fingers while his eyes were glued to his phone. What would it take for her to leave him alone?
“You really want to answer that?” Ghost asked, and for all the skepticism packed into that question, it was also a genuine check-in. One that he appreciated.
“No,” Johnny admitted quietly, doing his best to relax into Simon’s hold.
“Then don’t.”
Like it was simple as that. And maybe it really was. Was he more sick and tired of her shite than anxious about her escalating her behaviour?
“Simon,” he tried again. It felt good to call Ghost by his name.
“Yes, Johnny?” there was a wealth of humour hidden in that voice, and he couldn’t help but smile fondly at it.
“I need that hand,” he wiggled his fingers again where they were still trapped under Simon’s.
“You gonna pick up?”
“No.”
Simon’s hand shifted, and Johnny reached for his phone where it was still ringing in the blankets and quickly declined the call and silenced it fully. Then, he dropped it back on his nightstand with a clatter before shuffling back into Simon’s embrace.
It wasn’t a permanent solution, he knew that, but Margaret could stand to be kept waiting for a bit. She was so used to the family jumping to attention when she so much as raised her voice that it would do her some good to be ignored. Mary and Thomas might not have agreed with that, stuck in the same house with her as they were, but that was their problem now, not his.
As much as he was furious with his mother and so much of his family for how things had played out last night, his breath still caught painfully in his chest and his heart raced at the mere thought of how he would have to eventually deal with her brand of vitriol. The drill sergeants of his youth had nothing on Margaret when she was worked up.
Johnny was pulled out of his thoughts by Simon lacing their fingers together and drawing their hands back under the covers to rest against his stomach. His thumb started a slow, tentative sweep over the shirt he was wearing, a welcome comfort that Johnny slowly sank into. The shirt was the one he wore yesterday, he realised distantly. The last thing he remembered was Ghost picking a movie at random after the first one ended. A flush stained his cheeks at the realisation that Simon must have brought him to bed last night after he fell asleep on the couch.
There was an intimacy there Johnny had never experienced before, not with anyone.
“Better?” Ghost’s voice was a gentle rumble in his ear, his chin resting briefly on Soap’s shoulder before he pressed his lips to his cheek and settled right behind him on his pillow.
“For now,” Johnny sighed, savouring the feeling of Simon’s breaths against his skin. Sinking into this moment with Ghost was nice. Better than nice, even. It felt like an opportunity to simply exist for a time, just the two of them in a space all their own now that his phone was silenced. Yet, there was something that felt different, too. In days gone by, with previous partners, this brand of closeness wasn’t something to be enjoyed on its own as something precious between them, but always as a precursor to something else.
And that had been fine, but there was something deeply precious to him about this moment being left to stand on its own.
“Whatever happens, you’re not alone,” Simon murmured as he squeezed Johnny’s hand once, twice, and then a third time. It was just as sweet a gesture as the first time he’d done it. He hummed and gave Simon a series of squeezes in return.
He didn’t want to think much more on what would come next, and Ghost either picked up on that or was savouring the close intimacy of a slow morning with nowhere to be as much as Soap was.
A bright spot while Johnny put off the inevitable.
To that end, he let go of Simon’s hand so he could roll over and face the man. Heavy-lidded brown eyes, sleepy and soft at the edges with an expression he didn’t recognize, watched him shuffle about until he tucked his face under Simon’s chin. Johnny’s free arm looped itself around his waist, his hand brushing over sleep-warmed fabric to come to rest in the centre of Ghost’s back. In this new position he was able to both hear and feel a low, comfortable sigh from Simon, who wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer.
The sound of his heart beating under his ear, the feeling of Simon’s back moving with every breath he took, it was enough to soothe Johnny into a light sleep.
In the end, they’d only finally disentangled themselves and gotten out of bed when their stomachs were growling too much to keep ignoring. Johnny had dozed a bit, drifting in and out of sleep in the warmth and safety of Simon’s arms, his phone going utterly ignored.
That didn’t stop the memories of the night before from floating through his mind like the worst kind of highlight reel. The way the pretty veneer of Margaret’s mask of kindness and civility kept slipping throughout the day until she had, at long last, dropped all pretense and let her true colours shine through for everyone to see. How his own family accepted that behaviour as perfectly normal, the way they had his entire life, and how it took the observation and judgment of third-party observers for them to realise that it wasn’t okay at all.
His sisters’ upset and his father’s attempts at doing anything to handle Margaret and David were nice gestures, he supposed, but, in the end, it all felt a bit like it was too little, too late.
Where had that been when he was younger?
Those thoughts dogged him as he and Simon slowly set about their morning. He dutifully brushed his teeth, but skipped out on the shower in favour of changing into a fresh shirt and pulling on his favourite joggers. Soap was just switching the kettle on when Simon stepped into the little room, his hair wet and curling around his ears from his shower. The worn tee shirt he'd put on clung to the moisture left on his skin, and it was an effort for Johnny to peel his eyes away to focus on what he was doing. They had coffee grounds measured and added to his French press and a bag of Simon's preferred tea dropped into a mug that Johnny had come to think of as his in short order.
It was easy, falling into this newly familiar routine together in his flat’s little kitchen. Another thing Johnny had never really experienced before Simon. He kept casting about for something to say, something to break the quiet enveloping them, but he was coming up empty.
Instead, he couldn’t help but think that Mary had done her best, but she’d been barely an adult the last time he’d visited. Too young and lacking the life experience to understand the nuance and dynamics involved in their family then, but this time around was a different story. And Fiona…
Simon didn’t seem to mind that he couldn’t get his thoughts in order, instead just rummaging through the cupboards and fridge to pull out the makings of what Johnny would describe as the ultimate comfort breakfast.
Tattie scones he’d made and froze on his last leave, left to thaw before being fried while Simon set out a pot of beans to be heated, followed by a pan to fry up the sausage and bacon still left in the fridge from the other morning.
When the kettle went off, Simon quietly stepped back from the food preparation to handle their respective drinks. Johnny found himself grateful when he realised this was Ghost’s way of giving him space so he could muddle through his thoughts and feelings, sort them into some kind of order in his own head before trying to put them into words, all while keeping his hands busy.
Mary had been a child, that was true, but she had grown up since then. She’d moved for school and experienced a world without Margaret MacTavish scrutinizing her every move, and she’d still just been a bystander to it all, save for speaking up here and there. His difficulties with the elder MacTavish weren’t her problem, just as much as it wasn’t ever Fiona’s responsibility either.
And Fiona had tried. Christ, he could scarcely remember the number of times she had stepped in to try and fill the maternal role Margaret had all but abandoned when he wasn’t even a teenager. It wasn’t fair to her then, and it wasn’t now, but feelings didn’t adhere to logic, and despite all that, it still hurt to see everything play out the way it did.
Especially with Thomas. Absent at best and outright negligent at worst for most of his life, and he picked now to stand up to his wife? He chose the very end of a horrible visit to do anything more than desperately try to keep the peace? Fuck. A furious swig of coffee helped shift his mind back to the present, and back to the heaping plate of food before him.
Breakfast wasn’t quite as quiet as the making of it was, not when Johnny got to watch Simon try his first tattie scone -seriously, how had the man never eaten one before?- and watch his expression cycle from cautious, to questioning, to nodding thoughtfully as he chewed.
“Needs something,” his LT had said, moments before spooning a load of baked beans on top of the scone and shoving it back in his mouth.
“Fuckin’ Brits,” Johnny couldn’t help himself, he’d burst out laughing because of course that’s what Simon would do with a tattie scone. Then he’d tried it for himself and found it wasn’t bad, not bad at all with the sweet and savoury beans and sauce playing against the texture and flavour of the scone. Not that he would be admitting that out loud any time soon.
There was a kind of magic in the way the delicate corners of Simon’s eyes crinkled when he shot Johnny a smug, lopsided smile, and in the way his cheeks were puffed out around his bite of scone and beans, that chipped away at the pit of anxiety enough that he could talk around it again. Chipped away at those memories of how his father had failed him, how his sisters had tried and ultimately got nowhere.
"Well, you've seen what my leaves usually look like now," Johnny said, gesturing to the room with his fork. "Usually involves a lot less of seeing my family, mind. What do you get up to?"
As far as attempts to avoid discussing the MacTavish clan and the last few days the two of them had suffered in their presence went, it was entirely transparent.
Thankfully, Ghost was willing to play along.
"Don't go far, honestly. I've got an SSA on base I stay in," he explained. There was a glimmer of humour in his eye, like he knew exactly what kind of accommodation came to kind when he said that.
White-painted cinderblock walls, finely aged to a dingy beige, with a solitary window that would overlook a sea of parking lots and squat, ugly buildings that served as warehouses, training facilities, mess halls, and more barracks for on-base troops.
A single metal-framed bed, just barely big enough for a man of Simon's stature, would be pushed against one wall with an ancient particle board desk with matching chair against the other. Johnny could even see the flooring in his mind's eye; a grubby brown and grey linoleum that had seen better days before it had ever been made. Fuck, he could even smell the place.
"Christ, Simon, really? Couldn't even spring for something just off-base?" Johnny asked in disbelief, nose wrinkling in distaste. He knew from experience that it would smell both musty and like cleaning supplies, as well as that distinct smell that cropped up wherever there was a concentration of men who often did physical work. Like a fucking locker room.
"Hard to sign a lease when you're dead, Johnny," Simon commented lightly. For all that it was an unpleasant reminder of everything he'd been through, the barest hint of a smile still quirked his lips.
"Ah, I suppose you have a point there," Soap conceded, a dusting of heat rising in his cheeks in embarrassment for having not realised that for himself. It brought up all manner of questions in his mind of what else he couldn’t do because of that and why. Chief among them, why was Simon not furnished with a false identity and papers? Surely, with their contacts, it wasn’t that hard to accomplish?
A question for another time.
"Besides, I don't spend enough time there for it to really matter," Simon said with a shrug, leaning back into the lumpy loveseat with his long legs stretched out in front of him.
"You don't?" Johnny echoed. He wasn't sure why that came as such a surprise to him, honestly. Simon was a flesh and blood man just like him, not a tool to be put away until it was needed again, much as the SAS might want to believe differently. Of course the man had hobbies, of course he had a life of some kind outside of the SAS.
"You ever heard of geocaching?" Ghost asked hesitantly. His fingertips ran across the knuckles of his other hand over and over again, tapping a rhythm that only he knew.
"Can't say I have," Johnny said, shifting so he could face the other man. The motion pressed his knee into the soft muscle of Simon’s thigh, a comfortable point of contact while he considered this uncharacteristic… he didn’t want to call it timidity, but that’s what came to mind. “Tell me about it?”
There was something special about the way Simon brightened at his show of interest, how the worried, vulnerable lines around his eyes softened and his entire demeanour shifted, that made Johnny realise his LT had been expecting some level of ridicule for just revealing that he had any interests outside of their job, let alone one that wasn’t typical of men in their line of work.
“It’s a bit like a treasure hunt,” Simon started as he reached for his mug of tea and wrapped his hands around it. “Similar to some of our intel missions. You get a set of coordinates, plug it into GPS, and make your way to them. Once you’re there, it’s a hunt for the actual box the cache is in.”
“It really does sound like an intel mission,” Johnny agreed with a chuckle. “So where do these coordinates usually take you? Is this a town kind of thing or do you go out into the country for it?”
“Can be either, but I’m partial to the ones that involve a bit of a hike. The cache is usually at the end, little extra incentive to go out and actually do it,” his LT explained, sipping at his tea. There was a rueful quality to his voice, and Johnny briefly wondered if Simon was the type who needed that extra reason to get out. Was that something he struggled with?
It was a fascinating glimpse of who Simon was outside the job. Much like this entire leave had been.
Beyond that, it made sense that he was the type to enjoy the outdoors a bit; on their travels up to Scotland, and on the trip to Manchester on Christmas Eve, Simon had clearly not enjoyed being in the presence of the number of people that being in the city brought. Not that there was much of the rest of the leave to enjoy, either, though the few kisses they’d shared had been a high point. God, to kiss him again…
"You know I love a little incentive," the words tumbled out of Johnny's mouth in a purr that had Simon's gaze locked on him again, wide with surprise. He hadn't meant for his train of thought to slip out like that, but it was worth it for the flush that graced Ghost's cheekbones and the way his eyes darkened and swept over him.
Before they could follow that detour any further, he said, “aye, sounds nice to get away like that. So, what’s actually inside these caches?”
“Usually just a little book to sign, but I’ve found a few with stickers and the like,” Simon paused, clearing his throat. His gaze flicked from Johnny to the dark television before them and back again before finally settling on their plates. “Might be something you’d like, too.”
Simon was right, that was the kind of activity Johnny could see himself enjoying, but there was more to it than that. There had to be, for Ghost to be so uncharacteristically hesitant, but what…?
Oh.
Something inside Johnny, a jagged piece of anxious hope and fear of rejection that hid in the darkest recesses of his heart, finally settled when he understood what Simon was really saying. What he was asking. The nerves he was trying to hide were plain as day to Soap, visible in the way he focused his attention on the wood veneer that covered the surface of the coffee table, in the way his fingertips tapped away on the side of his mug, and the way his breathing had picked up.
A departure from the quietly confident man Johnny knew and cared for so much.
Ghost had been such a steadfast companion for this disaster of a leave, so brave in how he stepped out of his comfort zone for Soap’s sake. Even braver when he brought Johnny to those graves in Manchester, cracking himself open to let his sergeant peer inside at the myriad pieces that made up Simon “Ghost” Riley and how his feelings about Soap fit into that puzzle.
And maybe Johnny could respond in kind.
“You asking me to spend the next leave we get with you?” he asked, a smile slowly spreading across his cheeks. Ghost’s gaze shot up to meet his own, dark and hopeful and surprised- Christ, he wanted to kiss that look right off his face.
Thoughts of his family and their very human failings had been obliterated from the forefront of his mind, leaving nothing behind but this moment with Simon. How much he cared about Simon, and how important this was to him.
“Miss out on all this?” Soap continued, gesturing to the postage stamp sized living room and kitchen around them, though really, he meant the entire mess with his family, too. “To be with you instead? See the places you like to go, see what you like to do? That’s what you’re askin’ me?”
“And if I am? D’you think you’d be alright with that?” It was a question with only one possible answer, and Simon knew it, if the small smile pulling at his lips was any indication.
They really would have this again. He would get to see Ghost like this again. Maybe not in this flat, maybe never again in this flat, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that for as much as Johnny wanted this thing between them to continue to grow, Simon wanted it just as badly.
Was planning for it to continue.
A giddy excitement reared its head at the mere thought; he wanted to clamber on to Ghost’s lap and show him exactly how ‘alright’ he was with that. Driven by the rush of exhilaration, Johnny nearly did that, moving until he was almost kneeling on the loveseat, facing Ghost.
It buoyed him forward until he was grasping Simon’s jaw, his palm brushing over scarred and bristly skin, so he could pull him in and press an elated kiss to that precious, lopsided smile. Johnny pulled back just enough to gauge his reaction; did he want this just as much as he did, too?
“More than ‘alright,’ Simon,” he murmured huskily into the scant space between them. Those sweet, honey brown eyes crinkled at the corners in the way he loved so much, warm and bright with affection, and he had his answer.
“Good.”
One big, pale hand curled itself around the back of Johnny’s neck, and then Ghost was pulling him in to softly brush their lips together again. It was sweet, and tentative, and would be something that lodged itself in Soap’s memory as much as their first kiss in front of the Riley family’s resting place had. But God, it just whet his appetite for more.
When Ghost pulled back, Soap followed, chasing so quickly after his mouth that he nearly toppled over. He tried to catch his balance by planting his free hand along the top of the couch, but the cushions gave way under his weight.
Ghost caught him, helping Soap right himself by hooking a hand in the crook of his knee and tugging until Johnny was sat on his lap, straddling his thighs.
“You always this greedy?” he murmured, letting his hands drag down Soap’s flanks until they could slip under the hem of his tee shirt and grip the bare skin of his waist, fingertips pressing into the warm muscle there.
“Can’t help it with you,” Johnny confessed quietly, brushing his thumbs over Simon’s jaw before tilting his head and leaning in again.
He pressed kiss after kiss to Ghost’s face; his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, and then finally one to his lips. Simon sighed into it, his hands sliding up Soap’s back and pulling him closer. It was electrifying to know that Ghost wanted him like this, and Johnny was helpless to do anything but pour those feelings into the kiss, slanting his mouth across Simon’s, licking and biting until he opened up.
And God, Ghost opened beautifully for him. It lit a fire in Johnny, a heat that trailed down his spine and curled in his gut and demanded more. More skin for his wandering hands, more kisses for his hungry mouth, more of this all-encompassing, desperate want that stole the breath from his chest, leaving him heaving for air like he’d just run laps in full gear.
Still, he didn’t slow down until Simon inevitably pulled back to catch his breath, and even then, the action pulled a distressed sound from him that he would deny making until the day he died.
“Easy, Johnny. Easy. We have time,” Ghost shushed him gently, running his hands up and down Soap’s back in an effort to further soothe him.
“We have time,” he breathed back, and then Simon was leaning in to kiss him again, slow and languid and perfect. It was easy to keep going just like that, soft and simple with Ghost in control now instead, and Soap sank into the sensation of being wanted, of being cared for, like it was a warm bath. A balm to his bruised and battered heart that he’d been trying so hard to ignore.
They kept on like that, trading kisses back and forth until their mouths were slick and sore, their skin scraped raw in places from each other’s stubble. Finally, Simon eased back, cradling Johnny’s head in his hands, and urged him to rest against his shoulder. In Soap’s previous relationships - a generous way to refer to them - this would have long progressed past the point of making out on the couch with all their clothes on to the main event. It was a novel experience to let this be the main event, taking that urgent desire in his belly and letting it go from rolling boil to gentle simmer instead of chasing the heat. What came as a surprise to him was how content he was to let that happen.
There would be time, Ghost said. There would be time to not only explore everything that could be between them, but time to savour it, too. Johnny sighed and settled into the crook of Simon’s neck, breathing in his warm, clean scent and basking in the softness of his tee shirt under his cheek. Ghost’s arms were a welcome weight against his back, anchoring his body as his mind wandered.
He would do it all without the shadow of his failing relationship with his family hovering over him while he did.
With that thought in mind, Johnny let his eyes fall shut and drifted in Simon’s embrace.
“Ah, fuck,” Johnny groaned as he stood, stretching this way and that to try and alleviate the pain in his back. Turned out that his lumpy little couch wasn’t designed for two men of their stature to try and cuddle on it for any length of time, and he was definitely feeling the effects of that.
Simon wasn’t much better off; his thumbs were digging into his lower back in an effort to loosen the tight muscles there. He laughed under his breath, an amused huff at their newly developed predicament.
“Feeling your age?” There was a sly humour in Ghost’s voice that suited him, Johnny thought.
“Feeling my age?” he echoed, laughing and stooping with a curse to start gathering up their breakfast dishes. “You say that like you’re not older than me, Simon.”
“I’m young at heart,” Ghost replied simply.
“Is that what it is? Fuck,” Soap swore, straightening back up slowly. “Remind me to buy a new couch sometime, aye?”
“Alright, sure, Johnny,” Ghost was still chuckling as he followed Soap into the kitchen, his own dishes in hand.
Maybe Soap would spend more than a handful of quid at a donation centre for the thing this time, though his poor couch had more than done its time since then. He’d picked it up, given it a good cleaning, and it had been a stalwart piece of furniture ever since. Even if it was a bit uncomfortable after any length of time spent sitting on it.
The tired old beast of burden was one of the first major pieces of furniture Johnny’d ever bought, if he remembered right. Along with his mattress and bed frame, where he’d spent exponentially more than a tenner. He’d been so proud; setting up his own place with his own things so he could crawl out from under Margaret’s thumb and exert a bit more control over his life outside the service. It had been a big step as a young man, fresh out of basic training. His mother had been furious.
Almost as furious as when she’d found out he’d tricked her into signing off on him enlisting early, and that there was nothing she could do about it. Johnny had slipped the form into an application for an apprenticeship in the trade she had been hounding him to pursue, and his mother had been so pleased that he was finally listening to her. “Just like David and your da!” she’d exclaimed as she scrawled a signature right where he needed it, so thrilled that he was going to renounce his sinful ways and walk the path she wanted for him, that she hadn’t read what she was signing off on.
To this day, Johnny could recall the weeks between the form being signed by his parents and the discovery of his lie with painful, exacting clarity. The overwhelming sense of being unwelcome and unwanted within the walls of his own home had vanished nearly overnight, and he’d been welcomed back into the fold like the two years between being caught with Darren Taggart and presenting that application had never happened.
It had torn younger Johnny apart. The love and acceptance he had yearned so much for, that he had given up on, and suddenly it was his again. A brief glimpse of what his life could look like, provided he gave up on ever growing into the man he wanted to be and instead crawled into the mould his mother had designed for him. A sad semblance of happiness for the low price of his sense of self.
And yet, it had been more proof that everything they ever felt towards him was purely conditional, and he’d been lucky to understand that enough at sixteen years old to not let it keep him there. If anything, their about-face only bolstered his resolve to see his enlistment through, come what may.
That short period of everything being alright within the MacTavish family home had come to a crashing end when his enlistment confirmation and movement orders came in the mail, and the resulting row had been legendary. Johnny remembered tearfully packing what precious little he could bring with him while Margaret howled her displeasure and Thomas looked more disappointed than he ever had before.
Neither of them had stopped to question why their youngest son had gone to such extremes to escape, however.
On the day of his departure, he had hugged his sisters goodbye while his brother still slept, and suffered through his mother pretending that he didn’t exist while she sipped her morning tea. His father had intercepted him at the door, clasping one narrow shoulder with a heavy hand and squeezing once before letting him go out into the world on his own.
Those first weeks away had been some of the hardest of his life.
Any attempt to communicate with his family back home, even just a few words for his sisters, had gone entirely ignored until he had nearly been done with his thirteen weeks of basic. Christ, he remembered feeling more alone than ever before in his life in those few months, even as he was surrounded by his fellow enlisted and the poor bastards in charge of teaching them the difference between the business end of a rifle and the stock. Laying in his cot every night, surrounded by tens of other young lads all there for their own reasons, he struggled with the knowledge that the hopeful letters he’d been writing were likely going straight into the bin.
Johnny had run away to the army to get away from them, yes, but they were still the only family he had, and he still, still, desperately wanted their approval. Hell, even just their attention.
His mother’s furious silence had come to an abrupt end when he received his first and only letter from home. Contained on that single page were quick updates about how everyone was doing; Mary was doing well in school, Fiona had met a nice man through a church function, and David was doing wonderfully as a plumber. Just like his father.
At the end of the glowing praise for his brother, Margaret asked when he was coming home to visit. Like the entire row that preceded his leaving had never happened.
And Johnny had gone home, getting reeled back into Margaret’s sphere of influence despite his best efforts. Just like he’d been pulled back in after Fiona’s wedding fiasco, too. It would be different this time, though. Ghost was with him, and while Ghost would support whatever he chose to do, his very presence bolstered Johnny’s resolve.
He wouldn’t get dragged back in.
Not this time.
“Johnny? You alright?” the sound of Simon’s concerned voice jolted him from his trip down memory lane, and he met the man’s gaze with wide eyes.
“Huh? Yeah, I’m solid,” he replied, the phrase more a reflex than an honest response.
“You sure? Been staring at those dishes for awhile now.”
“Right, yeah,” Soap stumbled over the words, reaching for a clean dish cloth. The sink had filled and the water turned off while he’d been busy getting lost in his own mind. “Was just thinking.”
Ghost made a vague noise of agreement, but didn’t push the issue. They fell into a comfortable rhythm together, getting the dishes washed and dried in short order. Again, the repetitive, familiar motions helped Johnny gather his thoughts into something cohesive, and when the last dish was put away he found he was ready to tell Ghost what had been on his mind that morning.
“Almost every visit home ends like this,” he started his explanation with his gaze resolutely set on the soapy water in the sink. It was easier to not look at Simon while he bared his soul, although he knew without looking that Ghost was focused wholly on him. “There’s always a fight over something; last time it was ‘cause I found out that I wasn’t deployed for Fiona’s wedding. I missed it ‘cause mam never sent the invitation.”
“Never thought too much of it, you know? Made sense that I was on assignment, and I didn’t question it. Did some thinking on it last time, though, when Fiona told me mam sent the invitation but I’d RSVP’d no,” Johnny continued quietly. She’d seemed so disappointed, so betrayed, when she’d reminded him that he’d apparently been unable to make the time to attend her wedding, and it had been a moment that had shone a new light on their relationship since her marriage. Namely, why it was so awkwardly tense and uncomfortable.
“You never got that invitation,” Ghost said, slow and careful.
“Think I would’ve remembered lettin’ my sister down like that, aye,” Soap confirmed with a heavy sigh. “I looked at mam, she looked at me, and I knew. There was no invitation, and there never was. Fiona let mam handle the invitations, you see, and mam didn’t want me there and I- I missed it. D’you know I found out it even happened?”
Every strained word felt like it was being dragged out of him, one by one, and he ached with the effort, his eyes and throat burning. It felt like he was finally revealing an old, festering wound to the light of day so it could be dealt with, and it hurt. He knew his mother only really wanted him around if he played the role of model son and behaved the way she expected him to, but to know how deep it truly ran and then to acknowledge it out loud was a new level of pain. Sharp and fresh over the dull, old ache.
“How, Johnny?” Simon prompted him, soft and low in the bright light of the kitchen.
“The bleedin’ photos were up on the walls. The whole MacTavish clan was there to celebrate… except for me. Fiona was so upset that I wasn’t there and I couldn’t even tell her why! I didn’t even say anything, I just- I walked out,” Johnny’s voice broke and he choked for air as his emotions got the better of him, letting his head fall back so he was looking at his white painted ceiling instead. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. “I should have.”
“Might not have done it then, but you can always do it now,” Ghost suggested. “Maybe it’s time to set the record straight?”
“Maybe you’re right, maybe it is,” he agreed, shaky, but still strong. If he did tell Fiona the real reason he wasn’t at her wedding… either it ruined her relationship with Margaret, or it ruined the relationship between them even further. It could be worth it, though, if only to get it off his chest. “I just don’t- why don’t they want me, Simon? What’s so fuckin’ wrong with me that my own parents- my own mother! - doesn’t want me?”
“Nothing. There’s not a damn thing wrong with you,” Ghost said, so serious and intent that Soap could almost believe him. He appreciated the sentiment there, he really did, but now that he’d started, he couldn’t help but barrel onwards, the words falling out of his mouth quick as anything.
“You know what really gets me, though? When I walked out of there the last time I told myself that was it, if they didn’t me around that bad then message fuckin’ received, loud and clear! I would stay the fuck away, but all mam has to do is call and there I go again! Crawling right back like this time it’s going to be different somehow, and it never fucking is! I’m done with it, I’m really done with it this time!”
It was a promise, one made with such intensity that Johnny’s voice shook with it, bouncing off the walls of his flat while Ghost slowly nodded along with him. Not in a condescending way; it felt more like commiseration. Simon had been in a very similar situation, once upon a time. He knew exactly how Johnny felt, and understood his turmoil like no one else Soap knew.
He breathed deep and held it for a few seconds before blowing it out slowly, letting it take all the anger and hurt along with it.
“I’m done with it. No more, Simon,” Soap finally finished, tired and calmer now that he’d aired that old wound out and set himself on a new course. He knew what he needed to do, and he was strong enough to follow through. There would be no crawling back this time.
“So what are you going to do about it, Johnny?”
“Gonna pour another cup of coffee and start wading through all that shite on my phone, that’s what,” he replied, shooting a weary smile at Simon. “Sit with me?”
“Let me get another cuppa first.”
There were ninety-three notifications waiting for him. Ninety-three.
He was exhausted just looking at them, and he had a feeling that he’d be utterly drained by the time he was done. In fairness to Margaret, even though she really didn’t deserve the consideration, Johnny could see some of the texts were from Mary and Fiona, too. So, he would start small with them and build up to tackling the walls of text his mother had been bombarding him with. It wasn’t like he needed to really read what she had to say, anyways, if the preview he’d seen earlier that morning was any indication of what was awaiting him. He’d heard it all his life already.
He told Simon as much.
“Atta boy, Johnny, saving the best for last,” Ghost replied drily from the bookcase.
“You know it, LT,” he was surprised to hear himself chuckle in return, despite the mess of dread and determination sitting like a stone in his gut.
He took a deep breath, and tapped his way into the message chain with his older sister, where Johnny could see there were a handful there waiting for him.
From: Fiona Not-MacTavish
I can’t believe ma really did all that
If I knew she was going to do that I’d have done something
I’m sorry John
Tell Ghost I’m sorry too
That shouldn’t have happened
“Who’s up first, then?” Ghost asked as he eased himself back on to that goddamned loveseat next to him with a grunt, book and tea in hand. It was the same book he’d been working on since that first night, and it hit Johnny in that moment how it really had been less than a week since they’d taken that first train north. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then, but for every awful thing that had happened, he was glad Simon had been next to him for it all. He’d been a source of support unlike any other.
“Fiona,” he replied easily, his eyes glued to her apology. “She’s sorry for how last night went.”
“Nice of her, even if it isn’t her fault,” Ghost said. Soap hummed an agreement and tapped out a quick reply.
“She’s always been like that,” Johnny said softly. Seeing an apology from her when this responsibility should never have landed on her shoulders only made him feel worse for struggling with feeling hurt. She had always tried her best for him.
He could still remember his fifteenth birthday, how he had come home after another lonely day at school avoiding his brother and his friends to an empty house. He’d known by then to not expect much out of the occasion; his parents typically swung between pretending he wasn’t there or being annoyed that he was, but he had still figured that they would at least have dinner together with some cake to mark the day.
Oh, how wrong he’d been.
Margaret had been off to some ladies’ church function, if he recalled right, and his da had had to work late that night. David had been off with his friends, doing whatever it was that he got up to on a school night back then. By the time Johnny had realised that there was going to be no dinner with his family, no cake, and certainly no presents, it had been early evening.
On the verge of tears, he’d found a box of cake mix in the cupboards and set about making it for himself. It had turned out a sad, lopsided affair, but young John had been determined to do something, anything, to celebrate his birthday. God, the icing had barely even stayed on the cake; he hadn’t realised that icing a cake fresh from the oven was a fool’s errand at that point.
Around the time he had been putting candles into his cake, Fiona and Mary had arrived home from whatever it was they’d been doing. Johnny couldn’t remember the particulars very well anymore, fifteen years had passed since then, but, he would never forget how Fiona had taken over the cake and made dinner for the three of them.
Sure, maybe a frozen pizza was nothing special, but he’d got to share it with his sisters. And then they’d sung one of the worst renditions of happy birthday that he’d ever heard, though it went down in his recollections as one of his favourites, simply because they had remembered. Mary had given him a handmade birthday card, and Fiona had hugged him close when the tears finally came.
She’d apologised, even though she’d done her best to make it right for him.
“Trying to put out fires she didn’t start?” Simon asked, his dark gaze boring into Johnny as he shook himself out of the memory.
“That’s her,” he agreed, swallowing past the lump in his throat. In the end, it was just one more painful, bittersweet memory that he wished he could let go of; a thread woven into the very fabric of the man he had grown into.
Glancing back down at his phone, he blinked past the tears blurring his vision just in time to see a series of messages come in.
From: Fiona Not-MacTavish
Of course we can meet
Ma said something last night I wanted to ask you about
She said she never sent you a wedding invitation? Is that true??
Why didn’t you tell me?
Soap damn near dropped his phone at that.
“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” he breathed in surprise as he fumbled to keep hold of it. He could hardly believe what he was reading.
His mother, who pretended that she could no wrong, had said that? She had actually said that? Out loud, for the whole family to hear? Or was it just to Fiona? What in the ever-loving fuck had happened in that house after him and Ghost made their exit?
“Sounds promising,” Ghost said as he cracked the book open and started flipping through the pages to where he had last left off.
Johnny paused, thumbs poised over his phone.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Those five words taunted him, swimming on his screen before his wet, aching eyes. Why hadn’t he told his sister the truth of what happened? What did he even say to that? That he’d been scared? That he hadn’t known what to do, hadn’t known what to say?
That he’d thought there wasn’t any point?
What would have happened if he’d made a scene? Knowing Margaret, she would have denied it all until she was blue in the face before laying a spectacular guilt trip on them for having the audacity to even raise the subject. Johnny loved his sister, he really did, and Fiona was a lot of things, but he knew her well enough to know that she would have crumpled like a cheap suit in the face of their mother’s theatrics.
How did he tell Fiona that he had kept it to himself because he’d known that in the end, it would come to nothing?
Between one shaking breath and the next, Simon’s warm hand came to rest on his thigh with a comforting squeeze. A silent gesture that bolstered him, and Johnny knew he was right. This wasn’t a conversation that should be had through text.
To: Fiona Not-MacTavish
It’s not like I didn’t want to to I just didn’t know how
Can’t believe ma actually told you about it herself
Be nice to get together and talk more before we go
From: Fiona Not-MacTavish
I can understand that
Are you able to make the trip to Edinburgh? Easier for me with the kids
Bring Ghost too
“’Promising’ is one word for it,” Johnny said with a sigh, leaning into Ghost’s side. “Was asking Fiona if we could meet so I could clear up that wedding business, but ma beat me to it. And now she wants us to come see her in Edinburgh before our leave is up.”
“Not for dinner, I hope,” Ghost muttered, drawing a surprised chuckle from him. “Seems Margaret’s full of surprises. What do you think possessed her to let that slip?”
It was a good question.
One that had been slinking through his mind from the moment he had read that first series of texts, brought to the forefront for careful consideration. So much of what he knew of how people worked and what made them tick was from the training they underwent in the Special Air Service, and the experience that he’d gained after the training was over.
This would be the first time Johnny viewed Margaret MacTavish through that lens, though.
“I’ve never seen her like that in front of anyone but me, before. She always toned it down a bit around the others, and she never would have let someone like Cathy see that,” he said slowly, pausing to consider everything that the evening had brought. “I think she was rattled. I’ve never called her on her shite like that before, and I don’t think she ever thought I would.”
“Really? Not ever?” Simon asked, and Johnny could hear the mild surprise there. It felt like curiosity, though, instead of incredulity, and it spurred him onwards.
“Not for lack of wanting to. I just- I didn’t- I didn’t want to ruin it for everyone else, so I just let it happen and ran away. I always thought maybe the next time would be different, and of course it wasn’t. Feels pretty fuckin’ stupid, thinkin’ about it now,” he explained with a self-deprecating laugh. “Christ, I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”
“No, you’re not,” was the near-instant reply, and the hand on Johnny’s thigh migrated so Simon’s arm was draped over his shoulders. “It’s not stupid. Listen, I- I always thought it would be different for me, too, Johnny. But it never was, not until I made it different, you understand?”
Oh.
“You’re saying that because I went off-script, didn’t play my usual part, that ma came unglued.” It was all making sense now, he could see the conclusion that his LT was guiding him towards. “This time was only different because I made it that way.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Simon paused, laying his book down and giving up on any pretense that he was still reading from it. “The only actions you have control over are your own, and by changing how you reacted, you changed everything else, too.”
"It's about changing what you can control, and I can only control myself." There it was; the conclusion Ghost wanted him to reach. And it was- Ghost had been telling him this from the beginning, from the first night they had pursued Hassan through those dry, dusty fields in Al Mazrah. "Choices have consequences."
"That they do, Johnny," Ghost said, and the pride Soap could hear was something he would hold close for a long time. The kiss Simon pressed to his soft, unstyled hair was just as precious.
Johnny closed the thread with Fiona; he'd said what he needed to for now, the rest could wait for when they saw her. Flipping to the messages from Mary brought on a kind of whiplash he wasn't expecting.
Where Fiona's were concise and to the point, Mary's were a jumbled series of reactions to what had taken place after their departure. From what he could glean from the gifs and memes interspersed with paragraphs of nigh gibberish typing was that the row of the century had gone down inside the MacTavish home, but otherwise? He wasn't too sure what she was trying to say.
Until he got to the last message, which simply read, ‘Da's sleeping in your old room.’
What the fuck?
"Well, that's interesting," Simon murmured beside him.
"Are you just reading over my shoulder now?" he asked incredulously.
"More interesting than the book," Ghost said with a shrug that briefly dislodged him.
"Alright, fair enough. Saves me having to tell you everything anyways," he muttered as he stared at that final message, settling back against Simon with ease.
As far as he was aware, throughout his parents' entire marriage thus far, they had never slept apart due to an argument. To see that change was... Johnny didn't know what he thought of that. Was it just a one-off? Or did it herald a larger shift within their relationship? Did it even matter?
In lieu of gathering his thoughts and trying to formulate a response that made sense and wouldn't get misconstrued, Johnny opted to reply with a series of emojis that he hoped conveyed just how much that news blew his mind. It was almost a guarantee that she'd get out of the house and video call him at some point to tell him what that fight had entailed in all its gory detail, but this would do for now.
It was only when Johnny backed out into his inbox that he noticed there was another message waiting for his attention that wasn’t from his mother. One single, lonely text from someone who he could count on one hand how many times he’d been contacted by.
David.
Without looking at the damned thing he knew it was likely chock-full of the most offensively ignorant shite he could imagine, and even more likely to not be worth the effort of reading, but Johnny navigated into it anyways and-
"Charming little cunt, isn't he?" Ghost grunted as sure enough, it was a paragraph of more of the same rubbish his brother had been spouting since they’d arrived. The only difference was that there was no one to interrupt him in this format, so he was left to ramble on and on about how Johnny had gone and made Margaret cry because he couldn’t quit being such a sensitive fuckin’ fanny for one bleeding night. And on it went.
“Aye, he’s a real winner. Don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing for him,” Soap replied, lips curling into a smirk as he typed out a brief response.
A very brief response.
To: David
Get fucked.
This phone number can no longer send or receive messages from you.
“Short and sweet.”
“It’s about as much as he deserves,” Johnny said. His amusement was short-lived, fading as he stared at his phone. It was incredibly satisfying to know that David would see that last text and have no way to lash out in return, it really was, but there was a hollow ache in his chest, too. Would this be the last contact he ever had with his brother?
In another life, he liked to imagine that David and him could have been closer. They could have been friends as much as they were brothers; the kind that knew the other had his back, come hell or high water, no matter what. And despite everything David had said and done, there was still a part of him that wished it had gone differently.
It was a pipe dream, Johnny knew. Hell, David could appear in his living room, get down on his knees right then and there to beg for forgiveness for being such a gobshite, and Soap would laugh him out of the room before accepting it as genuine. Too much had happened between them, words said that could never be taken back, for him to forgive and forget. Never mind that he couldn’t remember David ever taking accountability for anything he had ever done in his life so far. He couldn’t imagine that would change anytime soon, but fuck.
“I wish it was different.” It felt strange to admit that out loud, putting words to those feelings swirling through his mind, but it felt good, too.
“Yeah, I know. I wish it was different for you, too,” Simon murmured, resting his cheek on the top of Johnny’s head as he pulled him closer. “Could be, one day.”
“One day, maybe,” he agreed, though he wasn’t sure how much faith he put in that. Simon’s family had changed, though, so maybe there was hope for the MacTavishes yet.
There was no communication from his father, which was something he had expected. Thomas wasn’t a man prone to using a phone for anything but work calls and arranging the particulars of when he’d be meeting his mates at their usual pub, though the fact that Margaret regularly had access to it likely had something to do with that.
Which brought him to the MacTavish he had dreaded the most.
His mother.
Johnny had already decided that the voicemails she had left were going to be deleted without ever being played. He didn’t need to hear more of the same shrill rubbish he’d been listening to his entire life. She’d taken up too much real estate in his mind as it was. Besides, they’d heard enough the previous night, and the only difference today would be that he’d be listening to his mother over the tinny speakers of his phone instead of in-person. The act of deleting his entire voice mailbox was quick and easy, and clearing the notifications of all the calls he had missed was equally as painless.
What wouldn’t be nearly as painless was navigating through the sheer volume of texts she had sent and deciding exactly how he was going to tell her what their relationship would look like going forward. The one thing Johnny was damn sure of was that he wouldn’t be reading the vitriolic mass waiting for him, instead he pulled up the conversation and scrolled straight down to the latest messages without pausing to read a single thing until he reached the end. It would all be the same voice-to-text ranting anyways.
There, covering his entire screen and then some, was Margaret’s latest masterpiece in communication.
-dare you ignore your own mother i know i raised you better than this john mactavish did they forget to teach you manners in the army? ive never been disrespected like this in my entire life and to think it would be my own son treating me like this i can’t believe it. how dare you do this to me? no apology not a sorry in sight after how you behaved last night i really expected better of you all youve given me is grief and im tired of it. do you understand me john im tired of it if you cant even have the decency to apologise then you know what? youre not welcome in this house until you do. otherwise i dont ever want to see you again. have a nice life.
Well, then.
Johnny blinked at the message, waiting for the soul-crushing grief and guilt that always accompanied his mother’s antics to come, but it wasn’t there. And maybe it would come later, when it really set in that whatever hopes and dreams he’d harboured for his relationship with his mother were nothing more, but for now all he felt was a tired kind of clarity that he’d never experienced before with her.
He could see how desperately she was trying to spin herself into being the victim and all it did was strike him as sad. Sadder still, there was a time in his life when it would have worked. Johnny would have been every bit the remorseful son, succumbing to the guilt of rocking the boat and making a scene when it was supposed to be a time for joy and he would have sent that apology and stayed away, tail firmly tucked between his legs as he went, until his mother decided he was forgiven and invited him back.
Or until she remembered that he was out there somewhere, and thought it was time to have another go at him.
He sighed.
“Speaking of ‘best for last,’” he gestured to his phone before typing something and tossing it on to the coffee table before them. “Not sure it’s worth the time it’d take to argue with her, honestly.”
“You think she’d listen?” Simon asked derisively, and Johnny let out a quiet laugh.
“No, not in the slightest,” he said, and the conversation petered out for a short time while he simply rested against Ghost’s warm bulk until Simon shifted them so they were lying on the couch, him on his back and Johnny lying on top.
“You alright?” Ghost’s voice was barely a whisper in his ear, his hands moving to run up and down his back again, just like they had earlier that morning. It was soothing, and God knew Johnny was absolutely exhausted.
“I will be,” he murmured hoarsely. A tear ran over the bridge of his nose and hit Simon’s shirt, leaving a spot of moisture where it landed. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Being here with me. Not leaving me to face them alone. Couldn’t have done it on my own.” He had said it earlier, but it bore repeating. Johnny had changed everything between himself and his family, but he’d only managed it because Simon had been there with him. In a way, Simon had been the change that Johnny had needed to make it all happen. He tilted his head up and pressed a slow, languid kiss to Simon’s mouth.
He was dead tired, and now that he’d done what needed doing all he wanted was to sink back into that soft space they’d inhabited together earlier. He could spend the rest of their lives there and be content.
“You know I wouldn’t leave you to fight alone, Johnny,” Simon said, returning that soft kiss with one of his own. “Never will if I have my way.”
To: M MacTavish
K 👍
This phone number can no longer send or receive messages from you.