cw: pure fluff with bf!katsuki because I need it this morning.
He doesn’t get it. The two of you have been dating for years but you still insist on calling him ‘Bakugou’.
It didn’t bother him at first, the two of you still getting used to the intimacy of each other’s names and figuring out what pet names the two of you prefer. But not you. It’s always been ‘Bakugou.’
The occasional ‘Katsuki’ or ‘Kats’ will slip out in the quiet hours of the morning, when both your voices are still laden with sleep.
It’s only when he’s standing in the kitchen, pouring your cup of coffee in that to-go mug he got you from his agency that he asks. “Why do you always call me by my last name?”
His tone is soft and a little sad, his gaze doesn’t entirely meet yours either, just slowly watching the ribbons of cream mix with the rich dark coffee.
“Is there a problem with me calling you by your last name? You’ve never said anything about it before now…” you say gently, walking around the island counter to stand next to him.
He stands with his hands on the edge, spoon set down against the neatly folded towel so it doesn’t leave stains on the counter top. “No… I just— never got why you sometimes call me a nickname and it never sticks. You always revert to ‘Bakugou’.”
There’s a beat of silence before you wrap your arms around his waist from behind and press your forehead to the space right in between his shoulder blades. “Maybe I like it so much because I hope it’ll be my last name some day.” Your cheeks are warm and he can feel it through his shirt.
He’s quiet for a few moments. The two of you never really talked about marriage but he’s known for ages you’re the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. But hearing you voice that? There’s no way he’d have a problem hearing that again. “And there’s no one else I’d rather have take my last name.”
His hands cup your cheeks as he turns around and presses his lips to yours, happy as he could ever be.
Has it been two years since I’ve updated this fic? Yes. Are you going to yell at me for it. Probably. 🙂 You can thank lazydaisyreads (IG) for “subtly” nudging me every chance she got to update this fic. You can thank her. 😘
You can read part 2 of High Infidelity on AO3 here.
Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life
For @daredaredoodles!! Happy Ghoapmas!!! Here is some very oblivious and very yearny Ghost for you!! Oh, did I mention lots of fluff? :) I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!
Thank you @forsaire for hosting!!!!
Ao3 link
Summary: It was supposed to be a holiday season like all of the others - nights filled with reports, and a base haunted by a Ghost while everyone wandered home. Three knocks on Simon's door change those plans entirely.
Words: 5K
No CWs, just tooth-rotting fluff and Gaz so done with these two
It was supposed to be quiet tonight. An intimate date between Simon, the desk in his room, and the pile of reports that magically remain the same height regardless of how many hours are put towards them (a detail Captain Price never misses). Does Simon happen to write a little slower to aid that magical spell so that he has a proper excuse when Price inevitably comes knocking on his door and asks why he hasn’t filed for leave again this December? Possibly, but that little detail belongs between Simon and the twenty minutes during which he contemplates which words to use instead of “infiltrate” and “detonation”.
He should have known nothing ever goes according to plan. Three familiar knocks rapping against the door certainly proved that right.
Cut to Soap MacTavish standing on the other side, a smile curling his lips and azure eyes all the brighter against the navy jumper wrapping across his broad chest. Words were said, something about a night out which made sense since Soap wore dark jeans that seemed made specifically to torture Simon, and there was a glint in Soap’s eye not dissimilar to a child’s on Christmas morning.
Ah, so, Price was picking up the tab.
As Soap stands in the hall, punctuating his pitch to coach the lieutenant out of his room with perfectly placed smiles and a wink or two anyone else would find gratuitous but Simon found infuriatingly endearing, Simon swaps his hoodie for a black jumper, grabs his jacket, and has the door locked just as Soap says, “‘nd it’s not tha team without ma favorite lieutenant.”
The calendars say “December”, but the unseasonably warm air makes the jacket hanging over Simon’s arm feel like overkill, making him contemplate turning around and throwing it through the door, but instead he rolls up the sleeves of his jumper. In the corner of his eye, he sees Soap watch as the fabric folds back and reveals Simon’s forearms - corded with muscle, covered in scars, one completely inked over.
Simon wanted to tell himself that the way Soap ogled at the skin didn’t make his own feel a size too small. He wanted to tell himself the way Soap’s Adam's apple bobbed and the dusting of pink at the tip of his ears didn’t match his own. He wanted to tell himself he wouldn’t tuck this moment away safely in the gilded chest labeled “Moments He Can Pretend” that he stored in the safe recesses of his heart.
He wanted to tell himself all of that, but unfortunately, that would make Simon a liar.
Soap rambles on about some combination of some chemicals that Simon doesn’t understand a lick of - he’s just happy he remembers to nod at points that seem right for it - and they walk side by side through Hereford.
“What fresh hell is this,” Simon mutters, the revelry from the pub greeting their ears when they’re still a block away.
“Don’t fret, Lt.” Soap nudges him with his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just ol’ Gerry with tha music up because he finally accepted he cannae hear for shit.”
It was, in fact, not Gerry with the music up.
The Green Pony quite literally glows on the corner. Green garland lit with soft, white lights frames every window, and electric candles flicker at the streets. Two wreaths adorned with a red ribbon bow hang on the dark wood doors, and through the windows, matching garland and lights line the entirety of the bar. A large tree pulls it all together, lighting up the far corner much to the chagrin of some patrons looking for a secluded corner away from the crowd.
They shoulder their way through the entry and are immediately sucked into the chaos that is the Green Pony operating over capacity. Behind the bar, Gerry, the owner, a man who Simon is convinced was born in this pub, slings pints and jabs faster than any of the youngsters helping alongside him, and when he catches sight of the two men, he throws a lazy salute and points in the direction of their usual table. They break through the crowd, and the sight of Captain Price and Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick greets them at their usual booth.
“Well fuck me,” Gaz says as they approach. “Good to see ya Ghost, but you just lost me 20 quid.”
“Pay up,” Soap holds out his hand as he scoots in besides the other sergeant. Gaz grumbles something about “unfair advantages” as he fishes out his wallet, and hidden under a black medical mask, a smile pulls at the corner of Ghost’s lips. A terrible bet by Gaz, really. Might as well be the title of Simon’s memoir:
Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Could Never Say No.
Gaz of all people should know this, and Simon’s pretty sure Soap does do.
Simon settles in next to Price who silently nods in a way of greeting, but Simon doesn’t miss the way his mouth curls up in a smile around the lip of his glass. “Never become predictable, Sergeant. Easier to kill that way,” Simon offers. Two pints sit unclaimed on the table. Simon grabs one while nudging the other towards Soap. “‘nd have some respect. I’m worth at least 40 quid.”
“Sound advice, sir.” Gaz tips his glass to Simon then takes a strong swig.
The rounds disappear and reappear over and over. The older patrons begin to make their way home, thinning the crowd some but not enough to avoid Simon’s shoulder - large enough to breach the end of the booth - becoming a human bumper now and again. Someone’s hijacked the jukebox, and Mariah Carey’s been serenading them about Christmas for the past twenty minutes. Price said his goodbyes a round ago, but not before assuring “Yes, sergeants, the tab will still be open,” and he threw that look to Simon that said “They’re your circus now”.
Now, Gaz sits at the table, chocolate eyes glassy under the lights, and a finger absentmindedly circles his pint. A dopey smile sits on his lips, and every few minutes he mumbles along to Mariah before she drowns in the din of the crowd. A word hasn’t been spoken between them since Price left - an understood respect by Gaz who knows Simon’s need for silence as much as Soap’s need to fill the air - and Simon wishes he could enjoy it. He wishes he could give Gaz that much. Instead, a dainty hand attached to a brunette he faintly recognizes from base is demanding all of his attention.
Moments ago, Soap delivered their newest round with a thunk, earning a curse or two from Gaz who saved his pint just in time, but instead of sliding into the space next to Simon - a space he occupied as soon as Price said his goodbyes - he grabbed his pint and beelined to the bar. There, a brunette waited. They were familiar, that Simon was sure of, and Soap kept flashing that smile that Simon was desperate to be turned on him.
And then the hand. The hand gripped Soap’s bicep, gave it a squeeze, and a laugh, airy and bright followed. The hand remained. That smile flashed brighter.
Simon hated that hand.
She was pretty enough. Glossy hair, high cheekbones, an ass Simon assumed would be appreciated by the right eyes. Eyes that weren’t azure blue and rivaled the bays of Islay. Any eyes except those.
The hand slides from Soap’s bicep and cups his elbow. Simon’s knuckles have gone white. He really hated that hand.
“Ghost, mate,” Simon hears from across the table. “Bruv, that glass is about to lose whatever battle ya’ve picked against it.” Simon tears his gaze away from that hand and sets it on Garrick who, bless him, doesn’t flinch. “Mind tellin’ me what that poor glass has done to you?”
“Don’t know what you’re on ‘bout,” Simon answers and sets his eyes back on that hand that’s smartly retreated back to its owner. Lucky her, she gets to keep it.
For now.
Soap’s pint is forgotten on the bartop, he says something to the brunette, and the cute crease that appears when the Scot is trying to puzzle out an equation is between his brows. Simon adores that crease. His hands itch to smooth it out and fight whatever has caused it.
He misses the questioning look on Gaz’s face and when he follows Simon’s gaze. He misses when the sergeant puts two and two together, but what he doesn’t miss is the sigh that’s pulled from Gaz’s chest and the thunk of the sergeant’s forehead against the thick, wooden table.
“Ya’ve got to be bloody kiddin’ me.” Stunned, Simon watches as Gaz thunks his head one, two, three more times, then snaps back up. His face is nothing but anguish. “Talk to him.”
“What?” Simon smartly replies.
“Talk. To. Him.” Gaz accompanies each word with a thump of his pint as if hammering them into the wood would hammer them into Simon’s confused brain.
“Talk to who?”
“Bloody ‘ell!” Simon thinks Gaz is being a bit overdramatic, what with throwing his hands in the air and acting as if Simon is the densest person in this pub. Problem is, Simon has no idea what he’s supposed to be grasping. The sergeant rubs a hand down his face, and once he’s collected himself, the stare he throws at Simon pins him to the booth. “Talk to Soap. I’m beggin’ you, Ghost. Talk to him, and save us all from havin’ to keep watching you two dance around each other like a bunch of school boys who don’t know what a crush is.”
The words make sense. Well, they make sense that they’re words, and they’re going in one ear. But not all of them are processing and some of them are going right out the other ear leaving a jumbled tangle of words like “Soap” and “you two” and “crush” that are rattling around in the empty space of Simon’s mind. Yes, it makes sense that Garrick just said something, but the implications are mad enough that he has half a mind to order him to a psych evaluation at once.
“Might’ve finally lost it, Garrick. Imaginin’ things now.” It’s really all he can muster past his lead laden tongue.
Crushing on Soap, well, that was as easy as breathing. But crushing is too trivial a word, wasn’t it? Crushing was what you did on the schoolyard when the brain hadn’t learned the words that threatened to burst from your heart. Crushing was soft glances across a room and sheepish smiles dripping with honeyed words. Crushing wasn’t a deep seeded trust that you’d make it home alive as long as that one person was beside you. Crushing wasn’t intimate knowledge of a body learned in the lowlight of safehouses while rough hands guided needles through skin. Crushing wasn’t hushed confessions in the dark as you accepted your mortality.
No, Simon did not have a crush on Soap MacTavish, because a crush was too simple. A tapestry of moments woven from a tarmac to now - the bar lights catching the hidden caramel strands of Soap’s mohawk - blanketed along Simon’s very being, and no longer could he ignore that his British heart had a Scottish flag planted firmly in place.
And because life loves to remind Simon that he is not a man destined for gentle touches and even gentler words, he watches as the brunette grasps Soap around the forearm and leads him out of the pub. “Told ya,” the words taste more bitter than he intended. “Imaginin’ things.”
Gaz tracks the pair through the crowd. “I’m the best interrogator on the team,” he says. Simon’s brow shoots up, and he’s about to question what the hell that has anything to do with this when Gaz holds up his hand and continues. “I’m the best interrogator on this team. I can read body language at a level that, often, I wish I couldn’t. The amount of people’s secrets that they don’t even know but I know is a burden I’m cursed to carry.” Pint abandoned and a finger getting closer and closer to Simon’s chest, Gaz continues. “I don’t know what the hell ‘appened in Las Almas…well I do, I read the report, but I mean between you two. I noticed it the moment we stepped into Ale’s safehouse, and it’s only gotten worse since. We, the 141, are a team. Price and I are teammates. You and I are teammates. Johnny an-”
“He doesn’t want anyone callin’ ‘im Johnny.” Amusement dances across Gaz’s eyes, and Simon knows he fell into his trap.
“Exactly. Anyone except?” Gaz takes Simon’s glare as confirmation. “All I’m sayin’ is, Soap and you? You’re more than teammates, Ghost. You’re the best in the world - as much as I ‘ate to admit it - not because of hours of training together or years of missions. It’s like you two are one soul, it’s absolutely mad to watch. And it’s not just on missions either. Ya both have a starin’ problem, that’s for sure. Though neither of you would know because it’s always when the other isn’t lookin’.”
“We - what?” Simon can’t fit Gaz’s words into his understanding of his relationship with Soap.
“The heart eyes? At each other?” Gaz flutters his lashes, and Christ, it actually gets a chuckle out of Ghost, as annoyed as he is. “Ya’d think for someone whose eyes are the only part of his body he shows, you’d be better at schooling them, but I swear I’ve seen those lines at the corners actually melt whenever Soap walks into the room.”
Oh, Gaz is proper teasing now, and Simon wants to smack the smirk right off of his face. He wants to tell him he’s delusional and that he can’t accept the image Gaz is spinning because it means taking the feelings he keeps packed away in that gilded chest in the safe corner of his heart and laying them all out there. Yet, the denial never comes, and instead, he feels his traitorous mouth curl up.
Is that…relief easing his chest?
Gaz’s face softens. “Remember the first thing ya told me when I joined the team?”
“Our job doesn’t guarantee tomorrow,” Simon says automatically. “Take the good moments while ya can. Don’t know ‘ow many ya’ll have.”
“Maybe time to start takin’ your own advice, huh?”
“Who’s advice we takin’?”
Gaz and Simon jump at the new voice, both reflexes fast enough to keep the pints from spilling over. Simon peers up, and his heart stutters. There stands Soap with cheeks rosy from the cold, and Simon has well and truly lost it because he desperately wants to loop his arm around Soap’s waist and tuck him into his side to keep him warm.
“Just Ghost’s words of wisdom,” Gaz supplies easily.
“Ah, only an eejit wouldn’t listen to the Ghost.” Soap stares down at the table, and he clears his throat before he continues. “Actually, Lt. I - I was hopin’ I could pull ye away?” He rubs the back of his neck, and the red on his cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears. “Unless ye don’t want to! Dinnae me - mean to interrupt, probably discussin’ something - never mind I…”
“Relax, Sergeant.” At the sound of Simon’s voice, Soap’s shoulders drop and his breaths come easier. He meets Simon’s gaze, and Simon has never seen this look in those storm blue eyes. Timid. Unsure. Bashful? “Was just finishin’ up. Garrick, ya good?”
Gaz waves him off. “Out of ‘ere. Your dark cloud is bringin’ down the festive mood.” He throws them a wink and stands from the table, smoothing out his jumper as he eyes six feet of muscles and a jawline that could break glass leaning on the bartop. Instead of walking around them, Gaz cuts right between Simon and Soap, and just before he steps away, he leans into Simon’s ear. “Talk to him.”
The hour hasn’t cooled the air so Simon and Soap opt to wander through Hereford instead of hailing a cab. Simon blames the beer and Gaz’s words buzzing in his ears, but he feels attuned to every one of Soap’s footfalls and every sway of his arms. The street is empty, plenty of room to stroll, yet the two of them walk with barely a hair between them. A tug Simon will always follow, and maybe Gaz hasn’t completely lost it, because Soap does too.
But because Simon can never make things easy for himself, he says “Where’s the brunette?”
Soap looks at him, face scrunched and that crease is between his brows. It would be so simple to reach out and gently smooth his thumb along it. “Wha’ brunette?” Soap asks because he can never make it easy for Simon, either.
“The brunette at the pub. Seemed…cozy.” If a sniper took him out, Simon wouldn’t complain.
“Cozy?” An incredulous laugh circles around the word. He’s really going to make Simon spell it out.
“Ya. Cozy. Thought, well, -” Simon picks at the nonexistent lint on his sweater. “Thought she was makin’ good company.”
Soap is silent, and it’s making Simon’s skin crawl. He focuses on his steps, one in front of the other. He creates a new mission right then: get back to base, say goodnight to Soap, and not emerge from his room until everyone has left for the holidays. He has rations hidden in his desk, he can make it until then.
“Oh, Simon,” Soap says softly between them.
They don’t speak for the rest of the walk, but there’s a spring in Soap’s step, and whatever millimeter of space that had existed between them is eaten up entirely by the Scot. When they arrive on base, Simon prepares his goodbye, ready to go down his hall while Soap goes down his, but when he turns to depart, Soap grabs his wrist and guides Simon with him.
They arrive at Soap’s private room. The Scot jumbles his keys, nearly dropping them on the ground, and struggles to get them into the keyhole. Simon thinks to point out that the process would probably be easier if Soap just let go of his wrist, but call him weak because that touch is more intimate than any stitch Soap has put in his body.
Finally, the lock turns, Soap pushes open the door, swiftly kicks it closed, and the two of them stand in the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table.
He’s been in Soap’s room plenty of times before, but this, this moment is different. A delicate thing Simon could almost hold in his hand, and he hopes that door never opens again. Hopes that they can stand here away from the responsibilities and the enemy bullets and bask in the warmth of this thing between them. This thing that Simon prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he’s no longer imagining and is ready to stop ignoring. Since the pub he’s felt exposed, as if every emotion he’s tried to hide away for the better part of a year is now written across his skin for a pair of azure eyes to read. As he spies the rapid rise and fall of Soap’s chest, he thinks he’s not the only one.
Words sit on his tongue, but just before they tumble from his lips, he pulls them back. He’s pictured this moment 1000 different times and 100 different ways. None of it practiced. He has to get this right. He takes a breath. He has to figure out a way to tell Soap that if he wants to take the plunge, Simon is on the ledge with him, but he also wants to leave the door open so that if he’s misread everything, nothing needs to change between the two of them. The jumper is beginning to cling to his back.
But it’s Soap who speaks first. “I got ye somethin.”
“Ya got me somethin’?” Simon repeats back.
“Aye. It’s - one second.” Soap steps around him and rifles through his jacket. When he straightens, a dark rectangle is in his hands. He holds it out to Simon who has lost all function of his arms and stares at the object.
“What is it?”
“A present.”
“A present?”
“Holy ‘ell, Simon. Yes! A present! Ye know what a present is, aye?”
Simon is only more confused by the answer. Soap shoves the rectangle into his chest, and Simon’s brain catches up fast enough to wrap his hands around the object that he now realizes is a thick, wooden box.
“For me?” Seems his brain hasn’t moved past two word sentences though.
Soap rolls his eyes and his hands plant his hips. “Yes, it’s for you. It’s what I was talkin’ to Heather about.”
“Heather?” Christ, Simon needs his brain to wake up.
“Aye, Heather. The lass at the pub. She helped me get this.”
“So, ya weren’t -” Simon feels his ears burn. “Ya weren’t…flirting?”
Soap’s eyes widen for half a second, and then he tries to hide a startled chuckle with a cough as he looks down. Simon’s pretty sure he hears “Fuckin bampot” mixed in there. When Soap looks back up, he seems shy, almost embarrassed, cheeks back to that pink that’s starting to drive Simon wild. “No, Lt. Heather gets handsy after some pints, but I wasn’t flirtin’ with her.” Azure blue locks him in place. “I had someone else in mind for that.”
Bloody hell. Simon’s first instinct is to retreat. Flirting wasn’t wholly a new thing between them. They’d lost comms privileges on more than a few missions with Price - Gaz never had the power to pull the plug though he always made his grievances known - but it was all coy, innocent, dangling off the edge of friendly banter. None of it was ever so brazen, so laid out in the open. But here was Soap, taking the first step, leaving a small part of himself bare, waiting to see what Simon would do with it.
“You didn’t have to,” Simon says, holding up the box.
“I wanted to.” It sounds so simple coming from those lips.
Simon’s jacket joins Soap’s, and he holds the box in both hands. What he mistook for black is actually a deep, rich mahogany polished by an expert hand. The box easily lays in his palms, and he’s acutely aware of Soap watching him as he lifts the lid. Simon’s breath catches.
The inside is lined by a black silk, and nestled in the middle lies the most beautiful knife he has ever seen. He can tell that the blade is of the best steel, a straight spine across the top meets a point sharp enough to tear through his toughest gloves. He runs his thumb along the edge to the heel and revels at the ease with which it knicks his skin.
Where the blade is all wicked grace, the handle is a work of art. Stunning black onyx catches the light as Simon delicately lifts it from the box. At first glance, it’s smooth, but when he rubs the stone with his thumb, he catches other carvings. He moves to the bedside table, and when he holds it under the lamplight, Simon nearly drops the knife.
Sapphire blue and rich hazel streak through the black stone, tangling together perfectly. Simon turns the handle. On one side is a blue bar of soap. It matches a doodle Simon has seen on scraps of paper left in briefing rooms and napkins in the mess and on the corners of his reports when a certain sergeant comes to visit. He flips it, and on the other side is a hazel ghost. Another doodle Simon has spied on the pages of a journal kept close to that same sergeant’s heart.
“Do ye like it?” Soap shifts on his feet. He’s rubbing the back of his neck again, and Simon fights back a laugh.
The absurdity of it all, that Soap could be nervous right now.
No. Not Soap. Not anymore.
Johnny. His Johnny. He’s always been his, from the tarmac to now as Simon stares, gobsmacked, at this immortalization of them in stone. At this declaration of every intention and feeling and dream Simon’s been too afraid of. Johnny’s blue streaking through the darkness, dancing perfectly with Simon’s hazel. Ghost and Soap always side by side. He decides right then that he’s done tucking the feelings away in that gilded chest. He’s done with moments that live only in his fantasies. He’s done pretending he’s ok with it being just Ghost and Soap forever and that he hasn’t craved Simon and Johnny.
So yes, it is absolutely absurd that Johnny could be nervous right now.
“Heather’s da used tae be in tha service ‘nd makes these custom now. I ken you’re picky about the blades. Think I drove ‘er up the wall goin’ back ‘nd forth makin’ sure it was the best -” Johnny is rambling, and he’s looking everywhere except at Simon. If he was, he would have seen Simon reverently place the knife back in the box. He would’ve seen Simon rip the medical mask off of his face, and he would’ve seen Simon eat the space between them in two strides. If he was, he would’ve been ready when Simon cupped his face, and crashed their lips together.
Simon has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to do soft and gentle. He doesn’t know how to exist in a space where there’s acknowledged interest that’s so much heavier than a tumble in a bed. He doesn’t know how Johnny MacTavish, full of joy and thunder and blazing glory, found his way into Simon’s endless darkness. But Johnny kisses him back and grips his jumper, and Simon’s heart is no longer his own.
“Hi,” Johnny says once they catch their breath, and Simon can feel the smile against his lips.
“Johnny,” Simon mumbles, and it sounds like a prayer. He pulls Johnny closer and feels the strong muscles of his arms circle around Simon’s waist. He cradles Johnny’s face, thumb softly rubbing against the stubble on his cheek, and he leans in again. This, Simon thinks, is his own personal version of heaven.
They’re pressed together now, chest to chest, and Simon is certain he’d be fine dying right here.
“How long?” Johnny asks, and he leans into the palm of Simon’s hand.
“Fishin’ for compliments, Sergeant? B’neath you.” There’s a swift slap on his shoulder. Simon nuzzles into the crook of Johnny’s neck to hide his smile.
“Awa’ an bile yer heid.” There’s no bite in the words. “How long?”
“Las Almas,” Simon admits against his skin. “The way you looked at the rig when the missile ‘it. I couldn’t look away from you. Still haven’t been able to.” He pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “And when I saw Graves bullet ‘it…well, not even Price would’ve been able to keep me from huntin’ him down.”
“Hells bells, Simon. That was over a year ago!”
Simon ignores the outburst and kisses a rough, uneven scar barely hidden within the sergeant’s hairline. Johnny’s newest, only a couple weeks old “But then Makarov -” It takes a moment to fight past the lump in his throat. The arms around his waist tighten.
“In the hospital, I promised meself - “ Johnny turns his face into Simon’s neck, “that if I made it out, if I got one more shot, I was done runnin’ from ye.” He pulls back, freeing one hand and brings it up to cup Simon’s cheek. “While I lay in that bloody bed, all I could think was, ‘Ye didn’t get tae tell him. Ye didn’t get tae tell him, and now he’ll never know.’ So let me tell ye now.” Johnny cups beneath Simon’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I love ye, Simon Riley. In this life and the next, I will always love ye. God help any sorry soul that ever tries to take ye from me, because I will burn this world tae tha ground until I find ye. I don’t know how long this life is willin’ to give us, but I’ll take whatever it’s generous with as long as it’s with ye.”
And well, Simon isn’t quite sure what to do with that.
There’s a jumble of emotions rattling around in his heart threatening to spill into his gut if he thinks too hard about it. He’s aware that Johnny is staring at him, adoration and patience swimming in stormy blue, and his hand is softly carding through the curls at Simon’s nape. He remembers Johnny back on that tarmac - nearly two years ago now - brash and cocky and willing, and wonders what would have happened if he’d known how his fate was written, how his own heart was on the line. If he had known on that first mission what that annoying sergeant would come to mean to him, what would he have done? Would he have kept Johnny at arm’s length, protecting him from the jagged mess that is Simon’s darkness? Standing there, basking in the glow that is his Johnny, he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think he could have.
Simon threads a hand in the back of Johnny’s mohawk - it’s beginning to flirt with deregulation - and snakes the other around his waist. “Take the good moments,” he mutters in the space between them.
“Aye,” Soap says, smile bright in the lowlight. “Take the good moments.”
So, they spend the evening trading lazy kisses and honeyed words. At some point, boots are forgotten and jumpers join a pile in the corner. They tumble into bed, legs tangled, and even as sleep takes them, not an inch of space is allowed. Johnny’s breaths fan across Simon’s chest, deep, content. Sleep is pulling at Simon’s lashes, but he fights it a little longer. In his last moment of consciousness, he grazes a finger along Johnny’s hairline, catching on the rough scar, and he thinks the memoir needs a title change:
Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life.
And in the morning, there’s a folder waiting on Price’s desk. He sips his coffee, picks it up, and smiles at the familiar weight. When he flips it open, there’s simply a location: Glasgow.
“Merry Christmas, Simon,” Price says and watches a jeep pull out of the base.
Johnny is singing Mariah at the top of his lungs, and Simon doesn’t remember the last time he was this content. The mask is forgotten on the desk in his room, and a new knife is tucked by his side. They turn onto the highway, Glasgow waiting, and Soap lays his hand out between them.
Simon can feel it, the wispy end of a filament stretching between them. The past collisions and the future moments. He can see it, that future laying on the other side. That future full of lazy kisses and even lazier mornings. Of days together, never questioning if the other walks through the door. Of Christmases in Scotland and maybe a cabin one day, too. For now, they have to make due with stitches in safehouses and easy touches in helis. Stolen kisses in private rooms and hidden words between the commands.
An Accessory Among Bystanders : Jily, Canon Compliant, Oneshot, E for sexual content
Now Everybody -- : Jily, Sirius POV, Completed, Canon Compliant, T
Crash Into Me: Jily and some Jilypad, a series of unrelated drabbles and fics from smut prompts, E for Sexual Content
The People We Are and Who They Want Us to Be: Jily, canon compliant, oneshot, T
When the Void Calls, Will You Answer? Jily and platonic prongsfoot, Canon Compliant, Order Mission, James and Sirius Friendship, Talks about pregnancy and death, Oneshot, T
Touch Me Soft and Hard: Jily, Canon Compliant, E for Sexual Content
Big Plans: Jily, James Potter bday fic, oneshot, E for Sexual Content
~Method Acting Universe~
Method Acting: Jily through the years in Lily's POV, completed, Canon Compliant, Multichapter, T
Cool About It: Jily, Canon Compliant, set in the Summer before 7th in Method Acting, Multi Chapter, M for sexual content
Lost Time: Jily, Set after the events of Method Acting, Oneshot, E for Sexual Content
I'm so sorry about the wait! I'd say the holidays got away from me, but I think procrastination is pretty true-to-form for me. Something I'll definitely work on in the New Year. I really hope it's still January 3rd for you!
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little story <3 I took some inspo from two of your prompts: post identity reveal family outing and sibling bonding. The sibling bonding is in the first quarter or so, the parental bonding is in the last bit. Also, the conclusion definitely ran away from me! Very Brother Bear vibes up in here. I hope that's okay!
Enjoy! :3
Word Count: 3280
Danny gasped awake with a shiver, barely catching the green of his eyes as it caught on the shiny, canvassed ceiling of their tent. His breath fogged in front of him, visible in the quickly dimming glow. It served as a warning of what he already knew had awoken him, but it was nice to get the confirmation anyway: there was a ghost nearby.
He rubbed the crust from his eyes as he allowed his brain time to wake up the rest of the way. The good news was that it didn’t feel like anything overly powerful. The bad news was that if it tripped his Ghost Sense, then it was powerful enough—and more than likely causing havoc, because it was clearly feeling some big emotions and those emotions usually amounted to some brand of anger. It also felt distinctly feral, and given their locale, it was safe to bet it was an animal spirit of some kind. Those could be especially unpredictable, and he wasn’t in the mood.
Danny looked over at the sleeping bag where his sister slept—seeing in the dark hadn’t been a problem for a long time, with or without the aid of glowing eyes—and he watched the slow rise and fall of her chest as she quietly snored. Now, whether or not to wake her was the question. The Ghost Assault Vehicle would be the safest place for her if things went haywire, but undoubtedly she’d be worried and clingy and want to help, which he also wasn’t in the mood for.
Ultimately, though, safety overruled whatever annoying sibling feelings she might stir up. Danny dislodged himself from his own sleeping bag and crawled across the floor to her, the waterproof fabric beneath him making rustling noises all the way.
“Psst,” he whispered, setting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Jazz.”
“Whazzat?” she asked, jerking. “Danny?”
“Hey. There’s a ghost.”
Her eyes blew open. “Like, here? Now?”
Yeah, maybe he could’ve handled that better. “Not yet,” he amended. “But I’m heading out. You should probably get in the Gav, just in case.”
“The G-A-V, Danny, not the ‘Gav.’” It was an old argument, one they hadn’t really argued over in years. Danny figured that Jazz probably found it endearing now that she was out of the house and missing him for most of the year. She sighed as she sat up and reached for the ground, hands fumbling towards her glasses. “You’re going alone? At least tell Mom and Dad first. And help me with a light, please.”
Danny summoned a ball of ectoplasm and sent it floating up towards the domed ceiling, where it lit the whole tent in a dim, soft blue. He grimaced. “I was kind of hoping you’d do that.”
Danny’s parents had been informed of his little secret only a week ago, and all-in-all it had gone down pretty well. The timing had been strategic, of course; Danny was going off to college at the end of the summer, and his parents needed to know why their newest ghostly ally would be disappearing from Amity for the entire school year (barring holidays and emergencies, if all went well). Going to college was a failsafe he knew he hadn’t needed, but wanted anyway—seeing alternate timelines where his parents were accepting of his after-school activities was very different from actually experiencing it in his own, after all. They’d reacted much as expected, though. Surprised. Excited. Sad. Guilt-stricken.
Jazz looked at him with something that bordered on pity, and it made him squirm. “I can if that’s what you really want, Danny,” she allowed. “But you know why I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Okay, no need to get all mopey about it,” Danny deflected, clambering up to his knees (the tent wasn’t tall enough to stand, which kind of put a damper on his whole ‘stoic’ front. Not that he’d admit that). “It just…still feels weird. But I can do it!”
Jazz raised her hands in fake surrender and fought a smile. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a big boy now, I got it.” She unzipped her sleeping bag and cast the cover aside. “I’ll go hide. Though…if it’s big enough that you needed to wake us up, maybe you should do more than just let them know.”
“Like?” Danny asked, just to be obstinate. He knew what Jazz was hinting at.
Jazz rolled her eyes. “Like ask for help, you big dummy.”
Danny sighed. It’d be the first time working with them since…“I don’t know if we’re at that level yet, Jazz.”
“You were before you told them,” Jazz pointed out with a raised brow.
“It’s different,” he stressed.
“Okay, well, different or not, you need to tell them you’re leaving, at the very least.” Jazz crawled over her sleeping bag towards the door and unzipped it with a practiced, fluid motion. “After you,” she said with a dramatic gesture towards the dark campfire and forest beyond.
Danny grumbled as he passed, and once out of the threshold he let the ectoplasmic ball lighting the inside of the tent wink out, just to hear Jazz’s indignant “Hey!” from behind him. Seconds later he heard (and saw) her flashlight click on behind him; ectoplasm-powered and too big for its own good, Danny was sure that thing created its own light pollution. He refused to use it on principle.
Danny walked the short trek to his parents’ tent and crouched to get the zipper, deciding against intangibility just in case one of his parents was awake enough to notice a shadowy silhouette phase through the wall. On the other side, Jack snored with the force of a train engine; Danny could swear it was rattling the zipper out of his hands as he fumbled with it.
The inside was dark, but Jazz’s flashlight outside cast long shadows across the floor. Danny moved out of the way so that the light could hit his parent’s faces; Danny knew his mother would have in ear plugs, so this was really the only safe way of waking her beyond shaking, which Danny knew from experience could be…startling, sometimes.
He watched her brows furrow before her eyes squinted open. She rubbed at her eyes with one hand and took an ear plug out with the other. “Danny? What happened?”
“Um, there’s a ghost,” Danny said (muttered, more like). “I was gonna go—”
“Hold on, I can’t hear you,” Maddie said, turning to shake her husband. “Jack, wake up. Danny needs something.”
“Whazzat?” Jack yelled, in much the same way as Jazz. Like father, like daughter. “What happened?”
“Uh,” Danny said, feeling tenser now with both their attentions on him. “There’s a ghost.” He pointed north. “Half a mile that way, maybe. Getting closer. I was gonna go deal with it, but I told Jazz to get in the RV just in case.”
Maddie frowned. “You were gonna go deal with it? By yourself?”
Danny glanced behind him, where Jazz was giving him a thumbs up from across the campsite. “Um, no,” he lied, turning back around. “You guys can come. If you want. You don’t have to.”
“Of course we want to, Danno!” Jack shouted. He had positively lit up, like grogginess wasn’t and had never been an issue for him. “I’ll go get the Fenton Grappler!”
“Do you know what kind of ghost it is, sweetie?” Maddie asked, still watching him. “What equipment do we need to bring?”
Danny hadn’t thought that far ahead. “It’s an animal, I think. It feels pretty feral. It’s not that strong, either, but—”
“Animal spirits can be unpredictable,” Maddie said, echoing Danny’s earlier considerations. “Alright, we’ll bring the capturing gear.” She paused. “If…that’s okay?”
Danny almost laughed; he’d never heard his mom sound so unsure when it came to ghost hunting. “That sounds good, Mom,” he said. “I’ll go get my boots on.”
— — —
Danny led the way through the timber with his parents, feeling a little silly in human form but unwilling to change nonetheless. It was nice to walk, sometimes, even when flying would be quicker and less taxing. And he could pass his feet intangibly through those pesky fallen branches and thorny bushes, so really it wasn’t all that worse than strolling down an Amity sidewalk. There was, he told himself, no other reason he might want to stay human in this scenario. He certainly wouldn’t feel uncomfortable otherwise.
“Are we getting close, honey?” Maddie asked after helping Jack over a rotted trunk.
The irony wasn’t lost on Danny; he’d asked the same question on the RV ride there. He felt around in his chest, feeling for the speed at which his core buzzed it’s steady warning, the strength of the tug. “Nearly there,” he promised.
“That’s a real neat trick, Danny-boy,” Jack praised. Danny could hear the smile in his voice. “You know, I always wondered how Phantom heard wind of a ghost faster than we did. Didn’t I, Mads?”
Danny kicked at some dead leaves and sticks at the ground, embarrassed. “That ghost alarm you guys developed works similarly. It maybe doesn’t have quite the range, though.”
Maddie hummed, contemplating. “And that’s what woke you up tonight?”
“Yeah.”
Maddie reached out to set her hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He closed his eyes before he turned to face her, bracing. If he hadn’t caught on to the concern in her voice before, he was definitely feeling it now. “How often do ghosts wake you up?” she asked, quiet.
Danny opened his mouth to lie and then thought better of it. That was a habit he was determined to break with his family, whether they’d like the answer or not. “Once or twice a night,” he admitted, slowly. When Maddie made a pained noise, he quickly added, “Usually it’s nothing to worry about, though, so I just go back to sleep. Like, at least half the time.”
She bit her lip. Guilty. “You shouldn’t have had to deal with that, hun.”
“Can we not do this?” Danny pleaded. These were the kind of conversations he’d been trying to avoid for the past week. “It’s my fault for not telling you guys, not your fault for not noticing.”
“We know that’s how you feel, Danny,” his mom allowed. She shared a glance with Jack from over her shoulder. “But we can’t help but feel like some of that lies on us, too. For noticing the clues but not acting on them in the ways we should have.”
“We want to know now, though,” Jack said, coming up behind his wife. “Warts and all.”
“Is this an intervention?” Danny asked, nervous. It felt like his core was constricting in his chest. “Because I get enough of that from Jazz.”
“It’s not an intervention,” his mom denied, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s just…Why haven’t you turned into Phantom yet, Danny?”
Danny wasn’t sure if he heard that right. It felt like the conversation had spun 180. “What?” he asked.
“This isn’t exactly an easy hike, sweetie,” she said. “Mostly uphill, through brambles and across fallen trees.”
“It’s been fine,” he argued. “I’ve been phasing through most of it.”
“If we were Tucker or Sam, you would have flown us there,” Maddie finished, and, well, he couldn’t deny that logic. “So why haven’t you?”
Danny frowned. “I didn’t think we were at that stage yet.”
“We’re not on a date, Danny; we’re your parents,” she sighed, shaking her head. “There is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you. I changed your diapers; I should know.”
Danny frowned. If she had said that two weeks ago, before they’d known, he might not have believed her. He did believe her this time, but it was marred by something else—this aching, squeezing feeling in his chest, riddling his core with fear and anxiety and confusion and—
Oh. That wasn’t from him.
“Look out!” Danny yelled, grabbing hold of his parents and shoving them to the ground. His shield came up just in time: a glowing black bear, absolutely massive for its species, came barreling down upon it, scratching and growling and baring sharp, sharp teeth with saber-toothed tiger levels of length. He flinched against its strength but held steady, keeping his hands in front of him to feed ectoplasm into the bubble that surrounded them.
Perhaps realizing that its efforts were futile, the bear backed away, roared once in warning, and then took off running in the opposite direction, taking a moment to pause awkwardly at a hollowed tree stump before disappearing over the hill.
“Okay,” Danny breathed, allowing the shield to dissipate. There was that conversation out the window. He was almost grateful for it; he’d always been better at fighting than he was at talking, and staying human during this battle was quickly becoming a moot point, anyhow. “Alright, here’s the plan: you guys follow from back here, and I’ll fly up and cut it off from the front. Sound good?”
He was about to run off then, but Maddie grabbed his chin and twisted him to face her. Her eyes scanned over him faster than Danny could even blink, checking for injuries at a near-inhuman speed.
Once he got over his shock at being grabbed, he started to squirm. “Mom, stop. I’m fine,” he murmured, trying to turn away to hide the way embarrassment was quickly flooding his cheeks with red.
Once satisfied, Maddie nodded and placed a chaste kiss to his forehead. “Be safe,” she commanded in a no-nonsense voice, like he’d be grounded for a week if he came back injured. Then, she finally let him go.
“You too,” he said, turning away. Squeezing his eyes shut, he transformed—focusing on the way his core bloomed outward instead of the stares on his back—and took off into the air.
Going on a bear hunt. He was sure there was a kid’s song about that.
Danny followed the tug in his gut from the sky; it was even stronger now that he’d transformed and they’d gotten…acquainted, for lack of a better word. He couldn’t shake that weird anxious worry in his gut—the one that seemed to be emanating from the bear in waves—but he could fight through it, and that’s what mattered.
Animal spirits were all instinct and emotion, wrapped up into something tight and cohesive that ectoplasm wouldn’t have trouble latching onto. Usually that something was governed by anger, which, as far as Danny knew, was the strongest emotion in a living animal’s arsenal. Human spirits could end up governed by that too, but there was more nuance to the reasoning behind anger with a person: jealousy, revenge, even loneliness could rearrange into different flavors of the same base emotion. It was easier to assuage because of its complicatedness; when there was a direct physical link to someone’s anger, there was something to solve.
It was more difficult to get angry animal spirits to move on. They were angry at everything and nothing all at once. The whole world fueled their anger, and so there was little that could calm them down.
Fear, though…He’d never met an animal spirit governed by fear, or worry, or whatever anxious instinct this bear’s ectoplasm was releasing. Maybe he could turn this into a happy ending, for both him and the bear. He hoped he could, anyway.
Danny dived down in front of it, and from the way it twisted backwards and picked up its pace in the direction opposite of him (the direction towards his parents), it seemed the bear could sense him, too. He went intangible and picked up the pace, letting trees and leaves fly through him at a dizzying pace. Finally, the forest opened into a little clearing, and Danny threw up a green wall at the end of it, where the bear was trying to escape. It skid to a halt so fast it left deep gashes in the dirt, dropped something fuzzy and black from its mouth, and turned to face him.
Danny froze. There, curled beneath the ghost bear’s legs, was a single cub. It peered out from behind her, oblivious to the danger and curious as to the reason for their night’s interruption. More importantly, it did not glow like it’s mother. It was still alive.
Mother Bear growled a warning at the same time Danny’s parents started crashing through the brush nearest her. “Stop!” he shouted out, holding out a hand despite his parents not being able to see him. “Uh, stand down!”
“Danny?” His dad called. “What’s going on?”
Mother Bear was looking increasingly frantic. Panicking a little himself—whether from the emotions that he was accidentally leaching off her or the situation, he wasn’t sure—Danny made a split-second decision and thrust a dome over the top of her and her cub. It would shield them from any sudden bear attacks, true, but it also served as makeshift protection from any Fenton weaponry.
He trusted his parents not to shoot him. He wasn’t sure if he trusted them not to shoot Mother Bear.
“It’s safe now!” Danny called to his parents. “Um, leave your guns outside the clearing! And walk slowly!”
Danny was almost surprised to hear them listening. He didn’t know why. He had to stop doubting them.
“Oh,” Maddie said when she breached the tree line. Mother Bear rotated to face her and Jack as they stepped out, gnashing her too-long teeth and backing further over her cub to put it safely beneath her belly. It peeked out from beneath her paws. “It’s…a mother.”
She sounded shocked. Danny concurred.
“Come over here,” Danny told his parents. “Behind me. I’m gonna try something.”
He stepped forward as his parents came around the dome. Mother Bear watched them walk until they’d settled behind Danny, and already he could feel that fear worry stress easing, just from having all potential predators in-sight instead of surrounding her.
“Danny,” Maddie warned when he took another step forward. “Bears are extremely protective of their young.”
“I know,” Danny murmured, keeping his voice low. He inched forward, getting lower to the ground as he walked. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Mother Bear snarled statically, touching on Ghost Speak but unable to form full coherence. Worry, is what Danny was able to read from it. Worry. Baby. Danger.
Danny switched tactics, changing to Ghost Speak as he set his hands gently against the wall of the dome, emanating as many calming emotions as he could summon. Calm. Safe.
She flinched, but her teeth were shortening, growing less sharp. Baby Bear yawned beneath her, a kind of squeaking hum. Almost like a puppy. Like Cujo, maybe.
Calm. Safe. Danny promised, at the same time voicing sentences in English above the Ghost Speak’s static: “It’s okay. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt him. You can let go. I’ll protect him. It’s alright.”
Baby Bear nuzzled into Mother Bear, and she licked at his cheek as her body grew brighter and began dissipating, moving on. Baby Bear purred and purred.
She looked at Danny. Looked behind him, where his parents stood. Mother? she asked. With the emotions clogging her speech finally gone, he could actually understand her.
Danny nodded. “Yeah. That’s my Mom.”
Good. Mother Bear hummed, closing her eyes. Safe.
She disappeared, her glowing green fragments scattering on the wind.
Danny turned around to face his parents, and for the first time noticed that they were both crying. That was okay. He was crying, too.
He cleared his throat. “So. Anyway. Where’s the nearest Animal Sanctuary?”
Summary: Based off this writing prompt. It’s the holiday season, reader’s least favorite time of year. Their boyfriend Nathan decides to surprise them.
You were never big on holiday traditions. Sure they were fun when you were a kid, but as you got older your family just drifted further apart. It got to the point where you couldn’t even decorate the Christmas tree without a fight breaking out.
The sound of keys rustling as the front door opened disturbed you from your sulking. No doubt it was your boyfriend Nathan coming back from work. You just moved in with him a few months ago and every day felt like bliss when you were with him. But then there were days like today. Nathan had to stay over at work late to finish grading papers. It didn’t happen often, but when it did he would get so engrossed in his work that he wouldn’t end up coming home until you were already asleep.
So it was a bit odd that he was home as early as he was when you knew he had work to do. “Hey. What’re you doing home already?” Turning around from your seat you watch as he walks in with a grocery bag and raise an eyebrow.
“Finished up faster than I thought so I stopped and got you a surprise-“ In a blink of an eye, Nathan went from standing upright to laying flat on the ground. The contents of the bag strewn about. “Dammit!” He yelled out as he quickly gathered the supplies. You couldn’t help but to smile at the spectacle he was making. He was never really the quickest on his feet, but his klutz like qualities were one of the many things you loved about him.
Helping him pick everything up, you noticed the gingerbread house kit. “Nath, what’s all this about?” You thought he looked flustered before. Nothing compared to the shade of red forming on his cheeks in that moment. “Well I uh.. thought we..-“ He took a deep breath before speaking again.
“Will you make a gingerbread house with me?” Before you could speak he immediately interjected. “I know this kind of stuff isn’t your favorite thing but I mean.. we could make it fun. Listen to music, decorate and or eat it. Just thought we could try and make our own traditions, you know?”
With that last sentence and the pure look of adoration on his face, you crumbled. How could you say no to him? God you loved him. Loved him enough to sing cheesy Christmas songs as you spent the next hour or so decorating the gingerbread house. Finding yourself enjoying this more than you thought, you realized maybe holiday traditions weren’t so bad after all.
“Jesus Harrington, you know the ball goes in the hole right?” Billy snarked as Steve lined up to hit the ball for the sixth- no seventh shot at hole 3. He paused to throw a dirty glare over his shoulder though.
“Fuck off Hargrove. You’re not doing much better than me.”
“Yeah, but my daddy doesn’t pay for a membership to the local golf club.”
“It’s a country club,” Steve started, putting on his best pompous attitude. “And I don’t play golf there anyway. I play tennis dumbass.” Billy’s witty retort died on his tounge as he pictured Steve in a mini tennis skirt. While he was distracted, Steve managed to rack up a total of ten strokes before the ball finally landed in the hole with a clunk.
The plastic on plastic sound shook him out of a very detailed fantasy of a teary eyed Steve and he focused back in on the blacklight decorations along the sides of the golf course. Just in time to make eye contact with a victorious Steve and notice the way the neon colors swirled and twisted in big Bambi eyes.
“C’mon Pretty Boy. Let’s grab some food while the munchkins finish their game. I’m fucking bored.” Staying in the golf course would have pushed him over the edge.
