Chapter Text
[ Simon “Ghost” Riley
[ 15:17 23 November, 2024
[ London, England
It’s dark in here.
There’s a soft, faint hum of machinery somewhere above his head. He’s intimately familiar with the clicks and whirs that it’s making– and judging by the searing pain in his side, he’d say it’s a rather safe guess to assume that he’s in hospital.
He thinks he already knows that. He does, he realizes– has been in since last night, when Price and Gaz and Johnny had taken him in alongside a swath of medics after the mission.
Johnny.
No. That can’t be right.
He shifts underneath the scratchy hospital bed sheets, and he feels his chest tighten. Something’s off in his memory– the painkillers must be getting to him.
Johnny’s gone.
It’s strange, though, how real it feels. How he can feel the way that Johnny held his hand as he bled. How he’d waltzed right in with him into an office building for a reason that he can’t seem to recall. There’s so much of him that his pain-addled brain has seemed to conjure up right in time for the anniversary. It’s fitting. Hurts, too.
His side hurts too, in a more literal sense. He knows he’s been shot. There’s another faint memory of a woman with a clipboard calmly explaining to him the procedures he’d just gone through and what the next week of recovery will look like for him. He hopes she’ll come back, because the only thing he can remember about the entire interaction is that she had on a pair of glasses that in no way whatsoever suited her face.
Bit rude of him, he thinks. His brain’s being a right cunt at the moment. Fabricating memories of Johnny and taunting a woman just trying to do her job.
He almost sighs, but stops himself upon remembering the wide array of medical devices strapped onto his body. It’s only then that he becomes fully aware of his being here– shit, this isn’t base.
He’s in a civilian hospital. He’s in a civilian hospital because the mission hadn’t been with SAS– it had been with Laswell. Yeah, that’s right. It’d been something under the radar because the brass still hadn’t forgiven Price for his incident, and Laswell was the only one getting things done. They were going after an investment banker. Johnny had been there.
Maybe that’s not right, then.
Fuck. Where’s his phone? He’s got to call Price and clear things up, because the uncertainty is making his stomach swim in a way that is especially threatening given his current condition.
He doesn’t want to turn too quickly, or to sit up, but he finds the half-upright position that the hospital so graciously left his bed in suitable enough to get decent bearings on the room. It’s small. Gray curtains cover an entire stretch of wall where he’s certain a window is hiding, judging by the strip of light on the ground underneath them. On his left, a bedside table– and there it is. By some small mercy, his phone sits within arms reach, connected to the wall by a charger cable. Was kind of Price or Gaz or Laswell or whoever else had been in to bring one by for him.
He grabs the phone, hands only slightly clumsy, and gently disconnects it from the charger. He’s not missed much, it seems; the most recent notification is an email from– Your Saving Grace. His brow furrows, and he swipes into it.
RE: Your Saving Grace
sorry i dont have your number in my new phone. didnt want to be a creep lol so im just going to message you from here. i went out for some proper food after you fell asleep (and no i cant bring you any. hospital food is being paid for by the government, this is not.) just in case you were wondering. ill be back in a few luv u :) dont be mean to that lady again if she comes in ok?
And, oh, he thinks. Of course.
Johnny is fine. Johnny has been fine.
A wave of relief rushes through him, warm. Everything is fine– he’s fine. He lets the phone fall onto his chest. Johnny is alive, Simon is alive.
He hates that he forgot. Even if it was just for a moment. It’s disorienting. He thinks he is going to be mean to that lady again, because he’s fairly certain that hospital painkillers aren’t supposed to mess with your head to this extent.
It’s almost funny how things worked out. The whole Saving Grace shtick, even given how angry it made him in the beginning. If Johnny hadn’t done it like that, if he’d come to him upfront, would everything have gone the same way? If Simon had never showed up to the charity ball, if Johnny had never goaded him with the mention of Kentucky– as angry as it’d made him, there’s a reason Crowther is dead, and he’d like to accredit it to the unconventional ways in which Johnny had fought his way back.
God, he’s lucky. Lucky to have only been shot in the side, lucky to have managed to take that old man down. Lucky beyond belief to have Johnny back.
If there’s one thing he can complain about, it's the amount of pain that his side is in.
As if he’d summoned it, there’s the sound of the door squeaking open; softly, gently enough to keep a sleeping man asleep, Simon supposes. There in the doorframe, light catching his figure in a way that Simon thinks makes him glow, shoulders hunched and movements careful, is Johnny.
He closes the door behind him with the same amount of caution, and Simon wonders if he’s holding his breath. The notion is endearing.
Johnny’s wearing his jacket– the one that Simon had left hanging in his room, navy blue and sheen to keep out the rain. His hair’s messy, but not so much that he looks unkempt. Under his arm is a white paper bag, and Simon wants to smirk at the knowledge that Johnny didn’t dare to keep his promise. He starts into the room quietly before his vibrant blue eyes meet Simon’s gaze, and his expression relaxes into a grin.
“Couldn’t have said anything while I did my best to keep you resting, huh?” His voice is still quiet, low and hushed as he moves to the bedside.
“Was just admiring the view,” Simon huffs. “Thanks for the effort.”
“You should still be asleep,” Johnny takes Simon’s hand and squeezes it before setting down the paper bag next to Simon’s phone. “I’ve only been gone an hour, and you’ve got an awful lot of recovering to do.”
“Think whatever you’ve got in there might make it easier.”
Johnny raises an eyebrow, exchanging his grin for a smirk. “Burger from the local shop down the street. But you have to promise you aren’t going to try anything else shifty, yeah?”
“Shifty?”
“Yeah,” Johnny pulls the small plastic chair from the corner of the room up to the bedside, and he takes a deep breath. “Can’t tell me that kind lady deserved that intense of a verbal lashing.”
Ooh. So that wasn’t just his brain, either, but he can feign complete ignorance. “Do you mind jogging my memory? Think the painkillers are fuckin’ with my head.”
Johnny stares at him. “You bein’ serious?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a scoff of amusement from Johnny, who proceeds to shake his head and offer Simon the bag of takeout food. “Maybe that’s a good thing, then. We can put that in the past.”
Simon graciously takes the paper sack– he hadn’t thought about it before Johnny had walked in, but he’s hungry. He’d go for anything right now, and it's even better that Johnny’s brought him a burger complete with all his favorite fixings: a thin slice of swiss cheese and a healthy scattering of white onions.
“You really don’t remember that lady?” His tone is incredulous, but not accusatory.
Simon hesitates, eyeing Johnny up and down. He’s beautiful in the low light– he’s beautiful everywhere , who is he kidding?
Here in the hospital, in his navy jacket, Simon doesn’t think he has ever loved Johnny more.
“No.” He blinks. “I thought you were dead,” he divulges, pitifully skirting his eyes to his food. “Again.”
Johnny’s face falls, and in return, Simon’s chest tightens.
“I swear whatever they’ve got me on is fuckin’ lethal.” It’s a hasty attempt at retribution, but Johnny chuckles. “Still a little hard to focus.”
“I’m sorry, Si.” He wrinkles his nose and sighs, his hand finding Simon’s again at the edge of the bed. “I wouldn’t have left if I’d realized how bad it was, but–”
“No, I’m glad you did,” Simon interrupts. He’s certainly not glad , per se, but he doesn’t want Johnny to blame himself. “Think I would’ve starved to death without this.”
There’s a genuine laugh this time. “Ye can fuck right off. Your order’s nasty, by the way– I’d forgotten how bad it smells.”
“Better get used to it. Said you weren’t leaving again, remember?” He’s only half joking; he knows Johnny won’t leave again, won’t be gone , but Simon will do everything in his power to ensure that this man has to smell his bullshit burger orders for the rest of his life.
Johnny leans in towards him, and he tightens his hold on Simon’s hand, blue eyes shining and bright and alive. “Never.”
Simon knows he means it.
–
[ Simon “Ghost” Riley
[ 18:13 15 December, 2024
[ Edinburgh, Scotland
“Appreciate your help today,” Johnny gives a light jab in the shoulder furthest away from Simon’s still-raw wound, a stupidly sarcastic grin plastered across his face. His hair’s a mess, loose strands of mohawk stuck to his sweaty forehead. “You were quite the invigorating couch pillow.”
“None of it,” Simon mumbles. “You want me to break my stitches open to move in your shite excuse of a mattress?”
Johnny nods fervently.
“Right, then, my apologies. I’ll hop right to it next time.” He rolls to his side to mute the nature documentary he’d had playing in the background, and stands up with a grunt of effort. “Not like you’ll be here longer than two weeks at a time. Still on for dinner?”
“You know it, LT.” He sets a hand on his hips and gives Simon another clap on the shoulder before exhaling loudly and starting off to the bedroom. “Give me a few, I’ll be right out.”
He shuts the door behind him, and Simon smiles.
It’s warm inside despite the snow softly drifting into banks on the windowsills. Simon slips his sneakers on, careful to avoid straining his side, and idly watches as the snow falls. There are children outside, laughing loud enough that Simon can hear their accented yells through the thin walls of Soap’s flat. The sun is starting to set– barely visible in the first place behind gray, low-hanging clouds, but there’s a pink hue to the few bits of sky that he can see through them.
It’s lovely. A year and twenty-three days ago, he never thought he’d see the sun again.
Johnny’s back before he can snap out of his thoughts. The two of them throw on coats before shuffling out to the icy streets. It’s cold outside– far colder than November, but he doesn’t mind; he has a scarf wrapped over his nose and Johnny’s arm interlinked with his own.
“You shoot Price a text yet?” Johnny asks, quiet.
“Nah, nothing to tell him.” Simon tilts his head down at the shorter man, blinking. “You hauled ass movin’ all your shit in and I sat on your couch. Not too exciting.”
Johnny scoffs. “What was the last thing you told him?”
“Told him I’d get in touch when we got to Edinburgh.”
“Simon. You know where you’re at?”
“Edinburgh.”
He receives a soft palm to the chest at that, and Johnny shakes his head. “Text him, you bastard.”
“I will,” he grunts. “When I’ve got something to tell him.”
“Your side’s not hurting too bad, yeah?” Johnny glances down at it like he wants to touch it, but he doesn’t, instead just humming in its general direction. “Just let him know you’re feeling alright.”
He has every intention to, but it's easier to simply ignore the rest of the world outside of him and Johnny; the threat of another terrorist looming over their head, of careers that mean promises of tomorrow can never be kept. He cares about Price– just wants to savor the idea that one day, he could have this and nothing else to worry about.
Johnny squints up at him, and his blue eyes sparkle in the yellow light of the streetlamps. He thinks he can get by with just this for now.
“Laswell said she wants Nora to meet us once you’re back from leave,” he says. “Her wife. Nora’s her wife,” it’s endearing, the way he thinks Simon wouldn’t catch that.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Johnny’s quiet for a moment, drawing a quick breath before continuing. “I’ve seen photos of the two of them. They’re a good match. She’s talked about her a lot, ‘n I’ve told her a little bit about you.”
“Laswell knows me already, Johnny.”
He earns another jab to the shoulder.
“I think it’d be nice.” Johnny gives him a sincere look. “Feels only right, considering I’m gonna be glued to her side from now on. I’m going to meet Nora eventually. I’d prefer it if you came, but it’s happening, one way or another.”
Again– it’s endearing the way he thinks Simon would even think of hesitating to agree. “Of course I’ll come.”
“Good.” Johnny grins. “Was afraid I was gonna have to drag you kickin’ an’ screamin’.”
They stop in front of a street light, and Johnny rocks back on the soles of his feet as they stand waiting for it to let them cross. The thin sheet of ice underneath his feet leaves imprints of his boots once he steps away, Simon’s own footsteps mirroring them.
The diner they enter is calm, relaxed, and they pick a booth seat close to the door and watch as cars spray snow towards the windows as they pass. Johnny tells him the fish and chips here are something to cherish, so he takes him at his word and orders them. There’s two of the same meal handed off to the table.
Johnny’s right– it’s good food. It’s not the best he’s ever had, but it fills and warms his stomach; that’s notable in and of itself. They finish, and Johnny pays with cash and a generous tip for their waiter.
Simon is stopped from turning back to the crosswalk before Johnny’s tugging on his sleeve, a mischievous look on his face and arm outstretched to point in the opposite direction.
“Care for a drink?” He shoves gloved hands into his pockets. “There’s a place just down the road I’ve been itching to go back to.”
Simon’s up for anything. “If you’re buying.”
“Of course.”
So Johnny leads the way, and he follows.
It’s louder in the pub. There are people scattered across the bartop, exchanging laughs and claps of vibrant enthusiasm. The light is soft and warm, and the two of them slide into another, slightly more comfortable booth.
Johnny slips away to the bartender before he can say anything else to him, and returns triumphantly with a pint in his right hand and what he can only assume is a bourbon in his left.
“They have your favorite here.” He’s smirking like a madman. “Expensive, no less, but I’ve been wanting to take you for ages because of it.”
Simon takes the glass from him, holding it in his hand for a moment before taking a swig. It burns as it goes down– it’s perfect. He loves Kentucky.
“You know,” he starts, inhaling, “it was really fuckin’ stupid of you to call yourself Kentucky.”
Johnny blinks. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” He sets the glass back down. “I thought you were messing with me for the longest time. Like you were some Russian defector, Konni member or something toying with me. And the email , Johnny– were you trying to piss me off?”
“Little bit, yeah.” He winks at him over the top of his beer. “I know you, Si– I’m not gonna say I’d do everything the same if I had another chance, but I– had my reasons, I guess. I never really thought you’d notice the email.”
“You didn’t think I’d notice the email?” He takes another sip. “Right, I’m insulted.”
“Sorry, LT– which one of us is currently working directly under one Kate Laswell ?”
Simon crosses his arms. “That’s not fair. You got shot in the head ‘n faked your fuckin’ death.”
“Didn’t scramble my brains,” he says, and there’s a brief flash of anxiety in Simon’s chest upon imagining that it had. “But– I’m glad it’s over. Crowther, at least.”
Fuck, yeah he is.
“Dunno what I would’ve done without you.” Simon reaches for Johnny’s hand, and he takes it, squeezing tight. “My own personal Saving Grace.”
“See? I got something right.” His blue eyes are soft and playful, and he chuckles. “You’re the reason I came back, you know.”
It’s not surprising– he’d almost hoped that Johnny would say that. It still makes him melt as Johnny’s gaze lowers and his face flushes red.
“I missed the team, sure. But I missed you more. Couldn’t imagine living without you much longer.” His voice is lower, and it's almost hard to hear him over the other patrons in the bar.
“I’m glad you did.” In terms of the team, it’s not the same; it never will be, but that’s alright. Johnny’s alive. He won’t be side by side with Simon as they ship out to hunt some foreign terrorist, but he’ll be in his ear and on base right by Laswell. Simon can almost prefer that– keeps Johnny out of range of demented Russian madmen’s pistols.
“Me too.” He downs more of his beer, and he laughs. Simon’s not sure at what. “Goddamnit, me too.”
They go home – to Johnny’s flat, to a place where the children are still shrieking in laughter, to a place with a fire, and they sit on the couch until Johnny falls asleep. Simon runs his fingers through his mohawk, carefully traces the scars on his temples down to his ears. They’re beautiful, he thinks.
It’s not forever, and he knows that, but one day it will be. One day they’ll get all of these awful, egotistical people out of the way, and then they can have their garden and their three cats and they can do all of the stupid things that couples who are safe do. They’re going to make it. They’ve fought this hard to get back to each other– Simon doesn’t think there’s anything else in the world that could take him away. Their future is set in stone, and he’s going to be the one to follow through on it.
He hopes there’s plenty more Kentucky.