Work Text:
From Simon:
What time does your train arrive?
John looks down at his phone, heart swelling in his chest. He quickly texts Simon back, letting him know he’d be arriving in two hours. Simon sends back a quick thumbs-up emoji, and John places his phone face down, heart thudding in his chest.
It’ll be the first time he’s seen Simon since the man was medically discharged three months ago. It was a massive loss for the 141, something Price and the rest of the team are still reeling from. It had happened so fast, something John can’t help but think about in the quiet nights, the loss of Simon like a Ghost weighing heavily at his side.
One moment, they had been standing there on a mission, those honeyed whisky eyes gleaming at him from behind the skull plate and balaclava, and the next, the world around them was nothing but an explosion. Steel and glass, and Ghost’s large body as he’d slammed Johnny protectively to the ground.
The blood was everywhere, Ghost’s tac gear ripped to shreds around his arm; their team later learning that Simon’s tendons had been severed by a piece of shrapnel that had ripped through. And Soap, despite knowing Ghost had protected him, was so mad.
Ghost had risked his entire fucking career for him, and Soap didn’t know how to make sense of it. Didn’t understand why Simon would do such a thing. He was grateful, knew that a direct hit from the shrapnel would have done far worse to him than it had done to Simon. But that didn’t change the fact that he was furious.
Ghost, despite his gruff exterior and sharp orders, was protective of his men. But Soap couldn’t have imagined that Ghost would do something like that, for him.
But John also knew why. He knew why Simon had pushed John to the ground, why he’d taken the blow the way he did. But he didn’t know what it meant.
He and Simon were friends. Just friends.
From Simon:
You’re not allergic to cats, are you?
John frowns down at his phone. No, he’s not allergic to cats, but that doesn’t change his confusion as to why Simon is asking in the first place.
From John:
Do you have a cat?
He sees the bubbles at the bottom of his screen. On and off for a few moments before a reply comes through.
From Simon:
A kitten, unfortunately.
John huffs out a laugh, can’t for the life of him picture a big fucking bastard like Ghost with a wee kitten.
Another text comes through.
From Simon:
He’s … something else. You’ll see when you get here.
John leans back in the chair, the train rumbling beneath him, a steady pace toward Manchester. “Yeah,” he says to no one. “I guess we will.”
When John arrives at the train station, he can’t help the way his heart skips in his chest. The station is busy, people weaving all throughout the terminal, but John has his sights set on one point of contact.
The large, blond man waiting for him past security. The man with a black medical mask around the bottom half of his face, whose hair is ruffled and soft, whose brown eyes capture the afternoon sun as it spills in through the large windows of the station. And John is running before he can question himself.
He sees Simon’s eyes widen from beneath the brim of his hat, the man barely able to brace before John (lovingly) barrels into him. He tries not to jostle Simon’s injured hand too badly, but all thoughts of whether Simon is okay quickly melt away when the man uses his left hand to pull John close, chests and hips flush together. Simon ducks down, lips skimming John’s temple from behind the thin barrier of his mask. And for the first time in months, the world feels whole and right.
“It’s good to see you, Johnny,” Simon murmurs against his brow, warm breath coasting across John’s ear, goosebumps leaving a shivering path in its wake.
“Yeah,” John says, allowing Simon to pull him closer, inhaling that familiar scent of spice and tea and Simon. Something he never wants to be without again, something that’s kept him awake for nights on end, because he’s missed him so fucking much. “It’s good to see you too, Lt.”
Simon’s flat isn’t too far from the train station. They take a cab, John pressed close to Simon’s side, large thighs squished together. They’re about as comfortable as two military lads can be, and despite Simon being out of the service for a few months now, he hasn’t lost any definition. John knows the bastard is still working out, has bitched at him plenty on the phone to take a goddamned break, but Simon doesn’t listen to anyone.
Except maybe his physical therapist, whom Simon has only described as tiny and terrifying. Whatever that means.
Simon is relatively quiet on the drive over, but John doesn’t mind, content to sit there pressed against his side, heat bleeding through to his chilled skin beneath. “Should be there soon,” Simon murmurs, his jaw pressing into John’s temple. “You o’right?”
“Solid,” John hums, casually shifting until he’s resting his head on Simon’s shoulder. He feels the man stiffen for one long moment before he settles, the hand that had been squished between their bodies moving to curl around the top of John’s knee.
Simon’s thumb sweeps across the denim, nearly absentmindedly, and John feels his heart catch in his throat. Before the accident, they had been toeing a line, one John wanted to cross but knew the implications of. Price is a good captain, but he wouldn’t look past a relationship between Ghost and Soap. Not that he didn’t want them to, but because he knew he couldn’t protect them from the fallout, from the upper brass meddling the way they did.
So that line stayed uncrossed, but here in a small, cramped cab, John wonders where that line is now. Wonders if it would take a step, or a leap.
Wonders if he’ll be able to stop wondering.
The cab pulls to the curb, Simon tapping his phone against the screen in the back to pay, while John bitches at him that he could have paid for the damn ride over. But in true Simon Riley fashion, the man won’t hear of it.
John shoulders his duffel as they move out of the cab, a quaint townhouse that John immediately loves. It’s a two-story redbrick, a small gate out front, some ivy curling around the wrought iron. John whistles low under his breath as Simon pulls out a small key and unlocks the fence, ushering John into the small patio before he locks the fence behind him. The front door has two steps leading up to it, a small painted 7 next to the letterbox.
“Place must have cost you a fortune.”
Simon huffs at that, moving to unlock the front door. “Not really,” he says, jiggling the key a few times. “Well, I suppose now it would. Found out a few years ago that this was left in my grandmother's will. Never met the woman, but I suppose she has nice taste.”
John feels his chest tighten, knowing quite well that Simon’s family has always been a sore subject. “I suppose, so.”
Simon gets the door unlocked, pushing in to the house with John following right behind. And wow.
Stairs lead up into the main house, but John can tell from the foyer that this place is nice. The stairs flare out at the bottom, a polished, warm wood that gleams from the sunken light above their heads. The railing is black iron, a twisted pattern, and despite John not knowing shit about these things, it looks relatively new.
Simon moves up the stairs, not offering to take John’s bag since he knows John would tell him to lovingly get fucked. So instead, they move, the stairs creaking beneath their combined weight. “Holding out on me, Lt,” John says before they reach the top. “A nice place like this and I never knew —” he trails off as they reach the top, the stairs opening into a wide living room, a kitchen tucked in the far corner.
John isn’t really sure what he thought Simon’s flat might look like. Well, that’s a lie, actually. He’d thought about Simon’s flat plenty. Like last night, for example, when he’d laid in bed and wondered if Simon lived in a bachelor pad with a mattress on the floor and nothing but beer in the fridge. John knew Simon plenty well, had been in the man’s room enough on base to know Simon wasn’t a slob. He was neat and tidy, and barely had any decorations.
His room on base had been sparse, no decorations, only a few small trinkets on the shelf in his room. But looking around Simon’s flat now, John realizes it’s not that Simon doesn’t know how to decorate, not at all.
A large couch sits in the center of the room, black, gleaming leather. Pressed flush to the wall are two bookshelves, stuffed to the brim with books, a few stacked haphazardly off to the side and looking one bad elbow away from toppling over. Between both shelves sits a fireplace, an electric one with fake logs and flames sitting behind glass.
Simon has lots of artwork on the wall, too. Nature stills, the woods during autumn, a fresh fog over a mountain range that John faintly recognizes. He has a few framed posters too, Star Trek of all fucking things, which is not something John expected.
John can see the kitchen further across the way, cherry woodwork and stainless steel appliances, a rack of mugs sitting beside the stove. “Guest room is down this way,” Simon tells him, pointing toward the hall that branches off to the right. “My room is right across.”
John nods, still working to find words. Obviously, he’s staying in the guest room; he doesn’t know why he thought he’d be sleeping in any other room. Simon is his friend, and they’re here as friends. And what happened in the cab with the knee and the touching, that’s just what friends do. Obviously.
“Let me go set my stuff doon,” John says, tripping over his words a bit, his heart in his throat. He barely gives Simon a chance to respond before he’s moving, the door to the guest room cracked open. He glances at the door that Simon said was his, closed tight of course, but John wishes he could see inside. He wonders if Simon has decorated his room at all, too.
Wonders if those small trinkets Simon used to keep on his shelf are now sitting in this room. The small bit he brought with him from the SAS.
He shakes his head as he presses his shoulder against the door, immediately noticing the large, queen-sized bed in the middle of the room and —
Sitting in the middle of the bed with its belly toward the ceiling is the kitten Simon mentioned. A white, fluffy kitten, from what John can tell, its wee paws pressed against their chest and raised slightly in the air. John sets his bag down on the floor, careful not to startle the animal, and yet when he shifts forward, bright blue eyes pop open, glancing at him.
“Look at you,” John croons, the cat stretching its paws lazily into the air, a small chirp of a meow. "The fucking cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Don’t tell him that,” Simon’s voice rings out, and when John turns, he sees Simon standing in the doorway of the room. It takes him a minute to register that Simon has taken off his mask, his full face on display. He’s like a kid at Christmas, giddy with excitement because he knows that Simon doesn’t go without it very often. But somehow, around Johnny, he feels comfortable doing so. “Although I’m not quite sure if he’d listen much to you anyway. Not a single thought in this damn cat’s head.”
John scoffs, scooping the cat into his arms. He’s handled cats before; his sister Margo has one, an orange cat named Frankie, who is an absolute terror. John knows some cats don’t take well to being handled; most of them stiffen and immediately try to get away.
But this cat … he just flops over in John’s arms, head lolling, paws still in the air. Like a — “Is he a rag doll?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
John rolls his eyes at that, “He’s your cat, Simon.” He scratches the cat’s head, the animal stretching his long legs as he relaxes completely against him. “What’s his name?”
Simon makes a face, like he doesn’t really want to say.
“Don’t tell me you named him something stupid like ‘cat,’” John grouses, pulling said cat higher into his arms, the small thing attempting to bite at his thumb.
“No, he has a bloody name,” Simon grumbles, leaning against the door frame and absolutely not meeting his eye.
“Which is?”
Simon sighs, glaring at the cat in John’s arms like it’s the animal’s fault. “Eggs.”
John’s eyes widen, a smirk curling across his lip. “What did you say?”
“You heard me, sergeant,” Simon uses in that lieutenant Riley drawl that would scare the fuck out of recruits, but for John, it only makes him smile wider.
“I think I heard you, but you might need to say it a bit louder,” he steps forward, the cat curled tightly in his arms. “Demo expert all those years, Simon. Lost a bit o’ my hearing, ye ken.”
“Jesus, fucking —” Simon blusters. “His name is Eggs.”
“Think ‘cat’ would have been better,” John tells him, clearly teasing, which earns a huff from Simon in return.
“I’m going to send your ass home on the next train, you bloody wanker,” Simon tells him, but there is no bite to his words, just that fond teasing that John knows so well. He’s reminded how beautiful Simon is, that smile that John rarely gets to see curving across his lips.
“No, you won’t,” John tells him, stepping forward with Eggs in his arms. “You like having me here.”
Simon makes an affronted noise, like the very idea of John is a bother. But John knows that’s not the case, knows that Simon Riley rarely invites anyone into his life. But for some reason, he’s allowed John this. This softness that is reserved for him, a type of softness that John feels undeserving of.
He can’t help the way his eyes roam down to Simon’s injured hand, the scar tissue hidden beneath his long sleeve. The guilt still weighs heavily on him, the feeling that he could have done more, that Simon didn’t need to give up everything for —
“I don’t regret it, Johnny,” Simon tells him quietly, following John’s line of sight. “Never would.”
John sets Eggs down, the cat meowing once before flopping onto the floor beside them to lick at his tail. “I know,” John says quietly, feeling his heart racing in his chest. He promised himself he wouldn’t bring it up, and now he’s been here all of five minutes and he’s somehow brought it up. Or, well, at least he can partially blame Simon for this.
“I hear that tone,” Simon tells him softly, a step forward until he’s in John’s space, the whole towering mass of him. Cardamom and spice, that lingering scent of tea that John could always smell even when Ghost was wearing his entire kit.
“There’s no tone,” John says, but he knows his voice sounds tight. Knows that he’s been trying to be strong about this for a long time. But nothing changes the fact that he’s fucking missed Simon.
He thought at first he’d miss him just on missions, that terrible, raspy flirting in his ear.
But John would come back to base, they’d wait weeks for their next mission, and Simon’s absence was a Ghost. A longing ache that only got worse with each passing day. In the gym, when John didn’t have a spotter, in the mess, when John would naturally move toward the small table they always ate at.
In the kitchen at night, when John would wake from a nightmare, and Simon wouldn’t be there. Because, for some reason, Simon was always there when John needed him.
But when Simon needed John, he hadn’t been there. He’d allowed Simon to sacrifice everything for him, and the weight is too much. He feels the prickle behind his eyes, but he won’t let tears happen. He doesn’t want Simon feeling worse about this.
Yet, John should have known there’s very little he can keep from Simon. He startles when the man lifts his good hand, curling it around the back of John’s nape and shoving him forward. John tells himself to be stronger, but pressed against Simon’s chest, enveloped in that smell he’s missed so much, he crumples.
He wraps his arms around Simon’s waist, the man in turn wrapping his damaged hand as much as possible around John’s waist. John breathes in the smell of him, his heart clenching tightly in his chest as he burrows his face into Simon’s chest, allowing the man to hold him tighter. Maybe this is that line they were never supposed to cross when they served in the military, but here in this small bedroom in Manchester, John knows that line is beckoning them.
A siren’s call, urging them to take the final step.
“M’ glad you’re here,” Simon murmurs against John’s brow, chin resting against John’s temple.
“I’m glad I’m here, too.”
“The least I could do is cook.”
Simon offers John a look, incredulous almost as he raises a brow at him. “I’d prefer we didn’t have food poisoning.”
“Ach, ye bawbag,” John fusses. “Have you met my mam? You think for one fucking moment Ethel MacTavish would let me exist in her house without learning to cook?”
Simon shrugs at that. “Your mum is bloody terrifying.”
John makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Don’t I know it.” He rifles around Simon’s fridge for a long moment, pulling out a few ingredients. He can easily make a stew, especially since Simon seems to have a nice cut of meat in the back —
“You don’t have to cook,” Simon interjects. “Is what I’m saying.” He glances down at his hand, shuffling a bit on his feet. “I’m gaining back strength. Not how it was before, of course. But I can cook for us.”
John pulls the ingredients out of the fridge and sets them on the counter. “I’m not offering to cook because I don’t think you can,” John clarifies. “I just wanted to do my part —” he hesitates, feeling a bit silly about the whole thing. “I guess.”
“You did your part by coming here,” Simon tells him, meeting his gaze. “Which, I’m still not sure why you want to spend your leave with me.”
“Shut your hole, ye daft cow,” John says easily, tossing Simon a look as he rummages around for a few more minutes to find Simon’s knives. “I came here because I wanted to.” He pulls out a sharp knife, one that looks like it’s never been used if the rubber tip on the end has anything to say about it. John grabs a cutting board he spies too, and begins dicing carrots and potatoes, some onion as well. “Plus, now I can tell all the lads about wee Eggs.”
“I will strangle you,” Simon grouses from where he’s sitting, having since pulled up a bar stool to watch John work.
“Kinky,” John replies easily, glancing once more at Simon while still dicing. “Seen you do it before, half-chub at least.”
“Ridiculous,” Simon smarts, offering John a frown. “Pay attention to where you’re slicing, Soap. It’ll be your thumb next.”
“Stop yer fussin,” John says, turning his attention back toward the vegetables, since he really doesn’t want to slice his thumb off. “Can’t boss me around anymore, you know.”
“I can boss you around, plenty,” Simon grumbles, John, offering him a scoff as he moves easily onto the next carrot, dicing with ease. He’s thankful now for all the times his mother forced him to cut vegetables with her in the kitchen. Despite Simon’s grievances, he is a good cook, and he knows it. Not that John ever really had a chance to share that talent with Simon before. But there’s something about this all, something he feels compelled to do.
Simon doesn’t need to be coddled; he’s a grown man who has been getting by just fine, but it’s not that.
John simply wants to take care of him, to allow Simon a moment to feel like he doesn’t always have to rush to do everything. Even before the injury, Simon was always pushing himself too hard, working late into the night, barely getting any sleep before their morning duties. And despite the mask, John could see the weariness pulling on Simon, the bags he tried and failed to hide beneath the grease paint.
He was always putting everyone else first, and rarely himself. Which, if John thinks about it, shouldn’t really surprise him that Simon had protected him during that blast. A self-sacrificing bastard until the very end, but if John had a chance to, he would show Simon some of that comfort he’s been denying himself.
John scrapes his knife along the side of the cutting board, gathering the vegetables all together. “You have a pot?”
“Cabinet, lower-left side,” Simon says easily, his eyes narrowing, and John can tell the bastard wants to bitch about all of this, but thankfully, he stays in his seat. John slides the vegetables into a bowl, carrying it with him across the kitchen.
John moves toward the sink, the heavy ceramic bowl cradled in the crook of his arm, when a flash of white fur streaks across the linoleum.
With a soft whump, Eggs launches himself directly into John’s path, hitting the floor and immediately rolling onto his back with his paws tucked to his chest like a dead bug.
“Oi!” John yelps, his boots skidding as he performs a frantic, uncoordinated dance to avoid crushing the kitten. The bowl tilts precariously, a stray carrot stick leaping over the rim.
He manages to steady the bowl against his chest, gasping as he looks down at the cat, who is currently staring up at him with unblinking, vacant blue eyes.
“You little shit,” John wheezes. “You nearly met the bottom of a ceramic bowl.”
A low, huffing sound comes from the bar. John looks up to see Simon with a grin splitting across his face, shoulders shaking with that rare, silent laughter of his.
“I told you,” Simon says, his voice thick with amusement. “Not a single thought in that head. Can’t tell you how many times he’s tripped me.”
John nudges Eggs with his shoe, the kitten content to let John gently shove him across the floor until his path is clear. “When did you get him?”
Simon makes a noise as John fetches the pot, dumping all the ingredients in before setting it on the stove. He fusses around with seasoning, rifling around for another moment before he pulls free a cast iron, happy he’ll be able to give the meat he has on hand a nice sear.
“Therapist thought it would be a good idea,” Simon finally says, his voice low as John seasons both sides of the flank steak he has before turning the burner on. “Didn’t want to do therapy, but Price said I had to.”
“And you listened?”
“Not at first,” Simon admits with a soft laugh. “Bastard kept calling me, drove me bloody mad. I finally went to get him to shut up about it.” John’s quiet as the meat starts sizzling, eyes darting over his shoulder to glance at Simon. “Kept going back because it felt…” Simon pauses, weighing his words before he admits quietly, “… Good to talk.”
“How long have you been going?”
Another bout of silence as John turns the meat, a nice, crisp sear that will make a good stew. “Two months now, been out of the service three, so I suppose it was about time.”
John nods, feels a pang in his chest. “So you got Eggs, did you?”
Simon scoffs, the tension from a moment ago breaking. “You’re insufferable, MacTavish,” Simon murmurs. John hears Simon’s bar stool scrape quietly against the floor, footsteps sounding behind him. “That was his name when I adopted him,” Simon snarls, and John is aware that the man is suddenly too close.
He feels Simon press against him from behind, hips flush with John’s ass, chest pressing against John’s spine. “Ye could have renamed him,” John mumbles, although he knows the way his voice sounds, breathy, strained. He wants to push his ass back against Simon, wants to know what the fuck they’re doing, this dizzying, intoxicating dance they’ve been spinning around one another for so long.
“That seemed like too much trouble,”Simon growls, his breath warm against John’s ear. He leans forward, the meat sizzling a bit in the pan as he reaches into the cabinet above John’s head, pulling out a bottle of bourbon a moment later.
The heat behind him vanishes, and John is left a bit shaky in its wake, his knees wobbling because Simon is playing dirty and he knows it.
“Whisky?” Simon says from behind, earning a glower from John in return.
“I’ll pass, ye cunt,” John grumbles, turning the steak onto its side to sear the edges. “Unless ye got Scotch in those cabinets of yers.”
Simon says nothing, but John can hear liquid splashing into a glass, a bit more shuffling before Simon moves next to John at the stove, a bottle curled in his hand.
“Wha’s —”
“Scotch,” Simon says simply, showing John the bottle. His favorite bottle. The bastard. “The fucking audacity of making me go out and buy this, Johnny. Christ.”
“I did no make you buy it!” John says in complaint, but he can’t help his grin, the way his heart flutters in his chest. Simon teases him to no avail, constantly bugging him about John’s preference for Scotch. But he’d remembered John’s favorite, and he doesn’t want to read too much into that.
Simon pours him a cup while John finishes dinner, placing the meat into a large pot with broth and the vegetables he cut up. It’ll take a few hours, but Simon tells him that’s fine, he’s not terribly hungry, and it’s still pretty early.
They end up in the living room with their drinks, both of them sitting a bit too close on the couch for just friends, but John doesn’t say anything, so Simon doesn’t either. They talk and talk, both of them catching up, John telling Simon everything he’s missed.
“Sanderson, eh?” Simon says, swirling his bourbon around in his cup. “Not a terrible fit.”
“Makes three sergeants on the team, now,” John says in turn, his knee brushing Simon’s own.
Simon raises a brow at that, “Johnny, you’re about due to pick up staff,” he says easily. “Have a little more leverage on the team.”
“Aye, I suppose,” he says, his heart doing a slow flip in his chest. He doesn’t say anything else, stays quiet about his contract. He knows he should mention it to Ghost, knows that the man deserves to know Johnny’s line of thinking. It’s not that he wants to be done with the military, but he’s starting to feel it. His body, the aches and pains, and the issue with his left knee. It’s never-ending these days, and also, that gaping hole where Simon used to be. John has done fine without him; he doesn’t need Ghost to stay enlisted.
But this is something else. This is a choice John wants to make for himself.
They talk more, Simon turning on the telly, some dating show drivel that makes John snort with laughter. It reminds him of when they would sit on Simon’s small bed on base, watching movies and the like, both of them offering commentary like they were part of high-brow society.
It makes the ache in John’s chest lessen, and he finds himself scooching close to Simon, arms brushing together, Eggs chewing on a cat toy that he chases all around the living room. “Had to buy him that bloody toy after he ate through two of my chargers,” Simon says with a scoff, eyes trained on the little shit that is diving under the entertainment stand after his toy fish. “He contends with you for being the biggest pain in my arse,” Simon murmurs, Johnny squawking out an offended oi before nudging the man a bit too hard in the shoulder.
“Had to buy a cat to replace me,” John says, stretching as he stands, the stew likely ready at this point, if the smell has anything to say about it.
“Nah,” Simon says softly, turning on the couch as Johnny moves toward the kitchen. “Nothing can replace you.”
Going to bed later that night is difficult. John is tired, had accidentally drifted off more than once on the couch. Simon had gently roused him, bitching in his ear that he needed to go to sleep, and John wanted to, but he also didn’t want to leave the warm cocoon that was Simon.
He knows they’re sitting in a way that friends wouldn’t. John has his legs across Simon’s lap, the man using his good hand to idly massage John’s bum knee. They’ve found every opportunity to touch one another, and John selfishly wants more.
They get up in a tangle of limbs, Simon’s fingers hovering on John’s waist as they move toward the bedroom. It shouldn’t be awkward; they’ve slept in the same tent before, shared beds in safe houses, and the like, but this is something else entirely. There’s something here, tense and charged, buzzing beneath John’s skin. He wants so badly to say something, or do something, but instead he leans forward, forehead pressing against Simon’s shoulder.
“Dead on your feet, sergeant?” Simon asks, his damaged hand braced against John’s lower spine.
“A wee bit, yeah,” John responds, his voice a bit muffled from the way he smushes his face into Simon.
They linger for a second too long, the two of them breathing in the other's space. It’s the type of quiet that’s begging to be broken, the tension between them thick and sweltering, and John wishes he wasn’t such a fucking coward.
“Get some sleep, Johnny,” Simon says finally, voice low, even. His fingers skim across John’s lower spine once before he takes a step back, honeyed whisky eyes finding his in the darkness. “Goodnight.”
John feels the absence between them like a chasm, but he only offers Simon a soft smile. “G’night, Simon.”
John stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours, watching shadows shift faintly along the edges of the room as he tells himself it’s just adrenaline, just the leftover buzz of the day curdling hot and restless in his gut. His gaze drifts, unbidden, to the door, to the knowledge that Simon’s room sits just across the hall, close enough that it would take nothing at all to cross the distance.
He wonders what would happen if he just got up and knocked.
If Simon wanted nothing, John could blame it on something simple, like having a nightmare. Or hearing some type of noise. But John also knows Simon would see through any lie.
So he just lies there, the sheets smelling a bit like spice and tea, and his cock twitches because what else can go wrong.
He’s not going to touch himself; he’s going to go to sleep.
John turns onto his side, taking the blankets with him, then onto his back again, then the other side, the mattress creaking softly beneath him no matter how careful he tries to be. He adjusts the pillow, fluffs it, presses his face into it, then pulls away again with a frustrated huff when none of it helps, when the restlessness only seems to build instead of ease.
Eventually, he gives up on pretending it’s going to pass.
He pushes himself out of bed, drops to the floor, and runs through a quick set of pushups, counting under his breath, trying to burn it out of his system the way he always does. When that doesn’t work, he shifts into jogging in place, then another set, his breathing steady, but the tension still coiled beneath his skin is unrelenting, vicious with want.
He looks down at his hardening cock and curses his very existence. Maybe he’ll go shower, have a shameful wank and finally get this steam off, and after another set of pushups does nothing to tame the beast living beneath his skin, John decides to do just that.
He gathers up his clothes, an extra pair of briefs, and the towel Simon had left for him on the bed.
A shower is just what he needs. He’ll finally calm the fuck down.
Except when he opens the door —
“Simon.”
Simon is standing there, right in front of his door, as if he’s been there the whole time, as if the space between their rooms had never really existed. The low light from the living room catches on his face, on the sharp lines of him, his eyes fixed on John with an intensity that feels almost feral, something unguarded and dangerous flickering there.
“Johnny.”
That’s all it takes before one of them moves forward, their lips crashing together, violent and desperate. John cries out into Simon’s mouth, the man using his left hand to gather John close, both of them stumbling into Simon’s room. John wants a moment to look around, but Simon is pulling John forward, a large bed pressed against the wall, and John doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more.
When Simon’s knees hit the bed, he falls back, like a giant fucking tree, and John scrambles on top of him. Their hips grind together, cocks hard and aching, and John feels his head spin. He can’t believe this is finally happening.
“Thought you’d never get the bloody hint,” Simon rasps, John grinding his hips harshly against Simon’s own, the man hissing through clenched teeth. “Didn’t know how to make it any more obvious to you, Johnny.”
“You said goodnight,” John hisses in return, Simon’s left hand skimming up John’s waist, gripping the skin beneath.
“Read between the lines, Johnny, taught you better than that.”
“Well, can I read between them now, then?” John asks, a sinful rock forward, both of them groaning at the tight friction. “Ye lookin’ to get fucked, Simon?”
“Crude,” Simon says with a sniff, but he doesn’t deny it, only yanks John back down, their mouths colliding, open-mouthed, sloppy kisses that make the blood rush straight to John’s cock. “Then get to it, sergeant.”
John groans, pushing Simon’s shirt up, that pale, scarred skin on full display. He dives down, closing a mouth around Simon’s nipple, a single tug that has the man groaning low, fingers fisting in John’s long locks. “Ye always take care of me,” John murmurs. “That day on the field, you protected me.”
“I’d protect you with my life,” Simon tells him, his words like a promise, a vow, and John can’t help but lean down, their lips crashing together, soft and heated, every unspoken word said in each slide of their lips. “I’d protect you every fucking day if it meant not losing you, Johnny.”
John’s chest tightens at that, something sharp and aching cutting through the heat, and he leans into him instead of pulling away, hands braced at Simon’s sides like he needs to anchor them both. “You’re never going to lose me,” he rasps, eyes stinging as he looks at him. “Never, Simon.”
He kisses him again, softer now, the kind of heat that lingers instead of burns out. “You deserve to be taken care of,” John murmurs, his voice dropping, rough and steady all at once. “Just like you’ve always taken care of me.”
Simon nods his head, and John knows it’s a fucking privilege to be able to see the man like this. Flushed skin, a type of raw vulnerability in his eyes. Simon wouldn’t do this just for anyone, but for Johnny — it’s different. It’s just them.
They manage their clothes the rest of the way off, Simon reaching between them, gathering both of their cocks in his functioning left hand. “This hand still works,” he retorts with a cheeky laugh, John groaning as Simon works them easily, precome messy and tacky between their bodies.
“Fuckin’ glad it does,” John grits through clenched teeth. “But slow te fuck doon. Don’t wanna blow my load this early.”
Simon slides his thumb under the ridge of John’s cock. “Bit pent up, Johnny?”
“I’ll show ye pent up, you bastard,” John rasps, head falling back against his shoulders, his cock smearing messily against Simon’s stomach. “You have lube?”
“Such a gentleman.”
“I can do this dry, if you like,” John grouses, earning a smack on the rib from Simon in return as he leans sideways, nearly dislodging John in the process. His entire body is lean, tight muscle, with that extra layer of fat around his stomach, something John wants to sink his teeth into. So he does.
“Christ!” Simon barks out, another ruffle in his drawer, before he moves closer, pinning John to the mattress beneath him. “Keep it up, and you’ll be the one getting railed until next Sunday.”
“Next time, darlin’,” Soap croons, and because he’s sparred with Simon so many times, he easily flips him, although he also doesn’t think Simon is putting up much of a fight. They land back on the bed, and Simon’s already reaching forward, mouths connecting, cocks gliding together, wet and messy.
John spills lube onto his fingertips, dribbling some onto the sheets and earning a bark of protest from Simon in return. “Don’t fuck up my sheets, Johnny.”
“Gonna fuck it up worse in a minute,” John says, nudging his thighs against Simon’s own to spread him wider. “Unless, of course, your sheets are more important than this.”
“Shut up, Soap,” Simon grumbles, exasperation in his tone. “Fucking hell.”
“Heard that before.”
And before Simon can come up with some other sharp retort, John presses his lubed fingers against his taut ring of muscle. The man hisses, the muscles in his stomach jumping as John prods gently. “Been a minute,” Simon admits, his voice a bit strained. “Don’t usually do this —”
“This meaning?” Soap offers with a cheeky wink as he presses one finger in, the warmth of Simon sucking him right in, and John knows he’ll never be able to get enough.
“This,” Simon hisses, eyes pinching shut in pleasure when John begins to fuck him steadily with one finger. He knows it’s a gift to see Simon like this, knows the man doesn’t offer himself willingly to anyone. In all the years Soap knew Ghost, he never saw the man leave with anyone from the pub for a quick fuck.
And while it wasn’t always the same for Soap, eventually he noticed he wasn’t looking for quick shags either. Because being with Simon was enough.
“Giving yerself to me so beautifully,” John croons, adding a second finger, gentle movements as he watches Simon’s face. “Gonna fuck you nice and full, Simon.”
“The mouth on you,” Simon groans, chest heaving as John continues to fuck steadily in and out of his hole. “Should’ve known you’d be like this.”
John wants to say something quippy; he wants to tell Simon that he didn’t know he could be like this, because he never imagined this happening. He swallows hard, the reality of the moment sinking in. He’s watched Simon for years, watched as the man moved, the walls he kept around himself. But slowly, John has been able to tear them down, and now, here, with his eyes blown wide, with his body yielding to Johnny this way, he knows those walls are completely gone.
“I never thought I’d be allowed this,” John breathes, his voice barely a whisper against the shell of Simon’s ear. He pauses his movements for a heartbeat, just to marvel at the way Simon is draped beneath him. “To see you like this. To have you trust me with this —”
Simon’s breath hitches, a sharp, jagged sound that cuts through the quiet of the room. He reaches back, his fingers tangling roughly in the longer strands of John’s mohawk, pulling him closer as if he can’t stand even a fraction of an inch of space between them.
“You’re the only one, Johnny,” Simon grunts, his voice strained and thick with a vulnerability he’d never admit to anyone else. “Just you.”
John groans, the confession hitting him like a physical blow, the words more intimate than any touch. He pulls his fingers free, watching those dark eyes carefully for any sign of hesitation, for any sign that he doesn’t want this.
But John sees nothing, just acceptance, adoration. The type of feelings he didn’t think were allowed for men like them.
He presses the blunt head of his cock against Simon’s stretched rim and begins to push in, John hissing under his breath at the warmth that envelops him. It’s unlike anything he’s felt before, the feel of Simon’s large thighs wrapping around his waist, gentle encouragement as they work together. A type of wordless communication that worked for them on the field, and is working for them now. Here.
And when John is buried to the hilt, he meets Simon’s gaze on trembling arms, every inch of their bodies flush together.
“Simon,” John rasps, leaning down, foreheads connecting, a type of intimacy that he knows he never wants to go without again. It’s been three months since the injury took Simon away from the SAS, and John has felt empty, lost without his best friend by his side. But now, looking at Simon beneath him, John knows he’s more than just a friend. Perhaps, he always has been.
He begins with slow, tentative thrusts as he fucks Simon the way he always imagined he would. “So beautiful, Simon,” John murmurs, their mouths meeting, a desperation as he hoists Simon’s leg a bit higher, fucking into the man with deep rolls of his hips. It’s an apology for all the months spent apart, a vow for the years to come.
Simon’s hands, which are usually so steady, a sniper’s hands, tremble as they slide up John’s sweat-slick back, digging into his skin, a bruising grip. A choked sound leaves his throat, a raw acknowledgement of the pleasure John is grinding into him.
“Johnny,” Simon gasps, the name a jagged prayer. He tilts his hips up, meeting every thrust with a desperate hunger of his own. There is no Ghost here, no lieutenant, no mask. Just a man side-lined by a career-ending injury, a man who had put Johnny first. A man rediscovering a reason to feel alive in the arms of the one person who never let him fade away.
John picks up the pace, fucking into Simon harder, his own control beginning to unravel as he carves a space out for himself. His breath comes in short, harsh hitches as he watches the way Simon’s eyes blow wide, tracking every flicker of emotion.
“I’m not letting you go again,” John swears between frantic, wet kisses. He shifts his weight, pinning Simon deeper into the mattress, his thrusts becoming more frantic, desperate. “You’re stuck with me, Simon.”
Simon’s response is a low, guttural growl that vibrates through both their chests, his legs tightening around John’s waist, pulling him in until there isn’t a single breath of air between them. It’s a surrender that feels like a victory.
John shifts, and while Simon is a big fucking bastard, he maneuvers the man into his lap, fucking up into him, neck buried in the hollow of Simon’s throat. It’s an ebb and flow, a push and pull, Simon allowing himself to melt into the friction of their bodies. And that tension, that pain that lingered in Simon’s eyes, begins to fade away. His right hand hangs loosely on John’s shoulder, John fully aware Simon can’t grip much with it, but still he clings to John, both of them wrapped so tightly around the other that there is no beginning or end. Just them.
“Let go for me, Simon,” John encourages, reaching between their bodies, the man groaning low in his throat when John wraps a hand around his weeping cock. “Lean on me, I’ve got you.”
And John feels the last of Simon’s defenses crumble. He leans forward, body bowing forward like some war-torn angel, the weight of the world on his shoulders. But John wants to share that weight, and when Simon relaxes his body into his, John feels like he’s been handed the world.
The one he wants to share with Simon.
“Fucking perfect, doll, jus’ like that,” John grits, stroking Simon’s cock in time to his thrusts, fucking into him so deep that John can barely breathe at the overwhelming sensation. “Come for me, Simon,” John rasps, Simon arching his spine, his other hand braced on the bed behind him as he rides down hard. “Right on my cock, love.”
Simon nods, lips parted open, breathy gasps of pleasure, eyes squeezed shut. And when John adjusts his hips, nailing Simon’s prostate head on, he’s awarded for his efforts by a small cry of pleasure. Simon doesn’t make much noise, but that sound, John knows he’ll do whatever it takes to have Simon come apart like this again and again.
John doesn’t let up. He meets every desperate downward press of Simon’s hips with a bruising upward surge, his thumb grazing over the weeping head of Simon’s cock to keep him teetering on that jagged edge. He can feel the tremors starting in Simon’s thighs, the way his muscles are corded and jumping with the effort of holding on.
“Don’t hold back,” John murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of reverence and raw hunger. “Let it all go, Si. I’m right here.”
Simon’s fingers dig into John’s shoulders, his blunt nails anchoring him as the friction becomes too much to bear. His head falls back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, and with one final thrust, Simon’s body stiffens. His spine snaps into a rigid arch, a choked, wordless shout from his lips as he spills over John’s hand and across their joined bodies.
John doesn't stop, his own release hitting him like a physical blow just seconds later. He groans, pulling Simon flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of the man’s neck as he empties deep inside of him.
It’s quiet for a long moment, their hearts beating in time. Simon is the first to move, a subtle wince before their mouths are connecting once more. A honeyed type of heat, a warmth that curls low in John’s belly. Because he realizes he did miss Simon, but for other reasons besides him being his best friend.
He loves him, John realizes. Has been in love with him.
He shares a look with Simon, a spark of warmth, of adoration in those honeyed whisky eyes John loves so much, and he knows then that Simon loves him too.
“You okay?” John asks, their bodies still tangled together, come drying between them.
“Mm,” Simon hums, pressing his forehead against John’s chest. “Just so you’re aware,” Simon begins, his words a bit muffled from where he speaks. “That’s not why I invited you here.”
John barks in laughter, Simon leaning up to meet his gaze. “I think I invited myself here.”
“A technicality,” Simon says easily. “I could have said no.”
“But you didn’t,” John tells him in return, watching that smile spread across Simon’s face.
“You’re right, I didn’t,” Simon murmurs, pressing a small kiss to John’s jaw, his temple. “Might be on the account that I’m fucking mad for you, Johnny.”
John feels his chest tighten, his heart doing flips in his chest. “So you do like me?”
Simon groans, using his good hand to press John onto the mattress, grimacing at the come smearing onto the sheets. “You’re impossible.”
“But you like me,” John teases, stretching languidly on the bed as Simon rifles around inside the drawer once more before throwing a packet of Wet Wipes at John’s head. John huffs in laughter, smacking Simon’s hand away when he attempts to clean them. John wants to do this because he meant what he said when he promised Simon he would take care of him.
They’re silent as John cleans them, wiping down every inch of Simon, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake.
And when they’re clean, John settles beside him, Simon holding the sheets up for John to slide beneath. They wrap around one another, lazy, heated kisses. John knows it’s late, the fatigue beginning to weigh on him, and Simon kisses his brow, murmuring quietly that he needs to sleep.
“I will,” John tells him. “Don’t want to miss this.”
“I’ll be here in the morning,” Simon tells him against the shell of his ear, John sprawled across his chest, head tucked into the crook of Simon’s neck. “I’ll always be here, Johnny.”
When they wake several hours later, John finds himself on his back as Simon fucks slowly into him. His nails scrape rivers of red against that pale, scarred skin, both of them huffing out soft cries, kissing over and over until John can’t remember a time when he didn’t have this. When he didn’t know the feel of the man on his lips, the feel of his body pressed against John’s own.
And when he comes it’s with Simon’s name on his lips, a blessed darkness finding him not long after.
John wakes for a second time later, Simon holding a tray with one hand. Toast and tea and coffee, and John can’t help his sleepy smile as he sits up in the bed, the sheets pooling at his waist.
“Didn’t have to do all this,” he murmurs, earning a huff from Simon.
“Needed to,” Simon tells him, lifting the mug to his lips with a very loud groan. “Have a bloody headache.”
“Caffeine addict,” John tells him, grabbing his coffee, sweetened exactly to his liking. The sap.
“Like you’re any better,” Simon tells him, grabbing a piece of toast and nibbling at the corner. He makes a face, like maybe they should talk about what happened. Especially since John is supposed to be here for two weeks, and they fucked on the first night together. He had hoped it wouldn’t be awkward or strained between them, and it isn’t, but he can also tell Simon is a bit unsure.
“Tell me what’s on your mind,” John says, nudging Simon’s knee with his own.
“Since you’re here with me for the next few weeks,” Simon begins, eyes trained on his tea. “You should know that I’m not gonna skirt around this. M’ a shit liar when it counts.”
“That I know,” John tells him easily. “So what are you trying not to lie about, then?”
“You,” Simon tells him. “Us, and all this.”
“What about it?”
“Well,” Simon murmurs, taking a sip of his tea. “I told you I don’t do this. Don’t usually want to because sex isn’t the same for me unless it’s someone I trust.”
“But you trust me,” John murmurs, the teasing gone from his tone.
“With my life,” Simon continues. “Which is why you should know that somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you.”
John nearly drops his cup of coffee, his surprise causing the small tray to rattle.
“I don’t expect you to say it back, and I shouldn’t be telling you at all, but I —”
“I love you, too,” John says, and suddenly his coffee mug is on the floor, Simon barely able to set his tea down before John is on him.
They spend the rest of the morning fucking, curled tightly around one another, kissing and kissing and saying those three little words over and over. Choosing Simon is easy, the easiest decision John thinks he’s ever made. One he knows he’ll never regret, because somewhere along the way he fell in love with Simon, too. Long before today. Maybe the moment Simon met his eyes on the tarmac so long ago.
Or maybe when Simon stayed behind in Las Almas when he didn’t need to. John just knows he loves him, and he always will.
The next two weeks are filled with more joy than John remembers. They go out to eat, they catch movies when they can. They go to the bookshop and sunbathe in the park. They spend days tangled together in bed, John fucking Simon full only for Simon to return the favour hours later and fold John like a damn pretzel. They kiss and talk, Simon telling John things he’s never told anyone, and John, in turn, shares stories with him. About his family, his sisters. About how he used to want to play footie, about how maybe he could coach a footie team in the future.
Simon laughs with his entire chest, the pair of them cooking together, watching reality TV together. John jokes about getting a cat named Bacon for Eggs, and Simon threatens to kick him out.
But they’re happy, and John doesn’t know how he’s going to go back. He misses his job, but he’d miss this more.
It’s two nights before John has to leave that he brings it up.
“My contract is ending in three months,” he begins idly, Simon, who had been watching some drivel on the telly, turning to face John.
“What?”
“Three months,” John tells him, weighing the emotions flashing on Simon’s face. “Thought about retiring. Have enough to settle down, and I figured it would be nice not getting shot at every day.”
“Johnny —” Simon begins, his brow furrowing. “If this is because of me —”
“No,” John says, and then clarifies. “I mean, partially, but it’s not all that, Simon. I’m tired, and when you mentioned me becoming a staff sergeant, I thought — shouldn’t feel excited about that?” His eyes drop, fingers fiddling with a stray thread on the couch cushion. “I’m not, actually. I don’t —” He lies back against the couch, eyes flitting to the screen where contestants are talking about one thing or the other, who the better date is, who's going to get the final rose, or some shit. “I was thinking about this before the accident.”
Simon looks away for a second, jaw working, then back. “Before the accident,” he says, like he’s testing out the words. “Why?”
John hesitates for a moment. “Because I’m tired,” he says finally. “The job, the pace. I should want this, but it’s not the same as when I was younger. We’re older now, Simon. It’s different.”
“You don’t have to walk away,” Simon presses. “You can stay, move up. I don’t want you making this decision because of what happened here.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t get that choice, Johnny,” Simon murmurs softly, Eggs jumping onto the couch, a small mirp before settling between them, long body stretched wide. “And I won’t take yours away from you.”
“This is my choice,” John murmurs, hand reaching toward Simon’s damaged one. “Don’t you understand, Simon? You think I told you I loved you just to leave you high and dry?”
“I’m not expecting a commitment, Johnny,” Simon tells him, eyes narrowed. “I’d want you to put your career before me.”
“I have put my career before everything,” John tells him. “I miss birthdays and holidays. My mam and da are getting old, Simon. They have gray hair, and I’m fucking terrified I’m missing out. My nieces are grown, they’re not babies anymore. They barely know their uncle.”
“Johnny —”
“It’s true,” John presses. “I did what I wanted, but I want to choose something different, for once.”
“It doesn’t go away, you know,” Simon says after a moment, voice lower now, less defensive. “Even when you leave. You still feel like you should be there.”
“I know that,” John replies, steady, Eggs purring loudly between them.
John’s grip shifts slightly, firmer now, grounding. “I already feel it,” he admits. “Every time I’m not there, every time something happens and I’m not the one stepping in.” He exhales slowly. “But that’s not a reason to stay. Not if I don’t want to anymore.”
Simon looks at him, something more vulnerable breaking through the edges. “And you’re sure this isn’t —” He takes a breath. “I know my loss is already a big one for the 141. I know it feels different, Johnny. But that doesn’t mean —”
“Simon,” John tells him softly. “I’m not askin’ permission.”
Simon stays quiet for a long moment. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Simon looks around the flat, down at Eggs, and then down to where John has his fingers curled around Simon’s hand. “And this is what you want?”
“You are what I want,” John tells him. “A life, a home. Something different.” He hesitates, feeling a bit foolish for getting choked up, “with you, Simon.”
Simon pulls him forward, mouth skimming against John’s jaw. “Don’t know what I did to deserve you, sweet’eart,” he murmurs. “But if this is what you want, then in three months I’ll be waiting for you.”
Price takes the news about as well as he can.
He pulls John into a tight embrace, the familiar scent of cigar smoke and ash clinging to him, and it hits harder than John expects. It’s grounding and unbearable all at once, something he knows he’s going to miss long before he’s actually gone.
“Proud of you,” Price murmurs, low and steady, and John can only nod, his throat tight, unable to say more than that. He loves his captain, knows the man will be in his life long after John leaves the 141. Mostly, because that’s just who John Price is.
The rest falls into place the way it always does.
Paperwork gets squared away, signatures and briefings and duties being shifted. Gaz claps him on the shoulder and tells him he’ll be missed, while Roach, still new enough to be finding his footing, offers an awkward, sincere, “Wish I’d gotten to know you better.”
John huffs a faint laugh at that, shaking his head. “You’ll get to know me plenty, just not like this.”
They run a few more missions before it’s done.
Nothing too heavy, nothing that leaves them scraping themselves back together afterward, but enough that it still feels real, still feels like the job. Each time, John sends a quick heads-up to Simon that he’ll be going dark. He knows it’s odd for Simon to be on the other side of things, but he’s a grounding force, something John fights to get home to. He’ll fight for their future together, one in an apartment in Manchester. One where the sunlight washes over Simon’s skin, where it catches on the golden warmth in his eyes.
One where they love one another, choose one another. Every single day.
Because his heart isn’t here anymore.
It’s waiting for him in Manchester.
And three months later, when John is getting off a plane on the airfield, there Simon is. He has flowers curled in his right hand, a testament to the dedication he’s putting in to getting back to a normal life.
John rushes toward him, colliding into the man’s chest. Cardamom, tea, and spice. Simon.
“I missed you,” Simon murmurs, kissing John’s brow, body trembling as he pulls John close. It’s a parallel of that time three months ago, that train station where Simon had been waiting. Only this time they’ll be going to their home. Together.
“I missed you, too, Simon,” John tells him, their lips finding one another.
Home.
