Chapter Text
Johnny stands at his open wardrobe, arms folded across his chest, and scowls at his clothes. His duffle bag is open on the bed behind him, half packed for his weekend leave with Simon.
The hangers rattle as he shoves them aside. A pair of jeans, faded and worn, drops to the floor, and he picks them up, regarding them for a moment before he tosses them back in the wardrobe in disgust. Would it have killed him to get some nice clothes? A couple of soft jumpers, maybe a blue one that would bring out his eyes? Or maybe a button-down shirt? No, too fancy. What does he think this is, a date?
Johnny laughs nervously, the sound bordering on hysterical.
Last Wednesday, someone could’ve knocked him over with a feather when Simon nonchalantly tossed out that he had a bit of leave saved up, and he thought it might be nice to get away for a weekend. Together. This weekend, specifically, and he had already cleared it with Price. And when Simon suggested that they see if the cabin in Scotland was available, their cabin, using those exact words? Johnny nearly needed an entire crash cart.
It's Friday now, and he’s a wreck. Last time, it had been spontaneous. Soap wearing a hole in the floor stuck inside his own head, and Ghost had just showed up out of the blue soaked to the bone, a knight on a white steed charging in to save Soap from himself. After that it was Simon and Johnny and the best almost-two weeks of his life. This time, though, it’s intentional. It’s planned. It’s a weekend away together.
It’s also the fact that he got caught accidentally grinding out a wet-dream against Simon’s thigh in bed, and Simon offered to finish him off.
Which he then did, in the single most erotic experience of Johnny’s life.
The only problem, though, is—nope, there are several problems here:
- Simon does not know Johnny is gay.
- Simon has very specific boundaries that Johnny would rather die than cross.
- Johnny loves Simon’s touch, but as per point numbers 1 and 2, their relationship must remain platonic.
- Johnny is hopelessly and irrevocably in love with Simon.
Which brings him back to the problem of what to wear. Everything he has is either a uniform or workout gear or the jeans and tee shirts he wears on undercover missions. Old grease and sweat and bloodstains—why doesn’t he have anything nice to wear? Johnny huffs and grabs his best pair of jeans and a white tee shirt with a faded Scottish flag on it and pulls them both on. He grabs his second-best pair of jeans, a pair of sweats and sleep shorts, a couple more tee shirts, and shoves them all into his duffle bag on top of his toiletries kit and journal. Trainers go into the bag next, and his best pair of boots go on his feet.
Johnny looks at himself in the mirror. His mohawk is freshly trimmed, and he’d shaved. He even puts on a dab of cologne, feeling a bit silly, but he just wants to not smell like blood and gunpowder and sweat for once. This is so weird. Leave is a thing that’s forced on you, not something that’s mutually agreed upon and planned for and anticipated and Christ, his heart is beating so fast. He’d better get out of here before he has a full-blown meltdown.
The last thing he grabs before he heads out the door is the oversized sweatshirt with the name RILEY stitched over the breast pocket.
Simon’s waiting for him in the rec room. He’s wearing dark jeans, a crew neck sweatshirt pushed up at the sleeves, and his black medical mask. Simon’s been wearing the balaclava less and less during their downtime, Johnny’s noticed—before, he only wore the medical mask when out in public so as not to scare the general populace. Here on base, the balaclava was always a given. He’s not sure if that’s because Simon’s becoming more comfortable in his own skin, but the sight of that full head of blond curls makes his stomach do a funny little flip.
Simon perks up when he sees Johnny. “Ready to go?”
“Yep.”
“Glad you guys are finally getting a break. Where’re you two headed?” Gaz asks.
“North,” Simon answers. “There’s a little cabin in the Highlands that Soap knows about, it’s nice up there. We went there last time.”
“A cabin in the Highlands. Sounds quiet.”
Gaz has a shit-eating grin on his face, and Johnny wants to kick him.
“Aye, nice and quiet. Si, we better get on the road, we dinnae ken how bad the roads are going tae be up north.” He lightly punches Gaz in the shoulder. “Thanks for coverin’ for us, Kyle.”
Gaz’s teasing grin softens, a silent conversation between the two of them. “Anytime, Tav.”
The morning is cold outside, and Johnny tugs the collar of Simon’s hoodie closer around his throat. The snow’s melted, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be any up north. Simon’s offered to drive, which is a good thing because Johnny’s little car is about six months overdue at the shop and he’s not quite sure it’d make it.
He’s aware Simon has a vehicle of some sort, but he’s not prepared for what’s waiting for them in the parking lot—the shittiest, oldest looking pickup truck he’s ever seen in his life.
He stops short. “It that…yours?”
“Yep.”
“Is it…I mean will it—”
“It’ll make it,” Simon chuckles, taking his bag from him. “Looks rough on the outside, but the bones’re solid. I just tuned up the engine last week.”
The thought of Simon’s big frame folded under the truck’s hood with a wrench in his hand makes Johnny’s brain white out for a moment. Coveralls unzipped and tied around his waist, all that skin and tattoos peeking out from under a tank top, grease smeared on his chin and forearms while those big, capable hands work at the—
For the love o’ God and all that is holy, MacTavish, get yerself taegether!
Simon’s taken both their duffle bags and has loaded them in the back. He’s busy covering them with a tarp and doesn’t look like he needs any help, so Johnny slides into the passenger seat. The interior is surprisingly clean, if a little worn. The truck rumbles to life with a deep, throaty growl, the vibration humming through the seat and into Johnny’s bones.
Simon slides back in and pulls out onto the main road without another word. He’s right. The old truck moves with a surprising amount of power, easily merging onto the motorway and settling into a steady cruise.
Johnny doesn’t say a word. He knows he's being quiet, knows he's being weird and Simon surely must have noticed it, but right now any conversation he thinks of dies in his throat. He just watches the scenery fly by, a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach. This is different. Last time was a one-man rescue mission launched by Ghost and this is... this is a choice. A planned, deliberate choice to be alone together.
Why the hell is he so nervous?
He can feel Simon's gaze on him, a quick, sideways glance that he catches in the reflection of the window. Then another. It’s not a demanding look, not one that expects an answer. It’s just... checking in. A quiet assessment.
“Alright, Johnny?” Simon’s voice is a low rumble, barely audible over the engine and the hum of the tires on the asphalt.
“Solid.” The word comes out way too quick, and Johnny winces internally.
Simon hums, a noncommittal sound. He doesn't push. He just reaches over, his movements slow and deliberate, and rests his hand on Johnny’s knee, which has been bouncing restlessly ever since he got in the truck. Johnny looks down. He hadn't even realized he'd been doing it. Simon’s thumb strokes over the denim, once, twice, in a slow, grounding rhythm.
Johnny's breath catches in his throat. The warmth of Simon's palm bleeds through the fabric of his jeans, a solid, heavy weight that simultaneously calms him and sets every nerve ending alight. He leans into the touch, just a little, a silent concession. Simon’s thumb stills, but he doesn't pull away.
"So, why a truck? Why no' a car?" Johnny blurts out, his voice breaking like a teenage boy.
A pause. “Needed something to haul my bike.”
His brain stutters. “Your…like, a bicycle?”
Simon turns his head just enough to give him that look. Flat. Patient. Long-suffering. One hundred percent Lieutenant Simon Riley.
“My motorbike,” he clarifies.
“Oh.” Johnny swallows. “Right. Of course. Is it—uh. Is it old too?”
“No.”
“So new, then?”
“Bought it last year.”
“Is it fast?”
Simon’s mouth curves behind his half-mask. Johnny can tell by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s really fucking fast, Johnny.” He glances at him then, honey brown eyes catching and holding his. “I’ll have to take you for a ride sometime.”
Johnny’s internal systems promptly blue-screen.
Riding pillion behind Simon, his arms wrapped around Simon’s waist. Thighs pressed together. Leaning into the curves. The engine roaring beneath them.
He stares out the window, heart hammering, face suddenly far too warm for a January morning. “Y-yeah,” he manages, like a liar. “Sounds… grand.”
He watches the countryside zip by for a while. Simon’s head swivels towards him from time to time, but he doesn’t break the silence, doesn’t even turn on the radio. Johnny wishes he would. He’d do it himself, but he doesn’t know what kind of music Simon likes.
He doesn’t really know anything about what Simon likes and doesn’t like.
It suddenly seems like a critical bit of information, Simon’s music preferences. Or his favorite color. His favorite movie. Whether he likes summer or winter best, sunshine or rain. Why hasn’t he been figuring these things out? Ever since they’ve met, Johnny has been running his mouth, but now that he thinks of it, he’s only ever really talked about himself. His own interests. His own opinions. His own likes and dislikes.
Johnny suddenly feels very selfish and very small.
He hardly knows anything about Simon. Didn’t even know he owned a motorcycle. He’s only ever thought about himself.
‘Cause you’re a right filthy slag. Always thinkin’ with yer dick instead yer brains, not that ye have the sense God gave a clam. Now yer goin’ away with a man ye barely know, yer superior officer at that, and yer pantin’ after ‘im like a bitch in heat.
“Johnny?”
The devil take ye’. No son o’ mine.
“Johnny.”
The hand is back on his knee, and Johnny blinks and turns away from the window as his Da’s voice fades away. Simon’s looking at him. He’s taken off his half-mask.
“I can hear you thinking from here.”
“I’m okay.”
Silence. Simon’s hand returns to the steering wheel. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Johnny.”
“It’s not that.”
“I kind of sprung it on you—”
“I want tae go,” he says, more forcefully that he means to. “I do. I’m just…stuck in me head today. I’m sorry.”
Simon glances at him, then looks forward. “You have nothing to be sorry for. But…” he takes a deep breath. “Can we make a deal this weekend? Like a pact? We tell each other if something is wrong. We don’t have to talk about it—if it’s about your Dad or if it’s my past shit, we just say that and we let it lie, but…I can’t handle seeing something is bothering you and you just answering, ‘I’m fine.’ And I think you’re the same way. We’re both too self-deprecating to keep out of a nosedive if the other one clams up. Okay?”
“Okay,” Johnny says softly, stunned. This is the most he’s ever heard Simon talk about what he’s feeling, let alone establish rules for how to handle it. “It is my Da I’ve been thinkin’ about, and no, I dinnae really want tae talk about it. Not here.”
Simon nods solemnly. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Thanks for not pushing.” Then, he smiles faintly. “Look at you. And ye say yer bad at the whole feeling’s thing.”
Simon smiles back at him. “I learned from the best, Johnny.”
He holds the look for a beat longer, then reaches forward and turns on the radio, thumbing it to a preset station.
Simon Riley likes classic rock.
Johnny relaxes in the passenger seat, his nerves suddenly gone. He looks around the cab, thinking. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been in a pickup truck. Not since Las Almas.”
Simon snorts. “Steerin’ was shot on the piece o’ shit. We were lucky to make it to Alejandro’s in one piece.”
“I barely remember anything from that drive.”
“You were pretty banged up.” Simon glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve never been prouder of you, though.”
Johnny tries to ignore the little flutter that ignites in his chest. “Ye took a shine tae me even way back then, LT?”
“Like I said, I like you alive. And you did a damn good job of makin’ sure you stayed that way. Took a decade off my life, though, watching you cross that city from the church steeple.”
“Wouldn’t have made it without you.”
“Probably not,” Simon deadpans. “It’s a good thing you take direction so well. Quite the shock, since you seem to have a hard time following orders.”
“Och, ye love me for my spontaneity and ye know it.”
“You do keep things interesting. I suppose I’ll have to keep you around a while longer.”
Johnny pokes him in the side. “Is that it, then? Already thinking about replacing me?”
“Nobody can replace you, Johnny.”
It’s meant to be teasing, but the way Simon says it knocks the wind out of him. Simon clears his throat and shifts lanes, accelerating around a sedan. “You hungry?”
“Starved.” He really is, too.
“We should stop for snacks. Do you have any preference on where?”
Johnny leans back in his seat. “You choose. I’m not picky.”
“I’ve never known you to not have an opinion on something, Johnny. Or to voice it loudly.”
“Mebbe I’m tryin’ somethin’ different.”
Simon cocked an eyebrow.
“Och, just pick somethin’, ye great bloody bawjaws.”
“English—”
“Fuck yer English. We’re headed tae Scotland, mate, so ye better git usetae it.”
“Boil your head and hold your wished. See? I’m getting better already.” Simon’s grinning so hard now, Johnny sees a faint dimple emerge that he’s never noticed before. “I am a quarter Scottish now, thanks to you.”
“An’ yer lucky to have such an honor bestowed upon ye,” he says like it hadn’t been an emergency transfusion to save Simon’s life and he wouldn’t have done it again without hesitation. “I should charge ye a premium.”
“Oh, I’m paying, all right, putting up with that mouth of yours.”
That sparked far too many cheeky comebacks dangerously close to flirtation, so Johnny just settled for punching his shoulder. A new song came on the radio—AC/DC’s It’s a Long Way To the Top (If You Wanna Rock and Roll).
Good song. Lots of bagpipes.
He turns it up and settles back in his seat. “So. Tell me more about this motorbike o’ yours.”
***
The road unwinds beneath the tires, mile after mile of open space that doesn’t ask anything of either man.
Simon settles into it easily, hands steady on the wheel, his old truck humming along like it knows exactly where it’s going. The border’s long behind them now, the land opening up into wide stretches of green and stone and sky. No checkpoints. No comms crackling in his ear. No mental countdown to contact.
Just the drive.
It's been so long since he’s gone on a road trip—or been in a vehicle for any length of time that didn't involve transport to and from an op. With the added bonus of dodging bullets on either end. This is different. This is movement without threat, time that belongs to them whether they use it or not.
He’s excited for the weekend, but he’s a little worried about Johnny. He’s just so quiet. It’s not like him.
The good mood and the jokes and teasing had lasted for about an hour, but Johnny’s lapsed into silence again. Simon glances over, careful not to make it obvious. Johnny’s staring out the window, jaw set, leg bouncing hard enough that Simon can feel it through the seat. He’d clocked it almost immediately, the restlessness, the way Johnny’s energy seems folded inward instead of spilling out the way it usually does. He’s anxious. He’d said it was his dad. Simon believes him. There’s no reason not to.
Still.
Johnny’s arm rests on the center console between them, close enough that Simon can feel the warmth of him without touching. He watches Johnny’s fingers curl and uncurl, the tension there, the way his posture is a little too rigid.
Simon thinks about reaching for him for a few seconds before he does it. Not because he’s unsure—he isn’t—but because he wants to be careful. He always wants to be careful with Johnny. These little touches are something new between them.
He lets his hand slide over, slow and deliberate, and rubs his palm along Johnny’s forearm, back and forth. Johnny startles at first, just a fraction, then lets out a long breath he’d clearly been holding. His leg stills. His shoulders drop.
Good, Simon thinks, a quiet flare of relief warming his chest.
He lets his fingers drift down, almost absentminded, until they find the pulse at Johnny’s wrist. It’s fast under his touch, skittery, like a bird trapped in a net. Simon keeps his fingers there, light but steady, feeling the beat slow under his skin. Music fills the space between them, classic rock playing softly on the radio. Johnny sighs again, deeper this time, and leans just slightly into Simon’s touch.
Simon smiles to himself.
He doesn’t know exactly why this feels so good. Why this weekend has been sitting in his chest like a held breath ever since he suggested it, but whatever it is, he feels… good. Better than he has in a long time. Steadier. Like he’s doing something right for once.
It’s Johnny. It always has been. Johnny did this, helped him to find his way. It’s because of him.
He risks another glance at Johnny. His eyes are closed now, lashes dark against his cheeks, face completely relaxed. He’s asleep. Simon’s chest tightens, and he looks back to the road before the feeling can grow teeth.
They drive on like that for a while, the landscape shifting almost imperceptibly around them. When Johnny opens his eyes again, he looks more like himself. Still quiet, but present. Simon counts that as a win.
By the time the village comes into view, the sun is long gone and Simon’s mood is buoyant enough that it almost surprises him. He pulls into the small car park without hesitation, already thinking ahead.
“We should grab some supplies,” he says, killing the engine. “It’s late and we won’t have anything up there.”
“Good thinking. We’ll hit that wee grocer’s right there.” Johnny points with his chin, his grin wide and genuine, like the nap had reset him entirely. “I’m on KP duty this weekend, LT. Best be gettin’ me supplies.”
Johnny’s mood swings are giving Simon whiplash. His energy is back in full force, an electric current that Simon can feel even before he gets out of the truck. Inside the shop, Johnny grabs a trolley and immediately takes the lead, steering them down the aisles with a practiced ease that Simon envies.
“Right. Breakfast stuff. Eggs, bacon, beans, tomatoes, some of that bread ye liked from last time. What kind of eggs do ye want, Si? Free-range? Brown? White? And the bacon—thick-cut or no’. I want tae get what ye like. Last time it was just whatever I’d picked up.” Johnny’s standing in front of a wall of options, hands on his hips, looking to Simon like this is the most important decision of his life.
Simon blinks. “Uh… any of it’s fine, Johnny. I’m not fussy.”
Johnny clucks, shaking his head. “Naw, none o’ that. If I’m cooking, I’m cooking what ye like. Last time ye snuck up on me and I dinnae have time tae prepare. Well, yer not gettin' away that easy this time. Work with me here—what's yer favorite meal, at least?”
The question hangs in the air, simple and direct, yet it lands like a lead weight in Simon's gut. Favorite. The word feels foreign, a luxury from a life that’s never been his. He racks his brain, trying to navigate the dusty, rarely-used corridors of his personal preferences. He knows what tastes like shite, what fills the belly, what gives you energy for a long haul. He doesn't really know what he likes, though. That wasn't a variable that was ever on the table growing up, and the military, well, is the military. Preference doesn't factor in there, either.
He can feel Johnny’s eyes on him, patient, waiting.
“I, uh…” He clears his throat, scanning the shelves for a lifeline. "I liked that stew you made last time. Your morning fry up is brilliant, don’t change a thing. And the fish you did, too, though I don't think we'll be able to catch any this time. Loch's froze over this time of year, innit?"
"Probably no’, they rarely do anymore. We can get fish here, though, tae be on the safe side. Anything else? I liked that mac an’ cheese ye made last time…I’m getting’ the stuff for that, too."
Simon realizes, belatedly, that he just named off all the things Johnny has made for him as his favorite foods. Not surprising, that. It seems like since Johnny's started asking and he's begun tracking them, all his favorite everything has been something he’s experienced with Johnny. He's still trying to wrap his head around that fact.
He finds that the fuzzy feeling in his stomach has spread all the way up to his chest and is making it a little hard to breathe, but in a good way.
Emboldened, he picks out a tin of biscuits that look tasty. The tea he likes, he knows that one, at least. A brief debate with Johnny on the best junk food for midnight snacks—that was not hard, the rec room is always crawling with the stuff—and the trolley gets filled a bit more.
Simon's moment to shine, though, comes in the liquor aisle.
He firmly moves Johnny out of the way. "After the disastrous rotgut you picked the last time, I'll be handling the liquor choices."
"The label said it was Kentucky bourbon," Johnny rolls his eyes. "Am I never gonnae live that down?"
"No. Stand aside, Sergeant, and let me see what we're working with."
It's slim pickings, but he finally sees one he likes. He grabs a bottle with an orange label and stands. "This'll do."
Johnny takes it from him and reads the label. "Bulleit Bourbon. A bit on the nose, aye?"
Simon chuckles and takes it back. "It's pretty good. I actually toured the distillery once. Shelbyville, Kentucky."
"When were ye ever in Shelbyville, Kentucky?"
"2019. That business with the rail cars and the stolen chem weapons."
"Oh. That was you, then?"
"What a mess that was." He taps the scar near his ear. "Came back with this and a bottle of Bulleit to ease my suffering."
Johnny squints. "Looks like ye almost lost the ear."
"Did. They sewed it back on. Good thing too, because it would’ve completely ruined my looks."
Johnny laughs softly and bumps his shoulder with his, and Simon bumps it back. "Yer a menace, Si."
"That's why you love me."
Johnny's smile flickers, so quickly Simon almost misses it. "I do. I really do."
"Well then. We set?"
Johnny shakes himself and squares his shoulders. "I think so, LT. I think we've got everythin'." He gestures with his head toward the checkout.
"Lead the way, Sergeant."
After the shop it’s back in the truck. Johnny’s in better spirits now, humming along to the radio, and it's just as well there's not much police presence in this sleepy little village, because Simon does nearly double the speed limit all the way to the cabin. He remembers every twist and turn of the road from the last time, when he was driving like a bat out of hell in the pouring rain in a shitty rental car to get to Johnny. He drives it by memory now in the dark, his truck’s headlights cutting a clean path through the night.
The cabin emerges from the darkness like a ghost of itself, a darker shadow against the black silhouette of the hills. A little zing of anticipation, a quickening of the pulse—a pavlovian response to something that is both safe and sacred for them both. Simon kills the engine and the sudden silence is immense, broken only by the soft shushing of the wind through the pines and the quiet lapping of the waves on the loch.
Johnny was right. It hadn't froze over.
"Christ, it's baltic," Johnny mutters, slamming his door with a thud that echoes in the cold air. He hunches into Simon's sweatshirt, a smaller shape swallowed by the oversized fabric.
Simon grabs their bags from the truck bed, the canvas stiff with cold. They work together without really talking, Simon keying in the entry code at the door, Johnny shouldering it open, the familiar creak of hinges greeting them like an old friend. God, he missed this place. Inside, the cabin is dark and cold, but it smells the same as last time. Woodsmoke soaked into the beams, faint pine, and cold, clean, fresh air.
Simon sets the bags down and goes straight to the hearth. The owner's brought in a load of wood, and it's stacked neatly inside the hearth, kindling and all. He crumples newspaper, arranges the logs, and sets a match to it. The flame catches quickly, licking at the dry wood, and soon a warm, flickering glow fills the small space.
Johnny's bringing in the groceries from the truck. Simon checks the thermostat. The heat's already on and the fire should help, so he goes to the kitchen and starts helping Johnny put the groceries away.
"Bonfire tonight?" Johnny asks. "It's clear out, should be a good night for it."
Simon nods. "I want to look at the stars."
"It's cold though."
"I know. I'll keep you warm."
They bundle back outside, breath puffing white mist as Johnny builds the fire pit up, sparks snapping and climbing when the flames catch. There's a bench next to the fire pit, a new addition since last time, and Simon settles into it, holding his left arm open so Johnny can snuggle into his side. He sighs and stretches his long legs out towards the heat.
Simon inhales, his lungs and ribcage expanding fully, and he exhales it out along with all the worry and stress and uncertainty of the past few months. "Christ, I missed this place."
"Me too. It's just...simple. Uncomplicated."
"I wish it were closer, but I'm kind of glad that it's not. You know?"
"Yeah. Wouldn't be the same, otherwise." Johnny presses into his side, then he looks up at him, a little gleam in his eye. "Though I never would'a thought a stuffy English wanker'd take such a shine tae the Highlands." he teases.
Simon grunts. "Is that what you thought of me when we first met? That I was stuffy?"
"Ye were a right terror. I didn't think there was a soft bone in yer body until I went tae work on ye and ye started crackin' jokes. God awful ones, too. Steamin' fuckin' Jesus."
Simon chuckles under his breath. I did it all for you, Johnny. I did it all for you.
Johnny leans back, tipping his head up, the firelight painting his face in flickering whisps of gold. “I forget how many there are,” he murmurs. “Stars, I mean. You cannae see half of ‘em back home.”
He hums in agreement, gaze tracking the sky. “Makes you feel small.”
“Aye. But in a good way.”
Simon reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing familiar shapes there. His pocketknife, his lighter, and the flat, smooth stone Johnny gave him the first day they were at this cabin, standing down by the loch and skipping rocks across the water. The same one he’d slipped into his pocket in secret, knowing even then that this was a place he was never going to want to forget. The same one he still carries with him everywhere he goes, a little piece of Johnny always with him.
His fingers push past it and find what they’re seeking, and he plucks the cigarette out of the pack and sticks it between his lips. The lighter flicks to life and is halfway to his mouth when he stops. Lowers it.
The cigarette is habitual, something to calm his nerves during these quiet moments when his thoughts are too loud. But Simon has just realized…he doesn’t really want one. Doesn’t really need it.
Funny, that.
Johnny glances at him when he slides the cigarette back in the pack unsmoked but says nothing.
“You cold?” Simon asks.
“A bit,” Johnny admits. “But it’s worth it.”
Simon reaches behind him and grabs the spare blanket they’d tossed over the chair, shaking it out before draping it across both of their laps. Their knees knock together under the wool. Neither of them moves away.
“Ye ken what would really warm us up,” Johnny nods his head at the unopened bottle of Kentucky bourbon. “We just supposed tae look at it, or are we gonnae drink it?”
Simon picks up the bottle, rubbing his thumb over the label. He opens it and takes a sip—just as good as he remembered. He holds it out to Johnny.
Johnny takes it from him, their fingers brushing. He takes a tentative little sip, brow furrowed adorably, like he half expects it to be poison. Which, judging by the god-awful bottle Johnny had bought the last time, is a safe precaution.
Johnny's eyebrows raise. "That's no' half bad."
"Told you."
"Ye did. Back in Las Almas."
"You remembered."
"I remember all of it. Every last word ye said tae me that night." Johnny lets out a little huff, playing with the label on the bottle. "I dinnae think ye ken just how much hearin' yer voice kept me goin'. Before, when I was callin’ for ye on the radio an’ I thought I was all alone. Shot an’ bleedin’, no weapon…an’ I could hear ‘em huntin’ me. Shadow Company. Graves…I’ve never been so scared in my life."
He takes a long drink, then turns to look at Simon fully. "I was serious, earlier, Si. I wouldn’tve made it without you."
Simon doesn't know why that bothers him so much, but it does. "That's not true."
Johnny just shrugs and burrows into his side. Simon pulls the side of his jacket out, wraps it around them both, and takes the bottle back.
As he takes another drink, he's thinking about all the close calls they've both had. It's not something he likes to think about often—men in their line of work can't afford to. But the night is dark and cold and the bourbon's warming in his belly and Johnny is snuggled into his side and he feels so at peace it scares him. All the close calls they've had. Las Almas. Chicago. So many others. A bullet an inch to the right or left, a matter of a few minutes difference in getting to a medic. So many times they've both been close to death. So many ways it could've gone different, and either one of them wouldn't be sitting here right now.
How many close calls are in their future?
And how many are left until they run out of luck?
At his side, Johnny hums softly and leans his head against Simon’s shoulder. "It is true. I'm not trying tae be dramatic. Ye've saved my arse more times than..." He drifts off, staring up at the stars. "an' I never really thanked ye fer it."
“You saved mine a time or too as well, if I recall.”
“Still.” The look he gives Simon is so intense he wants to look away, but he can't. "Thank you, Si. For saving my life."
It's so loaded, Simon knows he's not just talking about Las Almas. He's talking about everything. Showing up at the cabin two months ago. Holding him through panic attacks and night terrors, for just being there and listening. All the small moments, the quiet moments, the ones in between that have been stitching their lives together since the day they met.
Simon clears his throat. "You're welcome, Johnny." He pulls him close so he can kiss the top of his head. "Now shut up and drink."
They watch the fire sink lower, passing the bottle between them as the stars whirl overhead. Trading stories and little bits of gossip they’ve overheard—Johnny’s as bad as an old washer woman. Soon, though, when the fire’s down to embers and his belly hurts from laughing and they’ve put a sizable dent in the bottle, Johnny lets out a yawn.
“Bed?” Simon asks.
“Aye. I think so.”
They go inside, turning off the lights as they go. The fire’s still kicking in the main room, throwing soft light down the hallway, and it’s toasty warm in the cabin. In the bathroom, they brush their teeth side by side—sharing Johnny’s tube of toothpaste because Simon cannot for the life of him find his own—and then they change into their bedclothes. Simon pulls on his sleep shorts, but at the last minute, he leaves his shirt off.
Johnny, in his sweatpants, glances at him and leaves his own shirt off as well.
The bed’s exactly the same as he remembers it: big, soft, piled high with pillows and blankets. He turns the lights off but leaves the door to the main room open a crack so they have a bit of light from the dying fire. He climbs in, and Johnny slides in right after him, curling into his side with a sigh of contentment. Simon's got one arm under Johnny's head, the other draped over his waist, and Johnny's got one leg thrown over Simon's hip.
The fire crackles in the hearth, and the wind moves through the trees outside, making him feel very grateful they're safe and warm in this bed. Simons' fingers move absently, tracing a slow, lazy pattern over Johnny's exposed skin. Down the solid muscle of his bicep, the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his waist. Lingering over the scar from Las Almas. This close, in the dim light, Johnny's body is a landscape he's only ever seen in pieces but never studied. His skin is softer than he'd expect. And the body hair. His fingers drift to the center of Johnny's chest. Simon doesn't have much body hair and what he does have is faint and blond, but Johnny's chest is dusted with dark hair, so soft even though it's neatly trimmed. Johnny's breathing hitches, a tiny, almost inaudible sound, as Simon's fingers skim over the flat planes of his stomach. The muscles there jump and twitch at the light touch, tracing the line of dark hair down his belly to his sweatpants.
Simon lets his touch drift upward as Johnny watches him, to the dog tags around his throat. They've been warmed by Johnny's skin, and he runs his fingertip over the engraved letters.
He's so close he can see the flutter of Johnny's pulse in the little notch between his collarbones. A steady, reassuring beat against his fingertip. He presses down lightly, feeling the rhythm of life, and Johnny's breath catches again.
“Comfortable?” Simon murmurs.
“Very,” Johnny says. His pupils are so wide in the dark his eyes almost look black. “You?”
Simon smiles. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Johnny nods, but Simon can feel the hesitation there, the unasked questions sitting just under the surface. Johnny’s palm is resting lightly on his waist, motionless except for the slow circles his thumb is tracing on his skin. Simon has noticed a difference in the way Johnny touches him since he mentioned what happened in Mexico, as vague as it was at the time. Like Johnny’s worried about hurting him, and Simon hates that.
He shifts slightly, turning onto his side so they’re face to face, close enough that their knees are locked together, and he pulls Johnny’s hand up to his chest.
“It’s okay,” he says. “You can touch.”
“I don’t…”
“I know. You won’t hurt me. I trust you.”
Simon can see the moment curiosity gets the better of him, and he watches as Johnny begins to explore his body. The damage to his back where the skin had been taken in strops, the burn marks across his thighs. Violence etched into his skin. There’s also the far more shameful row of razor thin scars that his tattoos hide up his left arm…and the longer, deeper ones that Price had interrupted after Roba.
He can tell Johnny wants to ask but doesn’t know how. Simon doesn’t blame him. It’s…a lot. None of this he's ready to talk about, though, so he sticks with non-Mexico injuries.
“This one,” he says, lifting Johnny’s fingers to the white starburst pattern along his ribs. “Shrapnel. IED in Yemen. Not my finest day.”
“Looks like ye lost a fight with a lawn mower.” Johnny says, but his face is somber as he flattens his hand over the old wound.
“Felt like it,” Simon says dryly.
He moves Johnny’s hand again, down his side, to a thicker, puckered scar near his hip. “Knife. Close quarters. He was faster than I expected.”
“Still here, though,” Johnny murmurs, thumb brushing the edge of it with reverent care.
“Still here,” Simon agrees. “This one, though, nearly did me in.” He uses Johnny’s fingers to trace a ragged scar on the side of his throat. “Grenade in Colombia. Was dead for a good two minutes before the medic brought me back.”
Johnny swallows thickly as his fingers graze the puckered skin. It’s not bragging, and they both know it. Here in the quiet safety of their Highland cabin they can talk about such things. Close calls and brushes with death. Simon doesn’t like to linger on the details but he does understand wanting to know what your partner has been through. Throughout his exploration, Johnny’s touch is feather-light, never lingering too long, never pressing, and Simon finds he doesn’t mind it. Finds, maybe, that he likes it—being seen like this, in pieces he can control.
“They don’t…” He has to clear his throat, feeling suddenly shy. “The scars. They don’t disgust you?”
Johnny’s hand stills. His head tilts up, and the look in his eyes is enough to simultaneously put to bed any reservation Simon had and break his heart at the same time.
“Disgust me?”
Simon nods. “My body. My…my face. The damage.”
Johnny makes a low sound in the back of his throat. He scoots up until they’re eye to eye, and he gently cups the side of Simon’s face, smoothing his thumb across the scar along his cheekbone.
“It upsets me tae think that you were hurt like that,” he says. “To see the evidence of what you endured, what ye survived—I never want to see you hurt of think of ye in pain even for a moment. But disgust me? No. Never.”
There’s something lodged in Simon’s throat, and his eyes feel itchy. Johnny shifts so Simon’s lying on his back and Johnny’s nearly on top of him, his weight supported on both arms.
“I think you’re beautiful, Simon Riley. Here…” He kisses the bullet scar on Simon’s right shoulder.
“Here…” A kiss on his left shoulder, over another scar.
“Here…” Johnny’s lips settle against the scar along the side of his forehead.
“…and especially here.”
When Johnny’s head dips to press a kiss over his heart, Simon feels himself lose control. Tears run, hot and fast down his cheek, and he turns his head away. Johnny makes a small, wounded noise and rolls them both on their sides, pulling Simon’s body closer until his head is cradled against his chest and both Johnny’s arms are holding him tightly. He’s speaking in Scots, low and soft, the gentle lilting rhythm of words Simon doesn’t understand washing over him. Johnny’s voice. His touch. The two things that reached him through the darkness, pulled him out of the hellhole of his own existence, and gave him hope.
Gave him peace.
And this moment right here is one that he knows will stay with him long after they leave the Highlands, because it feels like something fundamental has shifted within him. A moment that has seeded an understanding in Simon that this right here, what he has with Johnny, is far more than friendship. This kind of thing is forever.
It doesn’t scare him, even though he feels like it should. Forever with Johnny is a wonderful and novel concept, and he’s beginning to get used to the idea.
“You okay?” Johnny says, wiping the last of the tears from Simon’s face. He nods, and Johnny settles them both back into bed. “Sleep, mo chridhe. I’ve got ye now. Just sleep.”
And Simon, because he trusts Johnny more than anyone he’s ever known, settles deeper into the Scot’s arms, releases his hold on all his worries and his fears, and falls into a deep and blissful sleep.
Because Johnny’s got his back.
Johnny will always have his back.