Chapter Text
Johnny wakes first.
It’s these quiet morning hours he’s learned to love in this very cabin, the morning cold and still outside their window while he and Simon are safe and warm in their bed. More importantly, Simon is safe and warm in Johnny’s arms. Something he’s been thinking about more and more lately, especially given what they’ve both gone through the past few months, and as dark as some of those moment were, they’ve taught him to never miss a moment, never take anything for granted. That’s why he loves these early morning hours here at their cabin. To see Simon relax this much, to the point where he becomes the lazybones who sleeps in well past breakfast, curled up like a cat on top of Johnny.
Simon is still asleep, sprawled half over him, his head tucked against Johnny’s chest because this huge frightening hulk of a man likes to fall asleep to the sound of Johnny’s heartbeat. One of his arms is curled back in on himself, while the other lays heavily across Johnny’s abdomen, clutching at his side. Bare skin to bare skin. Looking down past the mop of blond curls (his hair is getting long and Johnny loves it), he can make out every single freckle along the bridge of Simon’s nose and cheekbone, the curl of his light-colored eyelashes, his soft pink lips slightly parted in sleep.
He also sees the scars on that beautiful face and he takes a moment, now, while Simon is fast asleep, to study them.
It’s not that Johnny never noticed them before. It’s kind of impossible not to. A long, thin jagged one across his nose and both cheekbones. Another trailing upward from the corner of his mouth. One across his chin. Several on his forehead, including a particularly deep one that stretches from his hairline to his temple.
So many scars. So much violence.
So yes, of course Johnny has noticed them. But they’ve never been something to linger over for him, because they’ve always been there. Part of the collective whole that make up Simon Riley. He thinks it might be because Simon’s eyes were the first part of him he’d seen, and for a very long time, they were the only part of Simon he’d seen. Honey brown with tiny golden flecks around the iris that liked to catch and hold the afternoon light. That seemed to almost sparkle when Simon smiled at him. So changeable. So honest. Like he was being granted a window straight into Simon’s soul. Johnny had never spent a bleeding second wondering what was beneath that black mask, because Simon’s eyes have always been the most expressive part of him, a fact that he’s pretty sure Simon isn’t aware of. And the first time he did see Simon without the mask, that night in Alejandro’s safehouse, he was still as captivated by Simon’s eyes as he was the first day he saw him, and everything else, including Simon’s scars, was simply window dressing.
Now that he’s had more time to appreciate Simon’s bare face, Johnny still thinks without a shadow of a doubt that he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. Scars included. He was serious about what he’d told Simon the night before, and he’ll spend every last minute of his life worshiping at Simon’s feet until he understands just how beautiful he is, inside and out, because hearing Simon’s fear and uncertainty about his scars broke Johnny’s heart completely in two.
Carding his fingers lightly through Simon’s hair, Johnny smiles to himself. The strength of the love he feels for Simon scares him sometimes. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for him, and Johnny has been close enough to losing Simon to realize that there is no limit to that statement. It’s not just how much love he feels in his heart for Simon, it’s how loved Johnny feels. Loved by Simon, even though he knows Simon cannot ever love him in precisely the same way. Not romantically, not sexually, but still something more intimate than friendship. And while that may hurt sometimes, Johnny gets it. He knows Simon’s different naturally, and after everything he’s been through…
Johnny’s thoughts return to the scars of Simon’s he can see, and he frowns. God, the violence that’s been done to him. What little he knows about Simon’s childhood and his past…and then there’s Mexico.
There is a part of him that desperately wants to know only so that he can understand Simon better and possibly avoid triggers. But there is another part that absolutely does not want to know, because the images that have come unbidden to his own mind are bad enough, and Johnny feels certain that the truth of what happened in Mexico will be infinitely worse than anything he can imagine.
Fury, hot and swift, pours through his veins. He knows from what little he’s been told that the people who did this to Simon are all dead, but sometimes he almost wishes a few of them were still alive so that he can take them apart with his bare hands and pay back every single wound of Simons, tenfold. He’d make it last. Hours. Days. Weeks.
Their suffering would be fucking biblical.
Johnny takes a deep breath. He’s starting to get really angry. With his head positioned right over his heart, Simon’s going to hear how fast it’s pounding and wake, and Johnny really doesn’t want to explain that how he was fantasizing about murder at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning.
So he calms himself down and vows that someday, somehow, he is going to make it right. But not today. He’s just going to love Simon any way he’s allowed, any way he can, and that will be enough.
But…he can’t keep lying to Simon. He has to know the truth.
What happened the other day with Simon…in bed. The…the…
Johnny feels his face start to heat. He can’t even bring himself to think the word, the image of Simon’s hands on him, coaxing him to a release. The way he’d looked at him. So concerned, checking in constantly, so attentive and earnest.
Johnny hasn’t been able to think of much else.
He feels dirty. He feels…like he did something wrong. Not that there is anything wrong with liking another man’s hands on you, he knows now that any internalized homophobia he feels is the direct result of his father, but he can’t help the deep feeling of shame that accompanies thoughts like that. It’s like it’s…hardwired into his brain. Even though he knows it’s not true. It’s why, he’s realized, that he’s always been afraid to come out. To initiate, to give voice to his deepest, darkest secret even to the people he loves and trusts the most.
To be brave like Kyle, to love and want and desire freely.
God, what that must feel like.
But as much as the thought of withstanding Simon’s reaction might terrify him, it has to be done. After everything Simon has been through, he has got to be told that this isn’t platonic anymore for Johnny, and it hasn’t been for a while. That this is sexual beyond just “helping a bloke out.” Simon doesn’t have to know the depths of Johnny’s feelings for him, but he deserves to know the nature of those feelings.
And how d’ye think that’ll go? His dead father’s voice helpfully supplies. Findin’ out that the man who’s supposed tae have his back, who’s supposed tae be his friend is nothin’ but a filthy slag who cannae keep his hands tae himself nor ungodly thoughts from his heid. If it were me, I’d beat the cursed soul from yer body an’ leave ye tae the crows, the way I ought’ve years ago.
Johnny squeezes his eyes shut and tries to silence the voice.
Ye should just spare ‘im the embarrassment of knowin’ an’ put a bullet in yer heid, because ye obviously cannae control yerself.
Johnny gasps and squirms out from under Simon. He’s trembling, and his heart is beating so hard and fast he knows he’s going to wake him. He just…needs to calm himself down.
Tugging on a pair of sweatpants and Simon’s hoodie, he pads out into the living room. Stoking the fire back up requires enough focus that he’s able to finally stop shaking. It’s too early to make breakfast and besides, he’s really not that hungry. So he makes himself some cocoa because he feels like coffee will just make him more anxious, grabs his coat and journal, and heads down to the loch.
The air is bracingly cold, and Johnny immediately feels a little bit better as he picks his way down to the shore. He finds a log by the water’s edge that’s free of snow, and after a brief debate over whether to go back for a blanket, he decides to just deal with it. He sits, opens his journal, and begins to write.
At first it’s just errant thoughts. The exact phrasing of the voice in his head this morning—not because he particularly wants to read it again, but because it feels like purging a poison from his blood to get it down on paper. He writes about things that make him angry and things that make him sad. He writes about the things that terrify him more than dying. Sometimes, while he thinks, he makes absent little sketches in the margins. Nothing grand, he’s not really paying attention, but it helps the thoughts flow.
Only after he feels his heart settle and his breathing even out does he flip to a new page and begin the header.
Dear Simon,
Johnny writes. He writes and he writes all the things he wants to say out loud but is afraid to, and all the things he will never tell another soul. This is his heart down on paper, for Simon and Simon alone even though he’ll never read it. Johnny would never burden him with the entirety of his personality. But there is still that one little adjustment that needs to be made, that one secret that needs to be told to make their relationship right, even if it’s the one thing that could doom it forever.
He’s so focused on writing he doesn’t hear Simon come up behind him.
“You’re up early.”
Johnny startles. He knocks into his mug of cocoa and it splashes across the page and he curses, wiping at it with the sleeve of his coat. Simon chuckles and bends to help him.
“Sorry I scared you, I didn’t realize you—” He stops suddenly, the smile slipping from his face as he looks at Johnny. “Are you okay? You look tired, why’d you get up so early?”
Simon molds his hand to the side of Johnny’s face, tilting it into the light so he can see the dark circles Johnny knows are under his eyes. While he does feel a little better, Johnny still feels wrong out and obviously, he looks it. So he says, truthfully, “I couldn’t sleep. Started thinkin’ about my Da, and I was trying tae work through it, but I started to get anxious. Came down here tae try to get it out on paper.”
Simon looks down at the journal in Johnny’s hands. It’s still a little soggy, and he’d closed it quickly so Simon couldn’t see the letter. There’s a little worry crease between his brows but he doesn’t press, he just opens his arms and lets Johnny fold into him.
Johnny sighs when he feels Simon kiss the top of his head, and he burrows his face into that broad chest. For a guy who’s spent most of his life running his mouth, Johnny has really come to love the way that neither of them need to say a word to communicate. It would probably surprise most of his friends, but a lot of the time, Johnny really doesn’t want to say anything at all. But when your entire personality revolves around being a nonstop diatribe of empty thoughts, people are bound to notice the silence.
“I feel like a broken record, but if there is anything you want to talk about, I’m here,” Simon murmurs into his hair. “Even the hard stuff…the stuff that doesn’t make sense…sometimes it helps to let someone hear it and help carry the burden.”
Then why won’t you tell me what happened in Mexico? Or is someone else already carrying that burden with you?
He feels guilty for the little bit of jealousy that’s kicking up in him, so he deflects, instead.
“That’s very deep.”
Simon looks at him like he knows Johnny is deflecting, but he doesn’t comment on it. “I’m more than just a pretty face, you know.”
He knows Simon means it as a joke, but after last night, it doesn’t seem very funny to Johnny. So he disentangles himself from Simon’s embrace and lightly punches his shoulder. “Are ye hungry? I can go get some breakfast started.”
“Only if you’re hungry too. You don’t have to cook for me, Johnny.”
“Maybe I like cookin’ fer you.”
Simon’s mouth quirks, fond and a little bemused. “All right.”
Johnny gathers up his things, and Simon follows him back up to the cabin. Once he’s shed his coat and boots he goes to the kitchen and starts pulling things out of the fridge, the familiar rhythm of cooking easing some of the tightness in his chest. He cracks eggs, lines up bread, sets a pan on the hob. Simon hovers for a moment like he might help, then seems to think better of it and settles at the small table instead, elbows braced, chin in his hands, watching Johnny like this is the best show on the telly.
It shouldn’t make Johnny’s pulse skip the way it does. It really shouldn’t.
They’re both quiet as he works. Simon seems inclined to give Johnny his space this morning, and while space is the last thing he wants right now, he’s also secretly glad of it because he doubts he could carry on a conversation right now anyway. The quiet domesticity is comforting, but still, under all of it, Johnny’s thoughts keep circling back to the same place.
You need to tell him.
He cracks an egg too hard, and shell pieces fall into the bowl. He curses and fishes them out.
What, over breakfast? How’s yer eggs, Simon? And oh, by the way, I fancy men.
No. That’s absurd. He’s going to do it, he’s just got to choose his moment.
They eat by the window, morning light spilling across the table, the loch pale and glassy beyond the trees. Simon eats like he always does up here—quickly and enthusiastically, going back for second and third helpings—and every so often he glances up at Johnny with a little smile that makes Johnny’s stomach flip over on itself.
After they clean up together, Simon washing, Johnny drying, their hands bumping in the sink more often than strictly necessary, Simon leans back against the counter and crosses his arms.
“So,” he says lightly. “What’s the plan today, Sergeant?”
Johnny dries his hands on a towel, buying himself a second. “I was thinkin’… maybe we get out fer a bit. There’s some trails not far from here. We could go for a walk, if yer keen.”
Simon’s eyes light up instantly. “Yeah? That sounds great.”
Relief washes through Johnny, quick and sharp. Movement helps. Fresh air helps. And maybe—just maybe—if he can get out of his own head for a few hours, the words will stop tangling themselves around his brain.
It’s a bit of a drive to the trailhead, and the landscape changes as they go, the trees and hills giving way to stunning crags and jagged peaks that fall away dramatically, and distantly, the sea. The hiking’s a bit more rugged up here and requires a bit more concentration with the snow, but that’s exactly what Johnny is looking for.
They park by the trailhead, and Simon takes a deep breath as he gets out of the car. “It’s beautiful.”
“Just wait ‘til we get up there,” he says, pointing.
Simon follows his point to the ridgeline where a saddle spans between two peaks. He looks so genuinely excited that Johnny just laughs fondly and bumps his shoulder as he slings on his backpack.
“Come on, big man. Let’s git attit.”
The air is cold enough to sting their lungs, clean and bright, and Johnny feels his shoulders loosen with every step. Exertion and concentration does wonders for his mood, and soon he’s feeling more like himself, yapping about mythological Scottish creatures, a subject Simon is surprisingly interested in.
“An’ if yer near water, ye’ve got tae watch out for kelpies. They’re evil water spirits that take the form of a horse to entice weary travelers to ride ‘em. Once a kelpie’s got ye on its back, yer doomed.” Johnny pauses for effect. “Off it goes intae the water, down tae the depths where it’ll drown ye an’ devour ye whole.”
Their boots scuff in the gravel as they walk down the path together. Simon hitches his pack higher and looks at Johnny. “Have you ever seen a kelpie?”
“No, but I have seen a teine biorach.”
“What’s that?”
“A will-o’-the-wisp—they sometimes appear as floating lights near bogs or marshes, luring unsuspecting travelers off the paths tae their deaths.” Johnny takes a sip of his water bottle and hands it to Simon. “My sister Elsie and I were walkin’ near dusk down by the marshes one day, lookin’ fer frogs tae catch, when we saw it. A ghostly blue flame hovering out over the marsh, half obscured by the ground fog.
Simon hands the bottle back, staring at him intently. “What happened?”
“I chased after it, of course.” Johnny smirk at Simon’s snort of laughter. “I was just a wee thing an’ had about as much of a sense o’ self preservation as I do now, so off I went, chargin’ through the marshes after the wisp. My sister ran after me, screamin’ bloody murder—there’s bogs that’ll swallow a man whole, ye ken—an’ she tackled me tae the ground an’ dragged me back home. Saved my life that night, I reckon. Thought I was in fer a thrashin’, but Elsie never breathed a word of it tae Mam or Da.”
Simon hums. “Will-o’-the-wisp. A…what’s the word for it in Scots?”
“Teine Biorach.”
“Say it again? Slower.”
Johnny does, and Simon repeats it very carefully, then again, quieter to himself, like he’s committing the word to memory. Hearing the Scots words on Simon’s lips does something funny to his stomach. Simon is deadly serious, unlike all the other times he’d teased Johnny with ‘English, MacTavish,’ or purposefully mispronouncing Scots with his Manchester accent just to make him laugh. He’s actually got a knack for it, and Johnny finds himself watching Simon’s mouth as it wraps itself the around unfamiliar words. He’s starting to think of all the other words he can teach Simon, just to hear them said in that quiet, gravely voice.
“So does Scotland have any creatures that are not bloodthirsty fiends?” Simon asks, pulling Johnny out of his head. “Because I’m starting to get concerned.”
Up ahead, the trail narrows down to a single footpath, and Simon falls in behind him. Johnny keeps one hand on the crag face, talking over his shoulder as they walk.
“Plenty. Elsie and me, though, we were only interested in the scary ones.”
“Elsie, your sister. You’ve got three sisters…older, right?”
“Aye. Grace, Isobel, and Elsie.”
Simon nods and repeats the names, adding one. “Grace, Isobel, Elsie, and Johnny.”
“John. Never Johnny.” He laughs, hoping it’s not as bitter as it sounds. “Yer the only one who calls me that.” He’s quiet for a beat, then he adds, “Yer the only one I want tae call me that.”
Simon goes quiet, and he’s got a funny look on his face when Johnny turns to look at him, but he hides it with a tight smile. “Are you…close with any of your sisters?”
“Erm…no’ really. Grace is nigh on a decade older’n me, an’ she’s a chip off the ol’ block. She an’ I never got on much. Isobel’s a few years younger, but she’s got married young an’ has a whole parcel o’ bairn keepin’ her busy. Elsie an’ me are the closest, I guess. She’s three years older, teachin’ art history at University in between her art shows.”
“An artist like you,” Simon smiles, but then he seems to catch himself. “I just know you like to sketch sometimes. In your journal. Not that I’ve looked.”
Simon is blushing furiously, and Johnny wonders what that’s all about.
God, he hopes Simon’s never seen inside his journal.
“I doodle a bit, is all. Elsie’s the real talent in the family. Painting, sculpture, photography, she does it all. She’s wanted to be an artist since she could walk.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” Johnny comes to a halt and sees Simon watching him.
“What did little Johnny MacTavish want to be when he grew up?”
That’s…not an easy question to answer, and Johnny takes his time, thinking about it as the trail gets steeper. Simon doesn’t push. Almost like he already knows the answer even before Johnny does.
What did he want to be? He tries to think back, carefully cracking open childhood memories and sifting through play pretend that seemed to change on a daily basis. A policeman or a pirate. An astronaut. A doctor. A mapmaker. Someone who built bridges and skyscrapers or someone who wrote stories that stayed with you long after the words ran out. An artist. A teacher. A father. A friend.
And above all, a good man. Someone who loved and was loved right back…for all the things he was and was not.
What did he want to be? More like, what did he want his life to stand for? The military had been an escape, and after he was in the system, it was onward and upward. Johnny had made it his personal mission to be everything. The best of the best. The guy who had his teammates backs. The one who’d get the mission done, come hell or high water. That had been the mission for so long, Johnny had almost forgotten he’d ever wanted anything else.
Until Simon.
A good man. Loved and loved right back…despite everything.
Johnny had spent so much time trying to please his father’s ghost, that he’d never stopped to wonder if he was someone little Johnny MacTavish would be proud of.
“Johnny?”
He stumbles, tripping on an exposed rock, and Simon steadies him. Johnny flashes a grin over his shoulder. “I already told ye, LT,” he teases. “I want to be like you when I grow up.”
Simon looks at him with that soul-penetrating look that always makes Johnny feel utterly naked. Then he smiles, faintly but full of wry fondness, honey brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You’re already better than me, Johnny.”
He doesn’t know why the turn of phrase feels like a punch in the gut, but it does. Maybe it’s the altitude or the exertion or the fact that he hasn’t eaten much today, so Johnny just gives Simon a faint smile back, then he turns back to the trail.
They hike on.
The trail climbs more steeply until the trees thin and the land opens up around them. They crest the ridge together, the wind stronger up here, carrying the scent of pine and cold water, and the view stretches out in every direction.
Far in the distance, the land splits and opens to the sea, the world wide and endless and impossibly beautiful.
Simon stops dead.
“Oh,” he breathes.
Johnny watches him instead of the view. Simon’s face is open in a way Johnny doesn’t get to see very often—eyes bright, mouth parted in quiet awe, shoulders squared like he’s bracing himself against something vast.
Johnny’s chest tightens painfully.
Simon turns to him then, stepping close without even seeming to realize he’s doing it. He reaches out, fingers brushing Johnny’s sleeve, his wrist, his hand—little touches that feel natural to him now, easy and unguarded.
And Johnny’s heart soars even as his stomach knots.
Because Simon is looking at him like this now—like Johnny is safe, like he belongs here with him—but if Simon knew the truth, would that look change?
Would Simon pull away?
Would he be gentle, apologetic, careful… the way people are when they don’t want to hurt you but still have to say no?
The thought makes Johnny’s throat close.
They go back to the cabin after that. He forces a smile when Simon nudges him playfully, talking just enough to keep the conversation going, even though it makes him feel like an asshole. Johnny is really happy to be here with Simon, but he feels like he’s ruining things because he knows Simon can sense something is wrong, but because he’s the sweetest man on the face of the earth he doesn’t push. He just lets Johnny take his time. So fucking gentle with him, but it only makes it worse.
Later, after they’ve kicked off their boots and hung up their coats and rummaged through the fridge for a snack, Simon sighs and stretches, nodding towards the bedroom.
“Fancy a nap? Fresh air’s done me in.”
Johnny just smiles fondly, because his Simon is a cuddle monster and Johnny loves every second of it and that is exactly what he needs right now.
Together they fall onto the bed, and Simon pulls Johnny close without hesitation, one arm draped heavy and warm over his waist. His body is dragged back against Simon’s chest and held in place, solid, warm, and secure. It’s only after Simon throws his leg over Johnny’s caging him in, that he’s able to take a full breath—funny how they’ve never talked about it, but Simon just somehow knows that Johnny needs pressure and warmth when he’s feeling anxious, or he’ll never sleep.
He barely has time to register the thought before sleep takes him, sudden and deep, the kind that only comes when you’ve finally let your guard down.
***
Johnny’s eyes fly open. He’s breathing hard, covered in a light sheen of sweat, and a bit dizzy as the last of the nightmare fades. Sleep paralysis—it’s been awhile since he’s had one like that. Not since Chicago…
Simon’s not in bed.
Johnny frowns slightly, rolling onto his side. The blankets on Simon’s side are cool, undisturbed for a while now. For just a split second, that old familiar anxiety sparks, but then he sees the note Simon left on the nightstand.
I’m outside. Didn’t want you to worry.
He’s a little confused by the note, more so when he hears the sound right outside the window.
Thunk.
A pause.
Thunk.
He drags himself out of bed, pulls on his jeans and Simon’s hoodie, and pads to the window. Outside, the afternoon light is pale and cold, the sun already beginning its slow descent behind the hills.
Simon’s in the yard, axe in hand, splitting firewood. Johnny leans against the frame and just…stares.
He’s stripped down to his tee shirt and jeans, jacket abandoned on the top of the wood pile beside him. Every movement is powerful and economical: the way he plants his feet, the smooth arc of his arms as he brings the axe down, the flex of muscle through his shoulders and back. There’s something almost meditative about it, the steady rhythm of work, the quiet competence of him. Johnny watches the axe bite into the log, watches Simon straighten and brush hair back from his forehead with the back of his wrist, breath puffing faintly in the cold, cheeks flushed pink with exertion.
Mouth dry, Johnny tears himself away from the sight before he does something truly stupid.
Then, he gets an idea.
Smiles to himself.
And puts on his boots and jacket and quietly slips out the front door.
Outside, the cold hits him immediately, biting at his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He circles wide, keeping to the edge of the trees, boots crunching softly through the snow. Simon doesn’t notice him at all, too focused on gathering the split wood into his arms.
Johnny stoops and scoops up a handful of snow, packing it together carefully, grinning to himself. Across the yard, Simon moves toward the cabin with his load, pauses by the bedroom window, and glances inside.
Johnny freezes.
Simon stands there a moment longer than necessary, brow furrowing, then he shifts and quickly heads inside with the wood. Johnny exhales slowly, letting the grin spread back across his face. He waits, crouched behind a tree, snowball ready in his palm. The silence stretches. Too long.
“Johnny?”
The front door bangs open. Simon steps out onto the porch, eyes scanning the yard. “Johnny?”
He leans back into the treeline as Simon comes down the front steps.
“Johnny, you out here?” Simon’s voice is closer now, a bit of a raw edge to it. Johnny stifles a grin—he doesn’t have a clue. He turns away from the trees…
…and Johnny steps out and lets the snowball fly.
It hits Simon square between the shoulder blades with a solid, wet, thwap.
Simon grunts in surprise and whirls around just in time for Johnny to nail him again, this one bursting against his chest, flecks of snow spraying up into his face.
For a split second, Simon just stands there, his jaw hanging open.
Then his mouth curls into a feral grin.
“Oh, you cheeky little cunt,” he growls. “Get back here.”
Johnny doesn’t need to be told twice.
He turns and bolts, laughing breathlessly as he tears through the snow, boots slipping, heart hammering. Behind him he hears Simon’s heavy footsteps, fast and relentless. He risks a glance over his shoulder and immediately regrets it because Simon is right there, long legs eating up the distance, grin sharp and dangerous and full of promise.
“Catch me first!” Johnny yells, ducking around a tree as a snowball sails past his head and explodes against the bark.
The woods erupt into chaos, snow flying, laughter echoing, the chase twisting and doubling back on itself. Johnny’s giggling like mad, his breath coming in sharp little gasps, fingers numb as he scrapes at the snow beside him, trying—and failing—to pack it into anything resembling a proper snowball.
He barely gets a handful together before Simon tackles him.
They go down hard into a snow drift, the impact knocking a laugh straight out of Johnny as snow explodes up around them, cold and shockingly invasive. Simon pins him easily, his eyes bright and wild as he holds up a handful of snow.
“Got you,” he says, triumphant.
Johnny yelps when Simon shoves the snow goes straight down the front of his shirt.
“Oh, you bastard—!”
Simon is apparently trying to smother him, shoving snow everywhere he can reach—down Johnny’s collar, down the back of his jeans, and they’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe. Johnny bucks and twists beneath him, half-heartedly trying to escape, then retaliates by grabbing a fistful of snow and mashing it straight into Simon’s face. They wrestle until neither of them has the strength left for it. Simon is still straddling him, hands braced in the snow on either side of Johnny’s shoulders, looking down at him with that devastating mix of fondness and exasperation.
“I ought to throttle you for that,” Simon says, still smiling. “You scared me half to death.”
Johnny wriggles beneath him, grabbing Simon’s side, but then freezes at the distinct, unmistakable shape in Simon’s jacket pocket.
He arches a brow. “I’d ask if that was a gun in yer pocket or if ye’re just happy tae see me,” he wheezes, “but I can see it’s clearly a gun.”
Simon blinks, then follows Johnny’s gaze. His smile fades just a touch.
“Why d’ye have a gun, Si?” Johnny asks, softer now.
Simon hesitates. The moment stretches. Then he exhales, sheepish in a way Johnny almost never sees.
“I didn’t know where you were,” he admits. “I just… I don’t know. I get a little paranoid sometimes.”
Something in Johnny’s chest tightens. He sobers immediately, and he reaches up to gently brush the snowflakes from Simon’s hair.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have done tha’. I didnae mean tae scare ye.”
Simon studies him for a second, then his mouth curves back into a grin, easier this time. “It’s all right. It was a good prank,” he says, pushing himself up and offering Johnny a hand.
Johnny lets himself be hauled to his feet, legs shaky, clothes soaked through and clinging uncomfortably.
“Come on,” Simon says, already steering him toward the cabin. “Let’s get you warmed up. You’re soaked through after that arse-kicking you got.”
“Arse kickin’—get tae fuck! Ye stood there like a gobsmacked dobber an—”
“English, Johnny.”
Inside, Simon kneels by the hearth, striking a match and coaxing the fire back to life, while Johnny shrugs out of his damp coat and hoodie, shivering as he hangs them near the warmth. The fire catches with a soft whoomph, flames licking up and filling the room with heat and light, and for a moment he just stares at them, lost in thought.
“Johnny?”
He flinches. Simon’s standing by the coat rack, just watching him. Johnny’s not sure how long he’s been standing there.
“You’ve been on edge today,” Simon says quietly. “I could run you a bath, if you want. Proper hot one. Help you relax.”
The offer is gentle. Careful. Earnest.
Johnny freezes.
For one horrifyingly beautiful moment, his mind supplies an image of what that would look like. Simon’s hands on his body, in his hair. The quiet intimacy of being tended to, seen, taken care of without expectation or heat or want. Just trust. For one of them, at least.
Johnny’s heart lurches painfully in his chest.
He can’t. He absolutely cannot.
If Simon touches him like that right now, Johnny is going to unravel completely. His body already betrays him enough; he doesn’t trust himself not to feel too much, not to want more than Simon knows he’s offering.
Johnny forces a smile that feels brittle around the edges.
“That’s okay,” he says, too quickly. “I’ll just take a quick shower.”
Simon studies his face for a beat, concern flickering there. Johnny holds his breath, terrified Simon will see straight through him.
“Okay.” Then, carefully, “I’ll get dinner on. That mac and cheese I made went over well last time. I can handle that.”
Johnny’s chest tightens as Simon turns away, already moving through the kitchen, already taking care of him in the only way Johnny will let him right now.
He escapes into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaning his forehead briefly against the cool wood. The sounds of Simon cooking drifts past the door—pots clinking, the low hum of his voice to himself—and it makes everything worse.
The shower is hot enough to scald his skin, steam filling the small space until it’s hard to breathe. Johnny braces one hand against the tile and bows his head, frustration and want and shame tangling together until it’s unbearable.
He jerks off quickly, mechanically, refusing to let himself linger on anything but the rush of water and the sting of self-reproach afterward. There’s no relief in it. Just a hollow ache and a surge of guilt that settles heavy in his gut.
He hates himself for it.
He hates that Simon doesn’t know. Hates that Simon trusts him so completely. Hates that every gentle thing Simon does feels like another thread pulling him closer to the edge.
Johnny rests his forehead against the tile, breathing hard, water streaming down his back.
I’m telling him tonight, he vows silently. One way or another.
No more running.
Johnny comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, his hair still damp. The cabin smells heavenly, and under any other circumstances his stomach would be growling.
Instead, it twists.
Simon’s just finishing up at the stove, wooden spoon in hand. He glances over his shoulder, eyes lighting briefly when he sees Johnny. “Dinner’s about ready.”
Johnny nods and dresses quickly. They sit at the small kitchen table together, steam rising from the bowls between them.
Johnny stares at his food.
He pushes it around with his fork, appetite gone, throat tight, heart hammering so hard it feels like it might punch straight through his ribs as the words just sit there, lodged in his throat.
Say it. Just say it. Tell him now.
This is the safest place he’s ever been. Away from base. No audience. No eyes. Just the two of them and this cabin and the truth he’s been choking on for years. Johnny is almost about to do it, almost about to tell Simon…when he has a horrifying thought.
If this goes wrong,…there’s nowhere to run.
He’ll be trapped here with Simon. With the fallout. With Simon’s anger or disgust or quiet rejection. With the look on Simon’s face when he realizes what Johnny’s saying and quantifies everything they’ve ever done together under a different lens.
The thought of having to endure not only Simon’s rejection but close quarters and a very long car ride home afterwards makes him start to panic. As usual, his father’s voice rises up, sharp and cruel, and Johnny screws his eyes shut to try to block it out.
“Johnny?”
Simon’s voice cuts through the noise, and Johnny blinks his eyes open.
“You’re not eating,” Simon says gently. “Are you okay?”
The concern in his eyes nearly breaks him.
“I’m—” Johnny starts, then stops. His mouth opens again. “I’m… yeah, I’m—I’m—”
I need to tell you something.
Please don’t hate me.
His vision tunnels. The room feels too small suddenly, the air too thin. Trapped.
He tries again. “I’m…I—”
I can’t breathe.
“Need a minute,” he blurts, already pushing his chair back. “Sorry—just—”
He barely makes it to the bathroom before the nausea hits.
Johnny drops to his knees and retches into the toilet, violent and sudden. His hands shake against the porcelain, lungs burning as he coughs and gasps, trying to drag air back into his body. His heart is racing wildly now, completely out of control, each beat loud and erratic in his ears. He spits, flushes, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s still really hard to breathe. His face is tingling, fingertips numb, and he distantly wonders if he’s going to pass out.
Three loud knocks on the door.
“Johnny?” Simon’s voice is right there, sounding very worried. “Johnny, open the door.”
Shit. Shit. He forgot to turn on the sink.
Simon heard everything.
Another knock on the door, and this time it sounds like Simon’s about to go through it. “Are you—Johnny, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
“’M fine,” Johnny croaks, though his voice wobbles badly. “Just—just give me a sec.”
Johnny staggers to his feet, bracing against the counter. He splashes cold water on his face, rinses his mouth, and stares at his reflection, collecting himself.
He unlocks the door.
Simon is right there, looking like he was seconds from breaking down the door and was using every ounce of his restraint not to. His face is tight with worry, all the softness gone. His reaches up and presses his hand against Johnny’s cheek, his forehead.
“Are you sick?” Simon asks, voice low and urgent. “You’re all clammy. Was it the cold? The snow? The—it couldn’t have been dinner, you didn’t eat a thing.”
Johnny flinches at the touch before he can stop himself.
Simon stills instantly. “Sorry,” he says, immediately pulling his hands back. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s not that,” Johnny rushes out, hating how thin his voice sounds. He forces a weak smile. “I’m okay, honest. Just… got meself worked up.”
Simon studies him, clearly unconvinced. “You don’t look okay.”
Johnny swallows hard. His chest still feels tight, breath shallow and uneven.
“I just need a bit,” he says. “I promise. I’m not sick. I’m just…” He trails off, searching for something to say because Simon is in major worry-mode and Johnny is not ready to talk right now. “I just…had a wee panic attack, that’s all.”
Simon’s brow smooths out. “Oh. Oh, Johnny, that’s—come here.”
Simon tucks his arm around Johnny’s shoulders, and Johnny lets himself be led over to the couch. The panic attack’s mostly over now and he can breathe, but he still feels a bit tingly and above all, numb.
“You feel dizzy? Lightheaded?” Simon asks as they sit, gently pressing two fingers to the inside of his wrist.
“No. Just…” Johnny drifts off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand like that explains anything, but of course Simon understands.
“It’s all right.” Simon’s watching him, fingers rubbing little circles against Johnny’s pulse point. It feels nice. “I’m going to grab you something to help settle your stomach, okay?”
“I’m fine—”
“I know,” Simon says gently, already opening a cupboard. “Humor me.”
Crackers appear. A cold can of ginger ale. Simon sets them down in front of Johnny, then clears away the bowls of mac and cheese away without comment.
Johnny takes a sip of ginger ale, and because Simon’s watching expectantly, a little nibble of cracker. “Sorry about ruining dinner.”
“Don’t worry about it. You warm enough?”
Johnny nods, but Simon gets him a blanket anyway and wraps it around his shoulders. Stokes the fire. Pretends he’s not watching Johnny like a hawk, the concern radiating off him in palpable waves.
Finally he seems satisfied that Johnny’s not going to keel over, and he goes into the kitchen to clean up. The silence stretches, the crackling of the fire unnaturally loud as Johnny just sits there bundled in his blanket with his crackers and ginger ale, sick and miserable and feeling like an utter coward.
“I bet you’ll never guess how I learned to ride a motorbike,” Simon says suddenly.
Johnny slowly turns his head towards the kitchen. Simon’s back is to him, washing dishes at the sink while he continues to talk without waiting for Johnny to answer.
“There was a long-standing argument between my brother Tommy and I over who’d jump a motorbike the farthest. Because he was older, Tommy always got further on his bicycle than me, but I was convinced I’d beat him on a motorbike because I was lighter. So one day—and mind you, neither of us had a bleedin’ clue how to ride a motorbike—we stole the neighbor’s Ducati—”
On and on Simon talks, not once turning around to see if Johnny’s listening. Filling the empty space with his words. Johnny’s not even really paying attention—it’s too much right now—but the sound and cadence of Simon’s voice is soothing on a level he didn’t realize he was craving. It’s an effective little trick to get Johnny out of his own head.
It’s not until several minutes have gone by like this that Johnny realizes where Simon learned it from.
He’d learned it from Johnny.
Every time Simon—Ghost, back then—had spiraled out, it had been Johnny yapping away about nothing in his ear, giving him space to come back up for air. And now, here they are, come full circle.
Johnny swallows thickly past the lump in his throat, and startles when Simon’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder.
“Here’s some pictures of ‘er,” he says, handing Johnny his unlocked phone. The photo album page is pulled up, showing several pictures of a sleek looking motorbike. “We’ll have to go for a ride when we get back, Johnny. You’ll love it.”
Johnny’s lips tilt up in a smile. “Fast, eh?”
Simon’s answering smile could light up the entire world. “Wicked fast, Johnny.”
Simon then launches into an entire monologue about where they can go, where the best roads are, what they can see, all the places he wants to take Johnny on the back of his motorbike. Johnny listens, curled up on the sofa with his blanket and crackers, his chin perched on one hand as he crumbles. Just crumbles. God, how he loves this man. So fucking much that he feels full to bursting with it, more than he’s ever experienced, more than he’s ever thought possible. Watching Simon light up at the smallest of smiles from Johnny because he cares so much, watching his quiet domestic competence as he moves around the kitchen, fussing.
Simon finishes drying the last dish and sets it in the cupboard, then he turns and watches Johnny for a moment, measuring.
“How’re you feeling?” Simon asks.
Johnny lays his head on the back of the sofa and looks up at him with wonder and affection. “Better. Bit wrung out. Feel disgustin’. But better.”
Simon nods, accepting that. He comes to sit beside him, close enough that their knees touch. He keeps his voice low, even. “How about that bath? Might make you feel better. Ease some tension.”
Johnny hesitates. He can feel it in his body—the cold sweat clinging to his skin, the ache in his shoulders, the way his stomach still feels a little hollow and wrong. He does want it. He just hates how much.
“It would be nice,” he admits quietly. “But I don’t want you thinkin’ I—”
“I don’t think anything,” Simon says firmly. “You’ve had a rough day. A bath might help. That’s all.”
Johnny studies his face, searching for something he doesn’t find. No expectation. No heat. Just concern, steady and unflinching.
“…Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah. Okay.”
Simon’s mouth curves into a small, private smile that he quickly schools away. “All right. Easy does it.”
He stands first, offering his hand. Johnny takes it, letting Simon pull him up. His legs are still a bit unsteady, and Simon notices—adjusts immediately, moving closer, a hand hovering near Johnny’s elbow without grabbing. There if needed.
In the bathroom, Simon runs the water, testing it with his wrist until it’s properly hot. Steam begins to curl up, fogging the mirror. Johnny sits on the closed lid of the toilet, shoulders hunched, while Simon moves around him with quiet efficiency.
“I’ll turn around so you can get in,” Simon says, already doing so, giving Johnny privacy without making a thing of it. “Just be careful. It might be slick.”
Johnny undresses quickly, movements clumsy, a little rushed. He steps in the tub, lowers himself into the water, and exhales a long, shaky breath. “Okay.”
Simon turns and kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves. “Tell me if it’s too hot. Or not hot enough.”
“It’s perfect,” Johnny says softly.
If there was any doubt that Simon intended to participate in the bath, that was dispelled as he reaches for the body wash. Johnny doesn’t mind, though. Simon’s touch has always been a grounding force for him, and despite the anxiety still churning in his gut he finds that Simon’s touch is exactly what he needs right now. To just relax and let himself be cared for by someone who obviously cares about him a great deal.
Simon starts with his shoulders, scooping water up and letting it pour slowly over tense muscle. He works gently, thumbs pressing in careful circles at the base of Johnny’s neck where stress always seems to collect. Johnny’s head tips forward, chin dropping to his chest.
“Christ,” he breathes, barely audible.
Simon stills for half a second. “All right?”
“Yeah,” Johnny murmurs. “Just…it’s nice, s’all.”
Simon resumes, slower now. More deliberate. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t try to fix anything. Just stays with the rhythm until Johnny’s shoulders start to loosen under his hands and he slumps bonelessly against the tub.
“Wash your hair?” Simon asks quietly.
Johnny blinks, then nods. “Okay.”
He leans back against the edge of the tub while Simon wets his hair carefully, a finger under his jaw tilting his head back. The shampoo is Johnny’s own, the scent familiar to him, but since Simon’s begun using it as well it now just reminds him of Simon.
“Close your eyes,” Simon murmurs.
Simon’s fingers move with unhurried patience, massaging his scalp in small, thoughtful circles. Johnny’s eyes flutter closed. His breathing evens out, deepens. The constant noise in his head—tell him, don’t tell him, run, stay—fades into a distant hum.
“There you are. Just take some deep breaths for me.” Simon’s fingers find a sore spot of tension at the base of his skull, and Johnny’s breath shudders out. “Good. You’re doing so good, Johnny.”
The praise make his stomach do a little flip, and he takes another deep breath. Simon hums, pleased. When he rinses Johnny’s hair, he’s careful not to let water splash his face, one hand shielding his eyes, the other steady at the nape of his neck. Johnny sighs, the sound loose and unguarded.
“Feeling better?”
Johnny makes a little sound of approval. Words are beyond him at this point. He feels like his bones are made of jelly. He doesn’t have a care in the world. Everything he was worried about is a problem for another day. Right now, it’s just him and Simon and there is no place he’d rather be.
For a few minutes, that’s all there is. Water. Pressure. Heat. Simon’s hands. Johnny’s body remembering what it feels like not to brace for impact.
Simon’s hands knead over the tops of his shoulders and across his pectoral muscles. He shifts without thinking, his head falling back, chest lifting as he leans into the touch.
A moan slips out of him. Loudly.
Johnny freezes. Looks down. It is painfully obvious that his body is enjoying this far more than he intended.
Simon does too. His hands still instantly, resting lightly over the spot where Johnny’s heart is now beating frantically.
Johnny’s face burns. “I—sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s okay,” Simon says quickly.
Johnny tries to pull away, mortified, but Simon’s hand increases pressure against his chest.
“Easy. It’s all right.”
“I didn’t mean for—”
“I know,” Simon says gently. He waits until Johnny looks at him. “Can I ask you something?”
Johnny nods.
“Is…is that something you want?” Simon asks carefully. “Like before?”
The question lands softly, but it lands true.
Johnny takes a breath. Then another. He checks in with himself—really checks. Past the shame. Past the panic. Past the voice that tells him he’s dirty for wanting anything at all.
“I…I…”
Gently, Simon rubs small circles over his heart. “No pressure. Just an offer. I know you’re tense, and I know that makes you feel good. And I like making you feel good, Johnny. I’m okay with this. You know that.”
“I do, Si. I know.” Johnny lets out a shuddering breath. All his previous uncertainty and anxiety is fading by the minute, and he suddenly can’t remember what he was so bent out of shape for. “Please. Please, I…I want ye tae.”
Simon huffs out a small, pleased sound, and pulls Johnny’s body back into his chest.
“Relax, Johnny. You can tell me to stop.” Keeping one hand against his chest, over his heart, Simon curls into him until their heads are temple to temple, his lips inches from Johnny’s ear. “Just us here right now. No judgement. No pressure. Just you and me. Okay?”
“’kay.”
Just Simon and Johnny. Johnny and Simon. What Johnny wouldn’t give for that to be true. No past lives, no worry about the future. No ghosts haunting their shadows. Just Simon and Johnny, the only two people left in this world, in this tiny cabin in the Scottish Highlands.
Simon’s hand dips beneath the water, tracing down his abdomen, smoothing out over his thighs. Back and forth. Back and forth. Praise murmured against his temple, his body safe and warm in Simon’s embrace as the remaining walls fall away.
By the time Simon wraps his hand around his cock, Johnny is practically mewling for it.
“Si—”
“Shh. I know. I’ve got you, Johnny.”
Long, slow strokes. Johnny wants him to go faster, harder, but Simon seems to know what he needs and doesn’t alter his pace. Pleasure builds like a tidal wave Johnny can see coming from a distance, a slow roll of pleasure creeping up through his chest, his throat, his face until he’s panting and nearly insensible with need.
In the end, it’s the quiet, slow intimacy of Simon’s touch that undoes him. The soft words in his ear, the combination somehow making this the most erotic experience of his life because he has never felt so seen. Not watched, not evaluated, not judged.
Just seen.
When Johnny finally comes, it’s quiet and overwhelming and nothing like what he’s used to. No rush. No shame. Just Simon’s steady presence, murmured encouragement, the soft press of his chest against Johnny’s back as he breathes through it.
After, Simon doesn’t move right away. He rests his head on Johnny’s shoulder, his fingers tracing absent, soothing lines along his arms.
Johnny stares at the far wall, eyes bright, throat tight. When Simon finally gets up to grab a towel, Johnny notices it—the lack of urgency, the absence of any mirrored need.
Simon isn’t aroused. Not even a little.
He doesn’t know why it comes as a surprise. Simon told him exactly how it was for him. He’s been telling him this whole time, only Johnny didn’t really hear him, too wrapped up in his own head.
Maybe…maybe Simon won’t care once he finds out the truth. Maybe he…maybe he’ll just accept it as another thing that makes Johnny Johnny. Just part of the collective whole.
He dries himself and dresses. Simon’s out in the bedroom, turning down the covers, but he turns when he senses Johnny standing in the doorway to the bathroom, watching him.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult,” Johnny blurts out suddenly. “I ruined today. Ye’ve done everything fer me an’ I—”
“That’s bollocks.”
Johnny blinks.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Simon says firmly. “You had a bad day. You’re hurting. That doesn’t make you a problem.”
Johnny’s eyes sting, tears threatening now. “I’m trying, Si. I am. It’s just…really hard.”
“I know,” Simon says softly, pulling him close. “I know what it’s like—trying to sort old memories when they won’t stay put. When everything feels confusing and wrong. There’ll be bad days. Probably more of them, now.”
He presses his forehead to Johnny’s. “But I’m here. If you want to talk. If you don’t. If you need holding. If you need space. I’m not going anywhere.”
Unable to speak, Johnny just clutches the back of Simon’s shirt like a lifeline and nods.
Simon holds him, steady and unyielding, and for the first time all day, Johnny believes him.