An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: COD MW (Reboot)
Relationship: Simon "Ghost" Riley & John "Soap" MacTavish
Words: 4700
Triggers: Light angst, Spice, NSFW
**A/N: So this was just supposed to be a flirty, light transition piece but it got heavy and spicy, brought to you entirely by this art from @mitrielle HERE
“Well, Sergeant? What’s the verdict?” Ghost looks up from the sniper rifle he’s cleaning to see Soap leaning in the doorway with a shiteating grin on his face.
Soap crosses the room and slams a piece of paper down on the table. “Fit for full duty. Ye can stop yer mollycoddling now.”
“Is that so.” Ghost picks up the medical chit and scans it.
“Well, I’m glad yer finally admitting it—”
“…but you’re still not fit for full duty yet.”
Soap’s mouth snaps shut. Opens again, then he exhales sharply. “And why the hell not?”
“You’ve been medically cleared. Price left the final decision up to me.” Ghost tilts his head toward the door. “Gear up.”
Soap blinks. “Gear up?”
“For the PT course. Full obstacles.” Ghost calmly wipes the last bit of solvent from the bolt, though he can see that Soap is fuming. “You passed their tests. Now you pass mine.”
-or-Ghost puts Soap through the paces, and it gets...a little heated.
“Well, Sergeant? What’s the verdict?” Ghost looks up from the sniper rifle he’s cleaning to see Soap leaning in the doorway with a shiteating grin on his face.
Soap crosses the room and slams a piece of paper down on the table. “Fit for full duty. Ye can stop yer mollycoddling now.”
Ghost side eyes the paper but doesn’t stop cleaning the rifle. “Blood test?”
“Kidneys are back tae a hundred percent.”
“Physio?”
“Good tae go”
“Psych?”
“Got me head shrunk.” Soap crosses his arms, still grinning. “Are ye sure ye wouldn’t like to just give me a physical yerself and be done with it?”
“No.” Ghost picks up the medical chit and scans it. “They know better than me about medical stuff…”
“Well, I’m glad yer finally admitting it—”
“…but you’re still not fit for full duty yet.”
Soap’s mouth snaps shut. Opens again, then he exhales sharply. “And why the hell not?”
“You’ve been medically cleared. Price left the final decision up to me.” Ghost tilts his head toward the door. “Gear up.”
Soap blinks. “Gear up?”
“For the PT course. Full obstacles.” Ghost calmly wipes the last bit of solvent from the bolt, though he can see that Soap is fuming. “You passed their tests. Now you pass mine.”
“Oh, for—yer takin’ the piss, LT.”
Ghost stands slowly and sets the cleaned rifle on the rack. “You said you wanted me to stop mollycoddling you.”
“Aye, but I dinnae mean—” Soap gestures wildly. “This isnae mollycoddlin’, this is harassment.”
“It’s assessment,” Ghost corrects. “You were shot. You hurt your knee. You don’t get to just walk in here waving a chit and expect me to pretend I didn’t watch you eat dirt two days ago.”
Soap’s ears go pink. “For the record, I didnae eat dirt, I—”
“Oh. Pardon me, Sergeant,” Ghost says flatly. “You bounced rather spectacularly down the side of a small mountain.”
Soap glares. “Yer an arse.”
Ghost stares him down. Soap’s bravado holds out longer than Ghost thought it would, but in the end, Soap’s shoulders slump. “Si—Come on.”
Just hearing that name here in fluorescent lights, in an armory, with steel and oil instead of pine and smoke hits him wrong. Off-key. Like something fragile brought into the wrong world. When they’d left the cabin this morning, they’d both agreed that while they were on the job, things had to return to where they’d been before leave. No more Johnny and Simon. No more touching and teasing and easy laughter. Neither could afford to be soft. Neither could afford to be anything but Ghost and Soap when lives could hang in the balance, including their own.
And Simon especially knew he wouldn’t be able to do his job if Johnny was in his head.
“Johnny…we talked about this.”
“I ken, but—”
“You know why I’m doing this. I need to make sure you’re good to go. Not just for the team…but for me, too. Remember what I said.”
“Nobody likes a complainer, Johnny. Quit your whinging and get suited up.”
That, at least, earns him a smile. “Yer still an arse.”
“And you’re stalling,” Ghost says, brushing past him. “Outside. Five minutes.”
“Roger that, LT.”
Ghost pauses in the doorway and looks back at him, eyes half-lidded behind the mask.
“Garrick volunteered to pace you,” he says mildly. “If you think you can keep up.”
Soap’s jaw drops. “Oh fuck off.”
Ghost doesn’t dignify that with a response, he just turns and heads for the door. He can hear Soap still muttering behind him.
“’Bout time, Tav!” Gaz’s voice echoes down the corridor as he rounds the corner in his PT gear, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Heard you were tryin’ to weasel out of a proper test.”
Soap groans. “Kyle, for the love of—”
“What?” Gaz claps him on the shoulder hard enough to jostle him. “Worried you won’t be able to beat me? Again?”
“Ye fuckin’ wish.” Soap cuts in front of him and grins cheekily over his shoulder. “There ye go, Gaz. Might as well get used tae the view from back there.”
Ghost leads them out of the building and across the training yard, boots crunching on gravel. Behind him, Gaz and Soap chirp and snap at each other like terriers in a scrap — insults, boasts, a shove here, a playful elbow there. It’s loud, juvenile, disruptive.
And comforting.
Up ahead, Price is waiting by the starting line, cigar in hand and a smile twitching beneath his moustache. Ghost shrugs his shoulders and rolls his eyes.
“If you two muppets put as much effort into training instead of bullshitting each other, you’d both be lieutenants by now,” Price grumbles.
Gaz grins. “You gonna join us, old man?”
Price smirks and lights the end of his cigar “Save your breath, you two. You’ll need it.”
“You should take his advice, Soap,” Gaz elbows him. “You’ll be wheezin’ worse than my gran by obstacle five.”
Soap scoffs. “Obstacle five’s where you nearly broke yer face last time, mate.”
“Oh, that again—”
“Children…” Ghost warns.
Both immediately quiet.
They reach the PT course with its long lanes of sand pits, cargo nets, walls, tires, balance beams. A small group has already gathered, word no doubt spreading like wildfire when they heard the two course leaders were going to have a go. Money changes hands, and Price chuckles under his breath. Some things never change.
Ghost’s attention, though, is on Soap, and he watches as the Scot’s energy shifts the moment they step onto the field. Still cocky as ever, but something in his posture sharpens. Focus threads itself through him like a live wire as he takes in the field.
His transparent need to prove himself is palpable.
Ghost doesn’t need that. He just needs Soap safe.
“Sergeant MacTavish,” Ghost says sharply. “Sergeant Garrick. At the line.”
They step forward.
Soap rolls his shoulders, neck cracking, expression suddenly all soldier. Gaz bounces on his toes like a goddamn spring.
Ghost raises his hand, cueing his stopwatch. “On my mark.”
Soap glances over — at Gaz, not at Ghost — and smirks, boyish and arrogant. Ghost refuses to let himself feel anything about that.
“Three.”
Soap sets his stance.
“Two.”
Gaz flicks Soap’s ear. Soap snarls and slaps his hand away. Ghost ignores both of them.
“One.”
A beat.
“Go.”
They explode off the line.
Gaz takes an early lead, legs pumping, form sharp. But Soap…
Soap moves like a man built for this. Long stride, perfect posture, arms tight to his body, every movement economical. His boots bite into the dirt like they belong there.
Ghost tracks him, eyes narrowing as they hit the first obstacle: a six-foot wall.
Gaz vaults it clean.
But Soap doesn’t vault. He flies. A hand, a toe, a swing of momentum, and he clears it like gravity is optional. Lands in a fluid crouch. Pushes up and is off again.
Ghost’s chest tightens. He’d forgotten, somehow, since seeing Soap shot and laid up, then that long interlude in Scotland. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to remember.
Johnny MacTavish is… breathtaking when he moves.
He hits the rope net at a sprint. Hauls himself up like the thing insulted his mother. Gaz is two rungs ahead but Soap eats the distance in seconds, muscles coiling and releasing with perfect efficiency.
Ghost watches, pulse thudding a fraction too fast.
“I want to be just like ye when I grow up, LT.”
“You want to be better than me, Johnny.”
Soap swings over the top beam, drops down the far side with a thud of boots on dirt. No hesitation. No falter in the knee Ghost had been secretly terrified about. No grimace. No limp.
Christ. He is better than me.
He’s the best of all of us.
Ghost stands with hands clasped behind his back, jaw locked, the cold November wind biting at the edge of his mask. He’d told Johnny the truth earlier — this wasn’t about doubting him. He has never doubted him. Ghost is doing this to quiet that little worrying voice of Simon's in his head, the one that needs visual proof that Soap is back to form.
The voice that woke him in the early hours this morning seeded with doubt.
What if Johnny’s not ready? What if he’s hiding the pain again?
What if you bring him into combat too soon and he’s hurt again and it’s your fault.
Ghost watches him leap across the staggered rails, plant a foot, swing, and land clean. His throat tightens. Price is heckling the lads with the rest of them, but Ghost can see Price clocking him out of the corner of his eye.
They hit the tire run. Gaz starts strong but loses rhythm halfway through. Soap doesn’t.
He moves like he memorized the layout in his sleep, knees high, balanced, every placement perfect.
Ghost feels something in his chest finally unclench.
This is what he needed—to watch Soap prove what Ghost already knew.
He’s back. He’s ready. He’s whole.
Soap clears the final obstacle, hurls himself down the last stretch, and overtakes Gaz in the final thirty meters.
He crosses the finish like a bullet.
Ghost clicks the stopwatch, looks down, and exhales.
“Not bad,” he says.
“Still shy of the record,” Price grumbles, but he’s smiling.
Gaz collapses into the dirt. “He cheated. I want a rematch. After we get back. In full gear.”
“You’ll still lose,” Soap crows, hands on his hips, chest heaving.
Gaz tries to snake an arm around his ankle to pull him down, but Soaps steps nimbly out of the way. Behind them, money is changing hands and backs are slapped as the crowd heckles and jeers each other as the two sergeants wrestle a bit in the dirt, their Captain and Lieutenant watching on, and Ghost suddenly sees the picture they paint. He understands why Price was so insistent on Soap publicly run the course, that they all be there to witness it. People had seen Ghost sprint through HQ with his dying sergeant on his back. The 141 had taken a brutal hit. Nobody had forgotten. That was why Price wanted them all to witness.
In the end, it’s not really about Soap. It’s about all of them.
The world needs to see that Task Force 141 was back and whole once again.
Soap has Gaz in a headlock when Ghost looks back at them. Gaz is cackling, kicking uselessly at the dirt while Soap reefed his arm tighter around his neck.
“Break it up, you two,” Price chuckles around a puff of cigar smoke.
Soap releases him—shoves him, really—and Gaz staggers back, wheezing dramatically.
“All right,” he pants, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. He points at Soap, his grin wicked. “Double or nothing, MacTavish.”
“On what?”
Gaz jerks his chin at Ghost. “Let’s see if you can pin the LT.”
Soap’s entire body goes still as a flush spreads up his throat. Gaz, meanwhile, looks very pleased with himself and Ghost for the life of him cannot figure out why.
Price looks between the three of them, eyes narrowed. The crowd behind them starts murmuring. Finally Price shrugs, rolling his cigar between his fingers.
“Why not?” he says. “What do you think, Riley? Let the lads have their fun?”
Soap is looking at Ghost with a mixture of cocksure defiance and something darker he can’t put his finger on.
“As long as they’re ready for disappointment,” Ghost says, rolling his shoulders. “This won’t take long.”
A cheer goes up.
The crowd follows in a loose pack as they cross the yard, laughing, shoving each other, buzzing with the kind of stupid morale high that only comes from watching two of their best get put through their paces. The gym echoes with shouts as they flood in, boots stamping on the mats, bets thrown back and forth. Ghost barely registers any of it. His attention is locked on the man across from him. Soap rolls his shoulders, stretching his neck side to side. His cheeks are still flushed from the course, hair damp with sweat, chest rising and falling with anticipation. He’s vibrating like he’s plugged into the mains.
Ghost smirks affectionately under the mask. Feral little bastard.
Price raises a hand between them. “Keep it clean, lads. First pin for three seconds wins. Clear?”
Ghost nods. Soap clenches his jaw.
“Begin.”
Soap leads with speed, feinting left then darting right. Ghost reads the movement, shifts weight and blocks, only to have Soap twist under his guard with a burst of speed that forces him to readjust fast.
Christ, he forgot how quick he is.
Soap shoots low, tries for a leg sweep. Ghost hops out of reach, but Soap is already coming up, grabbing for his arm and trying to use Ghost’s own momentum to pull him into a takedown.
Ghost plants, counters, grips Soap’s wrist and twists—
And Soap slips out like smoke.
The crowd roars.
Gaz is hollering something obscene. Price is chuckling under his breath.
Ghost lunges. Soap ducks under him and shoulder-checks him in the ribs. It’s surprising enough that Ghost stumbles half a step, but Soap is already pressing close, hooking an arm around Ghost’s neck, trying to drag him off balance and roll him into a back mount, and for one terrifying split-second—
Soap has him.
He’s going to do it, Ghost realizes, shocked. He’s actually going to take me down.
The world tilts. Ghost’s boots skid. His center of gravity drops.
A ripple moves through the crowd. Gaz cheers. “GET HIM, TAV!”
Soap tightens the hook, breath hot against Ghost’s jaw, muscles coiled and straining.
Ghost’s instincts snap like a trap.
He shifts his weight just enough, plants his left foot, and twists his hips in a brutal, practiced counter. Soap’s leverage breaks. Ghost catches his momentum and turns it on him. Soap’s eyes widen as Ghost sweeps his legs out, and they crash to the mat in a thud of tangled limbs.
Gasps. Cheers.
Ghost lands on top with his chest pressed to Soap’s ribs, one arm trapping Soap’s head and arm, his weight low and immovable.
Soap snarls. He actually snarls. His body bucks hard beneath Ghost’s, thrashing with animal ferocity.
Ghost grits his teeth. “Christ, Johnny—stay down—”
Soap bridges his hips and nearly throws him off.
Ghost falters.
He almost had me again.
He tightens the hold. Soap still fights like a man possessed, every muscle lit up and straining, sweat slicking his skin, and Ghost can feel every breath Soap drags in, hot and desperate.
He needs to end this. Now.
Ghost shifts his knee, swings a leg over Soap’s torso, and transitions with one clean motion to a full mount. He settles his weight through his hips, basically sitting on Soap’s stomach, gripping his wrists tightly and pinning Soap down by sheer leverage and mass.
And Soap just goes limp.
He’s done this hold hundreds of times on hundreds of bodies, but he has never had someone go pliant like this. Ghost’s face hovers inches over his. Soap is flushed with heat and sweat, lips parted around a sharp inhale that never fully arrives.
He stares straight up at Ghost like he’s been struck dumb.
The crowd disappears.
Price’s voice, counting down, disappears.
Everything narrows into the frantic hammering of Soap’s heart beneath Ghost’s chest, so hard and fast Ghost can feel it reverberate through his own body.
Soap blinks up at him with big blue eyes, unfocused and almost glassy.
And he’s not breathing.
Ghost’s own heart gives a hard, ugly jolt.
“Johnny?” he murmurs, barely audible beneath the roar of the room. “Oi—breathe.”
He shifts his weight off Soap instantly and scrambled backward.
The second the pressure lifts, Soap sucks in a ragged gasp and rolls onto his side like a man returning from the dead.
The whistle blows.
Ghost barely hears it. “Johnny, did I hurt you?”
Soap jolts upright, too fast, wobbling before he catches himself on hands and knees. His face is still flushed beet red, hair stuck to his forehead.
“No. Christ, no. M’fine,” he sputter hoarsely. “Ye—ye pinned me fair an’ square, Ghost.”
Ghost narrows his eyes behind the mask. “You weren’t breathing.”
Soap laughs. A wild, breathy, panicked little sound. “Aye well…ye’re heavier than ye look.”
Ghost knows an evasion when he hears one. He pushes to his feet slowly, still watching Soap like he expects him to faint all bloody over again. Soap scrambles upright, nearly tangles his own legs, then immediately pretends nothing happened, wiping sweat from his brow and flashing a grin that doesn’t even try to reach his eyes.
“See?” Soap says, breathless. “Perfectly fine.”
Ghost’s stomach knots. Something is off. But before he can ask again, Price steps between them with a clap of his hands on both their shoulders.
“Good match, lads,” he says, voice full of paternal satisfaction. “Riley—looks like we can sign off on MacTavish’s chit. Even if he didn’t manage to flip you.”
Ghost grunts. Soap huffs a weak laugh.
Price jerks his chin toward the showers. “Clean up. Full kit packed by nineteen-hundred, we’re wheels up at twenty-one.”
“Aye, sir,” Ghost says immediately.
Soap echoes it, but his voice is still pitched too high.
Gaz hooks an arm around Soap’s shoulders and steers him toward the locker room. “Come on, Tav. Before you keel over and Price changes his mind.”
Soap elbows him weakly. “Piss off.”
They disappear through the corridor, Gaz still chirping, Soap still red as a cherry.
Ghost watches them go. There’s something coiled tight and uneasy in his chest, something that feels too close to the panic he felt when Soap wasn’t breathing. He’s not sure what he saw in Soap’s face. He’s not sure why it’s bothering him. He tells himself it’s because he needs Soap healthy for deployment. That’s all.
He picks up his own towel, wiping sweat from the back of his neck as he turns toward the showers, but the image lingers. Johnny beneath him, breathless, eyes blown. Something new and charged and…and different between them.
Ghost forces the thought away.
Get your head on right, Riley. Soap is fine. He has to be fine.
Still…
Ghost can’t shake the feeling that something happened on that mat he doesn’t have a name for yet.
Back at the cabin in the Highlands, when Soap had thought to himself that very last night that Simon Riley was going to be the death of him, he did not expect it to come quite so soon. Or quite so…forcefully.
Ghost tossing him around like a wee caber, manhandling him and pressing him down to the mats, on his back with the full force of Simon Riley bearing down on him, pinning him down, chest to chest, heat to heat…
Soap thought he was going to fucking expire on the spot.
Here lies Johnny MacTavish, death by horny gay panic for his superior officer.
“Fuck me,” he mutters as he walks as quickly as his budding hard-on will allow. He barely even remembers leaving the gym.
One minute he was on his back, Ghost’s weight crushing down over his hips, pinning him like prey, the heat of him sinking through Soap’s shirt and straight into his bloodstream. The next, he was scrambling upright on shaking legs as mortification set in, trying to get away from Ghost who just looked so fucking concerned, thinking he’d hurt him, muttering anything to get the attention away from him and his growing…problem.
“Well. That was certainly interesting,” Gaz chirps beside him, far too pleased with himself.
Soap clenches his jaw. Says nothing.
Gaz bumps his shoulder. “Christ, Tav, if he’d held you down a second longer I think you’d’ve melted straight into the mats—”
Soap just clenches his jaw tighter and doesn’t say anything.
“Tav?” Gaz isn’t grinning anymore. “You alright, mate?”
“’M fine.”
Gaz catches his elbow gently just outside the locker room. “Hey—look, I didn’t think it’d get so… intense. I wasn’t trying to take the piss. Thought it might help, y’know? Push things along.”
Soap closes his eyes. Shame crawls hot up his throat.
“Just leave it alone, Kyle.”
“I just—”
“I said leave it.” Soap’s voice comes out a hiss, sharp and panicked. He looks up and down the corridor like someone might’ve heard. “I ken ye think ye’re doin’ a bit o’ matchmaking an’ all, but it’s not like that.”
Gaz blinks. “I thought—”
“He’s my LT.”
“But—”
“He isn’t fucking gay!”
Gaz rears back, blinking. Soap’s breathing far too fast, and he scrubs a hand through his mohawk. “He’s not, Kyle,” he says weakly. “An’ even if he was, it dosnae matter—”
“Tav—”
“It does not matter,” Soap hisses. “We are no’ the same, you an I. I ken ye think yer tryin’ tae help an’ yer solid in yerself, but ye…ye just don’t understand. I can’t—”
He chokes on the words. Chooses the easier route, instead, “Ye need to leave me be.”
Gaz’s shoulders sag a bit, and he looks indescribably sad. Like he’s just realized he’s stepped into quicksand and has no way of pulling Soap out.
He studies Soap for a long moment — really looks at him — and something in his expression softens in a way Soap can’t bear. “Tav, you think I don’t understand?”
Soap squeezes his eyes shut. “Kyle—”
“I’ve been where you are,” Gaz murmurs. “Wantin’ someone you think you’ve got no right to want.”
Soap’s eyes snap open, startled, but Gaz lifts a hand, stopping him.
“Difference is,” he continues, “I had people who didn’t make me feel wrong for it.”
And Soap’s mind is going a mile a minute, parsing out this new data from Gaz. That maybe this was the reason he didn’t seem that concerned when he’d seen Soap snogging that bloke behind the pub. That maybe this was the reason he seemed so accepting.
Soap doesn’t know what to do with this information, so he says nothing. Gaz grips his shoulder, squeezing tight, and turns into the locker room.
Soap continues on towards his barracks room.
His hands won’t stop shaking.
His heart won’t stop racing.
His body won’t—
He slams his door shut behind him, presses his back against it, and squeezes his eyes shut.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice cracking.
He drags both hands through his mohawk, pacing around the room, before stripping off his shirt with frantic, jerky motions. The fabric sticks to his skin. He feels feverish. Overwound. Wrong. He ditches the rest of his clothes and steps into the shower, twisting the tap as far as it will go. Hot water blasts down, steam filling the small space in seconds.
He bows his head under it, bracing both palms flat against the wall.
His pulse refuses to settle.
His thoughts spin like something unhinged.
He sees Ghost above him every time he blinks—knees bracketing his ribs, palms planted to either side of his head, so close he can see the tiny flecks of gold in those soft brown eyes. The way Ghost leaned over him, how he’d felt Ghost’s weight sink into him, pinning him helpless and breathless and—
Soap’s breath shudders out, broken.
He squeezes his eyes shut, but the image only sharpens.
Simon shifting his hips, his thigh sliding between his. Simon’s voice, low and steady in his ear. “Stay down, Johnny.” Simon’s hands braced either side of his head, caging him in.
Jesus Christ. He tries—really tries—to think about anything else. The mission. Price’s orders. His family back home. The cold tile under his fingertips.
It’s useless.
Hopeless.
His body has made up its mind.
And Johnny MacTavish is a lot of things, but he’s never been a liar—not to himself.
So he breaks.
He is so fucking hard that when he finally wraps his hand around his swollen cock, he whimpers. Actually whimpers. Johnny shudders against the tile, a whirlwind slideshow of Simon highlights running through his mind as he starts to pump his fist. Those eyes. Those lips. Dark blond curls soaked with Highland rain. Scarred hands on his skin, down his chest to his hips. Warm weight pressing him into the mattress.
Johnny.
Simon’s lips kissing their way down his throat, now. Little nips and teases. Massive hands gripping his wrists, moving him, pinning him down.
Johnny.
He’s never felt so safe. He’s never felt so loved, even if it’s not the way he feels it, it doesn’t matter because it’s Simon. It’s Simon. SimonSimonSimon—
Johnny.
When Soap finally comes back to himself, he’s shaking so hard his knees almost give out. He drags in a ragged breath, forehead pressed against the tile, water pounding across his shoulders.
He feels empty. Hollowed out.
Awash in something that isn’t quite release and isn’t quite regret, something sharp and aching and too big for his chest to hold. He bites down hard on his lip until he tastes copper.
The shame hits slow and heavy, like a wave that’s been building for hours. How many times has he told himself he doesn’t want this? That he can’t want this? That it’s wrong? That Simon would never—
His eyes burn.
Fuck.
The desire hasn’t even cooled yet. The shame crashes over it like ice water. He presses a fist to his mouth, muffling the sound trying to claw its way out of him as his father’s voice spears through his memory.
Unnatural, ungrateful child. No son of mine.
It isn’t just want. It isn’t just desire. It isn’t just the cabin, or the touching, or the confessions, or the goddamn three-hour naps, or the fishing, or the cooking, or the safety.
It’s him.
It’s Simon.
It’s everything Soap has been trying so fucking hard not to feel.
And now he feels it everywhere..
“What am I doing?” He swallows hard. “What the fuck am I doing?”
He turns his face toward the spray and lets the water batter him until the heat stings and his skin prickles. As if he can wash it away. As if he can scrub out the part of him that wants, and wants, and wants.
But the truth sits heavy in his chest, immovable.
He wants Simon Riley so badly it hurts, and it is the one thing he can never have.
Soap stands there until the water runs cold. Eventually, though, it does, and he has to get out. Get dressed. Get his kit assembled—they’re heading out in a few short hours. Ghost hasn’t knocked on his door and for the first time in a very long time Soap is glad of it. He sits on the edge of his bed, closes his eyes, and just breathes.
Releases the longing, releases the want. Emptying his mind. They’re about to deploy, and he cannot be like this when they do. Breathing exercises, mantras in his head, some fucked up kind of yoga—he doesn’t even know but he tries it all, but he ends up giggling to himself hysterically in the end because this must be the exact reason they have those anti-fraternization rules.
How is he going to move on feeling like this?
How is he going to watch Simon run towards gunfire and death feeling like this.
But Johnny, for all his faults, is very, very good at one thing. Compartmentalization. Suppression. He is so accustomed to hiding the way he feels that it is his holy scripture at his point, so he draws it around him once again. Puts his heart on the shelf where it belongs.
Head in the game. Heart on the shelf. Nerves of steel.
He can do this.
So when they step off at 2100, he saunters in with his full kit and a cocky grin on his face. Nods at Price, fist bumps Gaz, and comes to a halt in front of Ghost. Fate’s a bastard. The first person he has to look at is the one he’s trying not to think about.
“All right, then?” he asks.
“Solid copy, Johnny.”
Soap smiles, though it feels bittersweet. “Then let’s get us a win, LT.” He punches his shoulder, just like he did all those months ago. “Save ye a seat, sir.”
Soap jogs up the ramp, and the rest of the 141 follows.
Got Your Six Series Masterlist
So this ended up being a lot longer than I thought lol. This was just supposed to be a one shot based on that artwork by Mitrielle 👀 but ended up being more of a landing point for Soap and a turning point for what's to come, and a surprising expansion into Soap and Gaz's relationship. More to come with that. Hope you enjoyed this, because there be whump on the horizon, and it's going to hit hard 😈
Imagining a monster hunting AU where Soap unfortunately perishes on the job
Ghost carries on with a heavy heart
A little over a year later, he gets another call to go to around the same area where Soap died. Something about a particularly vicious, persistent ghost.
Imagining Ghost biting the bullet, facing the place where his lover died… only to look at the spirit and realize Soap may have died, but his soul never rested.
Ghost is tasked with tracking down a clandestine mercenary group known as "Nocturne", led by an enigmatic figure known only as "The Revenant." After months of dead-end leads, Ghost and his team finally uncover their base of operations. But what he finds there shakes him to his core, and he is forced to confront a devastating truth.
Tw: death, violence
Night had settled by the time Ghost and his small team breached the compound. Inside was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that set off alarm bells, like a calm before a storm. He and his team moved cautiously, stalking through the dim corridors, clearing rooms with practiced ease, senses on high alert.
The intel was thin— shoddy at best— like chasing shadows through smoke: an encrypted radio transmission they were lucky to intercept. But Laswell has assured him it was their best lead yet on Nocturne, a shadowy mercenary group that had been gaining traction over the past year, and always managed to stay one step ahead of Ghost and his team.
But it was their leader, the elusive figure known only as The Revenant, that gnawed at Ghost’s nerves. Every operation Nocturne executed had a precision that felt surgical, methodical, coldly efficient, and yet— there was something darker lurking just beneath the brutality; a disturbing familiarity that made Ghost’s skin crawl with every report.
High value targets had gone dark, military operations had been derailed. The attacks felt personal, as if whoever was behind them knew the playbook all too well. Every ambush, every assault, every kill, every tactical maneuver— these weren’t just ordinary mercenaries— they were trained soldiers who knew how to dismantle an operation piece by piece, just as Ghost had been trained to do.
Ghost led his team deeper into the compound, sweeping through it quietly and efficiently.
But the deeper they went, the more it felt like a trap.
“Clear,” Ghost muttered, eyes sweeping over the room he had just breached.
It looked to be some kind of command center. The walls were lined with maps, and the table at the center was strewn with tactical plans, field notes and intelligence reports. Ghost sifted through them, taking note of their contents, his eyes narrowing as he recognized something; the handwriting, sketches, familiar abbreviations.
His chest tightened as a memory flashed before his eyes of years ago, standing in the briefing room with Soap who was drawing out a mission plan with his usual rough humor. A smirk on his lips and a light in his eyes.
It was a messy scrawl he’d seen countless times: Soap’s chicken-scratch notes hastily scribbled on the edges of tactical maps or in the margins of mission reports or on personal notes meant for Ghost’s eyes only. The same crude roughness, sharp and uneven. It was Soap’s handwriting, there was no mistaking it.
He shook his head. It had to be a coincidence, or he’s finally losing it, seeing things that aren’t there. But as his eyes moved from the plans on the table to the maps on the walls, more details stuck out to him, more evidence of Soap’s presence. He stepped closer, mesmerized, his heart thumping in his chest.
Suddenly, the lights flickered, and there was a soft commotion behind him, and he turned to see Nocturne operatives had all of his men on their knees, weapons trained at the back of their heads.
A figure appeared in the doorway, half obscured by shadow. The silhouette was tall and broad-shouldered, familiar in a way that made Ghost’s stomach twist up in a knot. They stepped forward, slow and deliberate, face hidden behind a sleek, black mask. But the voice that came from behind it was unmistakable.
“Ghost… been a long time.”
Ghost’s chest constricted, dread flooding through every fiber of his being. His eyes burned and his throat tightened. “Soap?” He managed to croak out.
The figure chuckled darkly, sending shivers down Ghost’s spine. “Don’t you know? Soap is dead. You and Price made sure of that. All that’s left now is The Revenant.”
No. It can’t be.
The figure reached up slowly and took off the mask. Ghost’s breath caught in his throat. His mind reeled.
Soap was gone.
Ghost had buried that grief long ago, come to terms with the loss, though the pain lingered, like a dull ache from a wound that never fully healed right. But now, here he was, standing in front of him, twisted, broken and filled with venomous hatred.
“What happened to you?” Ghost’s voice was thick with emotion, almost hoarse. “What is all this?”
Soap, no, The Revenant took a step forward, his eyes, once light and jovial, burned with malice. “You have some nerve asking that, after what you did. You, and Price, the whole bloody system. You left me for dead. You think I don’t know the truth?”
Soap’s words were like a dagger to the gut. This wasn’t right. Soap had to know they didn’t abandon him. He’d been MIA— presumed dead, yes, but never abandoned. Never forgotten.
“Don’t lie to me!” Soap roared, slamming his fist down on the table, making Ghost jump. His voice trembled with unbridled rage. “I was betrayed. Left to rot. And when I climbed out of that hellhole, I had already been replaced. You and Price moved on, and I was left behind. Expendable. Forgotten.”
“W-We didn’t know, we looked for you—”
Ghost frantically recalled back to the mission Soap hadn’t come back from. The firefight, the chaos, everything had come down around them. They’d searched, done everything they could to find him, but there had been so sign of him. Like he had just vanished. They assumed the worst. Price had to practically drag Ghost to exfil.
“Dead? Aye, that would’ve been convenient, wouldn’t it?” Soap’s voice dripped with bitterness. “But I survived, Simon, and I’ll make you all pay for what you did to me.”
“Price didn’t know, I-I didn’t know,” Ghost pleaded. “We thought you were—”
The air between them was thick with years of trust shattered, with betrayal and regret. Ghost’s heart ached, the reality of what had become of his closest friend hitting him like a freight train.
“Soap, please—” Ghost begged, but was cut off as Soap held a hand up.
“That’s not my name," he hissed coldly. "I’m The Revenant, and I’m not your friend. I’m your enemy,”
Before Ghost could say anything else, The Revenant signaled to his men, then stepped back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as he had come.
He felt like the ground beneath him was slipping away, and he finally felt the weight of it all, the crushing realization that the man he once knew was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous, something twisted and corrupt. And it was all his fault.
Time seemed to slow down. He was vaguely aware someone was taking his weapons and securing his hands behind his back, and he looked on with dawning horror as his team was executed one by one in front of him.
Relationship: Simon "Ghost" Riley & John "Soap" MacTavish
Words: 10K
Triggers: Angst, Past Trauma, Emetophobia, Panic Attack, Internalized Homophobia
Johnny wakes first.
It’s these quiet morning hours he’s learned to love in this very cabin, the morning cold and still outside their window while he and Simon are safe and warm in their bed. More importantly, Simon is safe and warm in Johnny’s arms. Something he’s been thinking about more and more lately, especially given what they’ve both gone through the past few months, and as dark as some of those moment were, they’ve taught him to never miss a moment, never take anything for granted. That’s why he loves these early morning hours here at their cabin. To see Simon relax this much, to the point where he becomes the lazybones who sleeps in well past breakfast, curled up like a cat on top of Johnny.
A/N: Sorry it's taken me so long to update! Also, updated tags. A bit of a darker chapter, we're really stuck in Johnny's head in this one
Johnny wakes first.
It’s these quiet morning hours he’s learned to love in this very cabin, the morning cold and still outside their window while he and Simon are safe and warm in their bed. More importantly, Simon is safe and warm in Johnny’s arms. Something he’s been thinking about more and more lately, especially given what they’ve both gone through the past few months, and as dark as some of those moment were, they’ve taught him to never miss a moment, never take anything for granted. That’s why he loves these early morning hours here at their cabin. To see Simon relax this much, to the point where he becomes the lazybones who sleeps in well past breakfast, curled up like a cat on top of Johnny.
Simon is still asleep, sprawled half over him, his head tucked against Johnny’s chest because this huge frightening hulk of a man likes to fall asleep to the sound of Johnny’s heartbeat. One of his arms is curled back in on himself, while the other lays heavily across Johnny’s abdomen, clutching at his side. Bare skin to bare skin. Looking down past the mop of blond curls (his hair is getting long and Johnny loves it), he can make out every single freckle along the bridge of Simon’s nose and cheekbone, the curl of his light-colored eyelashes, his soft pink lips slightly parted in sleep.
He also sees the scars on that beautiful face and he takes a moment, now, while Simon is fast asleep, to study them.
It’s not that Johnny never noticed them before. It’s kind of impossible not to. A long, thin jagged one across his nose and both cheekbones. Another trailing upward from the corner of his mouth. One across his chin. Several on his forehead, including a particularly deep one that stretches from his hairline to his temple.
So many scars. So much violence.
So yes, of course Johnny has noticed them. But they’ve never been something to linger over for him, because they’ve always been there. Part of the collective whole that make up Simon Riley. He thinks it might be because Simon’s eyes were the first part of him he’d seen, and for a very long time, they were the only part of Simon he’d seen. Honey brown with tiny golden flecks around the iris that liked to catch and hold the afternoon light. That seemed to almost sparkle when Simon smiled at him. So changeable. So honest. Like he was being granted a window straight into Simon’s soul. Johnny had never spent a bleeding second wondering what was beneath that black mask, because Simon’s eyes have always been the most expressive part of him, a fact that he’s pretty sure Simon isn’t aware of. And the first time he did see Simon without the mask, that night in Alejandro’s safehouse, he was still as captivated by Simon’s eyes as he was the first day he saw him, and everything else, including Simon’s scars, was simply window dressing.
Now that he’s had more time to appreciate Simon’s bare face, Johnny still thinks without a shadow of a doubt that he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. Scars included. He was serious about what he’d told Simon the night before, and he’ll spend every last minute of his life worshiping at Simon’s feet until he understands just how beautiful he is, inside and out, because hearing Simon’s fear and uncertainty about his scars broke Johnny’s heart completely in two.
Carding his fingers lightly through Simon’s hair, Johnny smiles to himself. The strength of the love he feels for Simon scares him sometimes. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for him, and Johnny has been close enough to losing Simon to realize that there is no limit to that statement. It’s not just how much love he feels in his heart for Simon, it’s how loved Johnny feels. Loved by Simon, even though he knows Simon cannot ever love him in precisely the same way. Not romantically, not sexually, but still something more intimate than friendship. And while that may hurt sometimes, Johnny gets it. He knows Simon’s different naturally, and after everything he’s been through…
Johnny’s thoughts return to the scars of Simon’s he can see, and he frowns. God, the violence that’s been done to him. What little he knows about Simon’s childhood and his past…and then there’s Mexico.
There is a part of him that desperately wants to know only so that he can understand Simon better and possibly avoid triggers. But there is another part that absolutely does not want to know, because the images that have come unbidden to his own mind are bad enough, and Johnny feels certain that the truth of what happened in Mexico will be infinitely worse than anything he can imagine.
Fury, hot and swift, pours through his veins. He knows from what little he’s been told that the people who did this to Simon are all dead, but sometimes he almost wishes a few of them were still alive so that he can take them apart with his bare hands and pay back every single wound of Simons, tenfold. He’d make it last. Hours. Days. Weeks.
Their suffering would be fucking biblical.
Johnny takes a deep breath. He’s starting to get really angry. With his head positioned right over his heart, Simon’s going to hear how fast it’s pounding and wake, and Johnny really doesn’t want to explain that how he was fantasizing about murder at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning.
So he calms himself down and vows that someday, somehow, he is going to make it right. But not today. He’s just going to love Simon any way he’s allowed, any way he can, and that will be enough.
But…he can’t keep lying to Simon. He has to know the truth.
What happened the other day with Simon…in bed. The…the…
Johnny feels his face start to heat. He can’t even bring himself to think the word, the image of Simon’s hands on him, coaxing him to a release. The way he’d looked at him. So concerned, checking in constantly, so attentive and earnest.
Johnny hasn’t been able to think of much else.
He feels dirty. He feels…like he did something wrong. Not that there is anything wrong with liking another man’s hands on you, he knows now that any internalized homophobia he feels is the direct result of his father, but he can’t help the deep feeling of shame that accompanies thoughts like that. It’s like it’s…hardwired into his brain. Even though he knows it’s not true. It’s why, he’s realized, that he’s always been afraid to come out. To initiate, to give voice to his deepest, darkest secret even to the people he loves and trusts the most.
To be brave like Kyle, to love and want and desire freely.
God, what that must feel like.
But as much as the thought of withstanding Simon’s reaction might terrify him, it has to be done. After everything Simon has been through, he has got to be told that this isn’t platonic anymore for Johnny, and it hasn’t been for a while. That this is sexual beyond just “helping a bloke out.” Simon doesn’t have to know the depths of Johnny’s feelings for him, but he deserves to know the nature of those feelings.
And how d’ye think that’ll go? His dead father’s voice helpfully supplies. Findin’ out that the man who’s supposed tae have his back, who’s supposed tae be his friend is nothin’ but a filthy slag who cannae keep his hands tae himself nor ungodly thoughts from his heid. If it were me, I’d beat the cursed soul from yer body an’ leave ye tae the crows, the way I ought’ve years ago.
Johnny squeezes his eyes shut and tries to silence the voice.
Ye should just spare ‘im the embarrassment of knowin’ an’ put a bullet in yer heid, because ye obviously cannae control yerself.
Johnny gasps and squirms out from under Simon. He’s trembling, and his heart is beating so hard and fast he knows he’s going to wake him. He just…needs to calm himself down.
Tugging on a pair of sweatpants and Simon’s hoodie, he pads out into the living room. Stoking the fire back up requires enough focus that he’s able to finally stop shaking. It’s too early to make breakfast and besides, he’s really not that hungry. So he makes himself some cocoa because he feels like coffee will just make him more anxious, grabs his coat and journal, and heads down to the loch.
The air is bracingly cold, and Johnny immediately feels a little bit better as he picks his way down to the shore. He finds a log by the water’s edge that’s free of snow, and after a brief debate over whether to go back for a blanket, he decides to just deal with it. He sits, opens his journal, and begins to write.
At first it’s just errant thoughts. The exact phrasing of the voice in his head this morning—not because he particularly wants to read it again, but because it feels like purging a poison from his blood to get it down on paper. He writes about things that make him angry and things that make him sad. He writes about the things that terrify him more than dying. Sometimes, while he thinks, he makes absent little sketches in the margins. Nothing grand, he’s not really paying attention, but it helps the thoughts flow.
Only after he feels his heart settle and his breathing even out does he flip to a new page and begin the header.
Dear Simon,
Johnny writes. He writes and he writes all the things he wants to say out loud but is afraid to, and all the things he will never tell another soul. This is his heart down on paper, for Simon and Simon alone even though he’ll never read it. Johnny would never burden him with the entirety of his personality. But there is still that one little adjustment that needs to be made, that one secret that needs to be told to make their relationship right, even if it’s the one thing that could doom it forever.
He’s so focused on writing he doesn’t hear Simon come up behind him.
“You’re up early.”
Johnny startles. He knocks into his mug of cocoa and it splashes across the page and he curses, wiping at it with the sleeve of his coat. Simon chuckles and bends to help him.
“Sorry I scared you, I didn’t realize you—” He stops suddenly, the smile slipping from his face as he looks at Johnny. “Are you okay? You look tired, why’d you get up so early?”
Simon molds his hand to the side of Johnny’s face, tilting it into the light so he can see the dark circles Johnny knows are under his eyes. While he does feel a little better, Johnny still feels wrong out and obviously, he looks it. So he says, truthfully, “I couldn’t sleep. Started thinkin’ about my Da, and I was trying tae work through it, but I started to get anxious. Came down here tae try to get it out on paper.”
Simon looks down at the journal in Johnny’s hands. It’s still a little soggy, and he’d closed it quickly so Simon couldn’t see the letter. There’s a little worry crease between his brows but he doesn’t press, he just opens his arms and lets Johnny fold into him.
Johnny sighs when he feels Simon kiss the top of his head, and he burrows his face into that broad chest. For a guy who’s spent most of his life running his mouth, Johnny has really come to love the way that neither of them need to say a word to communicate. It would probably surprise most of his friends, but a lot of the time, Johnny really doesn’t want to say anything at all. But when your entire personality revolves around being a nonstop diatribe of empty thoughts, people are bound to notice the silence.
“I feel like a broken record, but if there is anything you want to talk about, I’m here,” Simon murmurs into his hair. “Even the hard stuff…the stuff that doesn’t make sense…sometimes it helps to let someone hear it and help carry the burden.”
Then why won’t you tell me what happened in Mexico? Or is someone else already carrying that burden with you?
He feels guilty for the little bit of jealousy that’s kicking up in him, so he deflects, instead.
“That’s very deep.”
Simon looks at him like he knows Johnny is deflecting, but he doesn’t comment on it. “I’m more than just a pretty face, you know.”
He knows Simon means it as a joke, but after last night, it doesn’t seem very funny to Johnny. So he disentangles himself from Simon’s embrace and lightly punches his shoulder. “Are ye hungry? I can go get some breakfast started.”
“Only if you’re hungry too. You don’t have to cook for me, Johnny.”
“Maybe I like cookin’ fer you.”
Simon’s mouth quirks, fond and a little bemused. “All right.”
Johnny gathers up his things, and Simon follows him back up to the cabin. Once he’s shed his coat and boots he goes to the kitchen and starts pulling things out of the fridge, the familiar rhythm of cooking easing some of the tightness in his chest. He cracks eggs, lines up bread, sets a pan on the hob. Simon hovers for a moment like he might help, then seems to think better of it and settles at the small table instead, elbows braced, chin in his hands, watching Johnny like this is the best show on the telly.
It shouldn’t make Johnny’s pulse skip the way it does. It really shouldn’t.
They’re both quiet as he works. Simon seems inclined to give Johnny his space this morning, and while space is the last thing he wants right now, he’s also secretly glad of it because he doubts he could carry on a conversation right now anyway. The quiet domesticity is comforting, but still, under all of it, Johnny’s thoughts keep circling back to the same place.
You need to tell him.
He cracks an egg too hard, and shell pieces fall into the bowl. He curses and fishes them out.
What, over breakfast? How’s yer eggs, Simon? And oh, by the way, I fancy men.
No. That’s absurd. He’s going to do it, he’s just got to choose his moment.
They eat by the window, morning light spilling across the table, the loch pale and glassy beyond the trees. Simon eats like he always does up here—quickly and enthusiastically, going back for second and third helpings—and every so often he glances up at Johnny with a little smile that makes Johnny’s stomach flip over on itself.
After they clean up together, Simon washing, Johnny drying, their hands bumping in the sink more often than strictly necessary, Simon leans back against the counter and crosses his arms.
“So,” he says lightly. “What’s the plan today, Sergeant?”
Johnny dries his hands on a towel, buying himself a second. “I was thinkin’… maybe we get out fer a bit. There’s some trails not far from here. We could go for a walk, if yer keen.”
Simon’s eyes light up instantly. “Yeah? That sounds great.”
Relief washes through Johnny, quick and sharp. Movement helps. Fresh air helps. And maybe—just maybe—if he can get out of his own head for a few hours, the words will stop tangling themselves around his brain.
It’s a bit of a drive to the trailhead, and the landscape changes as they go, the trees and hills giving way to stunning crags and jagged peaks that fall away dramatically, and distantly, the sea. The hiking’s a bit more rugged up here and requires a bit more concentration with the snow, but that’s exactly what Johnny is looking for.
They park by the trailhead, and Simon takes a deep breath as he gets out of the car. “It’s beautiful.”
“Just wait ‘til we get up there,” he says, pointing.
Simon follows his point to the ridgeline where a saddle spans between two peaks. He looks so genuinely excited that Johnny just laughs fondly and bumps his shoulder as he slings on his backpack.
“Come on, big man. Let’s git attit.”
The air is cold enough to sting their lungs, clean and bright, and Johnny feels his shoulders loosen with every step. Exertion and concentration does wonders for his mood, and soon he’s feeling more like himself, yapping about mythological Scottish creatures, a subject Simon is surprisingly interested in.
“An’ if yer near water, ye’ve got tae watch out for kelpies. They’re evil water spirits that take the form of a horse to entice weary travelers to ride ‘em. Once a kelpie’s got ye on its back, yer doomed.” Johnny pauses for effect. “Off it goes intae the water, down tae the depths where it’ll drown ye an’ devour ye whole.”
Their boots scuff in the gravel as they walk down the path together. Simon hitches his pack higher and looks at Johnny. “Have you ever seen a kelpie?”
“No, but I have seen a teine biorach.”
“What’s that?”
“A will-o’-the-wisp—they sometimes appear as floating lights near bogs or marshes, luring unsuspecting travelers off the paths tae their deaths.” Johnny takes a sip of his water bottle and hands it to Simon. “My sister Elsie and I were walkin’ near dusk down by the marshes one day, lookin’ fer frogs tae catch, when we saw it. A ghostly blue flame hovering out over the marsh, half obscured by the ground fog.
Simon hands the bottle back, staring at him intently. “What happened?”
“I chased after it, of course.” Johnny smirk at Simon’s snort of laughter. “I was just a wee thing an’ had about as much of a sense o’ self preservation as I do now, so off I went, chargin’ through the marshes after the wisp. My sister ran after me, screamin’ bloody murder—there’s bogs that’ll swallow a man whole, ye ken—an’ she tackled me tae the ground an’ dragged me back home. Saved my life that night, I reckon. Thought I was in fer a thrashin’, but Elsie never breathed a word of it tae Mam or Da.”
Simon hums. “Will-o’-the-wisp. A…what’s the word for it in Scots?”
“Teine Biorach.”
“Say it again? Slower.”
Johnny does, and Simon repeats it very carefully, then again, quieter to himself, like he’s committing the word to memory. Hearing the Scots words on Simon’s lips does something funny to his stomach. Simon is deadly serious, unlike all the other times he’d teased Johnny with ‘English, MacTavish,’ or purposefully mispronouncing Scots with his Manchester accent just to make him laugh. He’s actually got a knack for it, and Johnny finds himself watching Simon’s mouth as it wraps itself the around unfamiliar words. He’s starting to think of all the other words he can teach Simon, just to hear them said in that quiet, gravely voice.
“So does Scotland have any creatures that are not bloodthirsty fiends?” Simon asks, pulling Johnny out of his head. “Because I’m starting to get concerned.”
Up ahead, the trail narrows down to a single footpath, and Simon falls in behind him. Johnny keeps one hand on the crag face, talking over his shoulder as they walk.
“Plenty. Elsie and me, though, we were only interested in the scary ones.”
“Elsie, your sister. You’ve got three sisters…older, right?”
“Aye. Grace, Isobel, and Elsie.”
Simon nods and repeats the names, adding one. “Grace, Isobel, Elsie, and Johnny.”
“John. Never Johnny.” He laughs, hoping it’s not as bitter as it sounds. “Yer the only one who calls me that.” He’s quiet for a beat, then he adds, “Yer the only one I want tae call me that.”
Simon goes quiet, and he’s got a funny look on his face when Johnny turns to look at him, but he hides it with a tight smile. “Are you…close with any of your sisters?”
“Erm…no’ really. Grace is nigh on a decade older’n me, an’ she’s a chip off the ol’ block. She an’ I never got on much. Isobel’s a few years younger, but she’s got married young an’ has a whole parcel o’ bairn keepin’ her busy. Elsie an’ me are the closest, I guess. She’s three years older, teachin’ art history at University in between her art shows.”
“An artist like you,” Simon smiles, but then he seems to catch himself. “I just know you like to sketch sometimes. In your journal. Not that I’ve looked.”
Simon is blushing furiously, and Johnny wonders what that’s all about.
God, he hopes Simon’s never seen inside his journal.
“I doodle a bit, is all. Elsie’s the real talent in the family. Painting, sculpture, photography, she does it all. She’s wanted to be an artist since she could walk.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” Johnny comes to a halt and sees Simon watching him.
“What did little Johnny MacTavish want to be when he grew up?”
That’s…not an easy question to answer, and Johnny takes his time, thinking about it as the trail gets steeper. Simon doesn’t push. Almost like he already knows the answer even before Johnny does.
What did he want to be? He tries to think back, carefully cracking open childhood memories and sifting through play pretend that seemed to change on a daily basis. A policeman or a pirate. An astronaut. A doctor. A mapmaker. Someone who built bridges and skyscrapers or someone who wrote stories that stayed with you long after the words ran out. An artist. A teacher. A father. A friend.
And above all, a good man. Someone who loved and was loved right back…for all the things he was and was not.
What did he want to be? More like, what did he want his life to stand for? The military had been an escape, and after he was in the system, it was onward and upward. Johnny had made it his personal mission to be everything. The best of the best. The guy who had his teammates backs. The one who’d get the mission done, come hell or high water. That had been the mission for so long, Johnny had almost forgotten he’d ever wanted anything else.
Until Simon.
A good man. Loved and loved right back…despite everything.
Johnny had spent so much time trying to please his father’s ghost, that he’d never stopped to wonder if he was someone little Johnny MacTavish would be proud of.
“Johnny?”
He stumbles, tripping on an exposed rock, and Simon steadies him. Johnny flashes a grin over his shoulder. “I already told ye, LT,” he teases. “I want to be like you when I grow up.”
Simon looks at him with that soul-penetrating look that always makes Johnny feel utterly naked. Then he smiles, faintly but full of wry fondness, honey brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
“You’re already better than me, Johnny.”
He doesn’t know why the turn of phrase feels like a punch in the gut, but it does. Maybe it’s the altitude or the exertion or the fact that he hasn’t eaten much today, so Johnny just gives Simon a faint smile back, then he turns back to the trail.
They hike on.
The trail climbs more steeply until the trees thin and the land opens up around them. They crest the ridge together, the wind stronger up here, carrying the scent of pine and cold water, and the view stretches out in every direction.
Far in the distance, the land splits and opens to the sea, the world wide and endless and impossibly beautiful.
Simon stops dead.
“Oh,” he breathes.
Johnny watches him instead of the view. Simon’s face is open in a way Johnny doesn’t get to see very often—eyes bright, mouth parted in quiet awe, shoulders squared like he’s bracing himself against something vast.
Johnny’s chest tightens painfully.
Simon turns to him then, stepping close without even seeming to realize he’s doing it. He reaches out, fingers brushing Johnny’s sleeve, his wrist, his hand—little touches that feel natural to him now, easy and unguarded.
And Johnny’s heart soars even as his stomach knots.
Because Simon is looking at him like this now—like Johnny is safe, like he belongs here with him—but if Simon knew the truth, would that look change?
Would Simon pull away?
Would he be gentle, apologetic, careful… the way people are when they don’t want to hurt you but still have to say no?
The thought makes Johnny’s throat close.
They go back to the cabin after that. He forces a smile when Simon nudges him playfully, talking just enough to keep the conversation going, even though it makes him feel like an asshole. Johnny is really happy to be here with Simon, but he feels like he’s ruining things because he knows Simon can sense something is wrong, but because he’s the sweetest man on the face of the earth he doesn’t push. He just lets Johnny take his time. So fucking gentle with him, but it only makes it worse.
Later, after they’ve kicked off their boots and hung up their coats and rummaged through the fridge for a snack, Simon sighs and stretches, nodding towards the bedroom.
“Fancy a nap? Fresh air’s done me in.”
Johnny just smiles fondly, because his Simon is a cuddle monster and Johnny loves every second of it and that is exactly what he needs right now.
Together they fall onto the bed, and Simon pulls Johnny close without hesitation, one arm draped heavy and warm over his waist. His body is dragged back against Simon’s chest and held in place, solid, warm, and secure. It’s only after Simon throws his leg over Johnny’s caging him in, that he’s able to take a full breath—funny how they’ve never talked about it, but Simon just somehow knows that Johnny needs pressure and warmth when he’s feeling anxious, or he’ll never sleep.
He barely has time to register the thought before sleep takes him, sudden and deep, the kind that only comes when you’ve finally let your guard down.
Johnny’s eyes fly open. He’s breathing hard, covered in a light sheen of sweat, and a bit dizzy as the last of the nightmare fades. Sleep paralysis—it’s been awhile since he’s had one like that. Not since Chicago…
Simon’s not in bed.
Johnny frowns slightly, rolling onto his side. The blankets on Simon’s side are cool, undisturbed for a while now. For just a split second, that old familiar anxiety sparks, but then he sees the note Simon left on the nightstand.
I’m outside. Didn’t want you to worry.
He’s a little confused by the note, more so when he hears the sound right outside the window.
Thunk.
A pause.
Thunk.
He drags himself out of bed, pulls on his jeans and Simon’s hoodie, and pads to the window. Outside, the afternoon light is pale and cold, the sun already beginning its slow descent behind the hills.
Simon’s in the yard, axe in hand, splitting firewood. Johnny leans against the frame and just…stares.
He’s stripped down to his tee shirt and jeans, jacket abandoned on the top of the wood pile beside him. Every movement is powerful and economical: the way he plants his feet, the smooth arc of his arms as he brings the axe down, the flex of muscle through his shoulders and back. There’s something almost meditative about it, the steady rhythm of work, the quiet competence of him. Johnny watches the axe bite into the log, watches Simon straighten and brush hair back from his forehead with the back of his wrist, breath puffing faintly in the cold, cheeks flushed pink with exertion.
Mouth dry, Johnny tears himself away from the sight before he does something truly stupid.
Then, he gets an idea.
Smiles to himself.
And puts on his boots and jacket and quietly slips out the front door.
Outside, the cold hits him immediately, biting at his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He circles wide, keeping to the edge of the trees, boots crunching softly through the snow. Simon doesn’t notice him at all, too focused on gathering the split wood into his arms.
Johnny stoops and scoops up a handful of snow, packing it together carefully, grinning to himself. Across the yard, Simon moves toward the cabin with his load, pauses by the bedroom window, and glances inside.
Johnny freezes.
Simon stands there a moment longer than necessary, brow furrowing, then he shifts and quickly heads inside with the wood. Johnny exhales slowly, letting the grin spread back across his face. He waits, crouched behind a tree, snowball ready in his palm. The silence stretches. Too long.
“Johnny?”
The front door bangs open. Simon steps out onto the porch, eyes scanning the yard. “Johnny?”
He leans back into the treeline as Simon comes down the front steps.
“Johnny, you out here?” Simon’s voice is closer now, a bit of a raw edge to it. Johnny stifles a grin—he doesn’t have a clue. He turns away from the trees…
…and Johnny steps out and lets the snowball fly.
It hits Simon square between the shoulder blades with a solid, wet, thwap.
Simon grunts in surprise and whirls around just in time for Johnny to nail him again, this one bursting against his chest, flecks of snow spraying up into his face.
For a split second, Simon just stands there, his jaw hanging open.
Then his mouth curls into a feral grin.
“Oh, you cheeky little cunt,” he growls. “Get back here.”
Johnny doesn’t need to be told twice.
He turns and bolts, laughing breathlessly as he tears through the snow, boots slipping, heart hammering. Behind him he hears Simon’s heavy footsteps, fast and relentless. He risks a glance over his shoulder and immediately regrets it because Simon is right there, long legs eating up the distance, grin sharp and dangerous and full of promise.
“Catch me first!” Johnny yells, ducking around a tree as a snowball sails past his head and explodes against the bark.
The woods erupt into chaos, snow flying, laughter echoing, the chase twisting and doubling back on itself. Johnny’s giggling like mad, his breath coming in sharp little gasps, fingers numb as he scrapes at the snow beside him, trying—and failing—to pack it into anything resembling a proper snowball.
He barely gets a handful together before Simon tackles him.
They go down hard into a snow drift, the impact knocking a laugh straight out of Johnny as snow explodes up around them, cold and shockingly invasive. Simon pins him easily, his eyes bright and wild as he holds up a handful of snow.
“Got you,” he says, triumphant.
Johnny yelps when Simon shoves the snow goes straight down the front of his shirt.
“Oh, you bastard—!”
Simon is apparently trying to smother him, shoving snow everywhere he can reach—down Johnny’s collar, down the back of his jeans, and they’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe. Johnny bucks and twists beneath him, half-heartedly trying to escape, then retaliates by grabbing a fistful of snow and mashing it straight into Simon’s face. They wrestle until neither of them has the strength left for it. Simon is still straddling him, hands braced in the snow on either side of Johnny’s shoulders, looking down at him with that devastating mix of fondness and exasperation.
“I ought to throttle you for that,” Simon says, still smiling. “You scared me half to death.”
Johnny wriggles beneath him, grabbing Simon’s side, but then freezes at the distinct, unmistakable shape in Simon’s jacket pocket.
He arches a brow. “I’d ask if that was a gun in yer pocket or if ye’re just happy tae see me,” he wheezes, “but I can see it’s clearly a gun.”
Simon blinks, then follows Johnny’s gaze. His smile fades just a touch.
“Why d’ye have a gun, Si?” Johnny asks, softer now.
Simon hesitates. The moment stretches. Then he exhales, sheepish in a way Johnny almost never sees.
“I didn’t know where you were,” he admits. “I just… I don’t know. I get a little paranoid sometimes.”
Something in Johnny’s chest tightens. He sobers immediately, and he reaches up to gently brush the snowflakes from Simon’s hair.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have done tha’. I didnae mean tae scare ye.”
Simon studies him for a second, then his mouth curves back into a grin, easier this time. “It’s all right. It was a good prank,” he says, pushing himself up and offering Johnny a hand.
Johnny lets himself be hauled to his feet, legs shaky, clothes soaked through and clinging uncomfortably.
“Come on,” Simon says, already steering him toward the cabin. “Let’s get you warmed up. You’re soaked through after that arse-kicking you got.”
“Arse kickin’—get tae fuck! Ye stood there like a gobsmacked dobber an—”
“English, Johnny.”
Inside, Simon kneels by the hearth, striking a match and coaxing the fire back to life, while Johnny shrugs out of his damp coat and hoodie, shivering as he hangs them near the warmth. The fire catches with a soft whoomph, flames licking up and filling the room with heat and light, and for a moment he just stares at them, lost in thought.
“Johnny?”
He flinches. Simon’s standing by the coat rack, just watching him. Johnny’s not sure how long he’s been standing there.
“You’ve been on edge today,” Simon says quietly. “I could run you a bath, if you want. Proper hot one. Help you relax.”
The offer is gentle. Careful. Earnest.
Johnny freezes.
For one horrifyingly beautiful moment, his mind supplies an image of what that would look like. Simon’s hands on his body, in his hair. The quiet intimacy of being tended to, seen, taken care of without expectation or heat or want. Just trust. For one of them, at least.
Johnny’s heart lurches painfully in his chest.
He can’t. He absolutely cannot.
If Simon touches him like that right now, Johnny is going to unravel completely. His body already betrays him enough; he doesn’t trust himself not to feel too much, not to want more than Simon knows he’s offering.
Johnny forces a smile that feels brittle around the edges.
“That’s okay,” he says, too quickly. “I’ll just take a quick shower.”
Simon studies his face for a beat, concern flickering there. Johnny holds his breath, terrified Simon will see straight through him.
“Okay.” Then, carefully, “I’ll get dinner on. That mac and cheese I made went over well last time. I can handle that.”
Johnny’s chest tightens as Simon turns away, already moving through the kitchen, already taking care of him in the only way Johnny will let him right now.
He escapes into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaning his forehead briefly against the cool wood. The sounds of Simon cooking drifts past the door—pots clinking, the low hum of his voice to himself—and it makes everything worse.
The shower is hot enough to scald his skin, steam filling the small space until it’s hard to breathe. Johnny braces one hand against the tile and bows his head, frustration and want and shame tangling together until it’s unbearable.
He jerks off quickly, mechanically, refusing to let himself linger on anything but the rush of water and the sting of self-reproach afterward. There’s no relief in it. Just a hollow ache and a surge of guilt that settles heavy in his gut.
He hates himself for it.
He hates that Simon doesn’t know. Hates that Simon trusts him so completely. Hates that every gentle thing Simon does feels like another thread pulling him closer to the edge.
Johnny rests his forehead against the tile, breathing hard, water streaming down his back.
I’m telling him tonight, he vows silently. One way or another.
No more running.
Johnny comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, his hair still damp. The cabin smells heavenly, and under any other circumstances his stomach would be growling.
Instead, it twists.
Simon’s just finishing up at the stove, wooden spoon in hand. He glances over his shoulder, eyes lighting briefly when he sees Johnny. “Dinner’s about ready.”
Johnny nods and dresses quickly. They sit at the small kitchen table together, steam rising from the bowls between them.
Johnny stares at his food.
He pushes it around with his fork, appetite gone, throat tight, heart hammering so hard it feels like it might punch straight through his ribs as the words just sit there, lodged in his throat.
Say it. Just say it. Tell him now.
This is the safest place he’s ever been. Away from base. No audience. No eyes. Just the two of them and this cabin and the truth he’s been choking on for years. Johnny is almost about to do it, almost about to tell Simon…when he has a horrifying thought.
If this goes wrong,…there’s nowhere to run.
He’ll be trapped here with Simon. With the fallout. With Simon’s anger or disgust or quiet rejection. With the look on Simon’s face when he realizes what Johnny’s saying and quantifies everything they’ve ever done together under a different lens.
The thought of having to endure not only Simon’s rejection but close quarters and a very long car ride home afterwards makes him start to panic. As usual, his father’s voice rises up, sharp and cruel, and Johnny screws his eyes shut to try to block it out.
“Johnny?”
Simon’s voice cuts through the noise, and Johnny blinks his eyes open.
“You’re not eating,” Simon says gently. “Are you okay?”
The concern in his eyes nearly breaks him.
“I’m—” Johnny starts, then stops. His mouth opens again. “I’m… yeah, I’m—I’m—”
I need to tell you something.
Please don’t hate me.
His vision tunnels. The room feels too small suddenly, the air too thin. Trapped.
He tries again. “I’m…I—”
I can’t breathe.
“Need a minute,” he blurts, already pushing his chair back. “Sorry—just—”
He barely makes it to the bathroom before the nausea hits.
Johnny drops to his knees and retches into the toilet, violent and sudden. His hands shake against the porcelain, lungs burning as he coughs and gasps, trying to drag air back into his body. His heart is racing wildly now, completely out of control, each beat loud and erratic in his ears. He spits, flushes, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s still really hard to breathe. His face is tingling, fingertips numb, and he distantly wonders if he’s going to pass out.
Three loud knocks on the door.
“Johnny?” Simon’s voice is right there, sounding very worried. “Johnny, open the door.”
Shit. Shit. He forgot to turn on the sink.
Simon heard everything.
Another knock on the door, and this time it sounds like Simon’s about to go through it. “Are you—Johnny, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
“’M fine,” Johnny croaks, though his voice wobbles badly. “Just—just give me a sec.”
Johnny staggers to his feet, bracing against the counter. He splashes cold water on his face, rinses his mouth, and stares at his reflection, collecting himself.
He unlocks the door.
Simon is right there, looking like he was seconds from breaking down the door and was using every ounce of his restraint not to. His face is tight with worry, all the softness gone. His reaches up and presses his hand against Johnny’s cheek, his forehead.
“Are you sick?” Simon asks, voice low and urgent. “You’re all clammy. Was it the cold? The snow? The—it couldn’t have been dinner, you didn’t eat a thing.”
Johnny flinches at the touch before he can stop himself.
Simon stills instantly. “Sorry,” he says, immediately pulling his hands back. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s not that,” Johnny rushes out, hating how thin his voice sounds. He forces a weak smile. “I’m okay, honest. Just… got meself worked up.”
Simon studies him, clearly unconvinced. “You don’t look okay.”
Johnny swallows hard. His chest still feels tight, breath shallow and uneven.
“I just need a bit,” he says. “I promise. I’m not sick. I’m just…” He trails off, searching for something to say because Simon is in major worry-mode and Johnny is not ready to talk right now. “I just…had a wee panic attack, that’s all.”
Simon tucks his arm around Johnny’s shoulders, and Johnny lets himself be led over to the couch. The panic attack’s mostly over now and he can breathe, but he still feels a bit tingly and above all, numb.
“You feel dizzy? Lightheaded?” Simon asks as they sit, gently pressing two fingers to the inside of his wrist.
“No. Just…” Johnny drifts off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand like that explains anything, but of course Simon understands.
“It’s all right.” Simon’s watching him, fingers rubbing little circles against Johnny’s pulse point. It feels nice. “I’m going to grab you something to help settle your stomach, okay?”
“I’m fine—”
“I know,” Simon says gently, already opening a cupboard. “Humor me.”
Crackers appear. A cold can of ginger ale. Simon sets them down in front of Johnny, then clears away the bowls of mac and cheese away without comment.
Johnny takes a sip of ginger ale, and because Simon’s watching expectantly, a little nibble of cracker. “Sorry about ruining dinner.”
“Don’t worry about it. You warm enough?”
Johnny nods, but Simon gets him a blanket anyway and wraps it around his shoulders. Stokes the fire. Pretends he’s not watching Johnny like a hawk, the concern radiating off him in palpable waves.
Finally he seems satisfied that Johnny’s not going to keel over, and he goes into the kitchen to clean up. The silence stretches, the crackling of the fire unnaturally loud as Johnny just sits there bundled in his blanket with his crackers and ginger ale, sick and miserable and feeling like an utter coward.
“I bet you’ll never guess how I learned to ride a motorbike,” Simon says suddenly.
Johnny slowly turns his head towards the kitchen. Simon’s back is to him, washing dishes at the sink while he continues to talk without waiting for Johnny to answer.
“There was a long-standing argument between my brother Tommy and I over who’d jump a motorbike the farthest. Because he was older, Tommy always got further on his bicycle than me, but I was convinced I’d beat him on a motorbike because I was lighter. So one day—and mind you, neither of us had a bleedin’ clue how to ride a motorbike—we stole the neighbor’s Ducati—”
On and on Simon talks, not once turning around to see if Johnny’s listening. Filling the empty space with his words. Johnny’s not even really paying attention—it’s too much right now—but the sound and cadence of Simon’s voice is soothing on a level he didn’t realize he was craving. It’s an effective little trick to get Johnny out of his own head.
It’s not until several minutes have gone by like this that Johnny realizes where Simon learned it from.
He’d learned it from Johnny.
Every time Simon—Ghost, back then—had spiraled out, it had been Johnny yapping away about nothing in his ear, giving him space to come back up for air. And now, here they are, come full circle.
Johnny swallows thickly past the lump in his throat, and startles when Simon’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder.
“Here’s some pictures of ‘er,” he says, handing Johnny his unlocked phone. The photo album page is pulled up, showing several pictures of a sleek looking motorbike. “We’ll have to go for a ride when we get back, Johnny. You’ll love it.”
Johnny’s lips tilt up in a smile. “Fast, eh?”
Simon’s answering smile could light up the entire world. “Wicked fast, Johnny.”
Simon then launches into an entire monologue about where they can go, where the best roads are, what they can see, all the places he wants to take Johnny on the back of his motorbike. Johnny listens, curled up on the sofa with his blanket and crackers, his chin perched on one hand as he crumbles. Just crumbles. God, how he loves this man. So fucking much that he feels full to bursting with it, more than he’s ever experienced, more than he’s ever thought possible. Watching Simon light up at the smallest of smiles from Johnny because he cares so much, watching his quiet domestic competence as he moves around the kitchen, fussing.
Simon finishes drying the last dish and sets it in the cupboard, then he turns and watches Johnny for a moment, measuring.
“How’re you feeling?” Simon asks.
Johnny lays his head on the back of the sofa and looks up at him with wonder and affection. “Better. Bit wrung out. Feel disgustin’. But better.”
Simon nods, accepting that. He comes to sit beside him, close enough that their knees touch. He keeps his voice low, even. “How about that bath? Might make you feel better. Ease some tension.”
Johnny hesitates. He can feel it in his body—the cold sweat clinging to his skin, the ache in his shoulders, the way his stomach still feels a little hollow and wrong. He does want it. He just hates how much.
“It would be nice,” he admits quietly. “But I don’t want you thinkin’ I—”
“I don’t think anything,” Simon says firmly. “You’ve had a rough day. A bath might help. That’s all.”
Johnny studies his face, searching for something he doesn’t find. No expectation. No heat. Just concern, steady and unflinching.
“…Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah. Okay.”
Simon’s mouth curves into a small, private smile that he quickly schools away. “All right. Easy does it.”
He stands first, offering his hand. Johnny takes it, letting Simon pull him up. His legs are still a bit unsteady, and Simon notices—adjusts immediately, moving closer, a hand hovering near Johnny’s elbow without grabbing. There if needed.
In the bathroom, Simon runs the water, testing it with his wrist until it’s properly hot. Steam begins to curl up, fogging the mirror. Johnny sits on the closed lid of the toilet, shoulders hunched, while Simon moves around him with quiet efficiency.
“I’ll turn around so you can get in,” Simon says, already doing so, giving Johnny privacy without making a thing of it. “Just be careful. It might be slick.”
Johnny undresses quickly, movements clumsy, a little rushed. He steps in the tub, lowers himself into the water, and exhales a long, shaky breath. “Okay.”
Simon turns and kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves. “Tell me if it’s too hot. Or not hot enough.”
“It’s perfect,” Johnny says softly.
If there was any doubt that Simon intended to participate in the bath, that was dispelled as he reaches for the body wash. Johnny doesn’t mind, though. Simon’s touch has always been a grounding force for him, and despite the anxiety still churning in his gut he finds that Simon’s touch is exactly what he needs right now. To just relax and let himself be cared for by someone who obviously cares about him a great deal.
Simon starts with his shoulders, scooping water up and letting it pour slowly over tense muscle. He works gently, thumbs pressing in careful circles at the base of Johnny’s neck where stress always seems to collect. Johnny’s head tips forward, chin dropping to his chest.
“Christ,” he breathes, barely audible.
Simon stills for half a second. “All right?”
“Yeah,” Johnny murmurs. “Just…it’s nice, s’all.”
Simon resumes, slower now. More deliberate. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t try to fix anything. Just stays with the rhythm until Johnny’s shoulders start to loosen under his hands and he slumps bonelessly against the tub.
“Wash your hair?” Simon asks quietly.
Johnny blinks, then nods. “Okay.”
He leans back against the edge of the tub while Simon wets his hair carefully, a finger under his jaw tilting his head back. The shampoo is Johnny’s own, the scent familiar to him, but since Simon’s begun using it as well it now just reminds him of Simon.
“Close your eyes,” Simon murmurs.
Simon’s fingers move with unhurried patience, massaging his scalp in small, thoughtful circles. Johnny’s eyes flutter closed. His breathing evens out, deepens. The constant noise in his head—tell him, don’t tell him, run, stay—fades into a distant hum.
“There you are. Just take some deep breaths for me.” Simon’s fingers find a sore spot of tension at the base of his skull, and Johnny’s breath shudders out. “Good. You’re doing so good, Johnny.”
The praise make his stomach do a little flip, and he takes another deep breath. Simon hums, pleased. When he rinses Johnny’s hair, he’s careful not to let water splash his face, one hand shielding his eyes, the other steady at the nape of his neck. Johnny sighs, the sound loose and unguarded.
“Feeling better?”
Johnny makes a little sound of approval. Words are beyond him at this point. He feels like his bones are made of jelly. He doesn’t have a care in the world. Everything he was worried about is a problem for another day. Right now, it’s just him and Simon and there is no place he’d rather be.
For a few minutes, that’s all there is. Water. Pressure. Heat. Simon’s hands. Johnny’s body remembering what it feels like not to brace for impact.
Simon’s hands knead over the tops of his shoulders and across his pectoral muscles. He shifts without thinking, his head falling back, chest lifting as he leans into the touch.
A moan slips out of him. Loudly.
Johnny freezes. Looks down. It is painfully obvious that his body is enjoying this far more than he intended.
Simon does too. His hands still instantly, resting lightly over the spot where Johnny’s heart is now beating frantically.
Johnny’s face burns. “I—sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s okay,” Simon says quickly.
Johnny tries to pull away, mortified, but Simon’s hand increases pressure against his chest.
“Easy. It’s all right.”
“I didn’t mean for—”
“I know,” Simon says gently. He waits until Johnny looks at him. “Can I ask you something?”
Johnny nods.
“Is…is that something you want?” Simon asks carefully. “Like before?”
The question lands softly, but it lands true.
Johnny takes a breath. Then another. He checks in with himself—really checks. Past the shame. Past the panic. Past the voice that tells him he’s dirty for wanting anything at all.
“I…I…”
Gently, Simon rubs small circles over his heart. “No pressure. Just an offer. I know you’re tense, and I know that makes you feel good. And I like making you feel good, Johnny. I’m okay with this. You know that.”
“I do, Si. I know.” Johnny lets out a shuddering breath. All his previous uncertainty and anxiety is fading by the minute, and he suddenly can’t remember what he was so bent out of shape for. “Please. Please, I…I want ye tae.”
Simon huffs out a small, pleased sound, and pulls Johnny’s body back into his chest.
“Relax, Johnny. You can tell me to stop.” Keeping one hand against his chest, over his heart, Simon curls into him until their heads are temple to temple, his lips inches from Johnny’s ear. “Just us here right now. No judgement. No pressure. Just you and me. Okay?”
“’kay.”
Just Simon and Johnny. Johnny and Simon. What Johnny wouldn’t give for that to be true. No past lives, no worry about the future. No ghosts haunting their shadows. Just Simon and Johnny, the only two people left in this world, in this tiny cabin in the Scottish Highlands.
Simon’s hand dips beneath the water, tracing down his abdomen, smoothing out over his thighs. Back and forth. Back and forth. Praise murmured against his temple, his body safe and warm in Simon’s embrace as the remaining walls fall away.
By the time Simon wraps his hand around his cock, Johnny is practically mewling for it.
“Si—”
“Shh. I know. I’ve got you, Johnny.”
Long, slow strokes. Johnny wants him to go faster, harder, but Simon seems to know what he needs and doesn’t alter his pace. Pleasure builds like a tidal wave Johnny can see coming from a distance, a slow roll of pleasure creeping up through his chest, his throat, his face until he’s panting and nearly insensible with need.
In the end, it’s the quiet, slow intimacy of Simon’s touch that undoes him. The soft words in his ear, the combination somehow making this the most erotic experience of his life because he has never felt so seen. Not watched, not evaluated, not judged.
Just seen.
When Johnny finally comes, it’s quiet and overwhelming and nothing like what he’s used to. No rush. No shame. Just Simon’s steady presence, murmured encouragement, the soft press of his chest against Johnny’s back as he breathes through it.
After, Simon doesn’t move right away. He rests his head on Johnny’s shoulder, his fingers tracing absent, soothing lines along his arms.
Johnny stares at the far wall, eyes bright, throat tight. When Simon finally gets up to grab a towel, Johnny notices it—the lack of urgency, the absence of any mirrored need.
Simon isn’t aroused. Not even a little.
He doesn’t know why it comes as a surprise. Simon told him exactly how it was for him. He’s been telling him this whole time, only Johnny didn’t really hear him, too wrapped up in his own head.
Maybe…maybe Simon won’t care once he finds out the truth. Maybe he…maybe he’ll just accept it as another thing that makes Johnny Johnny. Just part of the collective whole.
He dries himself and dresses. Simon’s out in the bedroom, turning down the covers, but he turns when he senses Johnny standing in the doorway to the bathroom, watching him.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult,” Johnny blurts out suddenly. “I ruined today. Ye’ve done everything fer me an’ I—”
“That’s bollocks.”
Johnny blinks.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Simon says firmly. “You had a bad day. You’re hurting. That doesn’t make you a problem.”
“I know,” Simon says softly, pulling him close. “I know what it’s like—trying to sort old memories when they won’t stay put. When everything feels confusing and wrong. There’ll be bad days. Probably more of them, now.”
He presses his forehead to Johnny’s. “But I’m here. If you want to talk. If you don’t. If you need holding. If you need space. I’m not going anywhere.”
Unable to speak, Johnny just clutches the back of Simon’s shirt like a lifeline and nods.
Simon holds him, steady and unyielding, and for the first time all day, Johnny believes him.
Got Your Six Series Masterlist
Again, sorry for the long space between updates! I've actually begun working on an original fiction project, which has been fun and time consuming, but I'm hoping to get back into updating my fics here a little more regularly. This chapter in particular gave me a hard time, I wanted to get Johnny's headspace just right and there is SO much going on with him right now. I've also made the decision to speed up the timeline here a little bit, and while I'm not going to say exactly what's going to happen (note the added chapters, this is going to be 6 chapters now instead of 3) things ARE going to come to a head in this fic. Anyway, thank you so much for reading, for sticking with me through the mini-hiatus, for all your comments and kudos and support. It really does mean a lot, thank you! <3 <3 <3
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish
Works: 30 of ?
Words: 155K
A loosely connected series of GhostSoap fics based on my own headcannons, through the course of their relationship. They won't necessarily be posted in order, but they will be ordered chronologically as they are posted. Based on prompts for whumptober, angstober, and flufftober, there will be a lot of whump, hurt/comfort, and some spice later on. Each fic will be individually tagged
You can find the Series on Ao3 HERE
Outside Looking In (emotional whump, yearning)
Challenge Accepted (angst/worry, fluff)
Ozone Before the Storm (whump, betrayal)
I Hope You See the Sun Someday in the Darkness (whump)
Of Course There Was Only One Bed (light angst, fluff)
English, MacTavish (fluff)
Sold My Soul, Broke My Bones (whump, angst)
We'll Make it Alright to Come Undone (whump, angst, fluff)
Sit By Me (fluff)
Early Morning Walks (fluff, light angst)
Polar Opposites (fluff)
Can You Get Through All the Pain Inside You? (whump, angst)
Ka-Freakin' Boom (angst, whump)
Pumpkin Carving (fluff, light angst)
Put My Trust in Half Empty Glasses (angst, whump)
Even With the Smallest Cuts, You Lose So Much Blood (whump, angst) Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
Picking Up the Pieces (angst, fluff)
All These Hollowed Out Spaces Left Behind (angst, fluff)
Mission Accomplished (fluff, light angst)
Hoodies, Blankets, and Other Dangerous Comforts (fluff, light angst)
Highlands Interlude (angst, fluff) Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Mission Ready (light angst, smut)
If All My Days Are Numbered, Why Do I Keep Counting? (Whump, Angst) Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
In My Dreams, We Are Together (angst, fluff, dreams)
Letters to Simon (angst)
My Panic's at the Ceiling, but I'm Facedown on the Floor (angst, whump)
Hey, Johnny (vol. 1) (angst)
Do Not Open Until December 25th (angst, fluff)
A Shift in the Weather (angst, H/C, smut)
Highlands Revisited (Angst, H/C) Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6
Relationship: Simon "Ghost" Riley & John "Soap" MacTavish
Words: 1300
Triggers: Angst, (not actually) unrequited love
“Hey, Johnny…”
There’s a fifteen second pause, followed by a heavy sigh.
“It’s um…it’s Simon. You probably already figured that out. We had a fight today and you asked me for space so I’m…I’m recording this because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what I’m doing, I just—"
Simon’s voice breaks.
“I’m sorry I hurt you.:
-or- Johnny has asked for space, and Simon "writes" him a letter of his own
A/N: This is a continuation of the previous fic, "My Panic’s at the Ceiling, but I’m Face Down on the Carpet" - this is the verbal letter Simon composes for Johnny after their argument.
“Hey, Johnny…”
There’s a fifteen second pause, followed by a heavy sigh.
“It’s um…it’s Simon. You probably already figured that out. We had a fight today and you asked me for space so I’m…I’m recording this because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know what I’m doing, I just—"
Simon’s voice breaks.
“I’m sorry I hurt you. Please know that I never meant for it to go that far. But it did and you’re hurt and it’s all my fault for pushing you so hard, for letting my anger get the better of me today.”
Another pause, eight seconds. A sharp intake of breath.
“So here I am. Talking into a bloody phone like a twat. But I can’t sleep. I keep seeing the look your face when you walked away from me. And I keep hearing the things you said, and the things I said, and I… I can’t sit with it. Not on my own.”
Fabric shifts.
“I’m not giving you this. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I have to get it out of my head or I’ll go fucking mad.”
Another breath.
“I’m not angry at you. I need you to know that first. I’m angry at your father. I know he’s dead. And I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but fuck that. Fuck him. If that bastard were still alive, I swear to God, Johnny—”
His voice drops into something cold and lethal.
“—I would put him in the fucking ground. I would kill him with my bare hands, and I would make it last.”
Silence again, for eighteen seconds.
“I don’t want you to know that. You don’t need my vengeance. But I do. I need to think of it, or else I need to rip my own skin off, because the idea of you—just a fucking child—crying in a dark cupboard while some animal snapped at your face and your father stood outside thinking he was making you a man…”
A shaky inhale.
“…it makes me sick, Johnny. Sick and furious and helpless in a way I’m not built for. And I know you don’t want pity. That’s not what this is. I don’t pity you. Christ, I admire you. You turned into the bravest man I’ve ever met. Yes. A man. You laugh easy. You love hard. You’re good. Despite everything. In spite of him. You are more of a man than that coward ever was.”
The bedsprings groan as if he’s bracing his elbows on his knees.
“And now I’m sitting here trying to figure out how I made it worse. How I took something you’ve carried alone your whole life and ripped it open and shoved the carnage in your face, all because I couldn’t control my own temper.”
A low curse under his breath.
“I should’ve been gentle. Patient. I should’ve listened. I should’ve held you instead of arguing. I should’ve been someone you could feel safe with…”
Another beat.
“…I want to be someone you feel safe with. You told me something tonight you’ve never told another soul. I could tell by the way you had to drag it out of you. And all I did was shout. Christ. I don’t deserve that kind of trust. But I want it. I want to be someone who earns your trust.”
He drags a hand over his face, the rasp of skin over stubble.
“I keep thinking about the way you look at me sometimes. And I don’t—look, I’ve never been good at this part. Talkin’ about how I feel. For the longest time, it was safer not to feel, if you know what I mean. I know you don’t know everything about my past, and…and maybe I’ll tell you someday. If I was going to tell anyone, it would be you, Johnny. But I can’t. Not yet.”
He huffs a humorless breath.
“I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. Only that I feel things when I’m with you. When I look at you or catch you looking at me. I like when you laugh. I like when you lean on me. I like waking up with you tucked under my arm like you belong there. I like the way you say my name, soft, like it’s something worth saying. Things I thought were dead in me. Things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anymore. And the way it feels…kind of makes me feel like I’m losing my mind, but in a good way, you know? Like I want to be as close to you as a person could possibly be. I want to be the first person you see in the morning and the last person you think about at night. I want to crawl inside you and curl up around that big, beautiful heart of yours and keep it safe, because it feels like you’re more a home to me than anything has ever been, Johnny, and I think I might be…”
A sharp inhale.
“…Forget I said that.”
A beat.
“Point is—I thought that part of me was dead. Burned out. I thought it’d been carved out of me so deep there was nothing left to spark. And then you…”
His breath catches. He sounds startled by it.
His voice drops, barely audible.
“Johnny, I care about you more than I’ve ever cared for anything. Anyone. And it terrifies me.”
A long, trembling breath.
“Because every time I let someone close, I hurt them. And tonight, I bloody proved it.”
He shifts again, restless.
“I keep replaying it, you know. You saying you panicked. You saying you thought you were over it. This…this thing with your father. And something clicked. It’s why you act the way you do, isn’t it? The bravado. The jokes. The way you say you’ve got something handled even when you don’t. This is why you thought you had to prove yourself to us.”
A swallow.
“This is why you took the stim that day.”
A harsh, shaking exhale.
“Christ, Johnny. You were trying to be what he wanted, weren’t you? Even now. Even after all these years. That’s what he did to you.”
He sounds wrecked.
“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I yelled at you for defending him, and I didn’t stop to think you weren’t defending him—you were defending yourself. Your whole life, you’ve been told your pain wasn’t real. That you were the problem. That you were weak.”
His voice thickens, dangerously close to breaking.
“But you’re not weak, Johnny. You never were. You were a child. And he hurt you. And I am so fucking angry I don’t know where to put it.”
A long pause. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“…I should tell you this part too.”
Another breath.
“My da used to beat the shite out of me. Bottle, belt, whatever he had in his hand. He was a drunk, and angry. All the time. My brother wasn’t much better. Mum was too far gone most nights to stop it. I know what it feels like to flinch when a man raises his voice. I know what it feels like to think you earned it.”
He swallows.
“So when you told me about that cupboard, I saw myself in you. And it scared me. Because I never wanted you to have anything in common with me.”
A shaky inhale.
“You’re better than I ever was. Better than I ever will be. You’re a good man, Johnny. You’re kind. You’re brave. You’re everything I wish I could be.”
His voice softens, unbearably tender.
“And I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to make you feel safe with me again. But I want to. I want to try. I need you, you see. I need you, and I know my needing is more than yours will ever be, but I see it now. I need you, Johnny.”
One last breath—deep, unsteady, and vulnerable.
“…I miss you. Right now. Even though you’re only two doors down. I miss you, Johnny.”
A click.
The recording ends.
Got Your Six Series Masterlist
Just like with "Letters to Simon," there will be other recordings for Johnny interspersed between fics. The letters have gotten a huge response, so this is something I'm going to keep up with, and yes, they're going to be able to read/listen to each other's letters. Hope you enjoyed, next up is a fluffy (and a bit angsty but with a happy ending) Christmas fic <3
Relationship: Simon "Ghost" Riley & John "Soap" MacTavish
Words: 10K
Triggers: Angst, H/C, discussion of past abuse/SA/torture, smut (handjob), discussion of sexuality
Simon’s fingers follow the line down the back of Johnny’s skull, massaging gently at the base, thumbs pressing where tension has been living for days. Johnny lets out a shuddering breath, his body yielding all at once.
“There you go,” Simon murmurs, a soft clucking sound under his breath. “Christ, Johnny…I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not being able to take it away. For not being able to help.”
“Ye are helpin’,” Johnny says immediately, voice thick. “This—this is helpin’.”
-or-Simon learns that his hands can provide pleasure instead of causing pain, and he puts this information to good use.
A/N: So I was going through my Masterlist, and apparently I've missed cross-posting a few things from Ao3!
“Sergeant MacTavish, I beg of you. Go get some sleep.”
Across the chart table, Laswell’s tired voice carries the same weary fondness she’s had for hours now. But it's starting to brittle with the lateness of the hour, he's noticed, and Soap isn't sure how much longer she's going to tolerate him hanging around. Still, he can’t bring himself to leave.
The storm had come in sideways, the kind of snow that didn’t fall so much as attack. Johnny had watched it creep in from his window hours ago, sleet turning into heavy, wet flakes, the wind howling hard enough to rattle the glass. The base has gone quiet in response, most everyone dismissed early until it was just him and Laswell alone in the command center, trying to keep busy as the storm worsened. Soap’s tried to keep busy, but he’s never been good with waiting or uncertainty. Tonight, it’s the uncertainty whether the roads will hold, whether flights will remain grounded, and whether Task Force 141 will even make it back tonight.
Whether Simon will make it home tonight.
“There’s still all these reports tae go through,” he says.
“We have analysts who are paid to handle those.”
“Just a few more.”
“Sergeant…”
Soap ignores the exasperation and sympathy in her voice. He knows how this looks. He knows how pathetic he’s being, he just…
Soap looks up at the weather radar tracking the winter storm.
“They should’ve been back by now,” he says quietly.
Laswell clicks a few keys on her laptop, and sighs. “With this storm moving in, it could be hours before they're back. All flights in the area have been grounded."
When Soap doesn’t respond, she leans forward, steepling her fingers together. “When’s the last time you slept?”
Thirty-five hours, twenty minutes, and seventeen seconds, he thinks. When I fell asleep on the couch watching Christmas movies next to Simon.
“I get enough,” he says instead.
Laswell doesn’t look convinced. “You know, Price is going to have my head for letting you work while you’re on light duty.”
“This is light duty.”
“Not at 2300. You’re supposed to be resting.”
Not for the first time, Soap glares down at his hands. The bandages are gone, but the puncture wounds and deep bruising from the dog attack spreads all the way up his forearms. At least the swelling has gone down so his hands no longer resemble Christmas hams, but they’re still painful and he still can’t flex them that well. Most offensive, though, is the brace on his right wrist.
Cryin’ over a sprained wrist like a wee girl, his father’s voice echoes in his mind. Disgusting.
Soap closes his eyes and mentally tells his dead father to shut the fuck up.
A hand rests lightly on his shoulder and Soap jumps. He didn’t notice Laswell get up.
“I know you’re worried about them, Soap, but they’ll be fine,” she says gently. “The op is over and they’re holed up on a secure military base, waiting out the storm. Price has the sat phone and is keeping me updated as their timetable changes—honestly, there’s nothing to do now but wait. Burning yourself out isn’t going to bring them back home any sooner.”
He sighs. “I ken, but—”
“I’m about to go to bed myself. I suggest you do, too. I promise I will wake you the second they’re enroute.”
Soap leans back in his chair. “You’re right. I ken yer right, it’s just…”
“…waiting is hard,” Laswell finishes. “Why do you think I’m crabby all the time?”
That gets a chuckle out of him. “Yer not crabbit. Not much, anyway. I’ll go, then. I’ve made enough of a nuisance of meself as it is. Ye’ll wake me, though?”
“I will. Get some sleep, Soap.”
Soap gives Laswell a mock salute and leaves the command center. The hallways are deserted and eerily quiet this time of night, the storm outside making the base seem even more isolated and deserted than it is. He stops by the floor-to-ceiling windows outside the mess hall and watches the snow blow sideways across the tarmac, piling up in corners and against buildings. Somewhere, out in all of that, is Simon. Probably still decked out in his combat gear, leaned up against a wall beside Gaz trying to get in a few kips while they can. Price, of course, wouldn’t be sleeping, probably scrolling endlessly through weather and news reports on his phone and starting on his second cigar.
Soap smiles a little. He’d give just about anything to be with them right now, even filthy and tired after a mission, stranded at a strange base by the whims of mother nature.
He’d give everything to be sitting next to Simon right now, shoulder to shoulder and feeling the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of their uniforms.
Soap’s smile fades. He turns and walks the rest of the hallway to his barracks room. Well, his and Ghost’s barracks room, even if it wasn’t official.
Even if it could never be official.
He kicks off his boots and undresses, tossing his uniform in a heap in the corner. If Simon’s neat little piles of gear and clothing were here, he’d at least make an effort, but Simon’s not here, and there’s no one to tidy up for. He’s not a slob by any means, he just gets distracted—tonight, though, he’s feeling a little depressed and really can’t be arsed to pick up after himself.
Dressed in sweats and a tee shirt, he shivers and reaches for the hoodie he stole from Simon all those months ago and puts it on, pulling up the hood and nuzzling his nose and lips against its softness. After awkwardly brushing his teeth, he curls up on his side beneath a ridiculous number of pillows, burrowed deep beneath the blue faux-fur blanket Simon gave him. It holds warmth like nothing else, trapping heat the way Simon does when he pulls Johnny close, solid and encompassing and impossible to escape. The texture is everything, impossibly soft against his cheek, a tiny, ridiculous luxury in a life of utilitarian gear. He loves this blanket. He loves it with a quiet, embarrassing intensity because it smells faintly of Simon—gun oil and clean sweat and that unique, warm scent that lives at the base of Simon’s throat. Johnny buries his face in it now, inhales, and pretends it’s enough.
It's not.
He can almost feel the phantom weight of Simon's arm around his waist, the familiar pressure of Simon's face burrowed into his collarbone, the rhythmic heat of his breath brushing against his skin. The emptiness beside him is a physical ache, a cold space in the bed that no number of pillows or blankets can fill.
The room is dim except for the faint spill of light from the crack under the door, the storm outside throwing shadows across the walls from the window. The shadows dance and resolve into the things he’s been avoiding all day, the things he tells himself he’s fine with until the sun goes down and he’s alone in bed.
Snarling dogs and dark cupboards under the stairs.
A stolen kiss and his father’s boots thundering across the barn towards him.
Hands gripped tight to a fence post and a belt across his back.
Scrubbing his own blood from their kitchen floor.
Simon’s rage at Johnny’s long dead father.
And the look on Simon’s face when he inevitably finds out Johnny’s secret.
Just when he thought he’d reached a safe plateau with Simon, it had turned out to be nothing but quicksand. A dog attack on a mission followed by a very public panic attack, culminating in unwanted revelations about his childhood and a realization of shared trauma between the two of them. Christ, the things Simon had shared. The vulnerability and trust. The understanding and the patience he’d given Johnny—what was he supposed to do with that?
“I would do anything for you, Johnny. Anything. I hope you know that by now.”
How is he supposed to let Simon in—how is he supposed to explain everything about his childhood, everything about his father—when Johnny’s greatest secret is the very thing that could drive Simon away?
He’s not supposed to feel like this. He knows that. He’s known it for months. Simon cares for him. He’s kind. Protective. Steady in a way Johnny has never known. But that’s where it ends. It has to. Because as much as he misses him, as hard as he’s already fallen, the most heartbreaking thing is that he will never be able to tell Simon how he feels, because Simon will never feel the same way about him. Maybe platonically. Maybe even a best friend. But never as anything more. Never like he’s the other half of his heart.
There’s a word for this, he thinks. Soulmates.
Johnny exhales slowly into the pillow.
Soulmates. That’s what it would be. But what do you call it when only one person feels that way?
The thought sits heavy in his chest as he stares at the ceiling, listening to the storm howl. He tells himself Simon will be back tomorrow. That he’s safe. That this deployment is nothing—paperwork, escort duty, cold nights and boredom. He tells himself a lot of things.
Sleep still refuses to come.
Time stretches. Johnny is hovering somewhere between waking and dozing when he hears it, the soft click of the door to his room opening.
He freezes.
Boots carefully step across the threshold. Fabric shifts, and the door closes quietly. Then the unmistakable sound of gear being removed and neatly folded.
Simon. Somehow, they made it back.
His heart immediately starts thudding in his chest, and he fights off a grin. Part of him wants to jump out of bed and tackle Simon, but another part of him forces himself to remain still. He doesn’t move, breathing shallowly, just watching through half-lowered lashes as Simon slips into the room, his big form moving silently because he obviously thinks Johnny’s still asleep. For such a large man he is so quiet, nearly becoming his namesake in the dark. Folding his kit with meticulous care, stacking it just so. Even exhausted, even fresh from the field, there’s something reverent in the way he handles his things. Johnny loves that about him—the discipline, the order, the way he takes up space without wasting any of it.
He feels the absence of that space when Simon’s gone. God, he misses it so much.
The bathroom door closes. The shower kicks on.
Johnny watches the closed door, his thoughts immediately and traitorously filling in the gaps. He imagines steam curling in the air, water darkening Simon’s curls until the blond turns honey-brown. Shampoo sliding down his back, tension washing down the drain with the grime of the field. He imagines Simon’s strong, capable hands moving over himself with the same care he applies to everything else.
Johnny swallows.
The thought shifts, dangerous and unwanted, and suddenly he wants—no, needs—to be the one there. His hands tracing the paths water takes over Simon’s body, memorizing every line and scar and curve. Pressing kisses into skin still warm from the shower.
His body reacts before he can stop it.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his hips down into the mattress, grinding just enough to take the edge off. He burrows his head beneath the pillows, clutches the blanket tight, holds his breath until the heat ebbs away and shame takes its place.
Get a fucking grip, MacTavish.
The water shuts off. The bathroom light winks out, and the door quietly opens.
Johnny squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself calm. He is not sixteen. He is not helpless. He can stop this.
Soft footsteps cross the room. The weight above his head shifts, and suddenly the pillow is lifted away. Cool air hits his flushed face, and he blinks up into familiar warmth. Simon is standing over him, hair still damp, t-shirt clinging to his shoulders. His eyes are soft, fond, and crinkled just slightly at the corners.
“I was trying to be quiet,” Simon murmurs. “Thought you were asleep.”
Johnny blinks up at him, caught out, and then he grins crookedly, the kind of smile that never quite hides anything no matter how much he wants it to.
“Was tryin’,” he admits. “Didnae work, clearly.”
Simon huffs a quiet laugh. He doesn’t turn on the overhead light, just stands there for a moment in the dim light, taking Johnny in with an unreadable look. Then his gaze drifts to the pillows stacked half-haphazardly around Johnny’s shoulders and the blanket cocooned around his body.
“I see you’ve made yourself quite the little nest,” Simon says dryly.
Johnny shrugs one shoulder beneath the blanket. “It’s cold.”
Simon’s eyes flick, just briefly, to the hoodie. His hoodie. The sleeve bunched up at Johnny’s wrists, the hem twisted and slept in. The name RILEY stenciled across the left breast. Something unreadable flashes across Simon’s face before he schools it back into neutrality, but the corner of his mouth lifts all the same.
“I also see you’ve helped yourself to my hoodie again,” he murmurs.
“Ye want it back?”
Another twitch of his lips. “No. Suits you.”
Simon sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight, close enough that Johnny feels it through the layers of blankets and pillows. Johnny shifts instinctively, angling toward him without really meaning to, and Simon doesn’t move away.
“How was it?” Johnny asks. “The mission, I mean.”
“Boring. You didn’t miss much. Babysitting, paperwork, and watching the weather steadily get worse.”
“How’d ye all get home, anyway? Laswell said all flights were grounded.”
“Well…” Simon bites his bottom lip and winces. “Price called in a favor from Nikolai.”
Johnny jerks upright so fast the pillows scatter. “What? That crazy bastard? In this storm? How could ye—he’s a fuckin’ menace—”
The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches, and Johnny narrows his eyes. “Yer takin’ the piss.”
Simon laughs, low and warm, and reaches out without thinking to steady him by the shoulder. “Relax. We didn’t fly. Took the train to Birmingham and hired a car. We were ahead of the worst of it. Roads weren’t bad.”
Johnny exhales, the tension bleeding out of him all at once. “Christ. I was already picturin’ Nik in some rusted tin can laughin’ at the laws of physics.”
Simon’s smile softens. “We all just wanted to get home.”
The words settle into Johnny’s chest, warm and heavy. He nods, throat tight, and without really realizing he’s doing it, his fingers drift out from beneath the blanket. He traces the line of Simon’s hip where it meets the mattress, follows it up along his side, down his arm. Not demanding. Not even conscious. Just…checking. Anchoring himself in the reality of Simon being here.
Simon stills for half a second, then his own hand lifts, hesitant, and he brushes Johnny’s hair back from his forehead where it’s fallen loose. Fingers slide through the soft brunette locks, his thumb grazing Johnny’s temple. So fucking tender.
Johnny lets out a long, shuddering sigh before he can stop himself.
Simon’s smile fades immediately.
“Johnny,” he says quietly, concern flooding honey brown eyes. He leans in, brushing the back of his fingers across Johnny’s forehead, his cheek, like he’s checking for fever. A careful tilt of his chin, and he lightly presses the pad of his thumb beneath Johnny’s eye, tracing the dark circles there with a frown. “You look exhausted. Haven’t you slept at all?”
Johnny swallows. He can’t lie to Simon.
“Not really,” he admits.
Simon’s hand drops to Johnny’s forearm. His fingers carefully skim the bruising there, the half-healed punctures, the tender places Johnny pretends don’t bother him. He checks the brace at Johnny’s wrist, turning it over with a dissatisfied frown.
“Your hands,” Simon says. “They hurting you?”
Johnny shakes his head. “No. Just stiff. It’s stupid.”
Simon looks genuinely baffled. “It’s not stupid. Animal bites are rough. It’ll take time.”
“No,” Johnny says, sharper than he means to, then he sighs. “It’s not that.”
Simon doesn’t rush him. He doesn’t try to fill the silence. He just waits until Johnny’s ready to talk.
And of course, his father’s voice comes slithering in the second he hesitates.
Whinging little nancy. Always carrying on. Can’t hack it, can you? Gotta go cryin’ tae yer superior officer over a couple o’ nightmares, eh?
His jaw tightens. He squeezes his eyes shut and shoves the voice back where it belongs.
Shut. The fuck. Up.
“Johnny?” Simon says softly.
He exhales through his nose. “Bad dreams,” he admits. The words feel small when they leave his mouth, inadequate. “Bad thoughts, I guess. I just…can’t shut my brain up.”
Simon’s thumb moves in a slow, unconscious arc along Johnny’s forearm. He doesn’t react beyond that gentle, grounding touch, and the gratitude Johnny feels for it is so sharp it almost hurts.
“It’s been worse since the attack,” Johnny continues, the dam cracking just enough. “All the stuff I’ve been avoidin’. Lyin’ about. Pretendin’ it didn’t matter.” His voice drops. “I cannae stop the memories from comin’ now that they’ve started.”
The words trail off. Johnny turns his face into the pillow, heat flooding his cheeks, shame curling low in his stomach like a reflex he hasn’t unlearned yet.
Simon’s hand slides up into his hair.
Strong fingers card the soft brunette locks, gentle and unhurried, his nails lightly scraping his scalp in a way that makes Johnny’s breath hitch despite himself.
“Do you want to talk about any of it?” Simon asks quietly.
Johnny thinks about it.
“No,” he says finally, muffled into the pillow. “Not yet.”
“Too fresh,” Simon murmurs.
“Yeah.”
The room settles into a hush broken only by the storm outside and the quiet rhythm of their breathing. Simon keeps combing his fingers through Johnny’s hair, slow and repetitive, the kind of touch that asks nothing and gives everything. His nails drag just enough to ease the pressure behind Johnny’s eyes, a headache he didn’t realize was building, and Johnny’s grip tightens unconsciously at Simon’s hip, anchoring himself there.
Simon’s fingers follow the line down the back of Johnny’s skull, massaging gently at the base, thumbs pressing where tension has been living for days. Johnny lets out a shuddering breath, his body yielding all at once.
“There you go,” Simon murmurs, a soft clucking sound under his breath. “Christ, Johnny…I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not being able to take it away. For not being able to help.”
“Ye are helpin’,” Johnny says immediately, voice thick. “This—this is helpin’.”
Simon’s hand slides lower, warm through the fabric of the hoodie, kneading gently at the tight band of muscle between Johnny’s shoulders. Johnny’s breathing deepens, his forehead sinking into the pillow as Simon works the knots loose.
“I can’t stand seeing you like this,” Simon says.
“Like what?”
“So wound up you’re practically vibrating.” Simon’s palm spreads wide across Johnny’s back. “You’re one big knot of stress.”
His fingers hesitate, then dip just slightly beneath the hem of the sweatshirt, skin-to-skin for the briefest moment.
“Take this off for me?” he asks softly, tugging at his own sweatshirt Johnny’s wearing. “Lie on your stomach, yeah?”
Johnny doesn’t question it. He just nods and peels the hoodie up and over his head, the sudden cool air making him shiver before he stretches out obediently on the mattress. Simon lifts Johnny’s arms gently, one at a time, maneuvering them so they rest comfortably above his head instead of tucked beneath him, then he slides a pillow under Johnny’s cheek so his neck isn’t twisted. Every movement is deliberate, careful in a way that makes Johnny’s chest ache—not from pain, but from the sheer fact of being handled like something precious instead of something breakable.
“There,” Simon murmurs. “Better?”
Johnny exhales, sinking into the mattress.
Simon shifts further onto the bed behind him, settling close enough that his thigh presses warm and solid against Johnny’s hip. His weight is reassuring, familiar in a way that makes Johnny’s body loosen instinctively.
And then Simon’s hands are on him. Warm. Broad. Impossibly steady. They settle at first, palms resting flat against Johnny’s back like Simon’s giving him time to acclimate, before they begin to move in slow, careful strokes kneading down the muscles along his spine before fanning outward across his ribs.
Johnny’s breath catches despite himself. He’s still wearing his tee shirt, and he suddenly wishes he would’ve taken it off as well. The thought of Simon’s hands moving across his naked back—he shudders, burying his face into the pillow, knuckles tightening in the fabric.
Simon freezes instantly.
“Is that—” His voice drops. “Is this okay?”
Johnny has to swallow before he can answer. His throat feels thick, his body humming in a way he hadn’t been prepared for.
“It’s…perfect, Si,” he manages. “Dinnae stop. Please.”
There’s a beat. A hesitation so small it’s almost imperceptible.
Then Simon begins again, firmer this time.
He works his way up to Johnny’s shoulders, kneading into the thick knots there with practiced care, thumbs digging in just enough to make Johnny groan softly into the pillow. The sound slips out before he can stop it, low and wrecked, and Simon’s hands pause only long enough to recalibrate before continuing.
Down his spine. Slow. Intentional.
Johnny bites down hard, every nerve lighting up as tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying starts to melt away beneath Simon’s touch. His body feels floaty. Heavy. He feels Simon’s fingers hesitate briefly when they pass over the fresh scar along his lower left side where he was shot, before Simon catches himself and keeps going.
Lower. Lower still. Then Simon’s fingers slip around Johnny’s waist.
Johnny flinches violently.
Simon pulls back at once. “Did I hurt you?”
Johnny lets out a breathless laugh, heart racing. “No—no, I’m just—” He shifts, embarrassed. “I’m a wee bit ticklish there, is all.”
Silence stretches.
Long enough that Johnny frowns and turns his head to look back.
“Si?”
Simon is staring down at him with an expression Johnny can’t quite read—something intent, something amused, something dangerously soft. Then Simon’s lips tilt upward, just slightly.
“Oh,” he says. “Are you now.”
Before Johnny can react, Simon’s fingers dig deliberately into his side again.
Johnny yelps, curling instinctively and batting at Simon’s hands. “Oh fuck you—Simon! You’re an arsehole!”
Simon just smirks and does it again.
Johnny dissolves.
He laughs helplessly, breathless giggles spilling out as he curls in on himself, trying to escape without really trying at all. Simon follows, relentless but careful, keeping clear of Johnny’s wrists and arms, all precision even in play.
“Simon—stop—I cannae—” Johnny chokes on laughter, swatting weakly. “I swear tae God—”
“Swear all you like,” Simon says, grinning openly now. “You brought this on yourself.”
Eventually they collapse, both of them breathless and laughing, Simon tumbling sideways onto the mattress beside him. Johnny lies there gasping, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, body loose and warm in a way it hasn’t been in days. The tickle fight ends abruptly when Johnny twists to get Simon back and his hand protests sharply, a sudden spike of pain that makes him hiss despite himself. He hadn’t meant to move that way—hadn’t even thought about it—but Simon is already there, the laughter gone from his face in an instant.
“Johnny.” Simon’s hands are careful now, steadying his wrist, fingers gentle as they check the brace and the joint beneath. The shift is so immediate it almost startles him. Johnny feels a bit foolish then, heat creeping up his neck.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Was just tryin’ tae—”
Simon doesn’t scold him, but the concern doesn’t fade from his face, either. He just keeps looking at Johnny’s wrist, his brow faintly furrowed, like the world has narrowed down to this one small point of hurt. That, more than anything, cuts straight through him.
Simon glances up at the clock on the wall. It’s well past two. His looks back at Johnny, his eyes dark and warm in the low light. “We should get some sleep.”
Sleep. Sleep sounds like a good idea.
“Aye,” he murmurs. “All right, Si.”
With Simon’s help, they rearrange the pillows and Johnny settles onto his back, his arms opening instinctively. Simon slots into his side, his weight draped heavy and warm across his body., and he draws the blue faux-fur blanket up over them both, tucking it in without comment. He settles his head against Johnny’s left shoulder, and then his hand spreads across Johnny’s chest, palm resting directly over his heart.
Johnny stills. This. This is what he was missing.
How easily Simon settles into him, how natural. Like he was a piece of Johnny that was missing. The feeling of his heart beating against Simon’s hand, knowing Simon can feel it. His breath fanning across his collarbone, the scent of Simon’s hair when he nuzzles into it. Muscle memory, like this is how they are supposed to be, like his body has always known this shape, this fit alongside Simon.
God, he wishes he could strip it all away. The fear. The secrets. His father’s hateful words. The careful holding back. Wishes he could tell Simon everything, all of it, and trust that he’d still be here at the end of it. That this wouldn’t vanish the second it was said out loud.
“Missed you,” Johnny says softly, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
Simon’s thumb drags slowly across his sternum, absent and intimate all at once. He nuzzles into Johnny’s collarbone, breath warm against his skin.
“Me too,” he murmurs.
Johnny’s breathing slowly syncs with Simon’s, and the storm outside fades into a distant, meaningless thing. Simon’s fingers move with slow, aimless caresses that are impossibly light, up to the dip between his collarbones and out over his pecs. Down the line of his stomach to flare out across his abdomen, grazing his side, then back up again. Over and over in a slow, deliberate path. Simon’s never let himself go like this with Johnny. He’s never instigated touch like this, not to this level, and it is driving Johnny out of his mind.
Don’t stop, a traitorous part of him thinks. Don’t stop, Simon. Please don’t ever stop.
Simon freezes. It’s subtle. Barely anything at all. His hand eases, his weight pulling back just a fraction, like he’s reconsidering himself. Like he’s about to move away.
Johnny’s chest tightens instantly.
“Si?” His breath catches, his heart suddenly working double time.
Simon’s eyes are wide with something that looks like fear. “Was…Was that too much?”
Johnny frowns, confused. “No. No, Si—I liked it.”
“You…You did?”
Still that wary gaze, like Simon’s bracing for something. Johnny rolls into him and takes Simon’s hand with his good one, lacing their fingers together.
“Aye. I liked it. I do like it. Ye dinnae have tae stop.”
“Oh.”
Simon looks down at the covers, scowling like he’s trying to figure out a complex equation. Unease flickers through Johnny, and he pulls Simon’s hand closer.
“Si, what’s wrong? We can stop if ye want tae—”
“It’s not that,” Simon says quickly.
“Then…what?”
Simon exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care. His gaze drops to where their fingers are still locked together, then lifts again.
“I just…” He hesitates, jaw tightening. “I’m not used to my touch being something good.”
Johnny blinks.
“I’m used to it meaning hurt. Violence. Control. I know what my hands can do. I’ve spent most of my life making sure they do damage when I tell them to.” His fingers tighten faintly. “I’m not used to someone wanting them. Not like this. Not for…comfort.”
Something soft cracks open in Johnny’s chest.
“I’m not used to my touch being safe,” Simon mumbles to the blanket. “Or something that helps instead of hurts.”
His hand is trembling, ever so slightly. Johnny squeezes once, then he releases them so he can cup Simon’s jaw, tilting his head up so Johnny can see his eyes.
“It is with me,” Johnny says quietly. “Yer always gentle with me, Si. Even when yer not tryin’. I like the way yer touch feels—maybe even a little too much. Yer not doin’ anything wrong.”
Simon’s breath stutters. He searches Johnny’s face like he’s trying to find the lie. When he doesn’t, his shoulders ease, just a little.
“…All right,” he murmurs.
His hand resumes its slow movement over Johnny’s chest, more certain now. Johnny settles back into the mattress, realizing the moment for what it is.
This is Simon trusting him.
With himself.
Simon lets out a long, contented sigh, his body going limp and heavy against his own, and Johnny wonders briefly if Simon’s just going to keep sinking. Keep melting down until there’s nothing left between them, until Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley are indistinguishable, two halves collapsed into a whole.
The thought is so overwhelming, so quietly precious, that it almost hurts.
Johnny’s fingers curl into the fabric of Simon’s shirt, and Simon responds by tucking his face closer into Johnny’s throat. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
His eyes drift shut before he can think too hard about what any of it means, sleep finally claiming him with the surety of someone who knows he’s safe. Simon stays awake a little longer, listening to Johnny’s breathing even out, holding him steady through the last fragile moments of wakefulness.
When Johnny sinks fully into sleep, Simon tightens his arm just slightly around him and holds on.
Something pulls Simon out of sleep with a sharp, instinctive jolt. The storm outside rattles the windowpanes as he blinks away in the dark, but that’s not it.
Something’s off. That’s what dragged him from sleep, not the storm, but the sense that something is wrong.
He’s awake in an instant, his heart kicking hard against his ribs, senses narrowing the way they do when he’s in the field. For a breathless second he lies still, cataloguing the dark room, storm still howling faintly outside, the warmth beneath the blankets—
Johnny.
Simon’s attention snaps fully to him.
They’ve shifted in their sleep. Simon’s on his back now, one arm still around Johnny’s shoulders. Johnny is pressed tight against him, face drawn and flushed, one leg thrown over Simon’s lower half and tangled in the sheets.
He’s trembling.
It’s subtle at first—just a shudder that runs through him, followed by a hitching breath, fast and uneven. A small sound slips from his throat, barely more than a whimper, and Simon’s chest tightens painfully.
He’s having a nightmare.
“Johnny.” He passes the back of his knuckles across his forehead, noting the cold sweat gathered there. “Johnny, wake up.”
Simon turns his head carefully, angling it so he can see Johnny’s face in the low light. It’s screwed up like he’s in pain. His body shudders again.
Simon’s heart breaks cleanly in two.
He moves slowly, deliberately, smoothing his hand up and down Johnny’s back in long, steady passes. Grounding. Reassuring. Everything gentle, everything measured so he doesn’t rip Johnny out of whatever he’s caught in and send him into a panic.
“It’s all right, Johnny,” Simon whispers. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m here.”
Johnny whimpers again, soft and broken, and curls closer, pressing himself into Simon’s body instinctively. Simon tightens his hold just a fraction, solid and unyielding, letting Johnny feel the certainty of him there.
His hand continues its slow path along Johnny’s spine. A quiet kiss is pressed to Johnny’s temple, barely there.
Johnny likes his touch, Simon reminds himself. It soothes him. It helps.
It’s a strange realization. He’s always known Johnny’s touch as the healing thing—the grounding presence, the warmth that pulls him back when his own head gets too loud. He never quite considered that it could run both ways.
Funny, that.
Johnny’s breathing shifts.
It quickens, uneven in a way that makes Simon’s hand still mid-stroke. Johnny’s fingers tighten in the fabric of Simon’s shirt, knuckles pressing in. His body moves again, more insistently this time, a restless, searching motion against Simon’s leg. There’s a rhythm to it, not random thrashing but something rolling, deliberate. A grind of his hips against Simon’s thigh. Again. And again. And again.
Simon freezes.
His brain scrambles to catch up, to reconcile what he’s seeing with what he expected, and then—
Oh.
Oh.
The realization lands in his chest like a dropped grenade, blowing the air out of him. Johnny isn’t trapped in fear. He’s lost in something else.
Simon goes very, very still.
He swallows, carefully loosening his grip just enough to avoid encouraging anything, even as his arm stays secure around Johnny’s shoulders. Johnny murmurs something incoherent, breath hitching again, body moving with unconscious intent as Simon stares up at the ceiling, his pulse roaring in his ears.
Johnny is asleep. Johnny doesn’t know. Johnny trusts him. The weight of that settles heavy and sobering in Simon’s chest.
What should I do? Should I wake him? Should I stop him?
Ultimately, he doesn’t have to decide anything because at that moment, Johnny jolts with a sharp gasp, and he freezes. Not moving, not even breathing, just laying there rigid like he’s trying to play dead even though he’s obviously just woken himself up. Simon doesn’t move either, forcing his breathing to remain steady even though every nerve is screaming for him to reach out to comfort him. He’s still a bit confused about what’s happening, and he doesn’t want to spook Johnny further.
Slowly, painfully, Johnny rolls away and turns his back to Simon. The mattress shifts under the deliberate motion, then they settle again into utter stillness as the air between them changes, heavy with mortification. Johnny’s shame hums so loudly Simon can feel it in his bones.
Simon still doesn’t move. His chest is tight, heart racing. He hates this. He hates it—seeing Johnny curled in on himself, humiliated, trying to hide. It absolutely crushes him that Johnny might be embarrassed by something that’s simply a bodily function, something he should never be ashamed about. Not with Simon. It feels like he’s watching him bleed out all over again, only this time he doesn’t know where the wound is.
This may be uncharted territory for Simon, but he knows what to do when Johnny’s hurting. He told him so himself.
“Johnny? You awake?” Of course, he already knows the answer. Johnny flinches a little, and he curls in on himself a bit like he wants to disappear.
Slowly, so painfully slow, Simon turns on his side and curls his body to match Johnny’s, resting his hand lightly on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. Happens to everyone.”
“’m sorry.”
“You don’t have a thing to apologize for.” Simon rubs up and down Johnny’s arm, feeling him relax by increments. He flattens his palm against Johnny’s chest and pulls him closer, a little unsettled by how fast Johnny’s heart is going. Christ, it’s racing. “It’s all right, Johnny. I’m not upset.”
Johnny swallows audibly. “Yer not?”
“No. You couldn’t help it—you were asleep. You didn’t know. How could I be upset about that? I—”
Simon pauses, thinking. This is the moment where it would be easy to get it wrong.
Johnny isn’t asking for this. He isn’t reaching, isn’t inviting, isn’t even looking at him. He’s folded in on himself, flushed and trembling, trying to disappear into the mattress like shame might swallow him whole if he lets it. Whatever just happened, it wasn’t want. It was instinct.
Simon is painfully aware of the imbalance here — he is painfully aware of consent. He knows what it feels like when someone decides for you, when choice is taken out of your hands.
He will not be that man.
If he does anything, it has to be slow. It has to be clear. It has to leave Johnny a way out. No pressure. No expectation. No harm done if Johnny says no — or says nothing at all.
Simon exhales quietly through his nose and makes his choice. Not to take. Not to assume. Just to offer.
“The only thing I’m upset about,” he says slowly, “is seeing you frustrated and hurting like this. Not when I can help.”
His hand drifts lower. Concerned. Careful. Across Soap’s ribs, down the taut muscles of his belly. He feels each twitch under his palm, every stuttering breath Johnny tries to hide.
“Wh-what’re ye doin’, Si?”
Simon’s mouth is close enough to Johnny’s ear that he doesn’t have to raise his voice. Just a single word whispered into his skin.
“Helping.”
His hand gently pushes aside Johnny’s injured wrist and flattens across his abdomen. Johnny lets him, but he’s so tense that he’s practically vibrating.
Simon’s a little out of his element, and his mind struggles to reach for familiar ground.
The thing is, Simon has not touched another soul like this since Mexico. Since Roba. He hasn’t even had the urge. And before that? Sex, real sex — whatever that’s supposed to mean — has never factored into it for him. Not like this. Not with want or hunger or heat. It’s just never been that much of a need, even though he understood long ago that it’s not like that for everyone. In any other situation the implications of this would be radically different. But that’s not what this is. This isn’t dirty or shameful.
This is Johnny. His Johnny.
So while he doesn’t understand Johnny’s shame, not fully, he understands his pain. Fear. Loss of control. This feels like something Johnny has been taught to be afraid of.
And that, more than anything, makes Simon want to be careful.
“Ye…ye dinnae have tae…”
“I want to,” he whispers back. “I want to help you feel better. But only if you want me to.”
Johnny’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his body shifts unconsciously closer.
“Johnny. You can say no.” His thumb strokes once, slow, across Soap’s hipbone. “You say the word, and this never happened. We forget it. You hear me?”
For a long moment, neither of them say anything. Then Johnny blows out a gust of air like he’s been holding his breath for hours. Almost a laugh, a strangled little sound that’s halfway between relief and disbelief.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. Fuck.” Johnny nods, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes.”
“Right,” Simon murmurs, more to himself than anything. His hand slides lower until he finds the outline of Johnny’s cock, thick and painfully hard through the fabric of his sweatpants.
Johnny jolts like he’s just been touched by a live wire.
Simon freezes. “This okay?”
“Yeah.” A breathless little laugh. “I-It’s good.”
He sounds surprised. Like he didn’t expect it to be.
Slowly, deliberately, Simon curls his fingers around him. The feel of him through the soft fabric is strange, new, but not unpleasant. Johnny shudders, pushing into his palm with a desperate little noise that makes Simon’s chest ache.
He moves with unhurried intent, a steady glide up and down that’s as curious as it is comforting. He’s not aiming to make this quick. That’s not the point. The point is to give Johnny back a piece of control. To let him feel pleasure without shame, touch without fear. This is a kind of reconnaissance, he thinks. A new kind of op. He’s mapping Johnny’s reactions, cataloging each hitch of breath, each shudder, each involuntary thrust of hips. His thumb circles the head through the damp fabric, and Johnny arches into it, a strangled gasp muffled against Simon’s shoulder.
“Shh,” Simon murmurs, more a vibration than a sound. “I’ve got you.”
He’s watching Johnny’s face in the gloom, the way his features go slack with pleasure, the furrow in his brow finally smoothing out. There’s something deeply satisfying about it, something that settles warm and heavy in Simon’s chest. He likes this. He likes that he can give this to Johnny. That he can take him apart, piece by piece, and put him back together with gentle hands.
It’s not about desire, not for Simon. It’s about trust. It’s about giving Johnny something he clearly needs, and it’s about knowing that his hands, hands that have known only violence and destruction, can bring pleasure instead of pain.
Johnny's breathing picks up, and his back arches slightly.
"Still good?" Simon asks.
"Good," Johnny repeats. "Fuck...so good, Si." He's pushing into Simon's hand, a slow, rhythmic rocking that’s all instinct, all need. He’s losing himself to it, and Simon watches, fascinated. He’s never been an observer like this before, never been the one in control of someone else’s pleasure.
He tightens his grip just enough, speeds up the rhythm just a fraction, and is rewarded with a choked-off moan from Johnny.
"Simon," he whispers, and it’s the most reverent thing Simon has ever heard.
"Right here, Johnny." His other arm is still wrapped around Johnny’s shoulders, holding him steady, grounding him. He can feel Johnny’s heart hammering against his chest, frantic and desperate.
This is new territory for him, but it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels...right. It feels like he’s finally giving Johnny a piece of himself that he didn’t even know was missing. A piece of himself that he didn’t know was capable of.
“’m close,” Johnny gasps, his body tensing. “Simon, I’m—”
He doesn't finish. Johnny stiffens and he comes with a strangled cry, spilling against Simon’s palm through the fabric. Simon doesn't stop, not right away. He keeps up the slow, gentle glide, milking out every last shudder, every last tremor, until Johnny is completely spent, melting against him boneless and panting. He’s still trembling, but it’s different now, the fine aftershock tremors of release, of a body pushed past its limits and then gently let down.
Simon slowly withdraws his hand, feeling the damp fabric clinging to his fingers. He hesitates, unsure of the protocol, the etiquette for this kind of intimacy.
"You okay?" he asks softly.
"Y-Yeah."
"I'm going to get a towel to clean us up. I'll be right back, okay?"
Johnny just nods, still breathing hard.
With one last squeeze of his shoulder, Simon disentangles himself from Johnny and retreats to the bathroom. He wets a washcloth with warm water, wrings it out, and grabs a clean, dry towel. When he comes back, he finds Johnny sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at him. A dark flush has spread up his throat and into his cheeks, his blue eyes wide and staring at him with something Simon can’t decipher.
"Johnny? Are you okay?"
Johnny's mouth opens, then closes.
For a second Simon thinks he might not say anything at all, that he’s going to swallow it and move on the way he always does, but then he draws a slow breath, visibly steadying himself.
“Can I…?” Johnny drops his eyes and swallows thickly. “I mean. D’ye want me tae—”
Simon blinks.
“To what?” he asks softly.
Johnny’s ears go red. He ducks his head, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “To…take care of ye. Like ye just did for me.”
The words are hesitant, fragile. Offered, not assumed. Something in Simon’s chest tightens—not unpleasantly, but with a strange, unfamiliar pressure.
He hadn’t expected that question.
Simon’s never really had anyone care about his feelings like this before, and it takes him aback. He studies Johnny’s face in the dim light. Flushed, earnest, and a little scared. Waiting for him to answer.
“Oh,” Simon says, quietly. He takes a moment, longer than he probably should, because he wants to get this right.
“It’s all right, Johnny,” he says gently. “You don’t have to. It’s…not like that with me.”
Johnny chokes. A flicker of panic and something like fear flashes across wide blue eyes.
“No.” Simon reaches out without thinking, his hand coming to rest on Johnny’s forearm. “No. I didn’t mean that.”
Johnny exhales shakily, confusion replacing fear that Simon doesn’t understand. “Then I dinnae understand.”
Simon sighs, rubbing his thumb slowly along Johnny’s skin. He hadn’t planned on talking about this, but he doesn’t see any way around it.
And it’s Johnny. If he can’t talk about this with Johnny, then who? He deserves the truth…at least the version Simon knows how to give.
“It’s just…” He searches for the right words. “It’s not really how I work.”
Johnny frowns. “What d’ye mean?”
Simon shifts slightly, sitting back against the headboard. “I don’t—” He pauses. “I just don’t really feel those urges. Not like most people do.”
Johnny goes very still.
Simon continues. “It’s always been like that. Even before the army. Things happened when I was younger. Things that made touch…complicated. For me, it was always more about power and control than anything like pleasure.”
Johnny’s face drains of color.
Simon doesn’t look away, wanting to make sure Johnny understands. “And then after what happened to me in Mexico…” He forces himself to finish. “I couldn’t stand to be touched at all after that.”
Johnny stares at him, something terrible clicking into place behind his eyes. Simon can practically see the moment it lands—the understanding, sudden and violent. Horror. Devastation.
“Oh.” Johnny says. His throat works. He looks like he’s going to throw up. “Oh, Christ.”
The anger comes fast after that, rolling in under the shock. Johnny’s hands curl into fists, his jaw visibly ticking he’s clenching it so hard. He keeps his anger in check and safely away from Simon, but Simon sees it anyway, the strength of Johnny’s rage so seismic he can feel the aftershocks from where he’s sitting. Johnny’s eyes are burning two holes in the carpet, and he’s taking deep, measured breaths in an obvious attempt to calm himself down.
“It’s all right,” Simon says quietly, trying to lessen the blow. This is why he didn’t want to say anything. “It’s done. It’s in the past.”
Johnny’s head snaps up. “It’s not all right. Nothing about that is all right.”
Simon doesn’t argue. He just lifts a hand slightly, calming.
“I put it behind me,” he says. “This is just how I am now.”
Johnny shakes his head. “That doesnae make it acceptable,” he growls.
“No,” Simon agrees. “But it does make it mine.”
That stops him. Simon sees the moment that hits Johnny square in the chest, knocking the breath out of him.
Simon’s gaze softens. “I’m not broken, Johnny. I don’t feel like I’m missing anything. I like what we have. I like this. Everything we did tonight…none of that crossed a line for me.” He hesitates, then adds, “I liked taking care of you.”
Johnny swallows hard, the fury still there but banked now, redirected inward.
“And if you’re okay with that,” Simon continues, quieter still, “I’d like to keep doing it. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to reciprocate, because I don’t…it’s just not a thing for me.”
The silence stretches. Johnny is visibly floundering, staring at the floor with glazed over eyes.
Simon fidgets, then says impulsively, trying to ease the tension. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve got no shortage of pretty young lasses lined up to return the favor, but—”
Simon’s cut off by a bark of laughter from Johnny. He claps a hand over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut.
Simon’s not sure what that means. “I get it, I’m not that pretty to look at—”
That gets a snort out of Johnny, followed by a hysterical little giggle. “Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus, Simon. Yer impossible.”
He looks up at Simon, and the relief that floods him is so sudden and overwhelming it makes him feel unsteady. The last thing he wanted was to scare Johnny away. Or worse, to have Johnny feel sorry for him.
"I just wanted you to know this is okay with me. And if it happens again, I'm okay with that, too."
Johnny sighs heavily, like he's carrying something much heavier than Simon can see or begin to understand. "I ken what ye mean, Simon. I'm...glad ye told me."
He's quiet for a long moment, his expression shifting. He looks at the damp spot on the front of his sweatpants, and then looks at Simon, and then back again.
"I'm uh...gonnae go clean up," he says, pushing himself off the bed. "Back in a tick."
"Right," Simon says. He watches him walk into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him. He hears the sink turn on, the quiet splashing of water.
Simon just sits there, on the edge of the bed, in the quiet of the room. He feels a little wrung out, but lighter at the same time. He glances down at his hands, turning them over. For years they've been weapons, extensions of a body that's been honed for violence. Tools for breaking things. Tonight, he used them to build something back up. He used them to soothe, to comfort, to bring pleasure. To mend.
It's a new kind of power, he realizes. A new kind of healing. A new kind of control. Control of himself.
The bathroom door opens, and Johnny comes back out, changed into a fresh pair of sweats, his mohawk damp and brushed back from his forehead. He looks tired, but he also lighter. The tension that's been riding him for days has eased, the lines around his eyes softened. He looks...impossibly soft.
Johnny hesitates in the doorway for a second, chewing on his lower lip, then walks over to the bed. He doesn't say anything, just climbs in and settles back under the covers.
Simon moves to lie down beside him, but he doesn't reach for him, doesn't pull him close. He gives him space, waiting for Johnny to make the next move. He's laid bare a part of himself tonight, a fragile, broken-off piece, and he needs to know where they stand.
Johnny turns onto his side, facing him. The space between them feels charged, until he reaches out and places a hand on Simon's chest, right over his heart.
Simon folds his hand around it. "We okay?"
Johnny meets his gaze, his blue eyes clear and steady. "Yeah," he says, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, we are."
He shuffles closer, resting his head on Simon's shoulder, and Simon wraps an arm around him, pulling him tight against his side. The storm outside has finally started to die down, the howl of the wind replaced by the soft patter of sleet against the windowpane.
Johnny's breathing evens out, but Simon stays awake, listening to the quiet rhythm of it. He's not tired. Not even remotely. He feels more awake than he has in years, something new rushing through his veins, more potent than adrenaline and more steadfast than excitement. He feels present.
He feels like he’s finally starting to live inside his own skin.
Johnny’s eyelids flutter, and he nuzzles softly into Simon’s shirt. It’s a contented sound, small and vulnerable, and something warm and possessive settles in Simon’s chest. He’s not sure what this is between them. He’s not sure it needs a name. All he knows is that for the first time in a very long time, he doesn't feel like he's hiding from the world or from himself. With Johnny tucked against him, the silence of the room feels less like a void and more like a space that’s been filled up. Filled with the steady sound of Johnny’s breathing, the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, the warmth of his body pressed against Simon’s side.
A week passes.
Not the kind of week that announces itself with any sort of fanfare or drama, but the kind that settles in quietly like a slow, subtle shift in the weather. The kind that makes you realize, only in retrospect, that everything has changed.
What happened in the barracks room doesn’t get mentioned again.
Not once.
And yet—everything is different.
Johnny feels it in the way Simon looks at him now, like he’s seeing him more clearly and choosing, every time, not to look away. In the way Simon’s touch lingers just a fraction longer. There’s a quiet space that’s opened up between them, filled with things that are both exciting and terrifying in their enormity.
Johnny knows what it is. What started with the shared trauma of their childhoods, what deepened in the quiet intimacy of that night—Simon’s careful hands, the vulnerability he’d offered in the dark—it’s forged something new. Something stronger. And Johnny’s own quiet, complicated relationship with desire, with touch, with what it means to be wanted, has settled into something he can almost hold.
Almost, but not quite.
Whatever cracked open between them that night hasn’t closed.
It hasn’t bled, either. It’s healed strangely clean, scar tissue forming where something raw once was. Tender still, but stronger. Whole.
And Simon… Simon carries it with a quiet gravity Johnny finds both steadying and deeply, deeply devastating. He looks at Johnny sometimes like he’s the answer to every question in the world.
Johnny doesn't know what to do with that. He doesn't know what to do with what Simon told him that night. So he doesn't try to force it. He just quietly holds it and tries to pretend it doesn’t gut him. Like it doesn't make him want to track down each and every person who has ever laid an unwanted finger on Simon and skin them alive.
He also doesn't know what to do with the fact that he now knows, with a painful certainty, that he is in love with a man who doesn’t feel desire in the way he does. He also knows, with the same crushing clarity, that it doesn’t matter. It does not matter. Johnny will take whatever Simon is willing to share with him, and in return, he will give him every particle of his soul until his last dying breath.
That, he has realized, is true love. And that is what he is going to give Simon.
Johnny's brace is gone by the end of the week, and the puncture wounds and bruises have all healed. So it's with unbridled enthusiasm that Johnny's in the gym one Thursday morning, lifting weights, when Simon comes in. Johnny doesn't see him at first, too focused on the pleasant burn in his biceps as he works through a set of curls. But then he catches a movement out of the corner of his eye, and he glances over.
Simon is standing by the door, watching him. He's wearing a plain black t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders and a pair of grey sweatpants, and of course, his mask. Johnny's heart does a little flip in his chest, a familiar, Pavlovian response to Simon's presence. He finishes his set, the last curl a little shaky from the distraction, and sets the dumbbell down with a soft thud.
He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and grins at Simon, a crooked, easy thing that he saves just for him. "Mornin', LT."
Simon doesn't respond verbally, but Johnny can see the crinkle of amusement around his eyes. He moves deeper into the gym, and Johnny watches him go. He doesn't go for the weights, though. He heads for the pull-up bar in the corner.
Johnny starts on a new set, but his attention is split. He's aware of every move Simon makes, the smooth, efficient way he warms up, the controlled power in his movements as he starts his pull-ups. It's a mesmerizing display of strength and discipline, and Johnny finds himself slowing down, his own workout forgotten as he watches. Simon’s back is a wall of muscle shifting with each controlled movement. He doesn't grunt. He doesn't strain. He simply executes, a perfect, punishing rhythm that speaks of a body pushed far beyond its limits and refined into something deadly.
Johnny’s eyes trace the lines of him. The wide spread of his lats, the taper of his waist, the powerful flex of his shoulders as he grips the bar. He’s seen this countless times, but today it feels different. More intimate. Like he's being let in on a secret.
He’s thinking about what Simon told him. About not feeling desire, about touch being complicated, about violence. He looks at Simon now, at the sheer, brutal power of him, and it’s hard to reconcile the two. The gentle hands that had held him through a nightmare, the careful touch that had brought him pleasure with no expectation of return. And the lethal weapon he’s watching now, capable of breaking a man’s neck with his bare hands.
It’s the same man. The same hands.
Johnny finishes his set, his arms burning, and sets the weights down. He grabs his water bottle and takes a long drink, trying to cool the heat that’s been building in him. He's not sure if it's from the workout or from watching Simon.
He moves to the heavy bag, needing to burn off some of this energy. He wraps his hands and starts with a few slow jabs, feeling the satisfying impact of his fists against the canvas, the deep thud echoing in the quiet gym. He picks up the pace, a flurry of jabs and crosses, the movement flowing from his shoulders, down his arms, a release of everything that’s been coiled tight inside him.
Simon finishes his set and drops from the bar, landing with a soft, catlike grace. He shakes out his arms, then moves to stand behind the bag, bracing it for Johnny.
"How're the hands?" Simon asks.
Johnny grunts, not breaking rhythm. "Good. Just trying to get some strength back. Feelin' a bit soft, bein' off rotation."
Simon doesn't comment, just holds the bag steady as Johnny’s punches grow harder, faster. A sheen of sweat breaks out across Johnny’s forehead, his breath coming in sharp pants. He pushes himself, each punch a little harder testing the limits of his hands. It feels good.
"I don't know if you heard," Simon says in an offhand voice, "but we've got fuck all planned for the next two weeks."
Johnny's rhythm falters. "Really? Heard Price was lookin' tae run a few new teams through the sim."
"Yeah, well. I talked to Price and mentioned I had a fair bit of leave saved up."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I don't know how much you have..." Simon trails off, letting the question hang in the air.
Johnny keeps hitting the bag. "I've got a bit."
Simon’s quiet for a beat, then he casually continues. "Well, Price doesn't have a problem with it, and Gaz said he'll take over our classes with the recruits—seemed pretty enthusiastic about it, to be honest—so I thought...maybe we could get away for a weekend? Just the two of us?"
Johnny misses the bag completely.
His fist sails through empty air, the momentum carrying him off-balance, and he stumbles forward, catching himself on the canvas with a muffled curse. He stands there for a second, breathing hard, head down, before he straightens up and turns to face Simon.
Simon is holding the heavy bag, but he's not looking at it. He's looking at Johnny, and Johnny would swear there's a crinkle of amusement in the corners of his masked eyes. He clears his throat, feeling a flush creeping up his neck.
"Where...where would ye wantae go?" he asks, trying for casual and missing by a mile.
Simon shrugs. "I was thinking maybe we could see if that cabin was available. You know, the one we were at before? Our cabin?" He says the words like he's testing them out, and Johnny's heart does a dizzying little flip in his chest.
Our cabin, Johnny repeats silently. Our cabin.
Simon’s eyes flick up, something shy and unmistakably pleased crinkling at the edges beneath the mask. “That’s how I think of it.”
Johnny thinks he might actually die.
His pulse is roaring in his ears, heart slamming so hard he has to grip the bag to stay upright. Internally, he’s screaming, falling to his knees, detonating into fireworks and feral hope all at once.
“Yeah,” he manages, breathless and grinning like a fool. “Yeah. I can check. I’d…I’d like that a lot.”
Simon nods once, satisfied. Like that settles it.
“Good.”
He adjusts his grip on the bag, bracing it again. “Finish your set.”
Johnny laughs shakily and throws another punch.
This time, it lands dead center.
Got Your Six Series Masterlist
A/N: They're going away for the weekend! Back to the cabin where Johnny first fell in love with Simon! This one turned out much longer than I planned, and way more angsty than I had intended, but there are so many nuances to Simon and Johnny's sexualities and traumas (in my headcanon) that I really wanted to do them justice. Like I've said before, I don't think anything they've gone through can be quickly fixed, and there's going to be a lot of ups and downs as they learn to communicate (and realize some things they've been blind to). Our first bit of spice for the two of them, (yes, this started out as a "both your hands are injured and you're horny? let me help you out" because I'm a sucker for that trope) that was more about Simon realizing that he can be in control when it comes to intimacy, and he is capable of bringing someone pleasure. It's a big step for him. And I think that while what Simon revealed to Johnny was horrific and a conversation that's definitely not over, Johnny does understand and can empathize, knowing that Simon does not expect or even want, right now, a thing in return--although he isn't going to stay unaffected forever. He just doesn't have words for it yet.
A Reaper!Ghost x Soap '09 Timeline/'22 timeline Crossover AU
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: Call of Duty MW (Reboot)
Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish
Chapters: 5/20
Words: 14K
Across every universe, in every timeline, in every life, Simon Riley will always find Johnny MacTavish.
-or-A Reaper!Ghost and Soap '09 Timeline/'22 Timeline AU Crossover Fic
