Johnny has a toxic relationship with sex. As a young man, he found himself pursued for his looks, his body, but that was it. No one cared about his thoughts, his intelligence, his capacity to achieve. The only time anyone ever praised him, valued him, was when he was pleasing them in bed.
Otherwise he's too... Johnny.
He is focused and driven in the 141 because this is his chance to prove he's more than just a pretty face. But when things go pear-shaped? If he disappoints someone? He'll renew his efforts in the gym, in training, and then he'll go punish himself by pursuing the one activity he knows people want from him.
Simon watches Johnny across the bar. He's doing it again. Flirting with whatever eyes look his way. With Johnny, that's always a lot of eyes. He does this after every op where things have gone a bit sideways. He'll choose whichever one is still around once he's drunk himself into a half stupor, and then...
Simon's thumb rubs up the side of his beer bottle, catching the bent level he'd been picking at moments before.
He's not jealous. He's not. And he keeps telling himself that when Johnny slides his fingers through the belt loops of some bloke that looks near bloody Nikolai's age but without the Slavic charm.
Ten minutes go by, and Simon waits before heading out for a smoke. He tells himself he was gonna do it anyway. It's not to catch a glimpse of anything.
As he steps outside stroking his lighter, he sees movement further back. A familiar stocky figure rises from the ground and Not-Nikolai soon swaggers by doing up his jeans. He stinks of stale fags and booze.
"Ahh, LT, come oot fer a cheeky wee peak?" Johnny says as he walks up, dragging a thumb over his lower lip.
"Yer a fuckin' slag, MacTavish," Simon grunts.
"MacTavish?" Johnny asks, surprised. "Shite, I mus' be in the dog house." He pauses, studying Simon in that uncanny way he has. Like he can see beneath the mask. Granted, it's rolled up to Simon's nose, but still. "Ah ye jealous?"
Simon clenches his teeth and then relaxes his jaw. "Don't flatter yaself."
"Fuuh-k, ye are," Johnny says, sidling up. "All ye had tae do was ask, big man." Johnny reaches for Simon's belt, but Simon's quicker. He snags Johnny's wrist and twists his arm up.
"You out yer fuckin' head?"
Johnny grimaces, but he doesn't fight Simon's grip. This close, Simon can see something's wrong. There's a dullness to his eyes. Not the same bright, annoying spark of energy he's used to seeing in the field, on base, fuck, just... any time Johnny's around. It's like he's somewhere else.
Simon releases his arm and Johnny looks at the reddened marks as they fade. "Sitrep, sergeant."
Johnny grinned. But it wasn't real. A facsimile of a smile. He swept his arms out in a grand gesture. "All gud. Now, if ye excuse me, after ye so brutally rejected me, ah need tae go reassure myself ah can still pull. Another?" He makes a drinking gesture.
Simon watches Johnny head inside and can't help but feel he's watching a train wreck happening in slow motion.