Like Simon Riley and John Price not having a clue where brat!reader is but she works on the other side of town from where she lives so she just stays at a friends house most of the time (the reason why her apartment is so clean) but Brat!reader is such a fvcking hustler. Always working or doing something. Has sold perfumes to middle age women for some time.
Simon and John get invited to the bar you work at truly by coincidence by some colleges for lunch. They spot you serving the regulars who come for their mid day drink in the section over. A tight top with your perfect tits pushed up in a black shirt, tight black shorts hugging your curves and that black server pouch on your hip filled with buttons, curls in a big ponytail. Laughing it up with the old guys as you set their food on the table. Such leering eyes that get drawn to you because you’re— jesus, you’re just the most stunning girl they ever saw. Pretty Face lightly painted in makeup, lashes fluttering as you rolled your eyes at some comment.
Course the two British men had to leave, work calls, but they came again in the afternoon. Light in your eyes dimmed, tired but pushing your body still. It’s more busy, the other waitress asking you questions you don’t have answers to. Somethings wrong in the back but all you can do is smile, give out complimentary drinks, offer a small arm with apart dance to one of the gentleman who just got off work. It always earns you better tips. You don’t even realize how cought uo you are when you take your much needed break. Cold chilly air of the star filled night sky hitting your skin, your hands shaking. If you didn’t have to do this job, you wouldn’t. It’s spikes your anxiety ten fold, and you’re already not the best with people. But you’re good at faking a smile, good at letting people hear exactly what they imagined for them to get off your back.
It’s all too much for you, but you hold it in, wrap your arms around yourself and try to suppress everything bottled up. And you try to disassociate, let’s just say it doesn’t land right when you notice John and Simon standing above you. “What are you doing here?” You ask, straight to the chase. Your voice, the real one youd pushed down, comes out. Weary, exhausted.
“Came t’ check on you love.” John gently takes your hand, standing you uo from the hard curb you sat on. “When does your shift end?”
“At Two-“ your eyes flicker to Simon, back to John, pulling away, “I have to finish my shift, it’s not even ten yet-“
“—It’s enough.” Simons voice is just, cuts, deep, through everything that’s making your body feel so jittery. You thought you had a handle on it but- maybe you needed someone to step in for you, “We’re goin home. Figure everythin’ else all out la’er.”
You should curse them out, if you hadn’t already tangled yourself through your own mind you could have. But it’s just something you lean into, except what ever is happening through glossy eyes. Because you have that deep gut feeling that you’ll be okay with them, that they’ll take care of everything. Theres such safety in having all eyes on you when you’re not in the hot seat. Not the one being yelled at and forced to yell back.
You don’t remember how you got out of there, but your manager said you’d been working too much overtime anyway. You’re all scooped up in Simons lap in the truck, John’s hand going up and down your calf while Simons goes up and down your back, sleep taking over and closing your worn out eyes.
a/n: so wattpad coded but unfortunately John and Simon would see you in such situations (over working yourself, stressed, anxious) and immediately pull you out of them. Doesn’t matter what’s going on.
he can't remember the last night he slept for more than four hours in a row before waking up - either to the tail end of a nightmare or just because his body has decided that it's time for him to stare blankly at the ceiling instead of enjoying some well deserved time unconscious.
that is, unless he's using you as his personal pillow.
head on one tit, hand on the other, eyes shut and drooling as he sleeps his way though a lazy sunday morning.
you glance down occasionally from where you're scrolling on your phone, seeing the way his eyelashes flutter and the corners of his mouth are almost curled into a smile.
masterlist ⠀! ⠀ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. ✶
He loves you so much. So so so fucking much. So much it hurts.
Like physically一like a hot knife twisting in his chest every time you blink those pretty eyes at him.
You could hand him a razor and point at his throat and he'd say thank you, he'd fucking thank you with his last breath because you're an angel and he's just the dirt under your nails.
He's not a bad guy, okay??!
He's a good boyfriend.
A devoted boyfriend.
He'd die for you. He'd kill for you. He'd crawl inside your chest and live between your ribs if it meant being closer, and that's romantic, that's soulmate shit, not creepy. Dont say its creepyー
But then he hears you crying through the door, and his stomach drops.
Is someone hurting you? Did something happen? Was it himーdid he fuck up again?
He's already digging his own grave as he rushes to you, ready to do anything. anything, just make it stop—
Oh...
Your shoulders are shaking. Your hair is messy and unbrushed because you've been too sad to care, your cheeks are flushed and wet and rosy, your nose running just a little, your mouth—god, your mouth一is pouty and swollen and suckable, like you've been biting your lip to keep the sobs inー
He's supposed to comfort you. He knows that. That's what good boyfriends do. That's what he does.
He wraps his arms around you from behind, pulls you close, whispers "shh, shh, I'm here, I've got you." into your tangled hair. He's so good at this. He's so gentle. He's so一
Oh fuck.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no.
You're crying harder now, and your body is trembling against his, and he can feel every little shudder through his chest, his stomach, hisー
He's hard. He's so fucking hard and he didn't mean to, he swears he didn't mean to.
He's a monster, a disgusting horrible boyfriend.
Who gets turned on when their girl is crying? Who does that? Who—
But you're so pretty when you cry.
And you're so needy right now, so broken and fragile and his, leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping you together, and he just—he just needs a little friction, just a little, he'll be so gentle, you won't even notice—
He shifts his hips. Just barely. Presses himself against your lower back through your thin sleep shirt and his sweatpants and breathes.
"It's okay," he whispers, rubbing slow circles on your stomach while he rubs himself against you, just a little. just a tiny bit, he's still comforting you, he's still being good, he's still—
"I've got you. I've got you."
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He's a fucking creep.
A disgusting, pathetic, perverted piece of shit.
He hates himself. He hates himself so much it makes him even harder.
He's so fucking sorry. He's grinding, slow and subtle, biting his lip so hard it bleeds, using your sobs to cover the shaky little breaths he's taking against your hair.
You're crying more and more, and his pre cum is soaking through his boxers.
He's a good boyfriend.
Of course he's a good boyfriend!
He'd die for you. He'd kill himself if you found out, if you turned around and saw the wet spot on his jeans, the desperate, leaking outline of everything he's trying to hide.
Please don't notice.
Please don't hate him.
He loves you more than anything, he's just—fucked up, okay?
He's broken and sick and his balls are aching and you smell so good when you're sad, salty and warm and vulnerable, and he wants to lick the tears off your chin while he fuck—
Oh god.
You just sniffled and arched a little and his dick jumped so hard he almost came right there, grinding against the fabric of your shorts like a dog in heat.
Please. Please let him cum first. Then you can hate him. Then you can scream at him and call him a freak and he'll go swallow a bottle of pills like he deserves.
But please— please— just let him rut against you for one more minute, just let him sliding into you while you're still hiccuping and broken and his.
And if you could just pretend not to feel it一just this once—if you could just stay still and cry and let him use the sound of your pain to get off, he promises he'll never ask for anything again.
He'll comfort you properly in a minute, he swears.
Summary: When getting a late night snack, Simon finds you and breaks down.
It’s exactly 2:36am
For some reason these past few days, you’ve been struggling to fall asleep. To much on your mind. Im your 23 years of living, you never did figure out how to turn your brain off.
You’re currently standing in the kitchen going through the pantry. All of a sudden you hear staggered breathing and quick footsteps. You reach for your gun on the counter, and hold it up aiming towards the hallway as the steps get closer. When the footsteps stop, you discover it’s Ghost. With no mask. His eyes are glassy and his hands are shaking. You quickly place your gun down.
“Simon..?”
He stands there, staring at you. He seems like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Simon. Hey, talk to me.”
“Y-You’re here.” Tears begin to fall.
“Yeah, im here. What happened?”
He goes to speak, but nothing comes out. He falls onto his knees. You rush over and hold him, he sobs into your neck. He holds you tightly.
“I-I thought i lost you. You were s-shot. Your blood was everywhere.”
“It was a nightmare. You’re okay, Im okay. Nothing happened, love.” You brush pieces of his tear soaked hair from his face, and place kisses on his cheek.
He meets your eyes. He sees your concern and quickly sits up. He wipes his eyes and stands.
“Fuck.” He turns away, “You must think im such a pussy”
“Not at all.. i think you’re brave for telling me wjat happened.” You stand and take his hands in yours.
“Would you like to come back to my room? Might help you sleep, knowing im by you.”
“Yes please.” He keeps his head down like a sad puppy.
“Come on baby.”
a/n: Unfortunately this was just a little drabble so i probably won’t make a part 2. Have a great day💕
Okay so since being off work I’ve been at the pool and today I got to thinking: what is the 141 like at the pool /beach
And the pool that’s in my community is very small and only goes to 9ft (can’t dive because it’s still too shallow at 9ft) and cannon ghost is at a MINIMUM of 6’4!! My man is nearly standing in 9 feet of water!!!!
All of this to say can I please get a Simon X wife!reader at the pool with the 141 (plus if they have kids then kids too)
you may😼 I’m just giving them one kid cuz idk new dad!simon seems cute
no warnings😛
-
“Si- no honey stop moving, please. Simon?” Your attention keeps going back and forth between your daughter squirming in the back of the car as you try to get her swimsuit on and your husband trying to find the key card to get into the community pool.
“Hm?” Simon looks up when he finally finds the card and snorts out a laugh when he sees you holding onto the kid for dear life while she’s reaching out for him.
“Oh y’little wiggle worm get over here.” He takes her and she immediately calms down, giggling as she smacks his chest and face. “Givin y’mum a hard time?”
You smile at the sight and quickly get the rest of her swimsuit on before she decides to start moving again. You grab everything else you’d need for her and for yourselves before closing the trunk and locking the car. You let Simon carry your daughter who, at just over a year old, is still refusing to walk on her own because she knows one of you will carry her instead.
The pool wasn’t too crowded, thankfully. Just a couple other families here and there and a group of teenage girls gossiping in the far corner. You and Simon find a spot big enough to fit the others when they arrive and you take the sunscreen out of your bag, making Simon groan.
“Come on, I don’t need that stuff.”
“Remember when your shoulders were peeling so bad I had to slather you in aloe for two weeks?”
He grumbles under his breath but comes and sits in front of you anyway, getting some baby sunscreen on your daughter while you get him taken care of. You’re just finishing when the guys arrive, calling out greetings and Johnny waving around a pool floaty specifically made for toddlers.
“Look what I found ye!” He shows off the floaty and your daughter squeals not only at the sight of it, but at the sight of other people. You greet them all and once Simon was done getting his sunscreen on, you make the others line up for their turns.
After all that, you finally get into the water and watch as the men swim and mess around and you stay on the shallower end with your daughter and the floaty. She was splashing around and looking at you like she was proud of herself for getting the both of you all wet and you couldn’t help but smile back at her.
Not too long after, Simon comes up behind you and presses a kiss to your temple. “Johnny’s wife is about t’be here if y’wanna hand off the kid? I’ll watch her and you can have your girl time or whatever it is y’ladies do.”
“Whatever it is we do?” You laugh, turning to look at him and kiss him back. “Alright then. Thanks, Si.”
You get out just as Johnny’s wife was coming in hauling their twins. A little older than your girl but still young enough to play with her. You talk with her while you help get one of the twins ready and send them off. It was nice having everyone together, and a mom friend on top of that. She was probably the one that kept you sane when Simon was deployed when your daughter was just a few months old and going through sleep regressions and teething.
You weren’t sure how much time had passed but it was enough time for your daughter to have fallen asleep in the floaty and Simon carrying her back to you.
“Reckon it’s time t’go?”
You take her from his arms and cover her with her towel, shaking your head. “No, I brought food, remember? It’s in the cooler, let’s eat first.”
At the mention of food, the other three fight their way out of the water and huddle around the cooler to get the “pool food” Gaz had been raving about for months now. It was simple, just sandwiches and crisps with some sodas but there was nothing like it after having a swim.
Once everyone had eaten, then it was time to go. Your daughter was still asleep and by some miracle didn’t wake up even as you put her into the car seat. You say goodbye to everyone and start planning the next get together before going home.
Later that night once your daughter was bathed and down for the night, you sat on the couch with Simon who was half asleep already.
“W’should get our own pool.” He mumbles, shoving his face into your neck.
Been thinking heavy of a psychic!reader and Nikto.
You grew up normal, your concerns boiled down to grades and the boy and girls you liked, but once you hit eighteen, that changed.
You always had an affinity for the spiritual, feeling things around you that you cannot see, but after becoming an adult, you began to realize all that is around you that the others can’t perceive. Your dreams became cryptic- scary even. Each night, when your conscious mind is gone, do you see the monsters and angels that reside over everyone. At first, you truly believed they were just nightmares, something your mind conjures up to deal with your past trauma.
Then, you see them when you’re awake.
A constant torture, a mental battle between you and the things you cannot see.
It all came to a head when Nikto walked into base. You were strong by now, your mental fortitude beyond anything anyone has ever seen. The U.S government needs you on their side, manipulating politicians and other world governments to suit their needs. Sent along the world without care for your stability, you find yourself in Germany. Your Colonel is a big mountain of a man, and he explains how other PMC’s will be brought to the base.
Spetznaz is another private militia that was hired to work alongside you and Kortac, their soldiers much more brutal and rugged than you’re used to. A fact that wouldn’t bother you- and it doesn’t- but what does.. Is the silent man that walks through the front gates.
Your knees almost give out, and you stand there for longer than what is normal. This man, one adjourned in black and secrecy, is a man you’ve seen before.
It was years ago, when you saw him for the first time. At that time- he was broken, more so than he is now. His face was bloodied beyond recognition, the skin on his body flayed and battered, the look in his eyes were cavant- scared.
You stood before him at that time, eyes and body rigid as you looked at the zombie.. He looked dead- the only evidence of him being alive were the short, shallow breaths he forces himself to take. His eyes were coated in blood, and only on past reflection do you register that he was looking at you.
Young and scared, you do what you believe is right- you try and loosen his restraints, tugging and pulling on the chains that keep him in place, only for your efforts to be futile.
You’re not there, not really.
Crouching in front of him, tears run down your face. The image of a man skinned and tortured lives freely in your mind.
You convince yourself it was a dream, that the blood and gore was a manifestation of your psyche. The man isn’t real. His pain isn’t real.
Until you see him.
His face is covered, his body adorned with black and secrecy, but you feel him. He feels the same as the man you found in your dreams all those years ago. That thought makes you feel sick. You believed it was a dream- that what you saw wasn’t real- but now, you know that it was.
``
Nikto felt you before he saw you. A perverted sense of safety melting in his mind, the same feeling he felt when the man he used to be was murdered. It felt safe- scary. He knew it was you before he could deny the feeling, intrinsically he knew it was the girl that tried to pull him out- that tried to save him.
His eyes immediately snap to you- he doesn’t need time to think if it’s you or not. He knows it is.
You’re young- beautiful. You’re older, but it’s you. The same girl that saved him. Despite not being aware, your mind called for help. The day after you saw him, he was rescued- as much as he could be at that point. He knew it was you. You were his guardian angel. His reason for living. And now, knowing he wasn’t hallucinating you, he knows that you are meant for him. You are his angel, and he’ll spend the rest of his life showing you his gratitude.
You see him. But, he felt you long before your sight caught up.
A/N: I want to make this a series. If anyone likes the premise, please let me know!
I just read Gates of Hell on Hands and Knees and it absolutely wrecked me.
The way you write Soap is divine. From his mannerisms and dialogue to the alternating softness, courage, and cheekiness of his personality.
I love the small interaction with Ghost at the end too, and the friendship it suggests between them.
Is there any way we can cajole, convince, or otherwise peer-pressure you into writing a happy and angst free sequel to that?
Gates of Hell on Hands and Knees | Part 2
johnny "soap" mactavish x fem!reader
read part 1 here.
Knowing someone is dead was closure. Having a gravestone to caress and leave flowers by was relief. Not knowing where the love of your life might be, whether he was dead or alive, buried or burnt, grave unnamed or not… You never did well with uncertainty.
[5.4k] presumed dead / missing in action, fever dreams & delirium, injury recovery, established relationship, reunion, angst with a happy ending, protective simon "ghost" riley
The mirror was merely a fractured rectangle, held against a crumbling concrete pillar by two strips of duct tape. In its cracked reflection, the city of Verdansk —or what was left of it after the blockade— sank into a hazy blue.
Johnny sat backwards on a skeletal metal chair, forearms resting over the backrest with his head tilted high. His face was covered in a thick mask of cheap soap, whipped up in a rusted ration tin using a stiff shaving brush.
“Hold still, MacTavish, or I’m going to have to leave you with a permanent smile like a Batman villain,” Gaz muttered. He was leaning in close, sharpest knife he could find held delicately between his fingers. With surprisingly steady precision, he dragged the flat of the blade down Johnny’s cheek, clearing a wide path through the thick soap and weeks of stubble.
“I am holding still, ye bloody butcher,” Johnny grumbled, slightly muffled by the layer of foam covering his top lip. His eyes darted up to the mirror, tracking Gaz’s movements with an intense amount of suspicion despite trusting him with his life. “Jus’ making sure I dinnae go home to my gorgeous wife looking like a had a run-in wi’ a blender. Domestic necessities.”
A low huff echoed from the shadows beside the pillar.
Simon was leaning against the structural wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Even inside a decaying apartment building with no running water and zero supply lines, the Ghost managed to look completely unbothered. His dark eyes flickered from Johnny’s overgrown hair down to the foam dripping onto his collar.
“Domestic necessities, my arse,” Ghost rumbled through the distant, sporadic artillery fire outside. “If I were her, I’d leave the deadbolt slid shut.”
“Ah, dinnae listen to him, Gaz,” Johnny flashed a sharp, white-toothed grin cutting through the remaining foam on his face as his eyes sparkled with mischief. “LT’s just jealous ‘cause no one’s seen his jawline since the late nineties. He disnae understand the logistics of a proper reunion kiss.”
Gaz let out a soft chuckle, wiping the edge of the knife on a piece of torn cloth before stepping back in for another pass. “Though personally, Johnny, if I spent eighteen months ghosting the grid just to come home and get nagged about a crooked shave, I’d head right back to Middle East or something.”
Johnny grunted, flinching slightly as Gaz ran the blade along his jawline. “She disnae do the nagging bit. She’ll look at me, at the absolute state of my mohawk, and tell me I look like a rat born out of wedlock. It’s the quiet judgment that gets ye, boys. Saps the confidence right out of a man.”
“Good,” Ghost said, cold amusement bleeding through his mask as he shifted against the concrete wall. “Keep you humble. Lord knows a year and half of surviving on stray dogs and rainwater hasn’t done much to quiet your mouth, MacTavish.”
“Hey, it’s canned mutton. I won’t allow this smear campaign against our rations,” Gaz chuckled whilst finishing the final stroke along Johnny’s neck and wiping the knife clean on his thigh. “I think making sure he’s got all his limbs is far more important than caring about the symmetry of his body hair.”
Johnny reached up, splashing a bit of cold water from a plastic jug onto his face to rinse away the leftover foam and hair. He blinked through the droplets, looking at his clean-shaven face in the cracked glass. The dark circles under his eyes were deep, and there was a new scar slicing right through the edge of his left eyebrow from a rogue piece of masonry six months back. But beneath the grime and exhaustion, his jaw remained set. He looked like himself again. You’d grab his face and call out how unfair it was for him to be this handsome, he knew it.
“Aye,” Johnny murmured, patting a cloth against his face to dry the skin. He looked over his shoulder at Simon, then at the Captain, keeping watch by the window. “Eighteen months of this shite. I’m ready for a proper roof.”
Eighteen months of quiet had turned the house into a museum of waiting. The living room, once bursting with Johnny’s booming laughter, discarded clothes thrown carelessly upon the excitement of seeing you home, and the warmth of his all-consuming presence, now felt vast and uncomfortably, uncharacteristically still.
Friends and family had stopped calling about it around six months back. You barely got any visits from them anymore. At some point, you’d stopped taking up on the offers of going out to a pub, to get something to eat, as friends definitely noticed how hollowed out you seemed; and after that point, people just stopped asking.
You couldn’t blame them, really. Knowing someone is dead was closure. Having a gravestone to caress and leave flowers by was relief. Not knowing where the love of your life might be, whether he was dead or alive, buried or burnt, grave unnamed or not…
You never did well with uncertainty.
You sat in the exact same spot on the floor, back pressed against the base of the sofa, half-empty glass of red wine resting on the carpet beside your knee. The telly was on, of course, he’d told you to keep it on, and it cast a flickering glow across the dark room as it played that same home restoration show. On the screen, a new couple was bickering over the layout, their superficial problems serving as a numbing cream over your bleeding heart. It didn’t feel like mockery anymore. You found an odd sense of comfort in seeing that at least they had each other.
You swirled the wine in your glass, watching the dark liquid coat the crystal, mind drifting back to the last afternoon you had spent on this very rug— with Johnny’s heavy, stubborn head resting against your lower abdomen while he grumbled about the work on TV. You had spent all this time nursing that memory, holding onto the phantom weight of his head, the ghost of his gravelly purr.
The house was hell to walk through. The bathroom shelf with its hollow wall anchor sat exactly as he had left it, the mismatched color of the patchwork he’d done serving as a sacred testament to his messy domesticity that you refused to let anyone touch. You lived your life in a perpetual, agonizing limbo, walking that fragile tightrope without any sort of safety net whatsoever, never knowing if the man who loved you more than his next breath was still fighting his way back, or if the dark had finally taken over.
You took a slow, deep sip as you stared blankly at the TV screen, completely unaware that a few streets over, a matte-black military transport was quietly cutting through the twilight.
A few minutes later, the heavy thud of a car door shutting broke the silence of the street.
Your hand froze halfway to your mouth, glass of wine tilting slightly whilst your chest locked up. That sound. It was way too heavy for a regular car. None of your neighbors owned a car that sounded like that.
Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as you set the glass down with a shaky rattle, scrambling off the floor. Your slippers skidded on the rug as you dashed into the hallway, hands trembling so much you could barely get a proper grip on the deadbolt.
You threw the front door open, the cool evening air hitting your face as you stepped outside, but your eyes immediately locked onto the curb.
The military transport was sitting there, its exhaust spitting thin plumes of gray into the air. But only one door had opened.
Simon stepped onto the pavement.
He was moving slowly, shoulders hunched, skull mask making him look like the grim reaper incarnate under the dim yellow of the streetlamp. He walked across the grass alone. No loud, booming Scottish accent behind him. No Johnny.
Your world as you knew it, completely tilted on its axis. The terror you had spent eighteen months mourning finally crashed down, crushing out the remaining air from your lungs.
“No,” you choked out, a breathless sob tearing from your throat as you stumbled down the porch steps. Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes wide, pleading, wild with the paralyzing grief that began to consume you. You didn’t necessarily see a soldier in front of you. You saw the nightmare that kept you awake, the dress uniform, polished shoes, hat off by the chest, and he’s so, so sorry. “Simon, no… please, no. You promised me. You promised…”
Simon caught you before your knees could buckle into the grass. His gloved palms gripped your body, hold firm, grounding as he pinned your collapsing weight against his broad chest.
“Hey, no, look at me. Look at me, love,” Simon barked, trying to cut in between you and the rising panic bubbling in your heart. He leaned down, forcing his forehead agaisnt yours, forcing his eyes to lock onto your tear-blurred ones. “He’s not dead. Johnny’s alive. Breathe, bloody hell, breathe.”
The words took a second to register through the loud ringing in your ears. You clutched at his vest, fingers digging into the stiff nylon until it hurt. “Where is he? Simon, why isn’t he with you?”
Simon let out a long, heavy sigh, beginning to slowly lead you back into the house. You fought against it, but to no avail, he was too strong for you to fight back and run to the car.
“Because your husband is the most pig-headed bastard in the entire British Army,” he muttered and you caught the faint edge of exhausted, fond irritation in his rough cadence. He practically forced you into a sitting position on the couch, eyes catching the wine glass and some of the empty bottles around, but he didn’t comment on it, getting down on his knees to force you to look down at him. “Took a nasty bit of shrapnel to the thigh a few days ago. Nothing fatal, skipped the artery, but the idiot hid it from us because he was terrified we’d miss the extraction window.”
You let out a trembling breath, eyes closing for a second as you leaned forward, closer, just to make sure you weren’t mishearing anything. “Oh my god…”
“Fever hit him like a damned train halfway through the flight,” Simon continued, hand coming up to gently pat your knee. “He’s completely out of it, mumbling nonsense. Medics put him straight into the base infirmary the second we touched down to get him on an IV drip and flush the fever out.”
He pulled back a little, then, eyes softening beneath the mask as he looked up at your unraveled face. “He wanted to come straight to the door, love. Genuinely tried to fight the orderly. When he couldn’t, well…” he shrugged, vaguely pointing at himself. “He’s safe. I kept my promise.”
The suffocating amount of terror that had colonized your chest for a year and a half didn’t vanish entirely, that would be too easy. It shifted a bit, transforming into a frantic need to move, right that second.
“Take me to him,” you whispered, voice cracking as you made a move to stand up from the sofa. “Simon, please. If he’s fighting orderlies, he needs me. Take me to the base.”
Simon refused to move an inch, hands anchored to your knees, keeping you safely seated. “Not like this, love,” he murmured, eyes trailing your mismatched loungewear, the tremor in your hands, the frantic gaze you sported. “The base is a forty-minute drive, and the infirmary is freezing. Wash your face first. Then go put some boots on. Grab a proper jacket. I’ll wait right here.”
You wanted so badly to argue, to tell him you didn’t care if you walked into the military hospital stark naked as long as you got to Johnny, but the authority in Ghost’s gaze brooked no refusal. You nodded sharply, swallowing down a fresh wave of emotional exhaustion as you stood up and bolted down the hallway toward the bathroom.
Your hands shook so violently you could barely pull the sweater over your head. You grabbed the first pair of sturdy boots you could find and snatched Johnny’s heavy flannel off the back of the closet door— craving the faint scent of him even if it was buried under eighteen months of dust.
When you hurried back into the living room, Simon was already standing by the front door, holding your house keys in his gloved hand. He took one look at you. “Right,” he rumbled, turning the doorknob and stepping into the night. “Let’s go get your idiot.”
The engine rumbled with a vibration that seemed to match the anxious knot restarting its hold under your ribs. Simon’s hands rested steady on the steering wheel, eyes tracking the slicked roads as the typical purple twilight bled into the deep ink of the night.
You sat in the passenger seat, wrapped so deeply in the oversized flannel that the cuffs swallowed your hands. Your knees were pulled tightly to your chest, boots braced against the dashboard to keep yourself from coming apart. Every red light felt like a lifetime, every mile of asphalt a physical barrier stretching between you and the breath Johnny was drawing in a hospital bed.
“Stop that,” Simon didn’t look over you, his eyes locked on the dark highway ahead. “You’re going to put your foot through my dash.”
You slowly dropped your legs, pressing your palms flat against your thighs to force the trembling to stop. “How bad is the fever, Si? Really.”
“He was out of his head by the time we crossed the airspace. Kept trying to unbuckle his harness because he swore he heard you calling him from the cargo ramp.” he let out a huff of quiet laughter, then. “He’s strong. Too strong to let a bug take him down after a year and a half of dodging mortars. But he’s spent. The whole lot of us are.”
You looked out the window, watching the bleak walls of the military base finally materialize out of the dark. “You kept him alive.”
“You owe me one, then,” he spoke flatly, which managed to pull half a smile out of you. The vehicle swung through the security checkpoint, guards waving the transport through on sight. “There were at least a dozen separate occasions in that blockaded sector where MacTavish’s crazy logic was the only thing that cleared a path for us. He fought like a demon to get back to this city. To get back home.”
The vehicle squealed to a halt in the restricted red zone directly outside the brick building of the base infirmary. Simon was out his door in an instant, walking around to your side to throw the door open, hands catching your waist to help you down onto the asphalt.
“Second floor,” Simon murmured, nodding towards the heavy doors where a faint fluorescent white light spilled out onto the pavement. “I’ll handle the parking. Don’t let the orderlies give you any grief, tell ‘em the Ghost sent you.”
You practically sprinted through the double doors of the infirmary, and bolted up the stairs to the second floor. When you rounded the corner, the harsh lights overhead blurred together, but your eyes instantly locked onto the small, rectangular window of Room 204.
You flinched upon the sight. Not that he looked like shit, well, he did, but he was Johnny. Your Johnny. Asleep.
He still looked massive in the narrow hospital bed, broad shoulders propped up by pillows. He was stripped of all his armor, only wearing a loose green medical gown that showed a glimpse of a thick white bandage wrapped around his thigh. His face was flushed with the remnants of the fever, and a cannula was hooked beneath his nose. But his chest was rising and falling. He was breathing, and he looked so, so alive.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The soft murmur made you tear your eyes away from the window. Sitting on a row of plastic waiting chairs directly outside the door were Price and Gaz. They looked entirely spent, barely out of their dirty uniforms, eyes hollowed out by the same tomb Johnny had just escaped. Each of them was holding a steaming cardboard cup of coffee.
Gaz was already on his feet before you could get a word out, setting his coffee on the chair beside him. The second his eyes met yours, a look of profound relief broke through the obvious exhaustion.
You stepped straight into his space, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. He caught you instantly and pinned you to his chest in a brief squeeze that smelled of rain and mud.
“I got you,” Gaz whispered into your hair. “He’s good. He’s okay.”
As Gaz slowly let you go, Price stood up. The Captain had taken off his iconic boonie hat, revealing a sweat-dampened hairline, though his thick beard couldn’t hide the paternal tilt of his mouth. He looked at you, then down at Johnny’s oversized flannel drowning your frame, and let out a long breath.
You moved directly to him next, throwing your arms around his neck. The older soldier braced himself with his calloused hands coming up to rest against the back of your head, holding you securely against his shoulder for a long moment. It was the embrace of a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but had made damn sure to carry his boys back with him.
“Go on inside,” he murmured near your ear, voice steady and certain as he patted your back. “He’s just waiting on the right voice to wake up to.”
The heavy wooden door turned with a click as you stepped into a space that felt entirely frozen in time.
The steady beep… beep… beep… of Johnny’s heart monitor worked as proof that he was here. He was breathing.
You walked over to his side of the bed, unlaced boots dragging against the concrete floor. Up close, the reality of just how tough the deployment had been was written all over him. Johnny was pale beneath the flush of the fever, jaw rough with a dark stubble. There were small, faded nicks along his collarbone, and a jagged line through his eyebrow looked pink against his skin. He looked thinner.
Your knees gave out slightly as you sank into the chair right beside the mattress.
Slowly, your trembling hand reached out from the sleeve of the flannel. Your fingers hovered over his hand for a second, genuinely terrified that he might vanish into a puff of smoke if you touched him. But when you finally pressed your palm flat against the back of his hand, he felt real. Skin burning hot, slick with fever sweat, but the weight of his bones beneath your touch was the most beautiful thing you had ever felt.
“Johnny,” you whispered, the sound small and broken. “My baby.”
At the sound of your voice, the line on the heart monitor jumped, the beeping speeding up just a fraction. Johnny’s jaw shifted sharply. His head rolled against the thin white pillow a little, a pained groan vibrating deep within his chest as his brow furrowed. His internal radar had instantly picked up the one frequency he’d always tune into.
“Sunshine?” he rasped.
His eyelids fluttered, heavy and uncooperative from the medication, but he fought them open. He was a fighter through and through. His bright blue eyes were clouded, unfocused, and bloodshot, rolling blindly across the ceiling before they finally drifted down and locked onto your face. For a long moment, he just stared at you, chest heaving deeper as if he couldn’t quite decide if his mind was playing a cruel trick on him.
“Am I… am I dreaming ye up again, hen?” he whispered, large fingers twitching beneath yours, desperately trying to find the strength to curl around your wrist.
Hot tears finally spilled over your eyelashes, dropping onto the back of his warm hand. You leaned over the metal guardrail of the hospital bed and brought your other hand up to cup his face. Your fingers slid into the short, soft hair of his mohawk, thumb tracing the sharp, trembling line of his jaw just like you used to, back home.
You choked out a soft sob, smiling through it as you pressed your forehead gently against his damp temple. “You’re not dreaming. I’m right here. Look at me, John, you’re safe, you’re at the base. You’re home.”
Johnny let out a long, shuddering breath, chest lifting so violently it probably strained the wires of the heart monitor. The rapid beeping of the machine echoed through the room as his clouded eyes slowly began to track the movement of your thumb on his skin. He swallowed hard, his throat working against the dry rasp of his breath.
You could see the sudden wave of clarity breaking through his fevered haze. His jaw trembled, the hard mask he was so used to wear beginning to shatter at the edges.
“Sunshine,” the word ripped out of his chest like a sob.
With a sudden urge of desperate and uncoordinated strength, one of his arms came up, hand locking around the back of your neck to keep you there. He didn’t care about the IV line pulling taut in his veins or the burning of the stitches in his thigh. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he let out a deep breath that tasted stale in his mouth.
The entirety of his body began to shake beneath the thin medical gown, shoulders racking with silent sobs as he held you. His arm kept you pinned so close to his chest that you could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart hitting against your own ribs. He was breathing you in, nose brushing against the collar of his own old shirt, desperate to drown out the memories of concrete, smoke, and blood with the scent of you and home. His favourite. His everything.
“Ye’re the only real thing I’ve got left in this miserable world,” Johnny wept into your skin and you couldn’t help but weep with him, at how unraveled he was, how small and scared he seemed with the sobs breaking out of him. “Thank ye for no’ letting go, no’ moving on yet, ye’re my home— I did it, I crawled through, for you, for you only, I—”
“Shh, I know,” you held him back just as tightly, fingers burying deeper into his hair as your tears ran hot against his shoulder. You could only whisper as you didn’t trust your voice just yet. “I know you did, Johnny. I never stopped looking at the door. I never stopped waiting for you.”
Within the quiet minutes of your embrace, the beat of his heart began to ease, settling into one that synced with yours. The monitor slowed down, though Johnny didn’t loosen his grip an inch, grounding you against his chest as if the physical friction of your body was the only thing keeping him tethered to the real world.
He pulled back just a fraction when tears no longer ran free, eyes the brightest of all blues, clearer now, stripped of the dark illusions he kept close to his heart, searching your face with a breathtaking reverence. His thumb came up, rough skin brushing a tear from your cheek with that breathless gentleness that always made your chest ache.
“God, ye’re beautiful,” a tiny, lopsided ghost of his classic smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes drifted down to the flannel drowning you. “Wearing my shite, too. Missed me a wee bit, did ye?”
A wet laugh escaped you at that, his timing still so absurd, although it definitely flushed away the remnants of your grief. You leaned forward, pressing your nose playfully against his just to feel his breathing. “Not just a wee bit, I should say.”
The discharge papers took another thirty-six hours of bureaucratic nightmare, but Price pulled the necessary strings to get Johnny cleared for a much needed home recovery.
The vehicle pulled up to the curb and Johnny, of course, didn’t necessarily have it in him to argue about pride. He was still weak, skin pale and the stitches in his thigh pulling painfully with every move. Simon killed the engine, walked around to the passenger side, and hoisted Johnny out of the seat. Gathering his friend into a careful carry, Simon bore him up the porch steps, his heavy boots making the wooden floorboards creak as he navigated the front threshold.
You had hurried ahead to get the house ready, and the second the front door swung open, the entire space was flooded with the rich, savory aroma of Johnny’s favourite meal— the rich scent of a slow-cooked beef stew and fresh caramel shortcake sweet enough to push back eighteen months of cold isolation.
Simon carried him straight into the living room, carefully propping Johnny up on the worn cushions of the sofa. He arranged a stack of pillows behind his back and gently elevated his bandaged leg onto the low coffee table.
The softness of his actions put a smile on Johnny’s face as he thanked him quietly and sank into the fabric with a long sigh of surrender. He looked at the television, the rug, walls, and then tracked the scent straight towards the kitchen doorway where you were standing, a dish towel clutched between your hands and a soft, welcoming smile across your face.
Simon stepped back from the sofa, no gloves on his hands as he wiped them down his thighs. Instead of heading straight for the front door like he used to, his boots turned to navigate into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter where you were beginning to serve the food into plates, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down at the simmering pot, then back up at you.
“Smells good,” Simon murmured, gaze drifting back towards the sofa for a second before locking onto you. “Are you going to need any help with him? With the leg, fever… the rest of it? He’s going to be a handful when he regains his full mouth. And he’s heavy.”
Knowing amusement flickered in your eyes. You looked past his broad shoulder towards the living room, where your husband was already melting into the couch, before looking back up at the giant in front of you.
“You can stay in the guest room for as long as you want if you’re that worried and eager to see him, Simon,” you teased softly, but the warmth in your eyes made sure he knew the invitation was real. “You too gotta get some warm food in your stomach, you know.”
Simon was still for a few moments. The sudden offer of a proper roof, a warm meal, and an open door was a heavy thing to process for him. He looked at you, then down at his own worn boots, a faint shift in his shoulders telling you all that you needed to know.
The fabric of his mask huffed as he gave a single, slow nod. “Just for a bit. Make sure the idiot doesn’t try to walk before the stitches settle.”
You didn’t mind having him around. He didn’t mind staying around either, and God knows you couldn’t hoist Johnny to the bathroom for a much needed shower yourself.
Dinner was pretty quiet. Johnny stayed on the sofa, too drained for the kitchen chairs, as Simon sat on the opposite edge of the hearth. There was little talking, just the scraping of spoons and the football match on the TV that nobody bothered to pay attention to.
The real hurdle had been getting Johnny cleaned up. Between the weakness from his fever and the fresh stitches slashing across his thigh, a standard shower was out of the question. It took both you and Simon to navigate him into the bathroom. Simon provided the brute strength, stabilizing Johnny’s frame against the tile while you handled the warm water and soap. He’s seen me in worse conditions, lass, Johnny had joked while Simon was busy looking away. By the time you helped him into a soft pair of sweatpants and had him settled back into your bed, Johnny looked profoundly human again— exhausted, pale, but clean nonetheless.
Now, the bedroom was bathed in the golden amber of the bedside lamp, rest of the house falling into deep silence whilst Simon was —you hoped— fast asleep by the other side of the wall.
You were propped up on one elbow, cheek resting in the palm of your hand as you looked down at your husband. Johnny was lying flat on his back, clean sheets pulled up to his chest with his heavy, stubborn head sinking deep into the plush pillows. One of his large hands was resting palm-up on the mattress between you, his fingers twitching in a silent invitation.
“Ye’re staring, sunshine,” he rumbled softly.
“Just making sure you won’t fade if I blink,” you murmured, sliding your fingers into his open palm. He closed his hand around yours instantly.
“Give it half an hour and LT’s snoring will let ye know jus’ how real all of this is.” a soft laugh was shared between the two of you, then. “Thanks for allowing him to stay, too.”
“He looked like he was too busy looking after you to take care of himself these past days,” you murmured softly and shifted a little, laying down on your back next to him as both of you stared into the dark ceiling. “And he didn’t seem like he wanted to leave you yet.”
“Bastard’s been on my arse for a year. I cannae take a proper break,” Johnny shook his head and brought your joined palms up, pressing the back of your hand against his chapped lips slowly. “I always imagined what this would be like. Coming home after all that. Most days I imagined a would have my dick out in ten minutes for the reunion shagging.”
You snorted. “Wishful thinking. It took two people to give you a shower.”
“Aye, well, a man can dream, sunshine,” he murmured, bright blues rolling toward the ceiling with a lazy fondness. “Kept me warm in the cellar, did it? Kept me going, thinking about those shorts you wear. Wee ones with the frayed edges.”
“You are unbelievable,” you whispered, a genuine smile tugging at your lips as you turned your head to face him. “Eighteen months in God knows where and your motivation was a pair of denim shorts?”
“The very same,” he nodded solemnly, eyes flashing with a spark of his classic fire that defined him right down to his core. “Gave me somethin’ to focus on, it’s no’ easy spending all that time with three other wankers. Though I suppose I can settle for the current view. Ye’re no’ a bad sight for sore eyes, hen.”
“Flattery won’t get you out of bed tomorrow, MacTavish.”
He slid his arm out from the sheets, carefully pulling you just an inch closer until your shoulder was pressed against his ribs, bridging the last bit of distance between you. “Guess am yer captive now, then.”
“Completely,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you tuned in to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “Get some sleep, my love.”
“Goodnight, sunshine,” he whispered against your hair, thumb tracing circles into your skin as his eyelids finally won the battle. “Am home. Dream of my cock still, might be a while ‘til we get the beastie to its full power.”
Outside the window, the twilight faded into a deep black, and for the first time in eighteen months, the deadbolt was slid shut, the house felt warm, and the silence was broken by all the ridiculous things Johnny had in him to say.
heeeyy, so... hihihi. thank you all so so much for reaching out with sweet comments, dms, asks, all that— it means the absolute world to me and i'm so glad i managed to write something that made you feel something!! i hope you're all having the bestest year and i love you all sm. hugs hugs hugs. lmk if you want to be tagged in future works or not tagged in anything and feel free to drop by to say hi!
