Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John MacTavish had quickly grown up to expect the unexpected. It is a fact of life, especially coming from a giant Scottish clan like him, as well as signing up for the army at the tender fucking age of 18. But an invitation for the renewal of wedding wows for one Kate Laswell and Olivia Laswell? 

It takes him a little bit by surprise. He hadn’t heard of his old crew of 141 (aside from Price and Gaz or the Vargases) or anyone else from that time in a few years, ever since they mutually disbanded. Sure, he sits down for a pint whenever one shows up (usually Price, without Gaz or Gaz’s girlfriends) in his neighborhood or someone calls to chat about life and definitely not chat about the Thing that one does not talk about.

No, not the army. No, not the blood on Johnny’s hands. The faint discoloration on his ring finger, the empty spot next to him in the bed. That’s the Thing they don’t talk about. Certainly Johnny hears of Simon through their mutual connections, silently nods here and there when he hears that Simon has finally found a good therapist and a therapy dog, apparently. 

And is finally becoming just Simon again. Not the masked killer, not the trained soldier. Just Simon, who likes his tea lukewarm and whose skin always burns a little hot. Just Simon, who Johnny proposed to on a fucking whim in the middle of battle-fuelled adrenaline and who actually said fucking yes, except neither of them were meant for that kind of thing. 

They had a little flat for a while in Manchester. It is rotting now, much like the years spent on nightmares and failed therapy sessions and both of them trying to find their feet once the guns had been put down. 

Johnny had found himself a good therapist, in the end. He had always figured he would make it through anything anyway. It helps that he has a giant clan of multiple family members ready to help at a moment’s notice, even separated by the distance between them.

Simon Riley has no one. So Johnny hadn’t wanted the divorce, not really. They hadn’t been the best for each other, not when both internal and outer wounds had still been bleeding so bad and Simon was still more Ghost than just Simon, still more monster than man. Still they had stuck together, slept and fucked, loved and hated each other with equal measure, often sleeping with just their fingers intertwined. It wasn’t often that Simon pulled off the mask, both the physical and the mental one, and let the pain show. The world had tried to break him so many times, and had left such wounds on him that no amount of love and shit jokes and kisses at breakfast could heal.

Just let me in, Si, Johnny had pleaded with him more than once. He had gotten angry, he had gotten frustrated, he had even stomped off in a sorrowful rage. Simon had taken it all, had never raised his voice at Johnny. The cold anger of Ghost had always been the most intimidating part of him, but the thing that had seared Johnny the deepest, had been the sorrow. That Johnny doesn’t know what to do with all the things that are burrowed into Simon Riley’s entire being, staining his entire history with gunpowder and pain. Oh, he had tried. 

He had tried his fucking best. 

‘

He knows Simon had tried his best too, had shown his desperation, his love in the way he had hugged Johnny back, starved for affection and touch. But - in the end, Johnny had come to an empty flat from work, to a note and the simple wedding band. I’m sorry, had the note said in Simon’s scrawny handwriting. 

(Johnny still hasn’t deleted Simon’s number off his phone, despite the five years between the divorce and today) 

Johnny still keeps those rings, his and Simon’s, in a little box, tucked away with all of the other shit he wants to  forget but can’t toss out. Reminders of being Soap, of gunfire and a gruff voice in his comms. 

The invitation to the ceremony for wov renewal should go to the same category. Johnny has had some contact with the Laswells over the years, but they hadn’t ever been that close. And maybe - maybe Simon would get an invitation too. Would he still have that same melancholy look in his eyes at the sight of Johnny? Would he still whisper Johnny’s name the same? Does he still yearn like Johnny does, remembering holding each other through nightmares and panic attacks caused by trash on the road shaped like road bombs. 

Johnny told his own therapist some years back about Simon. Not all of the details, keeping them locked away, tucked close to his heart, but enough that the therapist had told him good things, had told him enough that thinking of Simon leaving him doesn’t hurt quite as bad anymore.

Not when it’s bright outside and when Johnny is with friends, or hooking up. But his thoughts do always go back to Simon in the end. The stubborn side of him makes him refuse to ask after Simon - no confirmation or clarification necessary when someone like Gaz or Price drops the bombshell that Simon has moved away from the States or that he’s actually gone to meetings for vets like him, too shell shocked, too traumatized to exist in a society that thrives on social skills and hiding your true face. 

All things considered, it is enough to know that Simon Riley still exists, out there in the world, living on without Johnny. 

**

Johnny sends his reply to the Laswells in a couple of days. Of course those old gals would choose spring time, promising new beginnings and better days. Johnny chats with his sisters on the phone, hearing his nieces and nephews bawling and making a mess in the background. His mother tells him to visit soon over the video call. 

She has more wrinkles, her bones creaking with each movement. Yet she still reigns like the matriarch she is and Johnny has to laugh and tell her that he misses her, but he can’t come home, not just yet. 

He never did introduce Simon properly to his family. 

Mama MacTavish knows enough to get it, really - that Johnny has his own place in the world right now and it’s here, in this little life he’s made for himself after the army. Yet she is still a mother and Johnny is forever her little boy. 

“While I still breathe, ye little shite,” she says over the phone, the connection buzzing over the miles and miles between them. 

“I know, ma,” Johnny says. He isn’t going to cry on her shoulder. He isn’t going to bare himself raw for her, like he’s already done for Simon and for his therapist. Part of him wants to, however. 

Just a little.

“Can Shampoo come too?” Johnny grins, the joke never getting old. Shampoo is his Maine Coon, a giant fluffy monster of a cat, who even now is dozing off on Johnny’s armchair, having curled himself into a giant ball of fluff. 

Mama MacTavish rolls her eyes. “Of course - “ then she launches into a story about neighbours or one of Johnny’s sisters, probably Elsie or Annie, getting into trouble or having yet another shite boyfriend. Obediently Johnny listens as he cooks, tossing his own comments here and there. 

It’s not a bad life, like this. Not really. The bed's too big and too cold for just one man, sure, and his drive for one-night stands had dried off a year ago. But he’s managing, he has a job he likes and he has connections. The kids he coaches with the fucking baseball are little shits, but he likes them fine enough and they seem to like him back, always on and off about Uncle Johnny, Uncle Johnny!

**

Price calls a week later, right as Johnny is trying to wrangle Shampoo into his carrier. 

“Ye little shite - “ Shampoo whines, a fluffy ball of claws and catty complaints. Johnny manages to answer the phone right as Shampoo takes a swipe at his face. Price gets an earful of colorful swearing. 

“Alright there, buddy?” 

“The fucking cat, wait - “ It’s a bit of a fight, with how much Shampoo has grown, but finally he’s properly bundled up in his carrier, glowering at Johnny with his giant moon-shaped eyes. Johnny presses the phone properly to his ear and presses a fingertip against the scratch on his cheek. It is just a scratch, thankfully, one of the many. “I’m taking him to get his vaccinations. He’s such a fucking little diva.” 

Price snorts. “Takes after his pops.” 

Johnny rolls his eyes, but a grin tugs at his lips. “Anyway, what’s up? Haven’t heard from you in a while.” 

There’s some shuffling of clothing in the background, then the familiar click of a lighter. “More that we haven’t heard from you in a while. You coming to the Laswells’ shindig?” 

Shampoo meows. Johnny pulls on his boots, pushing his braid off his shoulder. “Ye. Figured it will be cool to see the old crew.” The question hangs between them, the air only broken by Shampoo’s insistent meows and him pawing at the sides of his carrier. 

Price takes a drag of his cigarette. “Kate did say she and Olivia sent invitations to almost everybody possible. Especially since many of us did miss their actual wedding.” Price huffs. “And Johnny - “ 

Johnny steps out, locks the door behind himself. He curls his gloved fingers tighter around the strap of Shampoo’s carrier. “Don’t call me Johnny,” is the automatic response.

Price huffs again. Johnny can almost see him, shifting in his seat, that inquisitive, knowing look in his eyes. “John,” says Price. “You doing good otherwise?” 

The air is crisp. Johnny wets his lips, listening to Price huff and puff. “Ye. I’m doing pretty good. Apparently also now an uncle to six, since Elsie got her third. And an uncle to twenty more, because the little shites I’m coaching have decided Uncle Johnny is my nickname now.” 

Price chuckles at that. “Somehow I’m not surprised. But that’s not exactly what I’m asking, my friend.”

Johnny fights with his shitty little car’s locks for a hot second. “And what is it that you want to know, Captain, my Captain? I’m doing fine. I’ve done my time in therapy. I have friends. I’m in good relations with my remaining family. I talk to you, don’t I?” It comes out a little more defensive than he means to. He sets down Shampoo in the backseat a little too hard and has to apologize and coo at him for a moment before the cat stops glowering at him. 

“I know, I know.” Price sighs. “When you two - “ 

For a heartbeat, or for two, Johnny squeezes his eyes shut. “I know,” he whispers to the phone. “What’s done is done. I’m content with where I am. If he - if he’s content wherever he is, then that’s all I need to know.” He sighs deeply as he sits down in the car and straps himself in, one hand still clutching his phone.

“He is doing good, last I hear,” Price says, his voice gone gentle.

Johnny rubs his ring finger, the faint little white line forever remaining on there. “Yeah.” He wets his lips again. “He gonna come to the ceremony too?” 

“Doesn’t tell me much,” Price says. “But I figure he would. Sends me pictures of his puppy sometimes.” It makes sense for Simon to feel the most comfortable with Price, in the end. Under the scary exterior, they all know Simon cares deeply, but is also quick to put up his defenses again if he feels threatened. And Price, especially after having retired, is an excellent listener. Johnny still can’t help a little twinge of jealousy. He used to be the one Simon leaned on. 

“Cool,” Johnny murmurs.

“You know, he moved pretty recently - “ Price starts, but Johnny clears his throat loudly. 

“I really gotta go, the appointment’s pretty soon. Nice talking with you, Cap.” He doesn’t wait for Price’s goodbyes before ending the call and tossing his phone to the passenger’s seat. 

How the fuck does the mere thought of Simon, even after all this time, still get him so rattled up? 

****

****

Years after the army, Simon Riley can still taste the blood. It is no wonder: only he had dipped his hands into the blood of his own family, the blood of his loved ones and imagined drowning in it, extinguishing the anguish of being Simon, being this creature of sorrow and helpless rage. He had still lived on, existed beyond being buried alive and losing, always losing the people he cares about.

Sometimes he still wakes to his own choked off sobs, not realizing that he is still here. He still exists, he is still a person who breathes and lives and takes his dog out for walks. There are permanent faint tracks on his cheeks now (maybe just visible to him) of the tears he had managed to push out, only after two years in therapy and two years into his marriage with Johnny. 

(To this day, it’s only Simon’s therapist and Johnny who have seen him genuinely cry and who have seen him at his most vulnerable) 

For so long, Simon Riley was extinguished, only a whisper, an ember of him remaining under the unmoving skull mask of Ghost. The killer, the soldier. The terror in the night. He had gotten the job done, always, with knife-deep precision and ruthless efficiency, never quite stopping to think of the amount of corpses left behind. Never having the priviledge to do so, when there are people to save, villains to stop. 

What a childish notion, after all. Simon Riley is no hero. Ghost isn’t a fucking superhero. Ghost is a murderer, a mask pulled over a man who refused to look himself in the eye and face the consequences of the life he had chosen. 

Sometimes, just sometimes, Simon Riley stays for an hour in his shower, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing until his skin cracks and bleeds and his hands shake so bad he can’t make it stop. For some time, it helped to have Johnny there, to be able to gather his husband in his arms and bury his face against Johnny’s hair or shoulder or stomach and just to hold him. Johnny of the brash nature and multiple pet names, Johnny of the gentle hands and too-loud laugh. But Johnny belongs to life and light, to places filled with people, families, Christmas presents and beautiful women. 

Johnny shouldn’t stick to Simon’s side, just because they had done so during the war, watched over each other when the guns had still felt like home in their hands. Johnny should go where he needs to go and build a family with someone who can give back what he needs. 

Someone who doesn’t wake the whole fucking house with night terrors or spend hours in the shower, rubbing their skin raw. Someone who - someone unmasked. 

So Simon had walked, put the figurative and physical distance between them and stomped on the remains of his own heart. Fuck. It’s all his own fault for letting Johnny so close in the first place, letting himself fall in between missions and shit jokes over the coms. And drinks afterwards, Johnny pushing a glass of Bourbon Simon’s way with a twinkle in his eye. 

Marry me? Johnny had asked, that one night, adrenaline still buzzing in both of their veins, Johnny tap-tap-tapping on his leg, already shoving Simon against the wall. Simon had managed a shaky yes between kisses, his balaclava haphazardly shoved off his mouth. Because there had really never been another choice, had there? Johnny had pushed himself under Simon’s skin, tugged Simon’s dead, black heart against his lips and kissed it, held it tight and safe and good. And for some years they had managed, even gotten that little flat and tried, they had tried so fucking hard. 

But Johnny - oh Johnny. Johnny still has a spark in him that deserves to be lit aflame. Maybe it’s fucking selfish for Simon to decide for Johnny, but for once, Simon wants to do so. Johnny can’t be trapped in this fuckery of a marriage for life. 

“I love you, I love you,” drops from Johnny’s lips so easily, as well as the desperate pleads for Simon to bare himself more raw for him, to open his heart and just let Johnny in. 

Don’t you get it, Simon had wanted to say, so often. You are already in me, you are in my veins, you are in my goddamned fucking bones and you are never, ever going to leave unless I do!

So he had gone into the night like the fucking coward he is and left Johnny, left his light behind.

 Thank fuck Simon had gotten Ghost. Not his other self, but an eager, incredible, delightful Samoyed pup. His presence had filled up at least some of the loneliness in Simon’s shit little apartment and taking him out for walks and training him had proven to be excellent at keeping Simon’s head in one piece. Naming the pup Ghost hadn’t been an easy decision, but in the end, it had felt right, like reclaiming the pain and making it something positive instead. 

Ghost represented a figurative and physical mask. On the worst days Simon still pulls on the skull balaclava or at least a mask to cover up his mouth and nose, but those days are fewer now. He is more Simon than Ghost. Ghost represented death, his own, his family’s deaths, the deaths of his comrades, past and present. 

But now Ghost can represent a happy canine smile and a cold nose pressed against Simon’s hand. The pup had taken to their new living situation very well, although the backyard Simon and Johnny used to have in their flat together would have done the pup some good. But there’s still room to roam in here and there’s a spacious park nearby. 

Simon pulls on his beanie and mask, the black and blue of his clothes to ward off the cold. Ghost pushes eagerly against him, those sparkling puppy eyes gazing adoringly at him.  It is one of those days when old aches and pains make themselves very known in Simon’s body, so he figures he’ll just make a short trip. Maybe take a new turn, take a new path. It’s a little later than usual for morning walk, which is why Ghost is more active than usual. 

Talking to him has become second nature to Simon, since the dog has become his constant companion, filling up the holes in Simon’s heart. 

“Come on, pup,” Simon murmurs as he clips on Ghost’s leash and lets the dog out first. Well-trained as he is, he is still pretty young and has too much energy. Simon has to chuckle at the way the pup bounces away from the door, barely giving Simon the time to lock it behind himself. 

Spring is well on its way, the worst of winter behind. It’s wet and disgusting and grey all over, but Simon has its thick boots for protection. And he’s been in worse conditions: crawled through deserts, a jungle, even braved the cold of Siberia. He’s been, after all, buried alive so a little slush at his feet is nothing. He squeezes Ghost’s leash a little too hard, maybe tugs it too much because the dog immediately turns back to him, making him stop. 

“Ah, what,” Simon breathes out. 

Ghost lets out a soft little whine and pushes his cold nose against Simon’s leash-holding hand. 

Simon’s shoulders relax. “Thank you. You’re a good boy.” He digs out a treat from his pocket and immediately Ghost sits down, blinking his big adorable eyes up at him. Ghost takes the treat gently, letting out a happy little whine. 

Onwards they walk, Ghost taking his spot beside Simon, even when there are interesting smells to sniff at nearby. Simon urges for the pup to go off anyway, to mark his passage and make mental doggy notes of where other animals and other people have gone. All the time, Ghost’s curly tail wags furiously.

“Ghost.” At Simon’s growly command, Ghost comes bouncing back immediately, protectively. He may not be a large dog, but his presence is larger than life. Simon doesn’t talk much as he walks, only occasionally calling for his dog. The chill of the air tickles Simon’s nose. The mask he’s wearing isn’t really meant to be worn for a long time, so soon enough it starts to feel a little too warm. Simon still sticks to his decision to keep it on until they go back home. 

His usual park is currently mostly wet and grey like the rest of the country, but already trees are beginning to shed the death from their branches and wake to a new tomorrow. Simon’s steps are light. He switches to the other side of the pathway when running into someone else, Ghost immediately stepping in between him and the passerby. No matter if it’s a mother pushing her child in a stroller or another dog walker. Each time Ghost gets a new treat and Simon gets a gentle nudge from the pup’s nose. 

The laughter of children isn’t anything new. There’s usually some, probably from the local elementary school, hanging out at the park or near it. So at first Simon doesn’t pay attention to it. He’s always found children a little too loud, like fragile little sparks - and being close to children brings up the memory of his nephew. 

But now there’s another voice mixed in between the voices of the children, a voice only remaining in Simon’s dreams. Like in a daze, his steps take him closer to the field, usually serving as a skating rink in the summer and as a football field in the summers. He’s hearing things, right? Johnny isn’t here. 

But - Ghost nudges at him, gently again, as Simon stops close to the field, watching. It’s a little baseball game, including more falling down and laughter than actual playing. The kids seem very little, blurring together into colorful shapes and loud noises. Simon’s eyes are pulled towards the one larger figure - aside from the few parents huddled together by the sides of the field. 

That one figure who throws his head back and laughs and his laughter is beautiful and Simon wants to scream, wants to cry, wants to grab that man by his shoulders and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. 

Because it is Johnny, alive and breathing and beautiful and Simon - 

Simon can’t be here. He didn’t realize this was Johnny’s city, that Johnny would be here too, sharing the same air as this wretched man that Simon is. 

Only the harsh tug on his hand brings him back to Earth. Simon gasps, air suddenly flooding his lungs. Johnny seems to be coaching the kids, like the big kid he is himself and Simon can’t - SImon can’t look. Instead he releases his sleeve from Ghost, his heart aching from the pitiful little whine Ghost makes. 

“Thank you, boy,” Simon whispers, voice gone rough in his ears. “I just - I just saw a ghost, you could say.” Quickly, quickly Simon backs away and turns, starting to run. Ghost bounces after him, occasionally touches him, pushing him, as if to remind Simon of where he is and who he is with. Keeping him as Simon Riley, keeping him a human being, who is no longer stuck in the past. 

Simon runs all the way back to his apartment.

The door shuts tight behind him and he falls to his knees, arms instantly around Ghost. Simon buries his face in Ghost’s soft, damp fur and breathes deep. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, beats Simon’s heart. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. 

***

Leaving the guns behind hadn’t been the easiest decision. Yet remaining in the United States would have ended up in a cold grave, so Simon had left both the guns and himself as Ghost behind, for a new tomorrow. So whenever his  fingers twitch, his trigger finger pressing tight against his palm, as if to fire a non-existent gun, he goes on a run. Or he takes his city friend up on the offer to go take a shift at the local shitty pub, to serve a couple of rounds of shitty beer to half-blind, half-deaf old men and wash dishes and smoke too many cigarettes in the back alley. 

If that doesn’t work, Simon heads for the gym. Keeping himself fit is no longer very important and his life doesn’t depend on himself being able to take down five guys with a little finger, but moving, exercising, destroying yet another punching bag feels good. Even though on certain, colder days, old scars ache too much on his right hand and his left knee twinges with too strong, too fast movements. And sitting down by the TV with a beer and a slice of pizza is a more enticing aspect than braving the weather for the gym.

He hates how skittish he’s become, however. He was a one-man army, a thunder in the shape of a man once. Now he’s ripped himself raw, both at Johnny and then to his therapist. Simon Riley isn’t Ghost anymore, hasn’t been Ghost in so many years. 

Who is Simon Riley anymore? 

***

The invitation arrives, apparently lost in the mail at one point. The post carrier actually apologizes, a skinny kid who barely reaches Simon’s shoulder. Simon stares at the poor kid and takes the letter, confusion clearly mistaken for coldness. Before Ghost can nose his way into the corridor to tackle the postman, the kid has already hurried off. 

The letter is wrinkled, as if it had been shoved under packages and carried off in uncaring hands. At first Simon stares at his own name at the back, confused at who would send him such. He hadn’t even gotten a Christmas card - well, most who know anything about him know that Christmas is still a trigger for him and is spent underneath covers, face buried in Ghost’s soft fur. 

Simon tears open the envelope. 

Kate and Olivia Laswell, cordially invite you to the renewal of their wedding vows, at Villa Fanfare on 25th of May, 20XX. 

You may bring a plus one. Any food allergies and such, please inform us of those when you reply if you can come or not. 

Ps. We really hope you come, Simon. It would be nice to have all of our loved ones under one roof. 

The last part is handwritten instead of typed and vaguely Simon recognizes Laswell’s handwriting. He always did have a grudging respect for Kate Laswell, for her no-nonsense attitude and ability to handle the 141, the pack of wild dogs that they were. 

“Wanna be my plus one, buddy?” Simon grumbles to Ghost, looking down at his big sparkling puppy eyes. The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches and he boops the pup’s nose, earning himself a giant lick in turn. But then Simon’s little smile wavers. If the Laswells have invited everybody… Johnny never was the type to turn down a social gathering. 

Does Johnny have a plus one? Is there someone who has caught John MacTavish, who gets to have his stupid jokes and gentle hands for themselves? Simon sighs, the envelope scrunched up in his hands. It was easier when he could have the mask on. Ghost didn’t carry the trauma and the memories that Simon does and thus wasn’t weighed down by any of it. Yet it was both Ghost, the silent death and Simon Riley, the silent man, who fell for one John MacTavish. 

If he can face his former comrades and his former husband again, then he’ll go. And he’ll have Ghost with him: both the dog and the shadow of his former self, his armour and his shield. 

Simon digs his fingers into Ghost’s fur and begins rubbing those soft, soft ears. Ghost whines. “I can do this,” Simon murmurs. “I can. I can look him in the eye and not waver. I can look them all in the eye as Simon. Right?” Ghost nudges his hand with his cold, cold nose and licks his palm. That curly white tail begins to wag. 

The evening finds both the man and the dog lying down on the couch. Ghost has wormed his way into flopping down onto Simon’s chest, that cold, wet nose pressed against Simon’s chin. Simon is gently scratching between Ghost’s ears as he watches something mind-numbing from the television. 

***

Collapsing to the bed after a long, tiring but satisfying day is one of life’s pleasures when you are John MacTavish. Going to sleep tired enough also ensures that Johnny won’t spend too much time rolling around and diving into irritating thoughts. It helps being the type of a man who can sleep through nuclear war - as too often proven by the violent way he’d been woken up during his time in the army. Only with Simon, had Johnny’s usual talent at sleeping deeply not worked. They both have had their nightmares, but Simon’s trauma runs too deep for Johnny to reach and too often Johnny had snapped awake in the middle of the night, smelling smoke, skin rising to goosebumps from the opened balcony door. 

Johnny hadn’t told any of his one night stands, not even those he felt he had connection with, about being married once. After all, usually the talking part of those short relationships had been about pets, the army, favourite colors and the latest shitty thing their respective family members had done. The part coming after the talking had included other uses for Johnny’s mouth. Only that one East London girl and that one guy from Wales had lasted more than a night or two: the woman had been taller than Johnny and had had the most interesting stories about her own time in the army. The guy had physically been so close to Simon that Johnny almost hadn’t gone home with him: but had had a different accent and a sweeter tone, black curls that fell over his eyes. And younger, more innocent. 

“I guess I’ll have to find someone to take care of you while I’m away at the Laswell’s shindig,” Johnny murmurs that one evening, Shampoo curled up into a giant ball of fluff on his lap. “Wanna go to my neighbours again?” Shampoo purrs, loud like a tractor. “Ahh, shite. I’m gonna need a fucking suit too. When’s the last time I even wore one - Elsie’s wedding, maybe?” Johnny runs his hand down Shampoo’s silky soft side. One of the cat’s long, pointy ears is visible. It twitches when Johnny brushes it with a fingertip. The vow renewal is a couple of months away, but already Johnny can feel his leg start to bounce, his palms go clammy. He’s already heard that most of their old comrades, the ones still living and breathing and in one piece, are going to come. Price has finally made things Official with the big O with Gaz, living in a peaceful polyamorous romance with a new lady. The boys had a short but sweet ceremony with just the two of them and Price’s elderly mother, who had apparently pinched her son hard on the cheek for not telling him he, indeed, has two hands and uses them for loving now. Rudy and Alejandro, of course, come as a unit - those two had finally gotten their shit together almost a decade ago and gotten married in secret. 

Certainly the Laswells have gathered a great amount of other friends and family over the years and certainly Johnny won’t be the only single lad out there. Still he groans at the thought of the questions, of gentle probing questions from friends, as if the possibility of John MacTavish remaining single for the rest of his natural life is something worthy of wonder. At least the former 141 and the former Vaqueros know not to poke too much. 

At least Johnny hopes so. 

**

Last dregs of winter slowly but surely fade, making way for spring. Johnny takes two trips back home to Scotland, first for the naming of his newest niece and then for his mother’s seventy-something birthday. They know fullwell the proper number mama MacTavish claims she lost count ages ago, especially with her many grown children and increasing amount of grandchildren. Shampoo the cat proves to be well loved by all, coddled and pampered more than Johnny has ever been - but he can’t be too jealous of it, not when Shampoo deserves it all, having been Johnny’s constant companion and emotional support for so long. And it’s him that Shampoo comes to at nights, curling up next to him and purring the night away.

What Johnny doesn’t tell his family: the sight of his sisters with their spouses, even the sight of his Ma still loving his Pa, years after his passing - it stings a little. In another life, it would be Simon next to Johnny, shy and uncomfortable under the attention of the MacTavish clan and thus holding Johnny’s hand under the table tightly. Simon had been deprived of his family for so long, that Johnny had wanted nothing more than to give him a new one. 

If there is still a chance to reconcile, to have Simon back in his arms - maybe Johnny would take it.

With those thoughts, he digs out his somewhat wrinkly wedding suit and one of the three dress shirts he owns. This one is the color of peach - or so his sisters have told him - and has the tiniest embroidered cat on the breast pocket. The cat is pitch black and looks much like Ghost. 

Oh shit, a tie! Having been in the army for most of his life, Johnny still hadn’t quite managed to find formal wear very comfortable. Ties especially. Although army had come with the throat mics, it had also come with the most comfortable pants known to man. Although the army had also come with its own share of straps and buckles, sometimes to the point of frustrated Scottish rage, none of those Johnny finds as frustration-inducing as tying up ties. So he goes with a clip-on, deciding to shrug off his friends’ teasing if it ever comes. Besides, it’s not like it’s a wedding wedding exactly. They’re all getting older and fatter and wrinklier. Who the fuck cares if Johnny’s tie is a simple black on, clipping neatly to its place? 

At least Johnny’s ass still looks phenomenal in these pants, no matter how uncomfortable they are. He grins at his own reflection, trying the whole outfit on. 

“Damn,” he says. Shampoo comes to inspect, letting out a surprisingly pretty little meow for his size. “Yep, still got.” Shampoo nudges Johnny’s leg. Johnny makes finger guns at his reflection, then leans down to rub between Shampoo’s glorious ears. “What do you think, baby? Does your Papa look nice?” Shampoo purrs, headbutting his hand. 

“I will take that as a yes,” Johnny hums and picks the kitty up, carrying him like the giant baby he is. 

He might get some cat hair on the suit, but who cares. He is, after all, a proud cat dad.

***

Elsewhere, Simon Riley and the dog Ghost take a new path in their usual walks. Simon chats with one Kate Laswell, a polite, surprisingly nice conversation, her pleasantly surprised that he’s actually coming and him pleasantly surprised that she still remembers his existence. 

“Whoever could forget one like you, Ghost?” She says. 

And he has to say it, to remind her that Ghost is dead and buried, replaced with his loyal canine companion. “Just me now. Just Simon.” 

Her laughter is soft, as if the entire woman has been softened by years and love and life. “There is nothing just about you, Riley. Never has been. I am looking forward to seeing you and your pup. Olivia is too but don’t expect her to say it out loud. God knows she is still not free with her affections.” 

“Except with you,” Simon remarks, stopping by a park bench. He clicks his lighter a few times, just watches the little flame pop, pop, pop, before lighting a cigarette. 

“Except with me,” says Kate Laswell. “You wanna stay the night when you come, by the way? A few others coming a long way away are going to stay with us for a couple of days.”  Before Simon has the chance to reply, she continues: “MacTavish included.” She says it carefully, as if the mere name will be enough to break Simon. 

Nothing broke Simon Riley except years of therapy and falling in love with John MacTavish. 

“I see,” is all Simon says. “I’ll stay a couple of nights. If you’ve got the room. For me and my Ghost.” 

Laswell laughs. She never used to laugh like this, back when they were working together. “You’ve got some sense of humour, Riley, for naming him Ghost.” 

Simon grins, to nobody but himself. He blows a puff of smoke. “It helps, you know. And it was my therapist’s fucking idea in the first place.” 

“Gotta get that man a fucking medal then,” Laswell huffs. 

Another drag from the cigarette. Simon’s fingerless gloves reveal bitten fingernails. An old scar on his left thumb. Ghost sniffs furiously around the bench, knowing to relax now that his dad is relaxing too. “Who told you it’s a guy?” 

Simon can practically hear Laswell roll her eyes. “As if men like you would open up to a woman.” She doesn’t know the whole story - no one knows, except Johnny. 

Simon grunts. “Rude.” 

Laswell snorts. “I’m an old, mean lesbian. You’ve heard worse, Riley.” 

The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches. The scar that runs from his upper lip, almost to his eye, itches. “That I have. Said worse too. And yeah, Scott deserves a fucking medal for listening to my shit for years and not running for the fucking hills. I guess it’s the British in him.” 

This time again, Laswell laughs. Simon allows himself a little smile again too. 

“I’ve got room for your giant self, Lieutenant. You’re not the only one staying over anyway, so me and Olivia are well prepared. And before you ask then no, you don’t have to bring shit. We’ve got catering for that.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Simon huffs. He leans back on the bench. Takes a drag of his cigarette.

Laswell snorts. “Liv is yelling at me for something, I have to go. But take care of yourself, Riley.” 

Simon hums. He’s trying. He’s been trying for so long. “Always do, Laswell. See you when I see you.” The call ends. Simon pockets his phone and finishes his cigarette. Just as he clicks his tongue to call Ghost, something at the corner of his eye catches his attention. Even still, years after leaving a battlefield, sometimes Simon’s well-trained instincts catch him off-guard, make him tense up at sudden movements, make him check out all the exits. He pulls his mask back over his nose and mouth. 

He squints. 

It’s Johnny. 

It’s only Ghost’s whine and his teeth tugging at Simon’s sleeve that gets him to get up and move. Not like this. Johnny can’t see him like this. Not right now. Besides, who’s to say Johnny would care anymore? He looks happy. He’s laughing, carrying some kind of baseball equipment, his stupid, stupid braid floating behind him, just begging to be tugged. 

Simon lets himself watch, for the length of a heartbeat, a blink of an eye. Enough to take in the sight of Johnny, the proof that John MacTavish survived chaos and gunfire. 

It should be enough. So Simon escapes, speedwalking away from the park, barely even noticing that the terrible wet weather has seeped into his socks

***

Spring rushes in, quicker and quicker. Steadily Simon gives up on his beanies and his scarves, but the facemask stays. It’s only with friends and his therapist that he takes it off, and the times the lights are low enough at the local shit pub and he can sneak in and out of dining area to pick up dirty glasses. People still flinch at how silently Simon can still move sometimes. They sometimes flinch if they have a glimpse of his scars, especially the Glasgow smile thinly carved onto his cheeks.

His therapist, Just call me Scott, please, a neat British man, also from Manchester, is in his fifties and has lived a sheltered life. Yet still Scott has pried open so many of Simon’s tightly locked up secrets and done so with the utmost determination and gentleness. 

Scott would say that Simon should be proud of his progress.

Scott would say that there is no shame in wanting to approach Johnny again. 

Scott would say that the scars scattered all over Simon’s body, few visible on his face, don’t make him a monster. They’re merely a story of the life he’s lived, proof that Ghost was a survivor. Ghost carried the pain Simon Riley couldn’t. And now that there’s only Simon, he can carry that pain too. 

Spring rushes in, a river unleashed from its limits. Simon still holds onto his fingerless gloves, switches the woollen ones to leather, his combat boots to lighter ones. Ghost sheds like crazy, but it doesn’t matter. The moments when SImon gets to brush him are moments precious to them both: dog and man. The evenings when Simon has to wash Ghost, however, are less so. Ghost whines pitifully, his big sparkling eyes full of canine sorrow, but since he’s well trained and sweet, he stays still. 

He still shakes himself furiously when they’re done, drenching Simon from head to toe. “Yer a menace,” Simon drawls and boops Ghost’s big black nose.

It is warm, to exist in a space with a creature like this, who loves so unconditionally. Ghost has a sixth sense about Simon’s moods, sometimes sensing a panic attack before Simon does. Ghost knows when to nudge him with his nose, when to tug on his sleeve or pantleg and when to just flop his entire fluffy body on Simon, shocking him out of whatever darkness he’s ended up in. Certainly, Ghost can’t laugh at Simon’s jokes, but Simon has a feeling the pup appreciates them anyway.

Truly, whenever Simon can focus on just taking care of Ghost’s needs, he feels like a person. He’s a patchwork of a man on most days, having stitched himself together into this new Simon over the years, but taking care - and being taken care of - makes him. Well. It makes him feel good. 

Some of the friends he’s made in this city don’t know his whole story: some even know not to ask, after realizing he’s a vet. Not often does Simon take them up on their offer for drinks or a movie, especially when he realizes one of them had tried to hit on him, multiple times too. 

“Sorry,” is all Simon had first said. “You’re not my type.” If asked for elaboration, he merely shrugs. He isn’t straight, has never been. Yet putting a label on something so insignificant to his life hadn’t ever been the priority. He only knows he’s loved one person in his life, aside from his long-gone brother.

Spring is warming up as Simon visits Manchester and the graves. Somebody keeps taking care of them, the remains of Tommy Riley, his wife and the little nephew. Simon leaves white flowers and a bottle of Bourbon by Tommy’s grave, like he’s done once a year, every year, ever since that disastrous Christmas. He tells Tommy of the little things. Ghost sits next to him this time and listens too, his front paw carefully placed on Simon’s foot. 

Simon whispers about seeing Johnny to Tommy’s grave and grimaces at the way his words shake. He never should have walked out on Johnny. He should have walked out sooner. He should have kept Johnny forever. 

“Ah, shite. Look at me, middle-fucking-aged and still bawling about an ex,” Simon huffs and wipes a stray tear from his eye. No matter how much he hears from Scott that crying is a natural reaction from the body to strong stimulants, Simon can’t stop guilt tripping himself for it. 

Ghost whines and pushes himself further onto Simon’s lap. The ground is still a little cold and certainly too wet, but these little visits warm up Simon’s cold, dead heart. The same heart that still flutters at the memory of being loved.

***

Johnny has always been pretty good at compartmentalization - he’s been called out by his own therapist at the time for it, even when Johnny had vehemently denied running away from too many conflicting thoughts and emotions. He’s a run in guns blazing-kind of guy. Or in his case, more along the lines of come in bombs exploding. Sometimes his fingers still itch to pull a trigger or the pin on a grenade - or the incredible adrenaline of sneaking past enemy lines, to find intel, to destroy an organization.

At his big age, he’s still looking for ways to occupy both his hands and mind: if it isn’t coaching the kids with muddy, messy baseball, it’s coaching other into better shape. If he had spent more time with the 141, or the SAS, or anything, he might have made Captain and been in charge of more than wet-nosed recruits.

But that is not him anymore. Soap is just a funny nickname he gets called sometimes, or when he meets up with former military buddies. He’s just Johnny now, John to most. 

He only has to blink and it’s deep into spring, the big reunion, the wov renewal ceremony coming up sooner than he’s realized. Johnny makes plans to take the flight with Gaz and his new girl, even though it means he has to shove poor Shampoo in his carrier to where all the poor lost lambs go during flights. Johnny has already prepared a good amount of treats though and he knows Shampoo is about to get a whole lot of love when they arrive.

Gaz punches Johnny in the shoulder when they meet up at the airport. Johnny punches him right back. Then they break into grins and hug each other, with multiple claps to the back. 

“Good to see you, good to see you,” says Gaz. The engagement ring glimmers on his ring finger. It’s without a single decoration, which fits Price’s usual decor. Johnny had seen a picture of the two, showing them off. 

“Same to you,” says Johnny. “This is Christina then?” He’s seen the photos, of course. She’s a little older than Gaz, but still in the age range of having grown up with the same social media shit like the rest of them, so there’s a ton of cute couple pictures of both her and Gaz - and them with Price, naturally. Price hasn’t gotten any less camera-shy over the years, but his moustache is still magnificent.

Christina has the buzzcut and old tattoos of someone who had a fun youth - and is gonna live it for the rest of her life. She grins.

“And you must be John.” She shakes his hand. She has a firm grip and a bit of a foreign accent. “I’m so ready to finally meet the rest of your buddies, Gaz. Too bad Pricey had to go before us, although I don’t miss his snoring.” 

“We haven’t seen each other as a group in so damn long,” Gaz remarks as he starts leading the pack towards their pre-flight checks. “And Pricey snores like an old dog. It’s fucking cute. Anyway! It’s gonna be either awkward as hell or the most fun I’ve ever had.” He tosses a look at Johnny. “Genuinely have missed seeing your ugly mug around.”

Johnny snorts .”Same to you. At least I finally grew a full beard.” 

Gaz bursts into a laugh. “Oh, sod off you little wanker.” 

They share playful banter all the way to the plane itself. Johnny worries over Shampoo, but reassures himself that the kitty has been on flights before. Gaz begins to tell some story about his and Christina’s latest date, her chiming in with a few comments of her own. They seem to be on the same wavelength. 

With a little hum of his own, Johnny digs out his sketchbook, the small one he prefers on long flights or car rides. He begins sketching Gaz and Christina, listening to the story half-heartedly.  His hand, more used to holding a pen now rather than a gun, quickly begins forming the faces of the twosome, the little plane window beside Christina, a hint of a cloud behind it. The plane rumbles around them like a pleased giant cat. 

At one point in their flight, when Johnny has been dozing off and Christina has been deep in her audiobook, Gaz leans closer to Johnny and nudges him in the arm.

“Pal. Bud. You awake?”

Johnny blinks. He yawns and stretches, his bones not doing so hot after too many, too long minutes on this plane. “Yep.” He only has to look at Gaz’s face to know there’s a comment coming about something he doesn’t really want to talk about.  But, emotional maturity, hard experiences they’ve both gone through and mutual friends. Johnny clicks his tongue. 

“Okay, what are you so eager to ask me? I know that face.” 

Gaz smiles, nudges him in the arm again. “Ever the perceptive one. Anyway. Yeah. First of all, you bringing the kilt? Representing the illustrious, majestic clan MacTavish?” 

“My ma could dropkick you off a cliff,” Johnny says. He rolls his eyes for good measure. “And o’ course I brought the fucking kilt.” One more glance at Gaz, and another huff. “Ye. I’m gonna be fine with seeing Simon. You worry more than Price. Nay, more than my Ma.” 

It earns him a friendly little punch to the arm again. The corner of Johnny’s mouth lifts up. “Bawbag.”

“Wanker,” is the immediate answer.

They both snort at the same time. “You know I’ve been in contact with both of you ever since we left 141,” Gaz continues, after the shared amusement has dissipated. “And I don’t say it much or enough, like Christina always tells me - “ Gaz’s voice lowers, but Christina’s headphones are on and she’s clearly engrossed in her book. 

Johnny still leans closer a bit. Gaz offers him a little smile. “Even though you’re the ugliest son of a bitch on this side of the planet, you’re still my brother. As is Riley. And we’ve all gone through shit to get where we are. Shit, I barely can believe I’m still fucking alive on some days!” 

Johnny finds himself nodding, his fingers subconsciously going to brush at the empty spot on his left ringfinger. His voice sounds a little rougher than usual to his own ears, as he murmurs: “I get it. Yer my brother too. And it’s not like I fucking - what happens, will happen. If Simon runs away at the sight of me, then he does. He needs space so I’ll give him that.” He meets Gaz’s understanding eyes again. A younger Johnny would shy away from such openness, would probably joke about a little more. But Johnny’s been through therapy, friendships, one night stands, one disastrous but amazing marriage. 

“But god I miss that big fucking idiot.” 

Gaz smiles back. “Maybe I’ll tug on Laswell One or Laswell Two’s sleeve and get them to get you two to sit at the same table, get you two talking - “ he trails off when Johnny squints at him. “Oh well. What happens, will happen. Right?” 

“Right.” Johnny offers his fist. Gaz bumps it with his own. 

Thankfully the flight isn’t very long, so Johnny doesn’t have much time to start being nervous about seeing Simon again. And the rest of his friends, of course, some he hasn’t seen in ages. His leg is bouncing by the time the plane lands and they get off. 

Gaz keeps up a chatter with Christina and Johnny follows in their wake to get their bags and of course, Shampoo. The cat keeps pushing his nose against the sides of his carrier, sniffing at Gaz and Christina, his meows increasing in volume the longer he’s around his Papa and still not out of this stupid, stupid cage. Johnny coos at him, sneaking in a little treat and promising to let him out the second he can. 

They get into their taxi and start the journey.

It starts raining, right as the taxi speeds away from the airport. The steady drumming of it against the taxi’s roof nudges Johnny towards sleep.

*** 

Villa Fanfare appears to be a moderately sized villa, available to be rented out for weddings and other happy ceremonies. For Simon, it’s a little too white and bright, but the garden is pretty nice and there’s even a greenhouse at the backyard, clearly well maintained. Simon has settled his bag in a room he’s going to be sharing with Price, realizing that next to Johnny, Price is the one he still feels the most comfortable around. It brings up a little bit of guilt: perhaps Price would like to share a room with his fiance and their girlfriend instead. But Price seems to see the guilt coming and insists he can be without those two for a little while. 

After a walk with Ghost around the villa, Simon goes to lunch. Most of the others are already there, safe from the brewing thunder, rain already drumming against the roof. 

Price pats Simon’s shoulder as Simon sits down, Ghost taking his place nearby, getting to chew on a bone of his own. 

“We’re just missing Gaz and, what was the girlfriend - “ starts Kate Laswell. “Oh, yes. Christina. And MacTavish is of course going to be late.” She’s still very no-nonsense, even years out of the army. Her hair is cropped very short, good amount of grey on her temples. But there’s softness in her mouth and in her gaze, especially as she takes in the sight of all their loved ones gathered around three tables. Apparently some are her family, some from Olivia’s side, some other friends that Simon doesn’t know. Thankfully he’s seated between Alejandro and Price, so they can help him if there’s a need. 

Being without a mask, especially near people he doesn’t know, is still a little awkward. Simon figures it will always be. He scratches at the scars on his cheek. He sits up straighter. His leg has started to bounce and immediately he slams his hand on it, keeping it down. He’s safe. These are his people. Even Johnny, who might appear out of that door at any time, is his family. 

Kate takes the time to have a little speech, just enough to get some laughs, to break the ice. She says to keep things civil and casual, because they all deserve to have a nice fucking time. Most of them say cheers to that and then explode into conversations. Simon tunes most of it out and focuses on the food soon served. Just as he’s dug into his appetizer, the doors thump open again, with a dramatic crash of thunder. A loud meow comes before a familiar accented voice: “Started without us, ey?” 

Simon swallows hard. His leg starts bouncing again. He still looks, because he can and he wants to: it’s Johnny, Gaz and Christina, all dripping wet, but clearly happy. Johnny looks - well. He’s glowing, even when water has clearly soaked through his boots and made his braid a horrible mess. 

Simon’s heart skips a beat. He barely notices Gaz and Christina both bouncing up to Price to kiss him on the cheeks, Price blushing. Because there’s Johnny, closer than he’s been in a while and - oh. Their gazes lock. Johnny’s eyes soften. His lips part, as if to form Simon’s name, but then an extremely dramatic meow breaks the spell.

“Yeah, yeah, you pompous little shit, I’ll let you out,” Johnny drags the cat carrier behind him, disappearing to a side room, followed shortly by Gaz and Christina, who are now chattering a mile a minute.

Simon just stares. 

“You good, hermano?” Murmurs Alejandro from next to him, nudging Simon carefully. Some years ago, even that light, casual touch would have been too much.

Simon blinks. “Yeah.” And that’s that. He’ll handle this, like he’s handled all of it. A little behind him, Ghost has lifted his head from his newly acquired bone and whines pitifully. Simon makes a calming hand motion at him, offering a little smile. “I’m fine, pup.” Ghost humphs and begins gnawing at the bone again.

Soon enough, the side door opens again to let out a rather grumpy looking Maine Coon and three less grumpy travelers. Gaz and Christina seat themselves opposite to Price and apparently instantly start playing footsie, from the way Price has to clear his throat. Johnny sits opposite to Simon, still glowing, still handsome and alive and so fucking pretty. 

The noise around them quiets down - or maybe it’s Simon’s brain that shuts the other voices off. He drinks in the sight of Johnny, his Johnny, parts his lips wistfully when Johnny drags his braid over his shoulder and tugs on it, as if to make sure it’s still newly braided and good. Johnny’s eyes are more tired than they’ve been before, he has new crow’s feet, more gray on his temples than before. Simon still wants. 

Oh, how he fucking wants. He squeezes his fork and knife, all his appetite on desire instead: to dig his teeth into Johnny’s skin, to drag his nails down Johnny’s back, to kiss him, to kiss him, to kiss him like he’s never been kissed before. He must make some kind of a noise, because the next he knows, Ghost is tugging on his sleeve, whining softly for his attention. The Samoyed has pushed his way between Simon and Price’s chairs and is tugging insistently. He only stops once Simon flinches and releases his sleeve from the pup’s mouth. 

“I’m good, I’m good, just got a little lost in there,” Simon murmurs.

“Still keeping your mohawk then until you die, eh, hermano?” Alejandro says from Simon’s other side, a little too loudly. 

Johnny snorts. “Still unable to grow a proper beard like mine, hermano!” He tosses back. Simon’s ears burn. He gives his pup some good scratches between his ears and on his cheeks, leans down to kiss his wet little nose. 

“I promise I’m good. Go back to your bone, pup.” Ghost huffs and does as he’s told, his curled, fluffy tail going mile a minute, now that he’s made sure his Papa isn’t lost in bad memories.

Price doesn’t say a thing, except to pour Simon a tiny amount of Bourbon, from a bottle somebody had apparently had the decency to push to their side of the table. 

Simon gratefully drinks it down, relishing the burn of it. It’s not his usual brand, but it is close enough. And it softens the edges of the world, the ache in his chest where Johnny still is. 

Johnny, who is now getting up to chase after his cat - Shampoo, was it? Of course Johnny would name his fucking cat that - and babytalking at the giant fluffball. Alejandro good-naturedly makes fun of him for it, as if Alejandro himself doesn’t turn into a puddle when Rudy sweet talks to him in Spanish. 

Simon watches it all, eating, drinking a bit here and there. A place inside of him has gone warm. 

These are his people. This is his family.

The evening proceeds without much interruption. They’re all getting older, years of shit food and hiding in foxholes and behind oil barrels doing the worst on their knees and on their bones. Price leans a bit more heavily on his cane these days, but he still drinks Johnny and both of his partners under the table. Alejandro still apparently has the habit of talking in an a weirdly endearing mixture of Spanish and English when he has a little alcohol in him. 

Simon only drinks a little. He hasn’t really had the taste for it, not for a long time. So he gets to escape the laughter and love of his family - even Kate Laswell, who is sobbing with laughter against her wife’s shoulder about a funny story Gaz is telling - to the porch of the villa. Evening has truly fallen. The rain has stopped, but it has left the ground damp and smelling like true spring. Without being ordered to, Ghost follows Simon and obediently lies down next to him, big fluffy head against Simon’s thigh. Ghost sighs a deeply melancholy canine sigh.

Simon’s lighter clicks. The little flame begins to burn the end of his cigarette.

“I know, buddy. It’s a lot. They’re a lot.” Simon digs his fingers into Ghost’s warm, soft fur and begins to gently stroke it.

The Villa is far enough from the biggest buzz of the city, that it’s almost deafeningly quiet. Some wayward bird on its way to its family lets out a trill from a nearby tree. The garden of the Villa spreads out in front of Simon, a stereotypical little gazebo at the back. The wind carries with it the scent of the rain and memory. 

A thump of a cane and heavy boots, the whisper of the door being opened and then closed. Still Simon tenses up. 

“Just me, buddy,” murmurs John fucking Price. He’s gone almost full gray, but the steel in his eyes is the same. At one point in Simon’s life, he would have walked through fire for this man.

“Still not a cig smoker I see,” Simon huffs as Price heavily sits down next to him, leaving Ghost between them like a protective fur blanket. Ghost sniffs at Price’s offered hand, but then seems to deem him not a threat and lets his head flop back down against Simon’s thigh. Price digs out his cigar from its fancy little carton.

“Still not a cigar smoker I see,” Price quips back and lights it. It smells familiar, like scratching an itch Simon didn’t even know he had. Everything about Price is familiar and safe.

For a moment they just smoke in silence, watching the dark fall over the garden, the dog dozing off between them.

Then Simon stumps his cigarette to the ashtray he’s stolen from the porch table. 

“Gonna scold me for not talking to Johnny?” He means for it to be amused, just a little poke at Price’s protectiveness. But it ends up coming out sharper than intended. Simon scratches the scar on his cheek, ends up tracing the line from the corner of his lip to his cheekbone. 

“Nah.” Price blows out a ring of smoke. “I ain’t your fucking dad.” 

Their eyes meet. They look away. Simon grunts. Price snorts and stretches out his bad leg. 

“But you two should talk. I get your situation is what it is, but avoiding him forever - “ 

“- isn’t good. I know,” Simon murmurs. He lights another cigarette. “I do have a therapist you know.” 

Price pats his shoulder. “I know. And he’s done you a world of good.” Price’s hand remains, a warm weight through the sweater. Price gives Simon’s shoulder a squeeze before withdrawing. 

More smoke is blown towards the darkening sky. 

Simon sighs. “I want to talk to him. I do. But you of all people should know it isn’t fucking easy. Not with my - my shit.”

Price hums. “Well. Can’t tell you what to do. Only what you should maybe do.” 

“Old wanker,” Simon says. 

“Pot, meet kettle,” Price snorts. “Shit, we all got our fucking baggage. Sure, yours is bigger than most but our Soap isn’t a fragile little flower. And he loves you.” 

The hand holding Simon’s cigarette twitches. Shakily, he takes a drag of it. Does he? Does he? Does he? 

Price’s sigh is deep. “I can smell the fucking doubt, kiddo. Yes, he fucking does. We all do. But not like he does. I don’t wanna smash faces.” 

“Wanker,” Simon says again, voice trembling a bit. But it has the desired effect, because Price’s hand lands on his shoulder again, still gentle, still warm. 

“If it needs to be said for as long as there’s air in this shitty body, then it will be said: us, the 141? Even the fucking Vaqueros? We went through hell together. That makes us fucking family.” 

Simon can only nod and take another drag. His fingers threaten to crush the fragile little cigarette. He knows it’s true. Like earlier, it overwhelms him to know he isn’t alone. He tried to keep them at an arm’s length, all those years ago, having crawled out of a literal grave and doused himself in his family’s blood. But these people had crawled under his skin, found their way through the cracks in the skullmask and found the man within, long thought dead. 

Yes, they’re fucking annoying sometimes, they’re loud, Johnny sings in the fucking shower and loves Christmas too much, and Alejandro keeps trying to kidnap Ghost because he and Rudy really want a kid but clearly can’t decide between a human child and an animal, and Price and Gaz and Christina are stupidly in love and happy and fuck. Fuck. All the torture and betrayal and death in the world didn’t break Simon Riley, but having love finally did.

“I need to call Scott,” Simon murmurs. He stumps his second cigarette too. 

“Help me up first, sitting down on this fucking porch was a mistake,” grumbles Price, but goodnaturedly. Simon helps him up easily and pats him on the shoulder. Looking people in the eye comes easier these days, even without a mask. 

Price stumps his cigar and stashes it away again. “Simon Riley, Simon Riley -” he shakes his head. “We aren’t good men, but who the fuck in this world is. What matters is what you’re doing now. And you’ve got us.” He meets Simon’s gaze head on. Price has looked death in the face and laughed at it, so there’s no hesitation now. Because Simon is just a man now. Just a broken little man. 

“Wanker,” Simon says again. He punches Price in the shoulder, but tries to be gentle. “Now sod off, I really gotta call Scott before he goes to sleep.” But he smiles: it’s always a little crooked nowadays, thanks to the scar pulling at the other side of his mouth. But it’s a smile and it’s real. 

Price rolls his eyes and smiles back. “Don’t give the poor man too much trouble.” And he goes back inside.

Simon stretches, feeling that satisfying crack of his back. He finds his therapist’s number on speed dial number 3 and calls him. Scott Jones is very deeply English, in his fifties and has been a very pleasant surprise for Simon. He is not the first therapist Simon had met, some of them not ready for the tragedy pouring out of his mouth - but Scott had listened to it all, unflinchingly empathetic. 

“Simon,” Scott answers in two rings, as usual. 

Simon begins to walk to the garden, away from the house. “Scott.” 

There are no other words from Scott, because as usual, he waits for Simon to speak first. At first the silence had been awkward, full of tension Simon didn’t know how to break. But Scott had helped to dig Simon Riley back out of his grave, so now the silence is merely comfortable.

“I saw my… I saw Johnny today. Me and him and everyone else still kicking was invited to this renewal of wedding vows. The Laswells, I think I told you of them.” 

“That you did. And how did seeing him make you feel?” Scott’s voice gets that tone once more and Simon can imagine the look in his eye - watching Simon over those fancy glasses, such impossible empathy in his eye for a man as fucked up and terrible as he. 

“Like shit.” Simon lights another cigarette. “But also. You know. Not shit.” Words are never and will never be enough to describe John MacTavish fully. He is a lightning, a firecracker. He’s taken a bullet for each member of this fucking team. “There’s never been anyone else.” 

Scott hums. A scratch of pen on paper. A rustle of cloth. “Yes. We talked about it some. How you explained to me that no one ever made you feel as safe as he does.”

Simon takes a drag of his cigarette. He kicks a little rock. The evening breeze is a little chilly, making him wish he had brought his hoodie with him or his mask. There still always has to be at least one in some pocket of his. “Yeah. They’re - they’re all good people. But Johnny’s - he just. He just is.”

More scratch, scratch, scratch of pen on paper. Scott hums again. He clears his throat and Simon is pretty sure he knows what the next question will be. He chews on the inside of his cheek and barely flinches when some of the ash from his cigarette falls on his palm. 

“Do you still regret it?” There it is, said in the same calm tone. Sometimes that tone had sent Simon into a frustrated, helpless rage. Sometimes it had helped him calm down from an emotional high himself.

“I regretted leaving him the second I did it,” Simon whispers. It had felt like the right thing to do, as if Johnny being near him would slowly rob Johnny of everything that makes him what he is: like Simon would freeze his fire, take away the very core of him, the very heart of him. Even out of the army, no longer in mortal danger, the urge to wrap Johnny in his arms and protect him had been too strong. 

And from the looks of it, Johnny is happy how he is. 

“But - “ 

“Simon,” says Scott, stern. 

Simon huffs, feeling a little like a kid scolded by his teacher. He crouches, idly poking at the dozing roses. “I know. I made the decision for him. Without considering his feelings. But all I can think of is but. I used to face a gun without a single flinch. I could withstand fucking torture for months. But not him. Never him. It still - “ He takes another drag, blows a puff of smoke towards the sleeping flowers. 

“You have made so much progress over the years with me, Simon,” Scott reminds him, gently. “And you know by now that vulnerability is not a weakness. Nothing about you is weak.”

“You know, Doc, I am able to sort of believe that nowadays,” Simon murmurs. He switches the subject to the Laswells then, chats a few minutes of this and that and then lets Scott go return to his evening. Paying Scott for even this phone call is always worth it. 

“Not weak, huh,” Simon murmurs to himself after his phone has been safely tucked away and his cigarette snuffed out. He goes back inside, Ghost, as always, his loyal little shadow. 

***

***

Simon sleeps the sleep of the restless, beginning to toss and turn soon enough after falling asleep. Price begins to snore, one hairy arm tossed over his eyes, dead to the world.

In the other room, Johnny has tangled himself up in his sheets, dreaming of skulls and tropical beaches and shy smiles. Gaz and Christina are on the other bed, Christina letting out a giggle in her sleep at times, while Gaz dozes on like a little baby. 

Tip, tap, tip, tap, goes the gentle, soft footfall of a Samoyed. He had been hesitant to leave his Papa, but since Price is a trustworthy person and smells kind and familiar, Ghost goes off exploring. This place is full of interesting smells. And oh, Ghost is a little thirsty. Perhaps the bone he left behind earlier? 

Tip, tap, tip, tap, goes his soft little paws. 

Oh? 

The moon and the stars shine through the Villa’s big, decorative windows, creating intricate silvery patterns on the surroundings. The cat sits statue-still in the middle of the hallway, his big eyes gleaming with feline curiousity. 

Ghost sniffs the air tentatively. Something smells familiar. Ah? Yes? The cat had been with the happy man earlier. 

Shampoo the cat stares, unblinking. He sniffs, just a little. Ah, yes. It is indeed a dog. The same fluffy beast the cat witnessed earlier with the sad man. 

Ghost’s tail begins to wag, his fluffy little ears alert. His Samoyed smile bright and wide, absolutely the least threatening thing Shampoo the cat has ever seen in his life.

Shampoo takes a few tentative steps closer, but not before stretching deliciously. He sniffs again. The dog sniffs back. Intriguing, intriguing. Before the cat’s nose can touch the dog’s, a floorboard creaks somewhere. Fast like a lightning, the cat darts off into the shadows and the dog darts off after it. But soon enough, Ghost gets a scent of his Papa again and hears that heavy, familiar footfall. 

“Ghostie? What are you doing, wandering around?” Murmurs Simon, hair sticking up all over, his bare toes peeking out from under his PJ’s. Ghost comes bouncing to him, licking his hand in apology, as if to try to tell him that he was just looking around and met a cat. “Do you have to take a piss, pup?” Ghost wags his tail. Simon goes to get himself a glass of water and lets the pup out into the garden. Soon they both return to sleep.

**

Since most of the visitors to the Villa are ex-military, it’s no surprise that sunlight finds most of them gathering to the kitchen area bright and early. Even the catering isn’t there yet, so they snag themselves some breakfast and coffees and then go their separate ways to prepare for the ceremony. Soon enough, the Villa fills up with staff, strangers, so Simon takes Ghost for a long walk around the Villa, taking the long way around. Sun is tickling the clouds and the breeze is gentle. Simon’s heart is still like a raging fire as he thinks of Johnny, being near him like this for the first time in so long. He knows every inch of Johnny and Johnny knows every inch of him, yet it still feels like this is a new beginning.

If Simon Riley was the kind of a man to hope for such things. When he returns to the Villa, he’s quickly ushered to the room by the Vargases, both already halfway into their smart casuals, of neat jeans and t-shirts. Alejandro had clearly even trimmed his beard properly. 

“MacTavish brought his fucking kilt,” Alejandro informs Simon as Simon waves off their hands and starts digging out his own neater pair of jeans. 

Simon very, very much doesn’t drop his jeans. He doesn’t. He’s seen Johnny and that fucking kilt only twice in his life. And both of those times had ended up with him defiling it. 

“Says he feels it appropriate, since this is a good time for all of us,” Rudy says. They are on either side of Simon and Price’s door, like guard dogs to hell. Alejandro is grinning. Rudy is smiling. 

Simon suddenly feels very, very naked. He levels his best Ghost-glare at them, even though said glare probably has lost its power, over the years Simon has been just Simon. Alejandro’s grin just widens.

“Damn, what a glare. What have we done, mi amor?” 

Rudy rolls his eyes. “Just informed him of a thing he needed to be informed of. Or, just warning before he falls all over himself.” His eyes are so soft. His smile even softer. Sorry, he mouths at Simon, who can’t ever bring himself to be angry at Rudy. 

“I appreciate the warning,” Simon finally grumbles. “Now get the fuck out and let me dress in peace.” 

For two grown men, married men even, those two act like mischievous little boys sometimes. Alejandro takes Rudy’s hand and they vanish back to the hallway, mercifully closing the door behind them.

Simon groans. He’s going to make a fool out of himself anyway. Johnny always has a way of unwinding him, unmaking him, especially after finding out that the stoic, death-faced Lieutenant was hiding such vulnerabilities. 

“You are being ridiculous, Simon fucking Riley,” Simon grumbles as he pulls on his better pair of jeans and his favourite black shirt: the one that leaves his forearms bare, revealing his faded scars and his faded tattoos. Certainly he isn’t in as good of a shape as he was in the military, but maybe he doesn’t have to be anymore. He isn’t fighting for his life anymore. 

With a sigh, he takes his dark blue suit jacket and tosses it over his shoulders, before leaving. Ghost gets up from where he had been waiting obediently and tip-taps after him. There’s a cute little blue collar on him: Simon had put a little ghost-charm on it, after finding it in some thrift shop ages ago. He never used to be the guy to spend money on little things like that, but maybe it’s a privilege he’s earned.

The ceremony isn’t going to be particularly big or very official: neither of the Laswells want the hassle anymore, they just want to renew the vows they made all those years ago when they first married. Still, there’s an order to things. Simon lets himself get swept up in it, turns off his overthinking  brain and obeys when ordered to do so - he carries a few chairs, helps the three people from the catering company with preparing the dining hall for the big fancy dinner. That one big table has been replaced by a few round ones, seating four. Simon gets to be with the polyamorous trio, which makes him sigh - but the table next to him is Johnny with three others. Simon impulsively switches the namecards of himself and Price, getting the seat closest to Johnny. 

God, he wants Johnny. He misses Johnny. The ache for him is a physical gnawing in Simon’s chest. 

***

Johnny is pleased to help out at the garden, carrying chairs and carrying drinks, chattering about cats with Olivia Laswell, who is looking absolutely radiant in her cute blue dress and is apparently aching to get herself and her wife a cat. Shampoo has been shut away in Johnny’s room, probably satisfied to be able to take his nap in peace. Johnny ends up showing Olivia two - or two dozen - photos of Shampoo. Here’s Shampoo grooming himself. Here’s Shampoo sleeping. Here’s Shampoo sleeping on his back. Here’s Shampoo clawing at the curtains. Here’s Shampoo chattering at birds. Here’s Shampoo as a baby, curled against Johnny’s neck. 

Olivia Laswell is a cheerful personality, a curious contrast to the more reserved, brash Kate Laswell, but there is such easiness to the way she speaks of Kate that Johnny can’t help but be a little jealous. Neither Kate or Olivia have had the easiest life, even if Johnny doesn’t know the details, but they seem to have found ways to get past it, to find each other, to find strength from their relationship. Johnny ends up watching as Olivia finds Kate and kisses her, beginning a tale, gesturing wildly. The way Kate is watching Olivia reminds Johnny so painfully much of Simon. 

Johnny sighs. He goes to get himself a drink, nevermind that it’s bad etiquette. Just a little sip of whiskey, to ease up the sudden thunder in his heart. While he’s pondering on the taste, he brushes his ring finger. Even today there should be a ring there: gleaming pretty and shiny, tangible proof that he and Simon Riley are tangled. Together forever.

He gets himself another drink. 

He stays on the other side of the ceremony at first from Simon, not entirely out of his own volition. He tugs on a fraying part on the hem of his kilt, attention pulling away from the Laswells to Simon: he has a mask on, just a plain black mask, to cover up his beautiful, broken nose and his lips, always a little crooked now due to the scar. Johnny watches him, drinks in the sight of him dressed so neatly. Has Simon gotten his tattoo sleeve touched up? Is that a new tattoo on his other arm? 

The applause is what makes Johnny jump, pulling his attention back to the Laswells. They’re still speaking, with ease neither Simon or Johnny ever could. Of love, being together, making a home, creating a life. 

Price is genuinely crying, Rudy is smiling the brightest he’s ever smiled with tears in his eyes. They’re all so stupid and cute and Johnny doesn’t have to force too hard for a smile. He’ll be the biggest man and  talk to Simon. Simon is closer than he’s been in ages and while Johnny doesn’t want to corner him - it’s clear there’s still something. At least some things left unsaid, left undone. 

God. Johnny wants to punch him. Preferably with his fucking mouth. It’s the sip of whiskey talking, clearly. Johnny is among the first to get up, to watch as the Laswells lead their little gathering back inside for the dinner. Certainly there will be speeches and more tears, wine and cake and those gross vegetarian fake sausages. 

Johnny is the first to his own table. He flops down to his chair and stretches his arms. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, pops open the first two buttons. 

It’s a good spot. It’s one of the two tables at the very corner, the one for the messiest fuckers of this little gathering: especially when Johnny spots Simon’s name right next to him, on the neighbouring table. Johnny sits up a little straighter, beginning to twirl one of the rings he’s wearing: his ring finger still empty, still aching. 

The rest come soon enough: there’s Price, Christina on one arm, Gaz on the other, Simon trailing after them with his puppy in tow. The Vargases take Johnny’s table too, and Johnny even manages to greet them. But Simon Riley is like a fucking magnet. 

Ghost the puppy settles between Johnny and Simon, protectively. He sits down neatly and places his admittedly adorable head on Simon’s thigh. For a second or two, for a heartbeat or few, no one speaks. Price lifts an eyebrow. Alejandro squints at Johnny. Johnny tries to find his voice. Simon sits up very straight, rather tense. 

“So, pretty ceremony, right?” says Rudy, ever the diplomat. He elbows his husband. 

“Sure, sure, never thought I’d see that hardass Laswell cry,” Alejandro says, eyes still on Johnny. 

Johnny flips him the finger. 

Alejandro’s eyes glimmer, but before he can say another word, Rudy, gently but forcefully, drags him into a conversation about the ceremony and others they’ve been to lately. 

Johnny lets it drift from one ear to another, lets his right hand find his ring finger again, stroking it. 

“You don’t have a ring.”

Johnny stills. 

Simon has pulled down his mask. He’s poured himself a glass of water. He isn’t looking at Johnny, but clearly the words are for him. 

“Noticed that, did ya?” 

Simon’s pale brows furrow. Johnny looks at him and finds that he can’t fucking look away. Never has been able to: especially now that that fucking pretty face is bare, scars and all. “Yeah. Don’t have one to wear. Not anymore.” He has leaned a little closer, his voice a little lower. 

Simon’s eyes are bottomless wells as he looks at Johnny then. Simon’s hand is on his pup’s head, stroking between his ears. 

“Johnny,” says Simon, soft, so fucking soft.

Johnny begins tap-tap-tapping the table. “That’s my name.” He grins, a little too sharp and savage. He can feel how the grin itches at the corners of his mouth. Yet it’s this stupid, pathetic little love that pulls the grin away, makes him pull closer. 

“Simon. Long time no see, huh?” 

It’s a careful little half-smile that crosses Simon’s face then and leaves his pretty eyes cold. He still has those fucking long, pale eyelashes.

This isn’t a conversation they should have in public, but they need to say something, to fill up the years between them. Simon watches Johnny, as he’s done so often before. Something about him is calmer, softer. None of his scars or the tint of grey in his dirty blond hair takes away that he’s still fucking breathtaking.

Christ. Johnny wishes he could stay angry or even frustrated with this impossible, stupid man. 

They turn back towards their respective tables, because the food and drink are quickly arriving. Neither the Vargases or Simon’s trio thankfully comment on the little conversation, although Alejandro keeps making suggestive meaningful eyebrow wiggles at the both of them. 

So they eat and drink and toast to the Laswells, laugh as Price keeps a pretty incredible spontaneous speech and then sniffles into his moustache at the end of it. They eat and drink and celebrate a life shared, a love allowed where death once bloomed. Johnny is pleasantly buzzed by the time dessert arrives. Simon has been nursing the same glass of Bourbon for a good long while. They’re sitting closer to each other now, or maybe it’s just Johnny’s imagination. 

“So, Simon - “ Johnny murmurs. They don’t have to whisper necessarily: Alejandro and Rudy are whispering something sweet and annoying in Spanish to each other, and Price is over at the karaoke machine, fighting with Olivia Laswell and what looks like Olivia’s mama for the first turn. 

“Johnny.” Simon’s eyes are very bright and very pretty. He really is too fucking pretty. 

“No one snatched you after you left me?” Johnny continues, watching Simon’s jaw clench, his eyelashes flutter. 

“Could ask you the same,” grumbles Simon. His voice has that deep, low purr that always was a calm before the storm. Yet his eyes - his stupid, stupid pretty eyes. They’re still sad, they still long for - what? 

Reconciliation? An apology? A kiss? 

Johnny laughs. “Oh, people have tried! There was a nice lass from Wales at one point, and a lad from Gatwick, but - “ his laughter dies. He wets his lips. “I gave you space. I thought it was what you needed. I tried to respect your decision.” 

Simon starts fiddling with his fingers. He, too, brushes his ring finger, missing what was there. “I know, Johnny.” 

“But I still fucking miss you, you - ye bloody eejit.” The thickness of his accent tends to return, thicker and more incomprehensible, the drunker he gets. The accent has never quite gone away, even with all the years away from dear old Scotland. “I kept your fucking ring.”

“Johnny,” Simon says, voice even rougher now, gruff like sandpaper and sadness. “I - “ 

“No, lemme say this. Since you’ve been avoiding me for literally years - “ 

“- we live in the same city apparently,” Simon murmurs. 

Johnny opens his mouth. Closes it. “Huh?” 

Simon still strokes Ghost, but the pup’s ears and eyes are alert, watching for anxiety, for panic. “I moved some months ago. I didn’t - I saw you. At the park. With the kids.” 

Johnny blinks. When he doesn’t answer immediately, those pretty, pretty eyes meet his again. “Huh. And none of our mutual pals were kind enough to share that little info with me apparently.” Simon had been close all this time then. Johnny could have gone forward and touched him, spoke to him, pleaded with him again. Johnny sighs. “Well. Why - why didn’t ye come out and say hello, ye big dumbo?” 

Simon’s ears are red. “Didn’t know what to say to you.” He’s lowered his gaze, as if ashamed. “Still don’t know.”

“Ye talking now,” Johnny huffs. But he knows. He knows Simon Riley from head to toe. He knows that words have been used against him almost more than guns have. Johnny knows that Simon has ripped himself raw, opened his ribcage to reveal his stupid, bleeding heart so that he could start building himself back up again. 

Oh, they are both so fucking stupid. 

These living weapons, trying to relearn how to be human again, after their wars have been fought already. No wonder it’s hard to learn how to be John MacTavish and Simon Riley, just two men, friends, brothers in arms, lovers. Husbands. 

They could be that again. 

“Come on, ye big eejit. Come on.” It’s probably the sleepiness, the vulnerability in Simon’s expression, that he even lets himself be dragged to standing. He’s still too tall and too wide-shouldered, but he nods as he follows Johnny away from the dining hall to the garden. There are some stragglers from the party, but nobody is at the back of the garden, at the sweet little gazebo with its fake flowers and real flowers and a solitary candle under its glass on the table. 

“Stay, Ghost,” Simon murmurs to his dog and the pup stays on the porch. Johnny has a feeling its going to stay there and stare at them the whole way through. 

Once they reach the gazebo, the silence falls once more. Johnny’s earlier eagerness and frustration has dwindled out and Simon looks so fucking sad, sitting there, uncomfortable in the too narrow bench, black bags under his eyes.

“Yer not sleeping well?” Is what comes out of Johnny’s mouth first. 

Simon’s eyes are in the shadow like this, the thinness of his face more evident. 

“Never was a great sleeper,” Simon murmurs. He has started to fidget, the black fabric mask in his hands, being scrunched up, being pulled, tugged. “Johnny. I’ve missed you.” 

Johnny wets his lips. “Yeah. Yeah.” He tap-tap-taps on the table. He gets up. He sits back down. His cheeks are warm - if it’s the whiskey or just Simon, he can’t tell. “Yeah. Fuck. Simon, it’s been years.” 

“I know,” comes the low murmur from the bench, from this man shaped like a shadow, dressed like a sad death. “But I - I’ve been to a great therapist.” 

Johnny begins pacing, in what little room there is on the wooden floor of the gazebo. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. “ Simon lets out a little laugh, a sad, sad noise from a sad, sad man. “It took a while but I - I feel. I feel. I let myself feel. And it took a while but he wrenched the truth out of me. He gave - well. It wasn’t all him. It was you too.” 

“Me?” Johnny doesn’t stop pacing, but his attention is all on this man, this stupid, stupid man. 

Simon leans back on the bench. Half of his face is in shadow, like a pale mimicry of the skullface he used to wear. “It was a process you started. Taking back Simon Riley. Maybe being Ghost saved my wretched life, but becoming Simon again made sure I didn’t - that I could stay. That I could live.” 

Johnny’s shoulders drop. “Simon,” he sighs. “I’m trying my feckin’ hardest to be mad at you. But I - shite.” Fuck, he should have brought the whiskey. “Why did you leave me?” His cheeks flush harder. 

Simon twitches, looks away. Candlelight dances on the visible side of his face, making his stupidly pretty eyelashes look even longer. 

“I thought it was the right thing to do,” Simon murmurs. “If I had stayed with you, I fear -” his fingers curl into fists on his lap. “I fear I would have stripped you of everything. That all of my shit would have drowned you and then it would have been like - “his voice shakes. “Like I had put a bullet in you. You’re so fucking - you’re everything, Johnny.” Another sad little laugh. 

Johnny watches him, lips parted, heart racing. God, he’s missed this man. This stupid, stupid, stupid man. 

“And I thought that if I just - you would find someone - “ Simon continues but no, Johnny can’t listen to this. His jaw clenches and he marches to Simon, squirms his way into straddling him. Johnny cups Simon’s face between his hands. “Ye absolute eejit. Ye absolute little motherfucker. Yer bum's oot the windae.” 

Simon’s hands have jumped off his lap the moment Johnny slid into it and now they hover, uselessly, unable to decide where to go. Simon’s lips part. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes have gone wide. He’s so pretty it fucking hurts to look at him. How could anyone look at him and see a monster? 

They both have a shitton of blood on their hands and skulls under their feet, but it’s a road they should have always walked together. 

“Johnny,” Simon says, voice gone even rougher, even lower. 

“It’s you, it’s always been you! I was never fucking gonna find someone else because no one else could ever have me the way you have! it’s about the fact that only you know me, full well and fuck - I am sorry I let you walk away that day. I am sorry I left you - “ 

“Johnny, I was the one who  - “ 

But the finger presses against Simon’s lips, a feather-light touch that still unravels him from inside out.

“I shouldn’t have let you. And don’t give me that fucking look, Si, I know I could have.” 

Before Johnny can pull his hand away, Simon grabs it, curls his fingers around Johnny’s wrist, fingertips against the pulse. It’s so rapid. Johnny’s cheeks bloom with warmth, but he doesn’t shy away from Simon. Not anymore, not ever again. 

“I’ve missed you,” Simon whispers again. “No one else has ever - it’s just you for me too. It’s always been just you.” His other hand is gripping Johnny’s shirt tight. 

“I’ve missed you too, ye numpty. Now fucking kiss me, because I’m tired and drunk and I have been in love with a dumbass for - “ the rest of Johnny’s words disappear against Simon’s lips, chapped and a little too rough, but warm. So fucking warm. They’re kissing and kissing and kissing and it’s delicious and it’s good. Johnny rubs his thumbs on the corners of Simon’s mouth, right where the scars begin and knows there is no one better, no one worse, there is no one else like Simon Riley and never will be again. Johnny kisses him back furiously, slides his hands into Simon’s short-chopped hair and tugs on it, swallows down Simon’s little gasp. Simon’s arms, still thick and warm, wrap around Johnny’s waist and squeeze him, as if Simon wants to melt into one with him, devour him well and good until nothing remains. 

Johnny slips his tongue between Simon’s lips and is rewarded with a twitch of hips and a delicious little groan. Simon kisses him like he’s been starving for it, those big, hot palms roaming over Johnny’s back, squeezing him almost to the point of hurting.

They kiss and they kiss and they kiss and the evening falls deeper into darkness around  them. They kiss and they kiss and it’s everything that is needed where words fail. When they finally break apart, Johnny is dizzy, Simon is panting, one heavy, hot palm having slipped underneath Johnny’s shirt. 

Johnny presses their foreheads together and begins to laugh. Simon kisses him once more, lips already swollen and numb, cheeks blooming warm. 

“I have a joke for you,” Simon murmurs.

“Ye fucking kidding me,” Johnny groans. “Let’s hear it then.” 

Simon lets his hands fall to Johnny’s hips, thumbs barely brushing the top of his kilt. “I’m just gonna say it to distract from how fucking much I want to just bend you over this table,” Simon whispers. Before Johnny can do more than groan again, Simon breaks the spell: “I used to really hate facial hair. But then it grew on me.” 

Johnny does punch him in the arm for that. Simon’s little laugh is worth it, though. “But really, Johnny, we should - we should go back. We’ll talk more later, yeah?” 

“Oh, we’ll definitely talk.” Johnny slides off Simon’s lap and stumbles only a little. He takes Simon’s hand, slides his fingers between Simon’s fingers and is rewarded with a soft little smile and a squeeze. They walk back together, stopping only by the porch to insist to Ghost that everything is fine and the strange man didn’t devour Papa’s face off. Ghost apparently decides that John MacTavish is good enough, because he proceeds to be his bouncy self and try to reach up to lick Johnny’s face. For someone not fond of dogs, Johnny gives good headrubs and headpats. “Yeah, I bet I stink like a cat, yeah I bet,” Johnny keeps huffing. His other hand is firmly holding Simon’s. 

Even when they walk back inside and meet their steadily more drunken party. 

Price is the first to notice their hands from the dancefloor. It’s rowdy and adorably romantic: a little corner of the dining hall where a ragtag bunch of couples are already swaying. Price is doing something jiggly with a giggly Christina and an equally giggly Gaz. Price points at Johnny and Simon and belches. His younger lovers burst into hysterical laughter. 

“Love you too, Cap!” Johnny shouts at him but drags Simon to a corner of the dancefloor not overtaken by a drunken John Price. 

“This is fucking cheesy,” Simon murmurs as he’s pulled closer. 

“Shut up,” Johnny murmurs back, nuzzling against Simon’s neck. “I fucking missed you and I wanna dance with you. And I’m still a little mad at you.”

Simon’s arms wrap around Johnny’s waist once more. “Okay. Okay. I missed you too. Really fucking much.” 

Johnny closes his eyes and smiles. “No one takes praise quite like you do, babe.” 

Simon huffs, eyes also closed. He slides his other hand into Johnny’s hair, starting to gently scratch at his scalp. “You shut up.” 

Johnny snorts and nuzzles harder. “Nah. I’m not a good boy. Not like some. Right? You've been a good boy lately, Ghostie?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Simon growls, but it’s lost in the melody coming from the speakers, lost in the way he just has to squeeze Johnny tight against himself. How did he ever give this up?