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The op was going well, all things considered.
It was a simple breach and retrieval, covert and quiet. Ghost was perched on the roof of an opposite building, keeping watch through his scope. He hadn’t had to eliminate any hostels yet, but he wouldn’t allow that to lull him into a sense of security.
“One hostile nearing the corner in front of you, to the righ’ Johnny.”
“Copy Lt.”
He watched through the window as Johnny surprised the man and grappled him into a headlock, muscles tightening like a boa constrictor around the hostile’s throat until the man went lax. The mohawked Sergeant rolled his shoulders and Ghost followed the movement for a brief moment before catching movement from a window below his squad mate. Finger resting over the trigger, he watched the shadows move through the window. Gaz. He removed his finger.
“Why are skele’ons always calm?”
He heard an exasperated huff from Gaz and a grumble from Price before Soap hummed.
“Ah dinnae ken, Ghostie, why?”
“Cause nothin’ gets under their skin.”
A choked off wheeze came from Johnny, and Simon’s scarred lips twitched in amusement. He knew his jokes were shite, that was what made them funny. Johnny though, always responded to his shit jokes with a barking laugh, ending in near teary wheezing. It was endearing, and simultaneously something that confused him. He never asked about it, it didn’t truly matter, it just simply was a thing that happened. Johnny was simply a thing that happened to him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
*
A shower after several days away from base on an op was almost a Holy thing. The recruits’ barracks had shite for water pressure and the hot water tank was close to going out, but the barracks that housed the 141, while a significantly smaller building, didn’t have those problems. Hot water streamed down Simon’s back, loosening the knots in his shoulders. The door opening and closing, a hand on his back, and Johnny’s humming filling the air.
“Pass o’er the shampoo would ye?”
He enjoyed moments like this, and loved the private bathrooms they had attached to their rooms. It wasn’t military standard, but between Laswell’s magic, and Price’s stubbornness, they get most of the things they wanted. Within reason, o’ course. Soapy fingers ran through his hair, and he turned around, blinking water out of his eyes. Johnny graced him with his cockeyed smile, dimples prominent against his cheeks and Simon rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“Can wash my own hair.”
“Aye, y’ can , but I wanted to. Gonna fight me o’er the soap?”
“Nega’ive.”
“Like a good ol’ boy.”
Simon snorts softly, using his face rag to scrub the eye black off, rinsing his face and hair while Johnny works on his own. The one time Simon tried to reciprocate and help Johnny with his hair, the damn Scot nearly bit his fingers off. In the end, he was fine with it. Everyone had their boundaries, and while Simon’s own were extensive, Johnny took them all in stride and never pushed. Simon did the same.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
“Oi you wankers! Don’t use all the hot water!”
“Copy.”
Soap’s cackling overlapped anything else that was said, and Gaz let out his own laugh as he left the two to finish their shower. He had stopped by their room to drop off the post-op paperwork for Ghost, and decided his annoying sibling duties needed to be fulfilled at the same time.
Finishing their routines and dressing themselves, Jonny sprawled himself across their bed (really just two bunks shoved together, the combined top bunks used as storage) while Simon sat on the edge, taking his medications. Sleep aides, anti-anxiety, and antidepressants. It had been a fight, in the beginning of their relationship, for Simon to admit he had problems he couldn’t cope with on his own, but Johnny was patient and stubborn as an ox.
A warm palm cupped his nape, and he leaned into it before getting up and putting his boots on, grabbing a hoodie and one of his tactical knives, plain black balaclava finishing the ensemble. Receiving a nod from his Scot, Simon double checked the locks and curtains on their window before exiting the room to do his rounds. His meds may help, but his routine, while born of paranoia, did more to settle his mind so he can sleep.
Walking the inner perimeter of their barracks first, closing two windows and locking them, drawing the curtains on four more, Simon made his way through the dark halls on silent feet. Exiting the building, he made his way around the outside of the building before moving on to the recruit building. Entering the building, his lip curled under his mask. He’d have to remember to talk to Price about making the recruits actually clean. There is no reason the entrance hall should reek this bad of body odor when they have allotted hours to shower and wash their laundry and bedding. If it got too bad, Ghost would just throw all of their things into the courtyard, mattresses, clothes, and all and make them find their shit and clean it. Air out the building too.
With that thought in mind, he stalked through the halls and closed and locked several windows. Coming to their break room, he noticed a dim light in the room and stopped before the doorway, taking in the scene.
“Listen ma, I’m trying to get time off. It’s difficult, I’m the new guy and I haven’t earned any privileges yet.”
“Your father is in the hospital Erin! You expect me to believe your bosses wouldn’t allow you to come see him before he passes? This is why I told you not to follow your foolish uncle into the military!”
“No ma, that isn’t what I’m saying- I just haven’t been able to file the request yet, I’m sorry. I’m trying my best here ma. I can send you more money for the medical fees, it just might be a little longer beforeI can make it down.”
Johnny has made him soft. That must be the reason he’s considering disregarding the proper chain of command and paperwork. With a subtle slump to his shoulders and a silent sigh, he steps into the room and moves into the frame of the phone camera behind the Private.
“Private Moore.”
He took only mild satisfaction in the widening of the Private’s mother’s eyes and the shark lurch of the younger man in front of him. Only mild. He gestured for Moore to stay seated and nodded in the direction of the phone.
“Your request for leave has been granted. There’s a train running to London in the next fourty-five minutes. Don’ miss it, or you’ll have to wait till mornin’. Ma’am. Goodnight.”
With that,he left the spluttering mess of a young man and his mother behind him and concluded his rounds. In the end, his rounds tonight took him fifteen minutes longer than usual. He ended up giving directions to the station to Private Moore who wouldn’t stop thanking him and promised he’d ‘make it up’ to him. There goes his reputation. Johnny would be better suited for this situation, he’s the empathetic one, not Simon. He couldn’t relate to Moore in any way, and therefore couldn’t empathize. He just didn’t know how.
The interaction lingered in his mind when he made it back to his shared room, locking the door behind him, removing his mask, hoodie, and shucking his boots before climbing into bed and turning out the lamp. Johnny shuffled and grumbled a bit before plastering himself to Simon’s back like an octopus. Simon interlaced his fingers with Johnny’s and settled himself into the pillows and blankets with an odd feeling in his chest, like an itch beneath his sternum.
*
Acid was burning his throat, up his nose and filling his mouth. He’d barely made it to the toilet in time. His eyes watered, blurring his vision as he spat into the toilet bowl, flushing for the third time. There wasn’t anything to come up except bile now, but it wouldn’t stop. Simon’s hands were shaking, his body feeling disconnected and his limbs too long. His head felt fuzzy, like he wasn’t there. He recognized the signs, but could do nothing to stop them as his body fell into the pits of a PTSD attack.
It was burning, the smell of acid and burnt flesh filling his nostrils as his skin became unbearably sensitive, images moving behind closed eyelids with wild abandon. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. He knew that, or at least a small piece of him did, and yet, he wasn’t here either. He hurled into the toilet again, dry heaving as his body shook from exertion and past trauma. He’d been near silent in his vomiting, he knew that. It was a skill he didn’t remember acquiring, but somehow Johnny was there, his hand on Simon’s nape with a cool damp cloth.
He somehow always knew when Simon was having a rough go, and while a bit of him was embarrassed, he appreciated his partner’s steadfast ability to always be there.
“It’s alrigh’, get it oot Si. You’re doin’ great, Ahm here love, no’ goin’ anywhere.”
His throat and nose burned, head pounding and abdomen cramping by the time he had come to himself enough to dislodge himself from the constricting hold he had on the porcelain. Not feeling ready to speak, like it might drag energy from his very soul if he did, Simon gripped Johnny’s hand tightly, leaning into his hold and allowing the Scot to help him to his feet and back to bed.
A few swigs of water and a listerine strip later, he felt slightly better. He tapped his wrist and tilted his head, his question conveyed and understood.
“Bout an hour this time. Been awhile since it’s been that bad, eh? Gon’ have to tell Martha about it, maybe adjust the meds if it's consistent.”
Simon sighed and ran his hands down his face, taking a moment before nodding. He knew he would, and he knew Johnny would be there with him if he asked. He just wished he didn’t have to. He couldn’t remember where he went during the episode, what memories his brain had decided to relive in that hour, and he knew Martha would ask and probably mark him as being evasive when he’d inevitably give a non-answer.
Johnny helped him remove his shirt when he grabbed the hem with shaking hands, his skin reddening where the seams had rubbed. Settling back into bed, Johnny handed him their laptop, an episode of David Attenborough’s Planet Earth queued and ready to play. The Scot curled up next to him as he settled against the wall to watch the documentary while Johnny tried to get some more sleep. They both knew Simon wouldn’t be sleeping more that night, or well, early morning considering the clock on the laptop said it was three in the morning.
*
The bed was empty when Johnny woke, the laptop plugged in on the nightstand and the earbuds wrapped neatly on top of it. Checking his phone and clearing the notifications, the Scot jolted upright with a grin. This was perfect. The date read the Fourteenth of February. Valentine’s Day. It was going to be the perfect way to pull his grumpy Manc from his head, and distract the man.
Eight a.m.
Si was probably in therapy right now, likely having skipped breakfast but grabbed an apple and a cuppa instead. That meant Johnny had two hours to get Gaz to help him enact Operation Valentine (and maybe some of the recruits, it could be like a training exercise. The newbies can run interference.) Yes, this could work. He leapt up and pulled his clothes on semi-hastily, barely remembering to fully close and lock the door behind him as he left.
“Gaz!”
Johnny panted and wrapped his arm around Kyle’s shoulders, nearly causing the man to spill his coffee. “Need your help man, gotta set some shit up for Si before he’s back this way.”
Kyle eyed him suspiciously as he took a drink of his coffee, listening intently as Soap whispered the plan. An impish grin overtook his features as he threw back the rest of his coffee.
“Well why didn’t you say so you muppet! Let’s go!”
*
This was getting ridiculous. He’s had to send three recruits to latrine duty and it's only been ten minutes since he left Martha’s office. The first had nearly tripped him as he walked out the door, sat on the floor in the doorway as he was, Simon nearly stepped on the shorter man’s ankle. The second and third had blocked the hallway entirely with a door and he had no idea where it came from. They had been trying to maneuver it and kept shouting the word ‘Pivot’ at each other. He knew it must have been a reference to, well, something , but he didn’t get it. He ended up standing there, arms crossed, for twenty minutes while growling orders at them that they just kept messing up even though he broke it down step-by-step for them!
It didn’t help that he was irritated from therapy and Martha’s prying questions and eyes. He knew it was her job, but it still rankled him and left him feeling vulnerable and off balance every time he had to actually answer her questions. He hated it, it made him feel weak and naked for everyone to see.
Six recruits ran past him with buckets of water, going towards the cafeteria. Peeking into the large room, he could do nothing but stare blankly as he tried to figure out what the actual fuck was going on in front of him. Price was behind the counter, trying to cook apparently. The key word was ‘trying.’ The very little he could see of the kitchen from where he was was obscured with smoke, the smell wafting through the room and nearly making him gag. The recruits from earlier were passing buckets into the kitchen and Simon groaned, his shoulders slumping as a shout of alarm rang out and the smoke got heavier. Clearly it was a grease fire.
He smashed his elbow into the emergency box containing a fire extinguisher and broke the glass, retrieving the canister and making his way into the kitchen.
“Wha’ the actual fuck Price? Wa’er? On a grease fire?”
He pulled the pin and squeezed the handle, pointing the hose at the fire, putting it out quickly. His captain was missing an eyebrow and his facial hair singed. His signature bucket hat was missing, perhaps collateral damage. The man had the audacity to grin at Simon. The balls on this man. He’s lucky he’s my superior or he’d be mopping the parking lot.
“Was jus’ a bit o’ fun Ghost, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
Simon’s glower moved from the, unfortunately, immune captain, and to the recruits’ sooty and singed faces. They had the decency to stand at attention and not meet his eye. Someone was going to be on that black top today.
“You six; report to the parking lot on the east side in ten minutes. Mops, buckets, and water. Bring them. You’ll be making that blacktop shine before dinner, or you’ll be going to bed hungry. Now Go.”
He knew Price would have them eat even if they missed dinner, and it was a ridiculous request, but it wasn’t about actually cleaning the lot, it was about accountability and following orders, no matter how ridiculous. It was training and a punishment all in one; Ghost’s favourite.
*
It was nearly two hours after his therapy appointment that Simon finally made it back to his room.
Twelve p.m.
To say Simon was already ready for this day to be over would be an understatement. Turning his key in the lock and pushing the door open, his senses were assaulted with an overwhelming amount of pink and red. Helium balloons bobbed near the ceiling, paper hearts and pom poms littered the floor and flat surfaces. Rose petals and candles, two cakes, and was that fucking glitter - on his table. Well, his and Johnny’s, but because there was only one person who could have done this, and that one person happened to be sitting in the center of his pink chaos with a very proud grin, he has mentally decided to revoke Johnny’s claim on anything in the room. So, his table.
Simon remained paused in the doorway, taking it all in. He was torn between incredulous laughter, and annoyance. His brain just stopped. He didn’t know how to react, and so he just didn’t. Five minutes of silence and standing in the open door didn’t dampen Johnny’s spirits, no, if anything Johnny seemed even more smug, as if he’d pulled off some great heist. Simon stepped in and closed the door, taking a deep breath and counting down from ten before hanging his keys on the hook and stepping further into the room. He raised an eyebrow.
“Och don’ tell me ya don’ know what day it is!”
Silence. Expressionless tawny eyes met joyful brown in absolute silence. Simon had, in fact, forgotten what day it was. He was only mildly disappointed, as he’d had his own plans to coerce Johnny into watching My Bloody Valentine with him and eating ninety-six percent dark chocolate and staying in all day. Well. It seemed that wasn’t going to happen.
He sighed and shook his head. He couldn’t stay mad at his Scot for long, especially when the brunette was trying to be sweet. He removed his balaclava and took in everything, catching a glance at the tv. My Bloody Valentine was queued, his preferred chocolate on the coffee table, a hot thermos sitting next to it with his tea cup with unopened tea bags arranged, well, somewhat neatly.
“Johnny.”
The man perked up at the soft, breathless way Simon spoke his name. He opened his arms and thought his grin couldn’t possibly get any wider when the blonde sat with him on the couch, curled up against his side.
“Price told you my plan?”
“Nah, ah just remembered you mentioned it last year ‘fore we got together, how you watch it every Valentine’s Day. The chocolate wasn’t hard either, ya don’ like sweets but you still enjoy chocolate if it's dark enough.”
Simon felt…touched. Warm. He didn’t know how to convey what he was feeling, so instead he prepared himself a cuppa, opened a bar of chocolate, and settled in as Johnny started the movie.
The rest of the evening was filled with soft spoken words, reassuring pressure in their touches, and trashy B rated movies. Simon had never celebrated Valentine’s Day before, not really, but he could see himself falling into a tradition such as this, as long as it was with Johnny.
Three squeezes on Johnny’s hand said ‘ I Love You .’
The answering squeeze and kiss on his forehead told him that Johnny knew. That he always knew, and would never doubt it. Simon would burn the world for the man at his side, he need only ask. But he wouldn’t, that wasn’t who Johnny was, and Simon loved him more for it.