Work Text:
Tugging his jacket closer against the cold, John made his way down the street as quickly as he could without running. He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached his destination, pushing the door open and stepping quickly to the side as the bell jangled, obnoxiously out of tune for how old it was. He looked up at the local butcher, approaching from the back room, his gaze skipping over who he assumed was his new apprentice bent and half obscured behind the display case. John had only met the butcher twice, but knew that Ansel Brown had an ailing wife, two kids, both married, and several grandchildren.
It didn’t matter that he was retired and probably shouldn’t know so much about a man that clearly—if the look on his face was any indication—didn’t recollect him, especially given he’d only moved to the area within the last year.
“All right, Ansel?” John says in greeting. He shoves his hands in his pockets and approaches the counter. The space is clean, white, sterile. Not, he thinks, unlike a hospital. Miles away from the frenetic disarray of a field med bay where everything is bloodstained and all you can hope for is that it’s old and someone has perfunctorily sanitized a surface between the last bloke that bled on it and you. The apprentice snaps the display case closed and stands, turning away and shuffling through some papers scattered across a back counter. John doesn’t look at him, but notes his size and general build: tall, maybe six-four; light hair, wide shoulders, tight waist.
Ansel nods in acknowledgement. “Dreich out,” he replies. “What can I get for you, lad?”
John inclines his head to the back of the shop. “I’m picking up an order. Called it in yesterday.”
Ansel half turns away from him. “What’s the name?”
He opens his mouth to respond when the apprentice moves.
“MacTavish,” the man says, glancing over at him. John is shocked momentarily, the flick of the man’s gaze hooking into his gut in a way that used to be all too familiar. “I’ll grab it.”
Ansel nods at him, but John’s gaze is locked on a spot on the nape of the apprentice’s neck, just over the collar of the black thermal he’s wearing. As he returns, John’s gaze shifts, finding a pair of green eyes he hasn’t seen in years. Eyes he sees in his dreams, his nightmares, his waking fantasies. For a brief second his gaze skips over the rest of his bared features, confirming that they are, in fact, the same features he saw for scant minutes in Las Almas nearly a decade ago.
He watches, breathless, as Simon Riley approaches the counter.
“I’ve got this, Ansel,” Simon says, glancing at the butcher as if he hadn’t been John’s lifeline that night and on several missions after. Ansel claps him on the shoulder with a casualness that has John sucking his breath in through his teeth. Never, never, in all of his time around Simon, had he ever seen anyone treat him with such familiarity. He half expects Simon to stab the man, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.
Something inside of John—something distinct from his normal, everyday pains—aches.
Simon waits until Ansel is gone before speaking, going through the motions of ringing up and bagging John’s order instead. When he’s finished, he looks up. “That’ll be forty-five pounds.”
John blinks, glancing down at the bag on the counter. He looks back up at Simon. “Sterling?” he says.
The corner of Simon’s mouth turns up. “Yes, MacTavish. Forty-five pounds sterling.”
“Screwball,” John mutters, tugging his wallet out of his pocket. Simon just quirks an eyebrow. He says nothing as John hands the money over, nothing as he closes the drawer and drops the receipt in the bag, nothing as he slides it across the counter. John hesitates, taking the handle of the paper bag and looking up at Simon. Simon, who’s just watching him.
“I—” John starts, but Simon just shakes his head minutely, glancing briefly down at the bag and then back at John.
“Have a good day, Mr. MacTavish,” he says, loudly enough to be heard from the back. John looks in that direction before nodding at Simon.
“And you,” he replies, before putting his back to one of the few men he trusts with it and leaving the shop.
John’s mind races the whole way back to his mother’s house, and he’s so preoccupied that he forgets Simon’s insinuation when he hands the bag over to her in the kitchen. He knows he acknowledges her, but isn’t fully present until she calls him back.
“Johnny,” she says, “what’s this number here on the ham?”
John turns back and joins his mother at the butcher’s block where she’s laid out everything she needs to prepare the ham. He glances over her shoulder and, sure enough, there’s a phone number written in black marker across the packaging. Gently he nudges her aside and unwraps the meat, laying it carefully on the block and taking the bloodied paper with him. “It’s for me,” he says. His mother glances up at him, brow furrowed, but nods, knowing better than to ask for more details.
His family had learned early on that telling them very little was a survival tactic, more for them than for him, and even though this isn’t an instance of that caliber, he’s grateful that they know not to ask. He doesn’t quite know how he’d explain it if he did.
I used to work wi’ the lad at the butcher’s. He’s the big bloke who wore the mask all the time. Standoffish, gruff, and fuckin’ gorgeous. I’m pretty sure this is his number.
It doesn’t sound horrible in his head, but he knows that his perception is different from his family’s.
No—better to be sure before saying anything.
He moves to the counter and enters the number in his phone before turning on the tap and running water over the paper. As he’d suspected, the ink wasn’t waterproof, so even though the paper itself doesn’t absorb the liquid that well, the ink begins to run. It leaves a vague stain behind, still somewhat legible, so John tears off that section, tosses the rest in the bin, and begins meticulously ripping the stained portion in to strips and then increasingly smaller pieces with his hands. He can feel his mother’s eyes on him, glancing at him periodically as he works, but he stays focused on his task.
When he’s done, John stands straight, having been unaware just how hunched he was over the bin, and sucks in a breath at the tension in his shoulders and neck. As he turns his mother looks up at him, tilting her chin towards the cabinet over the sink. “There’s a new bottle of paracetamol,” she says.
He grins at her and goes to wash his hands, pulling the bottle out after and pouring himself a glass of water. He knocks back a dose and drains the glass, setting it in the sink with a clink and turns to his mother. He approaches her, kissing her lightly on the cheek on his way out of the kitchen. “Thanks, Mam,” he says.
“Johnny?” she calls. He turns at the doorway, catching her concerned look. Her hands are poised over the ham, wet and speckled with herbs and spices. “Everything all right?”
He smiles at her. “Yes, Mam,” he says. “Nothin’ to worry about.”
She nods. “You’d tell me if there were?”
He straightens and really looks at her, how rigid she stands over the block, her dark, curly hair fanning out from behind her headband, brow furrowed and blue eyes watching him carefully. He feels, for a moment, like a boy again, caught with his hand in the sweets jar before tea.
“Aye,” he says. “I would.”
She nods once, a firm acknowledgement, and John turns and leaves the kitchen.
John tries not to think about the number burning a hole in his phone during his time with his family. His mother watches him throughout the evening, but doesn’t say anything more and doesn’t give any indication to the rest of the family. He knows he should alleviate any worries that he’s taken on a freelance job, but he still doesn’t know what it means that Simon left a number on a bit of butcher paper and knows better than to speculate. Much less why he’s in this specific town—the small village in the far north of Scotland his parents moved to, where John retired when he realized he didn’t really have anywhere else to go. He’ll wait it out, find out what’s what, and then if he needs to he’ll explain.
He focuses on the goings-on around him so intently that he doesn’t notice the pain until it’s made him so rigid and tense in his shoulders and neck until his youngest niece—seven years old and light as a feather—barrels into him from behind, laughing. He’s sitting on the floor with her brother, the plush rug doing little to alleviate the strain the hardwood beneath forces up his spine, and although he hears her and revels in how bright and happy she is, he isn’t prepared for the spike of pain that runs from his left shoulder blade down his arm and up his neck or the pinprick tingling to the right of his spine. He hisses and reaches carefully for her arms around him, gently untangling them and bringing her around to sit in his lap.
“Ella,” he says, voice low, “I know you didn’t mean to, but running into me like that hurts.”
Ella blinks wide brown eyes up at him, her dark hair wild around her. He smooths it away from her forehead as she frowns. “I’m sorry, Uncle Johnny.”
He nods. “It’s okay, Love. I just need ye to be gentle with me.” He smiles. “I’m old, y’know.”
She giggles and he looks up, meeting his sister’s gaze. “Yer only thirty-five, Johnny,” she says.
He grunts, helping Ella up as she runs off with her brother to fetch cookies from the kitchen. “Aye,” he replies. “And I feel about sixty.” He holds a hand out. “Help us up, would ye?”
His brother-in-law intercepts, reaching down and giving him a hearty tug up. The motion pulls at his back and he grits his teeth, giving the man a wan smile and a clap on the shoulder. “Good man, Ollie,” he says.
John retreats to the kitchen, smiling at the kids as they dart past him, and looks up to find his parents at the counter, coffee in hand. His mother gestures with her mug. “Coffee?” she asks.
He shakes his head and approaches them. He slides an arm around his mother’s shoulder, hugging her. “I’m gonnae head out,” he says.
His father gives him a once-over. “Feelin’ all right, Johnny?”
“Just a little sore, is all.”
His mother considers him carefully before nodding. “Take a plate from the fridge,” she says.
He hugs his father, fetches the container of food from the fridge, and takes his leave, calling out to the rest of the family from the door.
Once home, he forces himself to go through the motions of settling in before pulling out his phone. He discards his jacket and boots, tucks the food into the fridge, pours himself a glass of water, changes his clothes, washes his face, and brushes his teeth before checking locks and turning off the lights. He settles into his bed, sitting up against the headboard, and flicks on the bedside lamp.
Ignoring the persistent ache moving up into the base of his skull, he tucks his earbuds in and unlocks his phone. The number Simon had left on the ham glares at him. He takes a deep breath before pressing the call button.
After two rings, he hears Ghost’s voice on the other end. “Johnny,” he says.
Something like tranquility washes over John at the sound of his name in that gruff, gravely cadence. “Simon,” he replies. “How did you know it was me?”
There’s the sound of shuffling on the line before Simon answers. “Saved the number from your order after you left. Figured it was a safe bet it was yours.”
John hums. There’s silence for several moments before John clears his throat. He ignores the burning in his face as he says, “I learned a joke from my niece recently.”
Simon grunts. “Let’s hear it then.”
John breathes for a beat before he answers. “Which trees miss you the most?”
“Tell me.”
John swallows. “Pine trees.”
The silence stretches for so long that John isn’t sure Simon hasn’t hung up. Or launched his phone out a window. Eventually Simon lets out a sigh.
“You’re sappy as shite, MacTavish,” he says.
John looks up at his ceiling. “Aye, Sir.”
“‘m not your superior anymore, Johnny.”
He closes his eyes. “No, you’re not.”
There’s another stretch of silence and John is drifting when Simon murmurs, “I missed you, too.”
John takes a deep breath in, his nerves tingling at the sound of Simon’s voice, a sensation vastly different from what he’s used to. “Simon,” he sighs.
“I’d like to see you, Johnny.”
“What,” he replies, wringing his hands together over his stomach. “Like a date?”
“If you’re interested,” Simon says. “But I’ll take platonic.”
There’s so much beneath what Simon is saying, so much they’ve never asked or said aloud. John presses his hand to his sternum, trying to slow his racing heart.
“Aye,” he says, “I’m interested.” He swears, in the seconds after, he hears Simon’s breath hitch, but the sound is there and gone so quickly he supposes he imagined it.
They meet later that week at a pub in town, the kind of dark and dingy place John would expect to find Simon in on a random Tuesday. Simon fetches them pints and orders chips to share and they settle into a dark booth in the back corner. John chooses the seat facing away from the door, trusting Simon to have eyes on the room.
Simon looks good; clean, healthy, marginally better rested than John’s ever seen him. The gauntness in his cheeks has filled out, and the veins around his temples are less prominent, suggesting he’s hydrated properly in a way they never were in the field. His strawberry blonde hair is cropped close around the ears and back of his head and longer on the top. It’s wavy and looks soft to the touch, falling loosely over his forehead and eyebrows. His eyes are as bright as ever, green outlined in the golden halo of his lashes. They’re more striking without the grease paint, complimented by the scatter of freckles across the bridge of Simon’s nose and cheekbones. His nose is aquiline and crooked, likely from being set improperly after a break or two. He hasn’t shaved in a day or so, creating a copper sheen across the lower part of his face. John would willingly cut himself on his cheekbones and jaw.
As he discards his jacket on the hook attached to the booth, John traces his outline. He’s wearing a somewhat loose, green thermal that hides the details of his build, but it can’t obscure the size of his biceps, shoulders, or pecs. The sleeves hug his wrists, highlighting how big his hands are. John looks up and catches Simon looking at him knowingly. He looks away and settles into his side of the booth.
John is nervous, which has him tensing up in a way that he knows will wipe him out later. He ignores it, taking a sip of his beer and meeting Simon’s eyes over the rim of his glass. Just as the chips arrive, Simon clears his throat.
“Where does the general put his armies?”
John stops, hand hovering over a chip, and stares at him. “I… don’t know.”
Simon grabs a chip, fingers brushing John’s. “In his sleevies,” he says. He bites and chews, watching as John processes. The moment the joke lands, John rolls his eyes and shoves a chip in his mouth.
“Shut yer geggie.”
Simon chuckles. “I don’t think you actually want me to.”
John takes a gulp of his beer, giving himself a moment. “What makes you say that?”
Simon sips and passes his gaze over the room before looking back at him. “Educated guess.”
John snorts, taking another chip. “Wishful thinking, more like.”
Simon looks up at him, the fingers of both hands loosely hooked on the edge of the table. “Maybe,” he says.
John, shocked into silence, stares at him. Simon stares unflinchingly back. John blinks, looking down at his own hands wrapped around his pint glass. “S’a lot of honesty, LT.”
Simon doesn’t answer. When John looks up, he finds him just watching him, quiet and relaxed across the table.
“I’m not a leftenant anymore, Johnny.”
John swallows. “I know. Old habit. I’m sorry.”
Simon shakes his head. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“No, S—No. I’m not uncomfortable.”
Simon frowns. “What is it, then?”
John looks down, his gaze fixed on a point on Simon’s chest, not really seeing him. “I’m nervous,” he confesses.
“I make you nervous?”
He shakes his head, letting the point of his gaze steady him. “No. I just never expected this.” He looks back up at Simon, those green eyes anchoring him.
Simon smirks. “Good to know I can still keep you on your toes.”
John smiles back, some of the tension in his back bleeding out of him. “Catch me up,” he says. “What have you been up to?”
Simon looks at him for a moment, scanning his face, before leaning forward on his elbows and reaching for another chip. And then he does. He tells John about retiring, where he’s been since he left the SAS, jobs he’s taken, people he’s met, finally landing on the story of how he ended up a butcher’s apprentice in John’s own town. It’s the most John has ever heard him talk, his cadence even, his humor dry, and John could listen to him talk for hours and not grow bored. He listens, reveling in how precious it is that Simon’s sharing these stories with him. When he’s clearly reached the present, the chips are gone and they’re three pints in. He catches John’s gaze and his expression settles into something serious, full mouth slightly pursed, brows a little furrowed.
“Price told me you’d retired. Figured you’d be closer to family, so I took a gamble, hoping I’d get to see you again.”
John blinks, taken aback once more by his honesty. “Quite a gamble, that,” he says. “I don’t remember mentioning the place much.”
Simon tilts his head slightly. “Only once. It worked, though.”
John hums. He starts to lean forward on his elbows to mirror Simon’s body language, but as soon as his weight settles on his left side a sharp pain runs up his arm, settling in that familiar spot under his shoulder blade. He sucks in a breath and sits back, settling his hands in his lap.
Simon’s eyes track the movement, the response.
“Garrick told me you’d been injured, but didn’t give details.”
It’s an opening, but one he doesn’t have to take. He knows Simon would understand if he didn’t. He chews on the inside of his lip for a moment before answering.
“Pinched nerve,” he says. “Cervical spine. It was fine until it wasn’t.”
Simon nods. “Surgery?”
John shakes his head. “Too complicated. PT, supplements, and paracetamol manage it most of the time.”
Simon scans him. “But not now.”
John sighs, finally looking away from him. He stares at a neon sign over the bar. “Tension makes it worse,” he says quietly. “It’s why I decided to leave. It started causing migraines, the kind that don’t have a headache, and I noticed that I just couldn’t do mundane things like before. Anything from sitting in one position too long to nerves can set it off, and I couldn’t ignore the possibility of it affecting the job.”
He looks back to find Simon watching him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “How can I help?”
It takes a moment for John to process all of Simon’s earnestness. He’s been nothing but open all evening, while John has been the one closed off, nervous and in pain. He’s tempted to cut things off, to walk away and ask Simon to forget about him, but a deeper part of him knows that he needs this—that they both do—because if anyone, anyone, could understand what he deals with day in and day out, it’s Simon fucking Riley.
So he pauses, and he thinks, and when he finds something that will probably help, he takes a deep breath. “Ye can come home wi’ me,” he says quietly. “We don’t have to do anything,” he adds quickly. “I just need to take care of myself and I want to stay with you.”
Simon nods. “I’ll pick up the tab and meet you outside.”
It’s such a no-fuss response, so like Simon Riley, and John shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t be touched by how quickly Simon agreed, but he’s never been in a position to even ask a potential partner for what he needed and he certainly never thought anyone would just… work with his body’s limits.
Simon gathers their debris and makes his way to the bar, his jacket slung over one arm. John pulls his own on, wincing as he does, and goes to wait by the door. He absentmindedly scans the room, his eyes catching on patrons just long enough to clock them: estimated height, weight, build, clothing, hair, notable features. He’s doing another bored pass when his gaze catches on Simon approaching him from the bar. His instinct is to move on, not only because lingering used to make Ghost appear uncomfortable, but also to avoid letting on that his interest, his desire to look, wasn’t mere curiosity. But then Simon’s eyes flick up to his and he visibly softens, one corner of his mouth ticking up just slightly.
So John lingers. He allows himself to soak in Simon’s features, becoming clearer as he gets closer. He takes in just how tall, how broad he is. He stares a moment too long at his waist.
He’s still staring at it when Simon stops mere inches in front of him.
“Something on my shirt?” he asks.
John flicks his eyes up. “I’m trying to remember if you’ve always been this trim or not.”
Simon laughs, a sharp, surprised thing that fills John with delight. He continues to chuckle as he pushes the door open and herds John out of it. John gestures in the direction of his Land Rover. “It’s a bit of a drive,” he says.
Simon nods. “I don’t mind. But you’ll have to give me a ride back. My place is nearby, so I walked.”
John blinks. “Do you want me to drive you ‘round to get your car?”
Simon breathes in deeply and takes a step towards him. John can feel the warmth of his breath on his face as he exhales slowly. “No, Johnny.” He tilts his head just slightly towards him, gaze flickering over John’s face. “I don’t need an out with you.”
John blinks rapidly before huffing, “Steamin’ Jesus,” and turning to walk to his car.
Simon chuckles behind him, following, and is still smiling when he climbs into the passenger seat.
Or, at least, he tries to.
He makes a strangled sound when he realizes how far forward the seat is positioned, and takes a step back out onto the street to reposition it, sliding it as far back as it will go with an aggressive whump. He climbs in and glances over at John, the streetlamp illuminating a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose.
“All right, Riley?” John asks, smirking.
Simon yanks the seatbelt over his chest and refuses to look over at him. “Must be hauling brownies around,” he grumbles.
John snorts, putting the car in gear and pulling out of the parking spot. “Nae,” he says, “Just me Mam.” He glances over at him. “She’s a wee bit smaller than you.”
Simon rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m a troll. I know.”
John takes a left at an intersection and glances over at him, frowning. “You’re not a troll, Simon,” he says. “Being big disnae make ye a monster.”
Simon looks over at him, his eyes glinting in a way that’s always made white hot dread spark in John’s gut. “S’at so?” he drawls.
John looks back a the road, taking the final left that puts them on the long road out of the town proper and towards his house. “Aye,” he says quietly. “I like that you’re big.” There’s a beat of silence, Simon’s gaze weighty on his right side. “You’ve always made me feel safe.”
The silence stretches this time, so between checking his rearview and looking back at the road, John glances over to find Simon staring at him, his head tilted as if he’s experienced some existential shift.
“Too much?” he asks, looking back at the road.
Simon reaches over, carefully avoiding the gearshift, and places one big, slender-fingered hand on his thigh. “No,” he murmurs. He squeezes just a little. “Is this okay?”
John nods, dropping his left hand to squeeze Simon’s briefly before replacing it on the wheel.
Simon hums. “Doesn’t get you off the hook for calling me trim, though.”
John makes a disgruntled sound. “Had hoped you’d forgotten that.”
Simon’s voice is carved by his wolfish grin. “Oh, no, Johnny. That one’s locked up and sealed tight.”
He shifts slightly in his seat and Simon’s hand slides a touch further inward, but not up or down his leg. “It’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve seen you, and even when I say you every day you were usually covered in stones of tac gear.” He glances over to find Simon watching him intently. He looks back at the road, opaque darkness outside of the range of his headlights. “I knew you were big, but I didn’t know…”
As he trails off, Simon squeezes his thigh lightly. He takes in a breath. “You didn’t know…?” Simon prompts.
He sighs. “I didnae know ye had such a tight waist under that vest.” It feels as if the words have forced themselves out of him in a rush, as if they knew—independently of his own intentions—that anything more composed would render entirely nonexistent. John feels the heat of his flush from his forehead to his collarbone. He grips the steering wheel a little tighter.
He expects a chuckle, or maybe an affronted scoff. He receives silence, a silence that terrifies him because it stretches long and wide until he’s taking the final turn onto the gravel track up to the house and he wonders if he should just turn around and take Simon home. But just as he’s about to turn and ask, Simon releases a great exhale, as if he’d been holding his breath this whole time. John refuses to turn, has a sense that Simon needed the space.
“I’m pretty sure it was worse, back then, if I’m honest,” Simon replies. His voice is low, quiet, somber. Gravelly in a way that John, in a past life lived, had started to think meant Simon was in the kind of pain that doesn’t show on a man’s skin or his face or in his bones or nerves. The kind of pain that bleeds something else.
John waits until they’ve pulled up to the house, the cabin’s porch and floodlights creating a surreal glow in front of them, a halo of sturdy pine walls and holly bushes coming alive as the weather cools. He parks but leaves the car running, turning to look at Simon.
The light penetrates the windscreen in such a way that it casts Simon’s features in stark relief, the kinds of hard shadows that appeal to his inner artist because they’re easy to differentiate. They intensify the softer shades of his face, the variant textures of his skin, scars, and hair. The glint of his eyes, far greener than John’s ever seen them, the color of moss made gem—Peridot, his mind supplies—and the striking, surprising pinkness of his lips interrupted on one side by an aged scar running through them at an angle.
He wants so desperately to draw Simon as he is now, to capture the contradictions of this vision in attempt to capture Simon’s wholeness. More than that, he wants to know if his textures and shadows and highlights feel how he’s imagined.
He lets his hand drop to Simon’s on his thigh, resting it lightly there, barely curling his fingertips underneath, creating a tentative, unrestrictive tether.
“Whaddye mean?” he asks quietly, matching Simon’s tone the best he can. The best he knows how.
Simon watches John watch him. His hand twitches as if he wants to pull away before it stills, his shoulders visibly settling. He turns and bows his head, looking at his lap.
“I wasn’t exactly eating well back then,” he says.
John frowns. “None of us were, Simon. MREs are the absolute minimum. We all knew that.”
Simon shakes his head. He doesn’t look up. “No, I mean I deliberately wasn’t eating well back then.” He runs is other hand up and down his thigh. “I wasn’t well in general.” He looks up at John, his brow furrowed. “Are you sure you want to hear about this?”
There’s a quality in Simon’s voice that John’s never heard from him before, but that he’d recognize anywhere. It’s the tone his niblings use when they aren’t sure if they’ve done something wrong. The hesitance he hears from another vet who isn’t sure if the story they’re about to tell is appropriate for present company because no one really debriefs you from a life of violence and killing and casual dark humor to a life without it. The sound of a man burned and turned away so many times that he never had a chance of discerning what he’d done wrong. The sound of a man who, nine times out of ten, was manipulated into thinking he was wrong in the first place.
The sound of a man who desperately needs a safe place to land, but only ever found it in bits and pieces if he found it at all.
At that sound, John tightens his hand over Simon’s, squeezing firmly once. “I do,” he says. “Let’s go inside and I’ll make you a cuppa.”
Simon looks at him for another moment, as if ready to protest, before nodding.
They exit the car and make their way up the walk, Simon just one step behind him. He unlocks the front door and waves Simon in as he flips on the light and disarms the alarm before locking the door and resetting it. He slips off his shoes and coat, hanging his before reaching for Simon’s. Simon scans the space as he tugs off his boots.
The entryway melts into the cabin’s main hallway, and John ushers Simon through the first doorway on the right into the living room. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says, crossing the open space to the kitchen. As he passes the long sit-in counter that separates the living room and kitchen, Simon asks, “Is this thing functional?”
He turns and Simon gestures to the fireplace situated in the corner of the room, a neat stack of birchwood next to it. “Aye,” he replies. “Had the chimney swept a few days ago but I haven’t used it yet.” Simon seems to hesitate so he adds, “It’s cold enough out, I think. Would ye mind getting it started?”
Simon’s shoulders drop minutely and one corner of his mouth quirks up. “Not at all.”
John puts the kettle on and leans back against the counter next to the stove, crossing his arms over his chest. He watches Simon start the fire, every move deliberate. The logs catch just as the kettle whistles and John pushes away from the counter to pull down two mugs and prepare the tea. He reaches for the sugar and pauses.
“D’ye take sugar, Si?”
He’s met with only the crackle of the birch logs and a rustle of fabric across the house. He turns and Simon is staring at him from where he’s knelt next to the fireplace, poker in hand. He arches one fair eyebrow.
John runs his hand over the back of his neck. “I cannae remember,” he says.
Simon nods. “One sugar and a splash of milk,” he says, turning back to the fireplace.
John finishes preparing the tea and on his way back to the living room, swipes a pill bottle from its place on the counter. He flips the switch to the kitchen light so that the living room is lit only by the glow from the fireplace and the light from the adjacent entryway. He rounds the couch on the side nearest the fireplace and stops short when he realizes he’ll have to climb over Simon’s legs to sit down. He hands Simon his mug and continues around the coffee table, settling in the middle of the couch to Simon’s right. He places his own mug on the worn oak coffee table and pops open the bottle, dispensing one pill and tossing it back dry. After closing the bottle and marking the dose on his phone, he picks up his mug and leans back into the cushion, turning slightly towards Simon.
Taking a sip of his tea, Simon inclines his head towards the coffee table. “Painkiller?” he asks.
John glances at the bottle. “Muscle relaxer,” he says. He meets Simon’s gaze. “It’s a relatively low dose, since it disnae treat the actual problem.”
Simon nods. He takes another draught from his tea, his gaze drifting to the fireplace. John lifts one leg onto the couch, turning more towards him and cradling his mug in his lap.
“You dinnae have to tell me, if you dinnae want to.” Simon looks back at him. He shrugs, lifting his mug to his mouth. “Or if you’re not ready.”
He sips, and Simon’s eyes dip to watch the motion of his throat as he swallows. He blinks and looks down at the mug in his own hands.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever really be ready, Johnny.” He runs his slender fingers over the ceramic in his hands, blunt fingernails catching on a chipped logo for the local grocer. “I don’t want to scare you off,” he murmurs.
John leans forward to set his half-empty mug on the coffee table, then gently takes Simon’s to do the same. He turns fully to Simon, draping his left arm over the couch behind him and reaching out with the other to barely brush Simon’s jaw. He trails his fingertips over the soft stubble there, and Simon turns his head with the movement. They look at each other, Simon’s eyes muted to the color of lichen in the low lighting.
“I’m here,” John says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Simon blinks. “This is your house,” he says.
John bites his lower lip, Simon’s eyes tracking the motion. “Simon,” he says, drawing those eyes back up to his. “The decisions I’ve made about you since I saw you at the butcher’s were not about pity. I’ve had multiple opportunities to walk away. You gave me those opportunities, and I didn’t take them because I didn’t want to.” Simon looks down between them and John dips his head, drawing closer to him with the movement. “I know it isnae personal, but I wish ye would na think of me as someone who would abandon ye.” Simon’s gaze snaps up, searching his, and John continues. “I dinnae leave because of you.”
Simon heaves a shaky breath in. He leans back as he exhales, rubbing both hands over his face before letting them drop back down to his thighs. He looks at John.
“I know,” he says. “But… thank you. For saying it.” He leans his head back, letting it roll towards John. “And I’m… sorry. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Like I’m only responding to my idea of you and not, y’know, you.”
John nods. “Apology accepted. You still don’t have to tell me.”
Simon rolls his lips together before picking his head up. He looks down at his hands. “I want to.”
“I’m listening,” John says.
So Simon tells him as the fire burns down to embers. Not everything—some things, he makes clear, he may never share, but not because he doesn’t trust John, but because they’re unspeakable—but it’s still far more than John expected. He talks about how he’d gotten involved with the one-four-one, how he’d treated himself and his body like nothing more than a tool to be maintained, encouraged by Shepherd. He didn’t know, he says, that it was self harm, not until his therapist—a nonbinary person specializing in veteran care and PTSD—gently and carefully explained that it wasn’t normal, and that all of the gestures and overtures that Price had made, that had annoyed him so much, were attempts to help. That apparently it was Price, out of everyone, that had seen through him, seen him enough to push.
“Without Price,” he says, “I wouldn’t have made it out alive. Especially not after you left.”
John blinks, sitting up off of the back of the couch where he’d been lounging while Simon talked, content to listen. “I—wha’?”
Simon grins at his hands, his face wan after sharing so much. “I was a mess,” he says, picking his head up to meet John’s gaze. “I hadn’t realized that I was healing in little ways. That you, somehow, for some reason, were a catalyst. Not until you left.”
John swallows around the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse, “I was ashamed with myself that I’d let things get so bad and you were gone when the discharge order came through.” He frowns, looking away. “It was medical, so it was immediate and I never got the chance to tell you.”
Simon nods. “Price told me,” he says quietly, “once I’d finally come around enough to be reasoned with. Sat still long enough. Not the details, but… that it probably hadn’t happened how you’d anticipated.”
“I’m sorry,” John says again.
Simon shakes his head, and this time it’s his fingertips brushing against John’s jaw, turning his face. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Johnny. What I went through wasn’t your fault. Not even you could have gotten me this far.”
John frowns as Simon’s hand falls away. “What does that mean, ‘not even’ me?”
Simon smiles. “It means that if I had known the shape of the pit I was in, I would have clawed my way out of it to be what you needed.” He pauses, his gaze softening and tilting his head slightly. “To be what you wanted,” he says, voice soft.
Something like shock rolls through John, but it’s warmer, syrupy.
“But I didn’t know,” Simon continues, “and so even the person I trusted the most, that could have convinced me to survive, wouldn’t have been able to do the work that I needed to do to heal. It would have killed you.”
“Simon,” he breathes.
He shakes his head. “It almost killed me,” he whispers, the admission falling like an autumn leaf between them, delicate and fragile. “But I’m doing it.” He searches John’s face. “And now we’re here.”
“Simon,” he whispers again.
“Johnny?”
John pulls his arm back from the couch, wincing at the dull jolt in his shoulder blade before bringing both hands up to cradle Simon’s jaw. “Simon, you’ve always been what I wanted,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “Ever since you guided me, bleeding and terrified, through Las Almas.”
Simon smirks, his hands coming up to hold John’s wrists, thumbs stroking lightly on the insides. “Bit of a savior complex, that.”
“Simon,” John whispers, tugging him closer, pressing his forehead to Simon’s. His eyes flutter closed. “I’m serious.”
Simon swallows audibly. “I know,” he whispers. “I suspected, at the time, but was too preoccupied to care. And after… I didn’t dare to hope.”
John pulls back, hands still on Simon’s jaw, and as he opens his eyes Simon takes his face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over his cheekbones. It’s then that John realizes he’s crying.
“Johnny…”
“Kiss me,” John whispers.
Simon leans in carefully, hands gentle as he tilts John’s face up. The first press of his lips is tender, sending a flood of warmth through John’s chest. He pulls back minutely before lightly brushing his tongue over John’s lower lip. John opens for him, Simon’s tongue tentatively brushing his own before they break again. Simon leans his forehead against John’s.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs.
John huffs a laugh against his lips. “As long as you don’t put me in a chokehold or turn me upside down—or worse—I should be fine.”
Simon lets his hands slide down John’s neck, settling around his trapezius and shoulders. “Tell me where to be careful,” he says.
John leans back, guiding his right hand around John’s left side. “Here,” he says, brushing down his neck to the juncture of his shoulder. “Here,” as he guides Simon’s fingers down the back of his left arm. “And here,” as he turns slightly guiding his hand to a spot beneath his scapula. He turns back around. “As long as there’s not too much pressure in those areas, you’re good.”
Simon scans him, as if filing the knowledge away, and nods. He meets John’s gaze. “You seem tired.”
John sighs, rubbing one hand over his eyes. “Aye, but that could be because you’re here.”
When he looks back up, Simon has one eyebrow quirked. “You’re tired because I’m here?”
“Shite, tha’s no’ wha’ I meant.” He bites his lip. “I meant that you feel safe to relax around.”
Simon’s expression smooths into one of understanding. “Let’s get you to bed.” He stands and John catches his hand. He turns.
“Only if you come with me.”
Simon opens his mouth, closes it, and starts again. “All right.”
They take their mugs to the kitchen and John leads Simon to his bedroom. He gestures to the ensuite. “There should be an extra toothbrush in the top left drawer.”
Simon nods absentmindedly from the door where he’s surveying John’s room. His bed is against one wall, two nightstands on either side, and on the opposite wall is another fireplace and a mounted television. The corner across from the ensuite creates a small nook with a bay window sporting a backrest and several blankets.
Simon turns to him. “Get ready for bed. I’ll get the fire started in here.” John hesitates, about to protest that he can do both. “I want to,” Simon says. “I like to feel like I’m supporting you. Helping.”
“All right,” John nods. As he turns, Simon catches his wrist, tugging him back around. He slides his other hand into John’s hair, tugging slightly. He kisses John, deep and lingering, exploring with his tongue and tugging on his bottom lip with his teeth as he finally pulls away.
“I love you, Johnny,” he says quietly.
That warm, syrupy feeling from earlier is back with vengeance, pooling low in his gut. He tugs his hand from Simon’s grip and wraps both arms around his shoulders. Simon wraps his arms around John’s waist and pulls him closer, looking down at him with something soft, like reverence, in his expression. John curls his fingers into the collar of his thermal and tugs him down.
“I love you, too, ye bonnie bastard.”
Simon is smiling when he kisses him, so John ends up pressing his lips to his teeth. Simon laughs, a softer version of that bright thing that had lit John up at the bar and John hums in pleasure. Simon kisses him properly and John breathes him in. John allows himself to explore Simon, running his hands down his chest, over his abdomen, that tight waist, and up the planes of his back. He curls his tongue around his, tracing the points of his teeth and brushing the roof of his mouth before pulling back, nipping at his bottom lip as he goes.
Simon groans as they part and slides his hands down to grip John’s hips. When he looks at John, his green eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “Go get ready for bed, Sweetheart.”
The pet name stokes the molten heat in his gut higher. He steps back and turns toward the ensuite, glancing at Simon over his shoulder. Simon winks. John turns quickly, trying to hide his blush. Judging by Simon’s chuckle behind him, he wasn’t successful.
Once in the ensuite, John steps into the walk-in closet, flipping on the light and stripping his socks and jeans and tossing them into the hamper. He tugs his shirt over his head, wincing at the uncomfortable tingle it causes on his right side, and adds it to the pile. He reaches for another t-shirt to sleep in, but with a glance towards the door, forgoes it. He walks back into the cool bathroom where he washes his face, brushes his teeth, and uses the toilet before walking back into his bedroom.
Simon has turned off the overhead light so that the low fire and the moonlight streaming in through the bay window are the only light sources. He rises from the fireplace, fixing the grate in place, and turns. He freezes when he sees John, his gaze sweeping down his body with an intensity he remembers from the field. John walks to the bed as nonchalantly as he can, jerking his head toward the open ensuite door.
“Your turn,” he says, tugging the comforter down and sliding between the sheets.
Simon watches him for another moment before retreating to the bathroom, closing the door behind him quietly.
John lays there, his right arm hooked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He listens to the crackle of the fire, the sounds of the toilet and the sink, and then the door and the light switch.
He turns to look at Simon as he approaches the bed, hands in his pockets. Simon scans the bed in front of him as if he’s unsure what its purpose is. John rolls to his side, propping himself up on his elbow.
“You’ll be a bit warm in all of those clothes,” he says.
Simon flicks his eyes up, quirking an eyebrow. “Maybe I like sleeping in denim.”
John snorts. “Aye, you did it enough, I’m sure it’s familiar.”
Simon smiles before tugging his hands from his pockets. John watches as he unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his jeans before reaching back to tug his thermal up over his shoulders, exposing miles of creamy skin marked here and there with scars of various sizes, shades, and shapes. When his head is clear and he’s tugging the sleeves off his arms, watching John watch him, John’s gaze snags on a fall of freckles. They look as if the universe spilled stars over him, marking themselves into his skin in a gradient from his shoulders to his pecs. His gaze hooks on a glint of silver in Simon’s left nipple before the sound of his belt buckle yanks it away. He looks down just in time to watch Simon push his jeans to his ankles, pushing his socks off as well, before he’s rising to crawl into the bed towards John.
John looks at Simon’s face to find him flushed and grinning. He pauses, both hands and one knee planted on the mattress with one foot still on the floor. “See something you like, Sweetheart?”
John growls, sitting up and reaching out to pull Simon towards him, sliding his hands over warm skin and taut muscle.
“Aye, I do.” Simon settles fully on the bed, half hovering over John. John runs his hands over his shoulders, fingers tracing the trail of freckles down to his chest. He brushes his left nipple with his thumb and Simon hisses. “Does that hurt?” he asks. Simon shakes his head.
“Sensitive,” he replies, voice hoarse. “Feels good.”
John grins and dips his head, darting his tongue out to flick at the bud before closing his lips around it, barbell and all, and sucking lightly, pressing his tongue into the tip. Simon groans loudly and his big hand grips the back of John’s head, pressing him closer to his chest. John moans in response, letting his free hand trail down Simon’s torso, exploring the peaks and valleys of each scar and well maintained muscle. He grips his hip, his thumb hooked just below his Adonis belt, and pulls back to admire his work, Simon’s nipple now red and swollen.
The hand on the back of his head tugs him back as Simon bends down to meet him. “Fuck, Johnny,” he says against John’s mouth before devouring him. The kiss is wet and filthy, Simon tipping his head back and looming over him, pressing into the hinge of his jaw to open as wide as he can go. John moans into it, hooking one hand behind Simon’s shoulder and falling backward into the pillows, hauling Simon with him. Simon catches himself with his free hand, John opening his legs so that he can slot himself between them.
They break long enough to reposition, John’s hands moving to Simon’s hips to pull him down. His clothed erection presses against John’s and John rolls his hips up in a tight, slow grind. Simon dips his head to mouth and suck at John’s neck, picking up a rolling motion with his hips that has John seeing stars.
“Fuck, Simon,” he pants. Simon bites down, just enough for John to feel the press of his teeth, and he tosses his head back. “Fuck me,” he groans.
Simon pulls back, his tongue soothing the spot he’d bitten, before grinning down at him. “Yeah?” he drawls. “That’s how you want it?”
John reaches blindly for his nightstand, yanking the drawer open and grabbing the lube and a condom and dropping them on the bed. “Aye, ye numpty,” he says, “Been waitin’ over a decade to get your cock in me so unless you’ve got some reason not to, that’s how I want it.”
Simon hums, running one hand from John’s shoulder, down to the waistband of his boxer briefs, pinching his nipple on the way and eliciting a sharp gasp. He looks up at him from beneath his lashes, coy. “What if I wanted your cock in me?”
John’s mouth drops open in surprise, his cock twitching at the thought. “Aye—that—that could be arranged,” he says. Simon chuckles, leaning up to kiss him again.
“Next time,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you now.”
He pulls away, sliding both hands down John’s sides to hook into his underwear and tug them down. He stands to remove his own boxer briefs and John’s mouth waters at the sight of his cock as it springs free, long and thick, uncut and flushed at the tip. Simon slips back into the space between his legs and reaches for the lube. He kneels, pouring some of the liquid onto his fingers, rubbing them together to warm it. He watches John as he presses one finger to his entrance, teasing the rim before pressing in.
He leans down, arching his spine to lick the tip of John’s cock just as his finger breaches. John gasps, his hands flying to Simon’s hair. Simon hums, drawing his fingertip back before pressing it back in, down to the knuckle in one long, fluid stroke. He dips his tongue to lap at his frenulum, thrusting slowly with that one, slender digit. After a few thrusts, he pulls that finger completely out and presses in with two, closing his mouth around John’s cock and suckling at the head.
John groans, rolling his hips up into Simon’s hand and tugging on his hair, careful not to put too much of his weight on his shoulders. Simon teases him as he preps him, scissoring his fingers while licking a hot, wet stripe up the underside of his cock. Swallowing him down entirely when he presses in with three fingers. John’s toes curl into the sheets, one hand sliding down Simon’s neck to rake his nails across his shoulder. Simon hums around him, his fingers brushing his prostate at the same time that he locks eyes with John above him. John cries out and bites his lip hard, now well aware that Simon had been deliberately avoiding that spot.
When Simon pulls his fingers out and releases his cock, John hisses. “I know, Sweetheart.” Simon says. “I’ve got you.” He reaches for the lube and condom, tearing the packet open and rolling it down over his cock. He slicks himself, tossing the bottle to the side, and leans over John. “Is this position okay?” he asks.
John nods, running his hands over his chest, tweaking his pierced nipple just to hear his sharp intake of breath, and over his shoulders, tugging him down into an open, wet kiss. “Aye,” he says as they part, saliva bridging their mouths until Simon sits up.
Simon places one hand behind his knee to steady him, lining himself up with the other. John bites his lip at the first sensation of his cockhead against his hole. Simon looks up, meets his gaze, and rolls his hips forward. John’s mouth drops open at the stretch, his breath frozen in his chest until the head fully breaches. Simon leans forward, releasing his knee and running a hand up John’s stomach to the center of his chest.
“Breathe, Johnny,” he says. “Relax for me, Sweetheart.”
John takes a great inhale in and releases it slowly, concentrating on relaxing his muscles. On the tail end of the exhale, Simon presses forward without resistance. “That’s it,” he says, pressing a kiss to John’s chest. He groans as he bottoms out. He props himself over John on his elbows and John loops his arms around his neck, one hand in his hair and the other on his back. He gives him a moment to adjust before drawing his hips back and rolling them forward in a steady, languid thrust. His cock brushes John’s prostate and John responds with a cry, curling his hand to dig into the skin of his back.
“Look at you,” Simon murmurs, setting a steady pace. “So gorgeous, all flushed and split open on my cock.”
John rolls his hips minutely into Simon’s next thrust. “Fuck, Simon, you feel so good.”
Simon hums, sounding infuriatingly unaffected. “Yeah? What about—” he adjusts his angle just slightly, and when he drives back in he hits John’s prostate dead on, “—now?”
John’s back arches and he hooks his legs around Simon’s. “Yes, Si, fuck me, right there.”
Simon does it again, leaning down to nip at John’s ear. “You called me that earlier. Made me feel like I might melt into the floor.”
John’s barely able to decipher what he’s saying, his attention almost entirely focused on how accurate Simon’s aim is. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t correlate, but all he can think is, The man was a damned sniper, of course he’s got excellent aim.
“I called you what?” he pants.
“‘Si,’” he replies. “Like you were too impatient to wait to say my whole name to get my attention.” He thrusts harder this time, his hips colliding with John’s ass with a sharp sound. He clenches around him in retaliation. “Fuck, Johnny, you’re so fucking tight on my cock.”
John groans, tugging Simon’s head up to kiss him. It’s uncoordinated and sloppy, but it’s so, so good. He pants against Simon’s mouth as they part, Simon’s thrusts speeding up minutely. “That’s because you’re huge,” he says. “You fill me up so well, Love.”
Simon flushes, dipping his head into the crook of John’s neck and shoulder for a moment before he sits back, out of John’s arms. He looms over John, one hand pressed to the spot behind his knee and the other brushing over John’s cock, weeping and neglected against his stomach. He uses the new angle for leverage, nailing John’s prostate with every thrust and reducing him to a babbling, incoherent mess.
“That’s it, Johnny, just like that. You take me so well. You look so good, already fucked out.” He brushes his fingertip through the precum at the tip of John’s cock, but before he can wrap his hand around it John tugs him forward again, pulling him close and kissing him quickly.
“You donnae have to touch me,” he says, “‘m gonnae come on your cock without it.”
Simon groans, leaning down to bite his collarbone and picking up his pace. “That so, Sweetheart? Gonna come untouched for me?”
John bites his own lip hard, nodding frantically, the pressure in his gut building until it’s a line drawn taut and ready to snap. “Simon,” he says, “I’m close, Love.” He slides one hand to cradle Simon’s jaw, meeting his gaze. “Just like that, please don’t stop.”
“Fuck,” Simon moans, “Never.” John tightens around him, his body drawing taut. “Come on, Johnny, do it. Come on my cock and make a mess of us.” He kisses him, linking their hands and drawing them up above John’s head on the pillows, his hips doing all of the work. He looks down at him, green eyes glinting. “Come for me, Johnny.”
John cries out, a long, drawn out thing followed by, “Simon!” as he climaxes, his orgasm pulsing through him in waves. He comes in thick ropes over his stomach and Simon’s. His vision clears just in time to watch Simon follow with a shout, pressing his face into John’s neck and tightening his grip on his hands, his hips stuttering as he thrusts once, twice, three more times before slowing to a grind. John gasps, oversensitive, and Simon stills, panting into John’s neck. John lowers his hands, running them down Simon’s arms before wrapping him up in an embrace. He turns his face towards him, and Simon picks his head up to press a lingering kiss to his mouth.
When they part, John studies the flush on Simon’s face, the way his eyes dance in the moonlight. “Worth the wait?” Simon quips.
John hums. “Aye. You were always worth waitin’ for. I knew you would be.”
Simon stares at him for several moments before blinking. “You’re sappy as shite, Johnny.”
John grins. “Aye. And now you’re stuck with me.”
Simon bites his lip, and John’s heart aches with the sheer hope he’s so obviously trying to hold back. John cradles his face in his hands. “I swear it, Simon. I’m no’ leavin’ ye. No’ unless you tell me to go.”
Simon shakes his head. “I would never.”
“Then it’s settled.” He grunts as Simon softens enough to slip out of him. “Now, will ye fetch me something to clean up with?”
Simon snorts and kisses him before climbing out of the bed to retreat to the ensuite. He returns a few moments later with a warm, wet cloth and sits next to John. Before John can take it from him, he begins wiping down his stomach, gently cleaning his cock before reaching down to wipe off the lube. He takes the cloth back into the bathroom while John puts the bottle back into the nightstand drawer and tosses the condom wrapper. He’s just pulling the quilt up to his chest when Simon slides back into bed beside him.
Simon settles on his back and tugs John toward him, tucking him under his arm and pressing a kiss to his hair. John drapes himself over him, mindful of the angle of his shoulder, and kisses his chest.
John is almost asleep whenever Simon speaks.
“You were always the person I thought of when things got really bad.”
He props his chin on Simon’s chest, looking up at him. Simon glances down, running his hand up and down John’s back in a slow, soothing motion.
“It wasn’t even that I thought I’d get here, really. But that I knew, even if I didn’t understand why, that if something happened to me, you would take it the hardest.” He sighs, lifting his other hand to link his fingers with John’s. “Knowing I’d be hurting you kept me alive when there was nothing else to reach for. But I won’t collapse if things don’t work out between us.”
John squeezes his hand. “Thank you for telling me. And for what it’s worth, I’m going to fight for this, for us, as hard as I can.”
Simon nods. “I know. I just don’t want you to think you’re my only lifeline. That’s too much for one person.”
“Aye,” John sighs, letting his eyes drift closed. “But I don’t mind being a life raft.”
There’s a beat of silence before Simon laughs, cracking through the tranquility of the moment and jostling John into wakefulness again. “I’m sorry,” he says, choked. “I just—was imagining you transforming yourself into a set of floaties.”
John stares at him and then rolls his eyes. He settles back down, snuggling closer to Simon, who wraps his arm tighter around him in turn. “Go t’ sleep ye numpty.”
Simon chuckles and kisses his hair again. John falls asleep to the sound of his breathing and the slow rise and fall of his chest, warm and sated and safe.