Chapter Text
“Ye asked to see me, sir?” Soap ducks his head into Price’s office before remembering to knock.
“Soap. Come on in.” Price gestures to the chairs. “Have a seat.”
Soap walks in and sits, arranging himself so the back of the chair doesn’t put pressure on his sore side. PT has been helping, but he’s still got a ways to go. “This about where Ghost and Gaz scarpered off to?”
“No, they’re just mopping up a few things after that arms dealer went down. They’ll be back in a couple days.” Price waves a dismissive hand. “Actually, I have good news. The 141’s getting a break. Mandatory leave for all of us. Two weeks.”
Soap snorts. “Mandatory?”
“Laswell says that if any of us shows our faces on base before those two weeks are up, she’ll have us court-martialed. I’d take her at her word.”
“Roger that, sir,” Soap chuckles softly, then his smile fades. Leave usually meant going home, but the thought of being bombarded by his sisters and nieces and nephews right now exhaust him beyond words.
And God help him if his mother finds out he’s been injured.
“You going home?” Price asks, as if he can read his thoughts.
“Erm…mebbe for a day or two…towards the end.”
Price chuckles. “Your family as rowdy as you are?”
“Something like that.” Soap’s smile feels brittle. “I think I’d like a few days to sort meself out first. There’s a cabin I like tae go to up in the Highlands. It’s quiet up there.”
“Sounds nice.”
It does. But Soap doesn’t really feel like going there, either.
Not if Ghost isn’t going to be there, too.
Two weeks without Ghost. Without his touch. His warmth.
Maybe it’s for the best. He’s starting to get too attached, anyway, and he’ll only end up breaking his own heart. Maybe some distance will do him some good.
He scrawls down the cabin’s address on a piece of paper and hands it to Price. “Just in case. Cell signal isn’t too good up there.”
Price takes the paper, folds it, and tucks it away in his pocket.
Soap gets up to leave, but Price raps the desk with his knuckle. “Sit back down, son. We need to talk.”
That’s never a good sign. Soap’s stomach drops to his shoes. “About what, sir?”
“I think right now, ‘Price’ is fine.”
Okay, this is really not a good sign. Soap fidgets in his seat, pinned beneath Price’s gaze, who seems to be working his way up to saying something. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out an object, and sets it on the desk.
It’s a spent stim cartridge.
Oh.
“Did you think we didn’t know about this?”
Soap feels his ears burn. “We?”
“The pilot found this in the exfil helo when he was cleaning up your blood. It was lodged under the seat.”
“It’s not—”
“Do not lie to me, John. The doctor found elevated levels of adrenaline and morphine in your blood panel, so I know you took something before the mission.” He sits up suddenly, tugs his dog tags out from under his shirt, and tosses them onto the desk. “I’m not your Commanding Officer right now. I’m not your Captain. I’m just a friend holding a decision you made in my hand, a decision that nearly killed you, and I want to talk about it. I’m worried about you, son.”
Soap’s throat goes dry. He stares at the stim cartridge like it might explode if he moves too suddenly.
“I…I dinnae think it was that big a deal,” he manages finally, but the excuse sounds weak even to his own ears. “It’s no’ like it’s the first time a bloke’s used a stim in the field, aye? Just a wee boost, that’s all.”
Price doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at him, level and unblinking, and that’s somehow worse than yelling.
“A ‘wee boost’,” he repeats, voice quiet. “You took this before a live op, John. Not during, not as a last resort. You went in there so dosed up you didn’t even feel it when you got shot.”
Soap shifts in his seat, the movement small and uneasy. “Aye, well, it’s not like it’s the first stupid thing I’ve done.”
“Don’t do that,” Price snaps. “Do not turn this into a joke. You nearly died.”
Soap opens his mouth, shuts it again. His hand finds his thigh, fingers tapping against the fabric. He doesn’t meet Price’s eyes. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” he mutters. “Just…misjudged it, is all.”
“John.”
Soap flinches.
The captain leans forward, forearms braced on the desk, voice dropping low and steady, the kind of tone that brooks no argument. “Tell me why. Don’t give me the soldier’s answer. Give me the truth. Why?”
Soap stares at the grain of the desk, at the shine of the wood where it’s been worn over the years. Anything but those eyes.
“I wanted to make sure I could keep up,” he says after a long silence. “Didn’t want tae slow anyone down.”
“You think I buy that?”
Soap lifts his chin, irritation flickering through the embarrassment. “It’s the truth.”
“No, it’s not.” Price’s voice stays calm, but he taps the stim cartridge against the desk, a quiet metronome of accusation. “You are one of the best soldiers I’ve ever commanded. You didn’t take this because you simply needed a boost. I think you took it because you were worried you’d let us down somehow, and you were desperate to prove yourself.”
That lands like a gut punch. Soap flinches, color draining from his face. “That’s—Christ, that’s not—”
Price doesn’t let him finish. “You think I haven’t seen this before? Men trying to outrun their own heads? You’ve been off for weeks. You’ve been quieter, twitchier, like you’re waiting for someone to pull the rug out from under you.”
Soap swallows hard. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” Price’s tone never rises, but the word hits like a thunderclap. “You are not fine. Kyle talked to me after he visited you in hospital. ‘I’m fucking it all up,’ I believe, were the exact words you used. I got to thinking about it, and things started to click, starting with the day I dressed you down for running your mouth in the command center.”
“You had every right tae—”
“No, son. I shouldn’t have. I was wrong. I lost my temper. And you…you should’ve felt like you could come to me.” Price’s shoulders slump, and the look he gives Soap goes right through him. “And the part that keeps me up at night, John, is that I should’ve bloody seen it sooner. I should’ve stopped you before it got this bad.”
Something in Soap snaps. The laugh that escapes him is small and hollow. “What’d you want me to say, sir? That I’m fucked up? That I can’t stop thinkin’ I’m gonna fuck everything up again? That I’m too fuckin’ loud, too fuckin’ reckless, that I cannot be serious for one blessed second…”
His accent thickens, words tumbling too fast, too uneven. “How can ye trust someone like that? Ye said it yourself — I’m one of your best. That’s what I’m supposed tae be. Strong. Reliable. Can’t be the one draggin’ the team down.”
Price stays quiet, and that silence pulls the rest of it out like a thread unraveling.
Soap’s voice cracks. “I can’t fuckin’ stand the idea that if I slip, someone else pays for it. That one of you…” He stops, but the name is right there on his tongue anyway, heavy as lead. “…that Ghost would pay for it. He needed me on that mission. He needed to trust I had his back.”
Price’s eyes soften. “So you risked your own life instead.”
Soap presses the heel of his hand to his eyes. “I honestly didn’t think it through, aye? Didn’t think it’d be that bad. Just wanted… I dunno. Wanted tae prove I was worth the space I was takin’ up. That I could be useful.”
“Johnny.” Price’s voice gentles.
But Soap shakes his head, blinking hard, tears threatening to break through. He has to swallow several times before he can speak. “My Da used to look at me like that. Like I was a fuckin’ waste of space. Weak. I dinnae want anyone lookin’ at me the way he did, ever again. So I took the stim. Figured if I tried hard enough, if I was good enough, maybe I’d stop feelin’ like dead weight.”
He angrily swipes at his eyes and exhales a shaky laugh. “Real bang-up job I did there, eh?”
Price leans back slowly, the chair creaking. His hands come up to his mouth, pressing against the knuckles of his clasped fingers. For a long time, he doesn’t speak.
Then finally, he sighs, breaking the silence. “You think any one of us gives a damn how fast you run or how hard you fight? You’re not a bloody number on a scoreboard, John. You’re our teammate. Our friend. You’re family. And if you ever — ever — feel like that again, you come to me. Understood?”
Soap nods, eyes red, jaw trembling. “Aye, sir.”
Price’s voice softens further. “And as for Ghost… he doesn’t think you’re weak, lad. He never did. He’s got his own demons, and you were caught in the crossfire.”
Soap looks up, startled, hopeful, and terrified all at once. Price meets his gaze, unflinching. “Don’t give up on him.”
Soap can’t trust his voice enough to answer, so he just nods. He wipes a hand across his face, then drags in a shaky breath.
Price stands and offers his hand. “Get over here, you muppet.”
Soap takes the offered hand, but Price pulls him into a bear hug instead, not even trying to be careful of his still healing body. For a moment, Soap forgets how to breathe. He stiffens instinctively—he’s never known what to do with gentleness like this from a father figure—but Price just holds on, one broad hand braced against the back of his neck, the other clapped firm between his shoulders.
No words. Just warmth. Steadiness. The kind of hold that says you’re safe.
It takes Soap a moment to realize his hands have come up on their own, gripping the back of Price’s shirt like a man drowning. His throat burns, and he presses his face into the coarse fabric, eyes squeezed shut.
The last of the tension drains out of him in a shuddering breath. All the fight, all the guilt, all the noise—gone.
When he finally pulls back, it’s slow, careful, like breaking a spell. Soap swipes at his face before either of them can say anything.
Price nods once, voice low. “Go on, lad. Get some rest.”
Soap nods, throat too tight for words. He turns for the door, lighter somehow, though his chest still aches at the thought of leaving Ghost behind.
Behind him, Price sinks back into his chair, staring at the stim cartridge still sitting on the desk. The office is silent but for the faint creak of the leather as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, still staring at the cartridge, and lets out a long, slow breath.
***
Ghost’s boots thunder down the hallway, headed in the direction of Price’s barrack’s room. He and Gaz got back to the base hours ago, and he can’t find Soap anywhere.
He knocks twice on Price’s barracks door, not bothering to wait before he barges in.
Price is standing by the bed, rolling up shirts with military precision, tucking them into a duffle. He looks up briefly, moustache twitching as he turns back to the duffle. “You’re back.”
“Just got in,” Ghost answers. He lingers by the door, arms folded.
“Laswell fill you in about the leave?”
“Two weeks. I already sent Gaz on his way.” Ghost’s eyes flick to the half-packed duffle, then back to Price. “You seen Soap?”
That gets him a glance, brief and assessing. “He left yesterday morning.”
Ghost waits for more, but no. Nothing else. Irritation blooms in his chest. “Do you know where he went, sir?”
Price takes his sweet time before answering. “That depends.”
Ghost grits his teeth. “On what?”
“On whether you’re planning to go after him or not. And on what you’re planning to say if you do.”
Ghost goes still. “What I’m going to say,” he repeats slowly.
Price exhales a long-suffering sigh. “Sit down, Simon.”
Ghost hesitates, then obeys. The chair creaks under his weight. Price finishes folding one last shirt, then moves to the desk. He reaches into his pocket, pulls something out, and sets it on the wood between them.
A spent stim cartridge. The spent stim cartridge.
Ghost’s eyes lock on it. The air between them tightens.
“Soap and I had a little talk,” Price says quietly. “About this.”
The next few sentences out of his mouth are enough to break Ghost’s heart. That his Johnny would ever feel that way, even for a second. That Ghost had had a hand in making him feel that way, even though there were a lot of things combined, a lot of history he hadn’t been privy to until now. The fact that Soap had felt so alone that he’d kept this poison all to himself, the fact that he didn’t feel like he could talk about it to Price or Gaz or…or him…
Break is heart? No. This rips it right out of his chest entirely.
“Christ,” Ghost murmurs finally. He leans back and stares at the spent stim cartridge. “I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t, son.” Price’s voice is low. Kind. “But you do now.”
Ghost’s jaw works, but no sound comes out. What can he say? He thought he had made it to safety, but he just found out the ground beneath him wasn’t as sturdy as it looked.
Price stands slowly. He picks up the stim cartridge, pockets it again, and then fishes a folded scrap of paper from the same pocket. He sets it on the desk and taps it twice with a calloused finger.
“What’s that?” Ghost asks.
“The address to a cabin in the Highlands,” Price says. His tone is casual, but the weight behind it isn’t. “In case you want it.”
Ghost stares at the paper.
Price slings the duffle over his shoulder and moves toward the door. “Two weeks, Simon,” he says over his shoulder. “Might do you both some good.”
Then he’s gone, the door shutting softly behind him, leaving Ghost alone with the scrap of paper on the desk.
For a long while, Ghost doesn’t move. The room hums with the sound of his breathing, the quiet creak of wood as he finally reaches out, one gloved finger brushing the folded edge of the paper.
He unfolds it. Reads the scrawled address once. Then again.
The paper shakes slightly in his hand.
***
The Highlands always look different after rain. The hills roll away in a thousand shades of green and gray, veined with silver streams where the runoff catches the light. Mist clings to the slopes like ghosts reluctant to leave, curling between the heather and pine. The air smells sharp—wet earth, peat smoke, brine from the loch—and when the wind rises, it carries the low moan of something ancient and restless.
Soap leans against the window frame, the satellite phone Price gave him pressed to his ear, watching the ripples spread across the dark water below. “Aye, Mam, I’m all right. Promise.”
Her voice crackles down the line, bright and worried all at once. “I’m all right, he says. Ye sound half-dead, poor wee lamb. Why don’t ye come home now, I’ll make you some proper tidy scran, get ye looked after.”
He smiles faintly, shaking his head even though she can’t see it. “I will, Ma. End of the week, maybe two. Just need a bit o’ quiet first.”
She snorts softly. “Quiet. In the Highlands. Ye never could sit still for more than a minute, love.”
Soap’s laugh comes low and rough, but genuine. “Aye, well. Tryin’ somethin’ new.”
There’s a pause on the other end—a sigh, the clatter of dishes in the background. “All right, Johnny. But you make sure you eat somethin’. And call me if you need anything. Anything at all, ye hear?”
“I will. Love ya, Ma.”
“I love you too, mo rùn.”
The call ends with a soft click. The silence that follows is so complete he can hear his own pulse in his ears.
He pockets the phone and steps out onto the porch. The boards creak beneath his boots, the air cool and clean against his skin. He draws a deep breath, the kind that should clear his chest, but it doesn’t. It just sits heavy in his lungs, like he’s still breathing through water.
The cabin sits high above the loch, tucked between stands of fir and birch, the world falling away in all directions. A perfect hiding place. The kind of solitude he used to crave before he learned what it really felt like to be alone.
Before Ghost.
He watches the water shift and glint under the weak afternoon light, the surface turning darker by the minute. Clouds are rolling in over the far ridge, heavy and low, brushing the tops of the hills. The kind of clouds that promise rain, the kind that swallow sound and make you feel like the world’s holding its breath.
Soap wraps his arms around himself, his gaze fixed on the horizon. There’s a hint of ozone in the air. A storm’s coming in.
He tells himself he likes it that way—stormy weather suits him—but even as the wind cuts across the porch, raising gooseflesh along his arms, he can’t shake the thought that he’s already drowning.
He hasn’t seen Ghost since before leave started. Two days, maybe three. Doesn’t matter. It’s long enough for the silence to start gnawing. Long enough for the doubts to creep back in, whispering all the old things he thought he’d finally outgrown.
He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “Get yer head together, MacTavish,” he mutters under his breath. “You wanted quiet, so enjoy it.”
But the quiet feels wrong. Too wide. Too empty. Like there’s a space beside him that should be filled with the sound of slow, steady breathing behind a mask, or the scrape of gloved fingers against his own.
Thunder rumbles far off, rolling down from the hills like a warning.
Soap exhales, shoulders hunched against the coming rain. The loch darkens another shade, swallowing the reflection of the sky.
The storm’s moving fast.
***
The rain finally comes well after dark, slanting across the loch in sheets. It drums against the cabin’s tin roof and rattles its windows, but the fireplace chases the chill away, roaring merrily away as it paints the cabin walls in muted amber and gold.
Soap sits at the small table by the window, sketchbook open, pencil moving slow across the page. He’s not drawing the storm. He’s drawing hands, scarred and strong, wrapped around a cup of tea. The pencil catches, stutters, leaves a dark scar across the paper.
He drops it, rubs at his eyes, and tells himself he’s just tired. Knows it’s a lie.
Three dull, heavy raps ring out against the door.
Soap freezes. The cabin’s miles from anywhere. No neighbors, no tourists, no reason for anyone to be here but him. His hand goes to the pistol on the counter before the thought’s even finished forming.
He moves to the door, every instinct suddenly sharp.
“Who’s there?” he calls, voice cutting through the rain.
No answer.
Soap flips the safety off. He inhales, unlocks the door, and swings it open fast, gun raised—
“Jesus fuck!” The words rip out of him. “I almost blew yer bloody head off!”
Ghost stands on the porch, rain pouring down in sheets behind him. He’s absolutely soaked, the balaclava plastered to his face. Water drips off his gloves, his jacket, puddling around his boots. He’s a dark, soaked silhouette against the storm, utterly still.
Soap’s heart stutters. “Christ, Ghost—what’re ye doin’—get in here, ye daft bastard—”
He grabs his arm, tugging him inside, kicking the door shut behind them. The noise of the rain dulls, but it’s still there, hammering angrily against the roof.
Ghost doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there dripping on the wooden floor, his chest rising and falling too fast. His eyes flick around the cabin. At the fire, the table, the sketchbook still open, the mug half-finished on the counter, like he’s looking for someone to toss him a life ring.
Soap begins to fuss, sputtering. “Of all the…why didn’t ye tell me ye were comin’, I would’ve…and on a night like this, ye fuckin’ numpty…”
Ghost still hasn’t said anything. Soap’s starting to get worried.
“Ghost? Ghost, come over here by the fire, it’s freezin’ over there.” Soap says, softer now. “We’ve got to get these clothes off, ye’ll catch yer death—”
He reaches for the zipper on Ghost’s jacket, but Ghost doesn’t let him. His hands come up fast and sudden, closing around Soap’s wrists and holding him there. Firm and unyielding.
“You’re enough,” he croaks.
Soap blinks. “Wh-What?”
Ghost’s grip tightens, voice breaking past the walls he’s spent years building. “You’re enough,” he says again, rough and desperate. “You’re good enough, Johnny. For the team. For me.”
Soap’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“I didn’t see it,” Ghost continues, words tumbling now, too fast, like they’ll vanish if he doesn’t drag them into the air. “Didn’t understand. Price told me and I—Christ, I should’ve known. I was too fucking selfish, too wrapped up in my own head. But I couldn’t go another minute with you thinking you’re not good enough. You’re the best there is. You hear me?”
Ghost is shaking, whether from cold or from everything else between them, Soap can’t tell. His eyes are bright and unguarded through the mask, like the storm’s blown right through him and stripped him bare.
Soap’s breath hitches. “Why…” His voice cracks. “Why are ye here, Ghost?”
Ghost’s chest heaves once. Then he says, simply, “Because you’re here, Johnny.”
The storm howls against the windows, wind and rain and thunder rolling through the hills. But inside, everything goes still.
Soap doesn’t pull away. Ghost’s hands are still locked around his wrists, the pressure grounding, real, alive. The fire pops behind them, filling the heavy silence.
The thunder rolls again, low and long, and for a moment neither of them moves. Then Soap finally finds his voice. “Ye’re soaked through. C’mere.”
Ghost doesn’t stop him this time. He lets Soap guide him toward the fire like a man walking through a dream. His boots leave muddy prints across the floorboards, and his jacket drips steadily, a dark circle spreading beneath his feet.
“How’d ye get here, anyway?” Soap asks.
“Rental car. Parked it at the end of the lane and walked.”
“Yer a fuckin’ menace.”
“I know.”
“Hold still.” He peels away the sodden jacket, the fabric dragging slow over Ghost’s shoulders. The shirt beneath clings like a second skin, rain-dark and heavy. Ghost shivers once when the cold air hits, and Soap swears under his breath.
He steps in closer, tugging the shirt free. Ghost doesn’t help, but he doesn’t resist either. Just stands there and lets Soap undress him, layer by layer as the firelight paints him in amber and gold, broad shoulders gleaming, old scars catching the glow. Soap’s breath catches; he’s never seen anyone look so beautifully human. He presses the towel against his chest, half to dry him, half to steady his own shaking hands.
“Lift your arms,” he murmurs.
Ghost obeys. The towel slides slow over skin, following the lines of muscle and the hollow beneath his throat. Soap’s hands work automatically, small circles, the rhythm hypnotic. Every pass over Ghost’s skin feels like the map of something sacred.
“Sit,” Soap says quietly. “Ye’ll warm faster.”
Ghost sinks onto the edge of the couch, staring up at him like he’s hung the moon and stars. And Soap can’t for the life of him understand why. Why him? Why now? Why is he here?
Soap kneels in front of him, still working the towel over his arms, his wrists, down to his hands. Water drips into the rug, dark spots blooming under his knees. The closeness despite the distance he still feels makes his chest ache.
Ghost’s voice comes low, almost a whisper. “You’re shaking.”
Soap swallows hard. “So’re you.”
For a heartbeat, they just breathe the same air. Then Ghost says, softer still. “I missed you, Johnny.”
Soap’s throat works around the words he can’t say. All he can manage is a broken little sound—half laugh, half sob—before the words start spilling out, unbidden.
“I’m too loud,” he says randomly. Or maybe it isn’t random at all, but an answer to what Ghost said earlier. What Gaz said. And Price.
His last line of defense.
Ghost’s answer comes without hesitation. “I’m too quiet.”
“I’m not serious enough,” he challenges.
“You’re the only person who makes me laugh, Johnny.”
“I’m reckless.”
“I’ll keep you safe.”
“I’m a mess.”
Ghost takes the towel from his trembling hands and sets it down. He takes both of Soap’s hands in his, squeezing them firmly and holding on.
“I like your mess.”
Soap lets out a shuddering breath.
Still keeping his hands encased in one of his own, Ghost reaches up and pulls off his mask.
The balaclava comes away slow, fabric dragging over skin, and for the first time since Mexico, Soap sees him.
Not the mask. Not Ghost.
Simon.
The firelight reveals him in pieces. Gold painted along his cheekbone, the wide bridge of his nose leading down to full lips parted breathlessly, bisected by a scar leading down across his jaw. Another scar from the corner of his mouth up to his temple. His chin. His forehead. Pale blond eyelashes, deceptively long, framing soft brown eyes that are liquid with an emotion he can’t put his finger on, pupils blown in the dim light. And his hair. Boyish blond curls that make Johnny’s hands itch with the need to touch.
Simon Riley.
Beautiful.
Damaged.
Perfect.
Johnny can’t speak. He can only stare, heart pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to reach the man in front of him.
Simon swallows hard, his jaw tight, looking like he’s about to bolt and the only thing holding him down are Johnny’s hands in his.
“I’m fucked in the head,” he says finally. “Simon Riley went to Mexico and died, and this…” He gestures weakly at himself. “This is what came back.”
He looks down for a moment, his mouth working. “I haven’t been right since. But when I’m around you…” He shakes his head and looks back up, his eyes shining in the firelight. “When I’m around you, I don’t feel quite so dead. I feel like…I feel like you really see me.”
The world outside keeps on turning, wind and rain hammering at the windows, but in the small circle of firelight, time stops.
“I can’t promise I’ll always say the right thing,” Simon goes on, voice rough. Breaking. “Or be who you need me to be. But I’m going to try.” He takes a breath that trembles at the end. “Because I miss you. You do not need to change one single thing, Johnny. I like you just as you are. You’re perfect. So that…that’s why I’m here. I wanted you to know. I miss you, Johnny, and I want you here with me.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. His chest tightens, tears burning behind his eyes. He tries to speak, to crack a joke, to make it lighter somehow because he still cannot believe what he is hearing, but all that comes out is a laugh halfway to a sob.
It breaks something open in both of them.
Simon moves before he can think better of it, one bare hand rising, his thumb catching the tear as it slips down Johnny’s cheek. Simon stares at the drop beaded on his thumb like it’s sacred. Then, with a kind of fragile reverence, he touches it to his lips, and Johnny sees the pale pink tip of Simon’s tongue flick out to taste it.
“Oh, Johnny,” he murmurs. The sound of it his name, unguarded and unafraid, undoes him completely.
Johnny’s laugh catches again and turns into to a sob he can’t suppress. He tries to turn away, but Simon’s already pulling him in. Wrapping Johnny up within his massive arms and holding him tight while he fractures quietly, noiseless sobs that feel like they’re being pulled from his throat with barbed wire. It’s ugly, unmanly crying, but Simon just holds him tighter, and Johnny fists both hands into Simon’s shirt, burrowing his face into Simon’s chest.
“Let it go, Johnny,” Simon’s lips move beside his ear. “Let it out. I can take it.”
And that only makes him cry harder, because how? How does Simon see that this is exactly what Johnny needs, exactly what he has been waiting his entire life to hear. Does he even know what this means to him? How this single moment, soaked and stinking in a run-down cabin in the Scottish Highlands has broken him and remade him all over again in the same breath?
“Ye don’t...Ye can’t…”
“I can and I am, Johnny. I’m not going anywhere.”
And there’s such a courage of conviction behind Simon’s words that for the first time in his life, Johnny hesitantly lets himself believe them to be true.
“Ghost…”
“Simon. When I’m here with you, you can call me Simon.” Then almost as an afterthought. “I want you to.”
Johnny pulls back slightly and looks up at him. “Okay…Simon.”
Simon studies him for a long moment, thumb still brushing the edge of Johnny’s jaw as if he can’t quite bring himself to let go. There’s a softness in his eyes that Johnny’s never seen before, not underneath the mask, not even in the gentler moments between missions. Something open, fragile, human.
“You look wrecked,” Simon murmurs finally. “You should sleep.”
Johnny huffs a laugh, wiping the heel of his hand under his eyes. “Christ, look who’s talkin’. You must be still half frozen. Do ye want tae shower first?”
Simon shakes his head once, slow. “No,” he says simply. “You’ll keep me warm.”
The words hit harder than any confession could. For a heartbeat Johnny can only stare, breath catching, because he knows exactly what it costs Simon to say them. This…this trust…this chosen vulnerability, isn’t easy for him. It’s a choice. And Simon is choosing him.
Johnny swallows hard, the lump in his throat too thick to speak around, so he just nods.
They move together through the dim little cabin, both of them quiet now. Johnny turns down the quilt, the fire from the main room still throwing lazy orange light through the doorway. Simon strips down to his undershirt and boxers, each motion unhurried, deliberate, as though shedding armor he’s carried for years. Johnny does the same, slower, mindful of the tight pull in his side.
The old bedframe creaks under their combined weight when they finally climb in. Johnny settles first, easing onto his side, slotting a pillow against his front for support. The sheets are chilly, but they’ll warm soon enough.
Simon slides in behind him, fitting himself into the curve of Johnny’s body like they’ve done a hundred times before, only this time, it hits differently. His arm comes around automatically, one large, warm hand settling over Johnny’s heart, and he lets out a long, shuddering breath. The kind that feels like it’s been trapped in his chest for years.
Simon nuzzles closer, his bare face against the back of Johnny’s neck, breath warm at his hairline. It’s so gentle, so unbearably normal that Johnny almost doesn’t know what to do with it.
He reaches up, finds Simon’s hand over his heart, and laces their fingers together. Holds on tight.
The rain keeps tapping at the windows, softer now, like it’s run out of fury. The fire crackles low in the hearth, and the world feels blissfully far, far away.
Johnny closes his eyes. Feels the warmth at his back, the slow rise and fall of Simon’s breathing as he settles in to sleep. And as the quiet settles around them, he thinks…This. This right here.
This is probably as close to heaven as I’ll ever get.