I Need A Hero

by Freiyjah

Summary:

Ghost has spent the years since he was held as a POW locked into a marriage to preserve his career in the army. Forced to excel, to become part of the SAS and to form this heroic task force 141, everything in his life boils down to the sacrifices he's made for his career. For his country. For the world. It's pushed him too far, and Soap is the only one who seems to see it. Doing everything he can to push the bright beautiful Scot away, to protect him from his own personal hell, Ghost would do anything to not come back from the next mission.

Soap picks option number 3.

Notes:

-CW-
Ghost experiences some very dark things and is suicidal in the beginning. If this triggers you or will upset you, please skip this one.
From Chapter 6 on it gets better, if you'd rather wait for that.

 

Though the tags look dark, we must all have faith in our dear Soap. If anyone can solve this problem...

Chapter 1: Thin Red Line

Notes:

Posting will continue on Thursdays until this is completed.

--CW--
Sexual coercion and what may be considered domestic abuse in this chapter.

Chapter 1

Thin Red Line

 

     The mission had been a nightmare.  The kind Ghost would have welcomed if it meant never waking up again.  Blood caked under his fingernails.  Smoke residue coated his throat.  His ribs throbbed where a bullet had struck his vest, but the pain felt distant, almost comforting.

     TF141 had done the impossible.  Again.  The target eliminated, intelligence secured, zero civilian casualties.  Price had even clapped him on the shoulder afterward, a rare gesture of approval that should have meant something.

     Ghost didn't care.

     Now, as the rest of the team loaded equipment onto the waiting helicopter, he slipped away.  The abandoned building's shadow embraced him like an old friend.  He pressed his back against the crumbling wall, the hard skull mask suddenly suffocating.  His finger traced the outline of his sidearm.

     One bullet.  That's all it would take.

     His radio crackled.  “Ghost, what's your position?” MacTavish's Scottish burr cut through his thoughts.

     Ghost didn't answer.  The chopper blades were spinning faster now.  They'd leave soon.  Without him.  His husband would be furious.  Another punishment to endure.  The thought made his stomach clench.

     “Ghost!  Simon!”  Footsteps approached, kicking up dust.

     Simon closed his eyes.  Johnny MacTavish's face appeared, flushed with adrenaline and concern.  The sergeant's eyes widened when he spotted him.

     “There ye are!  Bloody hell, mate, Ah've been looking everywhere!”  Johnny grabbed his elbow, grip firm but not unkind.  “That thing ye did back there, taking out three tangos while hanging upside down from that ledge?  Fucking mental!”  There was always something soothing, strong, protective in Johnny’s touch.  A fucking ray of sunshine in the dismal overcast that was Simon’s life.

     Ghost let himself be pulled toward the helicopter by the only person that didn’t incite his rage when he touched him.  Johnny's excitement washed over him in waves, his mouth moving a mile a minute about the mission.  He was absolutely contagious.  Burying those thoughts, that feeling of safety as far down as he possibly could, he followed his sergeant.

     “And when ye threw yerself between Price and that grenade?  Christ, Ah thought we'd lost ye, but then ye just stood up like nothing happened!  Ye're something else, Lt.!”

     The words barely registered.  Simon's gaze drifted to his phone.  Three missed calls.  His husband would be waiting.

     “Hey.” Johnny's voice softened as they approached the chopper.  “Ye alright?”

     “Solid.” Ghost nodded mechanically.

     “Ye dinnae seem fine.” Johnny hesitated, lowering his voice beneath the roar of the rotors.  “Ye kin ye ken talk ta me, right?  About anything.  Always got yer back, Lt.  Partners, remember.”

     For a moment, Simon almost broke.  The words bashed against his teeth like a battering ram, desperate to escape.  No, no sense in involving someone else that man could ruin the career of at a whim.  He liked Soap.  Liked him way more than was healthy for either of them.  Good guy.  Didn’t deserve to be a part of any of his personal horror.  Instead, he swallowed the words down with the bile that welled in his throat at the thought of going home.

     “Nothing to talk about, Soap.”

     Johnny frowned but didn't push.  As they climbed aboard, Simon felt his phone vibrate again.  His husband's name flashed across the screen.  The message was simple.

     💩 Home.  Tonight.  That’s an order, Lieutenant.

     The helicopter lifted off, carrying him away from one hell and toward another.  It was enough that he made certain to let his captain know he was more than available for any solo op that might pop off while they planned their next move as a unit.  The smile from Price was always uplifting.  He appreciated the enthusiasm.  Always reminding Simon he deserved his days off and should take them.  Fuck his days off.  Fucking hell.  If he only knew.

 

--

 

     Later that evening, the mess hall buzzed with the familiar din of soldiers winding down.  Trays clattered, laughter erupted in waves, and the odd curse punctuated the air.  Johnny poked at his food, appetite gone, eyes flicking toward the entrance.

     “That door won’t open any faster with you staring at it, Soap.” Price said around a mouthful of what passed for mashed potatoes.

     Johnny shrugged, forcing nonchalance.  “Just wondering who else might show up.”

     The truth was, he hadn’t seen Ghost since they’d touched down and finished debriefing a few hours ago.  Simon slipped away immediately afterward, muttering something about “personal leave.”  Johnny still couldn’t shake the memory of Ghost’s rigid stance when he’d read that text on the chopper.

     Gaz leaned in, voice low.  “So about that warehouse in Kandahar…  Ghost hanging upside-down, taking out those three men?  Brilliant.”

     “Aye.” Johnny said, perking up at the mention of his partner.  “Though we’re skipping the part where he nearly got himself blown to bits jumping on that grenade.”

     Price frowned.  “The casing was intact.  Risky, but calculated.”

     “Calculated my arse.” Johnny muttered.  “He didn’t even check before diving on it.”

     The others carried on around him, but Johnny’s mind stayed fixed on the door.  Finally he couldn’t keep quiet.

     “Anyone seen Ghost since we landed?”

     Gaz and Price exchanged looks.

     “Personal leave, I thought.” Price said, wiping his mouth.

     “Maybe he’s off on some secret romantic getaway.” Gaz suggested with a grin.

     Johnny felt a cold knot tighten in his gut.  The fork in his hand suddenly weighed a ton.  The idea of Simon with someone else shouldn’t bother him.  It absolutely shouldn’t.  Yet here he was, drenched in ice water.

     Price snorted, dragging Johnny back.  “Riley?  Romantic?  Not in a million years.  In all my time knowing him, I’ve never seen him show interest in anyone.  He tolerates you, Soap.  That’s practically a declaration of love by Ghost standards.”

     Gaz laughed.  “You two on the field are a sight.  The way you move, anticipate each other, almost telepathic.”  He lifted his cup in a mock toast.  “Almost as good as me and Price.  Almost.”

     They all laughed, though Johnny’s came late.  His gaze drifted once more to the empty doorway.

     “He’s been gone all day.” he said softly, more to himself than the others.

     “He’ll turn up when he’s needed.” Price said firmly.  “Ghost always does.”

     Johnny nodded, but unease gnawed at him.

 

--

     The black SUV delivered Simon to the sprawling estate on the outskirts of London as dusk settled over the manicured grounds.  Stone gargoyles guarded the entrance to the three-story Georgian mansion, their granite eyes following him as he approached the massive oak doors.  His combat boots felt heavy on the imported marble steps.

     Inside, the foyer opened into a cathedral-like space with a crystal chandelier that must have cost more than what Simon made in three years.  Oil paintings of stern-faced military men lined walls covered in silk damask wallpaper.  The place reeked of old money and older power.  Antique furniture arranged with military precision, not a cushion out of place.  Medals and commendations displayed in custom-built glass cases.  Books that looked like they'd never been opened.

     Simon's gear felt suddenly filthy against all this pristine wealth.  Blood and cordite still clung to him from the mission, his tactical vest heavy across his aching ribs.  He hadn't been allowed to change or clean up.  Orders.

     A thin red line had been inlaid into the marble floor of the study, actual fucking red marble, cutting through the white like a fresh wound.  Simon took his position behind it, boots aligned perfectly with the line, back ramrod straight, eyes forward.  Waiting.  Like a dog trained to heel.

     Major General Grayson Murphy entered from a side door, tumbler of amber liquid in one manicured hand.  At sixty-nine, he carried himself with the arrogance of a man who'd spent a lifetime giving orders that couldn't be refused.  Silver hair cropped close to his skull, not a strand out of place.  His uniform immaculate, decorations gleaming under the recessed lighting.  Cold blue eyes assessed Simon from head to toe.

     “Phone.” Major General Murphy demanded, holding a hand out to the lieutenant expectantly.

     “Sir.” Ghost grunted out.  He relinquished his tether to his job, his mission, his Johnny, his salvation.

     “Still wearing that ridiculous mask, Lieutenant Riley?” Murphy's voice carried the polished accent of expensive schools and elite military academies.  He circled Simon slowly, like a predator.  “I've told you how I feel about it in my home.”

     Simon remained at attention, staring straight ahead.  The mask was his last defense, the final barrier between himself and this man.

     “I asked you a question, Lieutenant.” Murphy stopped directly in front of him, close enough that Simon could smell the expensive cologne mixing with whisky.

     “Just arrived from mission, sir.  No time to change.”  Each word felt like broken glass in his throat.

     Murphy's lips thinned.  He reached up, fingers brushing the edge of the skull mask.  Simon fought the urge to recoil.  “Take it off.”

     Simon's hands remained at his sides.  “Permission to shower first, sir.  Ah've been in combat for seventy-two hours.”

     The blow came without warning.  Murphy's open palm connecting with the side of the mask hard enough to snap Simon's head sideways.

     “That wasn't a request, Lieutenant.  In this house, you don't wear the mask.  You don't hide from me.” Murphy's voice remained eerily calm.  “Now remove it before I decide your recent...  heroics...  need to be reviewed by the disciplinary board.”

     Simon reached up slowly, unclasping the mask.  The cool air hit his face, making him feel naked, exposed.  He tucked the mask under his arm and resumed position.

     Murphy smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes.  He traced a finger along Simon's jawline, over the three-day stubble and dried blood that wasn't his own.

     “There you are.” Murphy's thumb pressed against Simon's lower lip.  “My husband.”

     Simon's stomach clenched, but his face remained impassive.  This was just another mission.  Survive.  Endure.  Find an exit strategy.

     “I heard about your performance in Kandahar.” Murphy circled behind him, voice close to Simon's ear.  “Throwing yourself on a grenade?  Hanging from a ledge to eliminate targets?  One might think you're trying to get yourself killed, Lieutenant.”

     Simon stared at the painting on the opposite wall, some naval battle, ships burning on a stormy sea.

     “Your Captain Price called me personally.” Murphy's hand rested on Simon's shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle.  “He thinks you deserve a commendation.  I think you need to remember your primary duty is to return home in one piece.”

     “Yes, sir.”  He couldn’t imagine Price ever having a reason to call Murphy personally, but he wasn’t questioning it.  Someone had given him the information.

     “To me.” Murphy's other hand slid around Simon's waist, pulling him back against his chest.  “You belong to me, Simon.  Or have you forgotten our arrangement?”

     Simon's jaw clenched so hard his teeth might crack.  “No, sir.  Ah haven't forgotten.”

     Murphy's lips brushed against his neck.  “Good.  Out back, now.” he stepped back, allowing the lieutenant to execute a precise turn and follow his orders.

     Simon marched across the polished floors, each footstep echoing in the vast emptiness of the mansion.  The French doors opened onto the back garden, a pristine expanse of green that might have been beautiful under different circumstances.  Perfectly trimmed hedges formed geometric patterns around flower beds bursting with color.  A covered swimming pool gleamed in the fading light, its surface undisturbed as glass.  He found himself longing for that broken down, husk of a shelter Johnny had pulled him from that morning, before forcing him to come home.

     Another red line, this one painted on the stone patio, waited for him.  Simon took his position, boots aligned precisely with the marking.  Behind him, Murphy's footsteps approached with measured precision.

     “You're filthy.” Murphy said, disgust evident in his tone.  “Can't have you tracking this...  battlefield into my home.”

     Simon heard the garden hose being unwound, the metal fitting scraping against stone.  He braced himself, but the first blast of ice-cold water still knocked the breath from his lungs.  Murphy directed the powerful jet methodically across Simon's body, the pressure painful against his already bruised ribs.  Water soaked through his tactical gear, weighing him down, but Simon remained at attention, eyes fixed on the horizon.

     “Strip.” Murphy ordered once Simon was thoroughly drenched.  “Everything off.  Leave it there.”

     The wet gear clung to Simon's skin as he removed each piece.  Tactical vest first, side arm, then his shirt, revealing purpling bruises across his torso.  His boots squelched as he toed them off, followed by socks, thigh holster, trousers, and finally his underwear.  The evening air raised goosebumps across his exposed skin as he resumed position, naked and shivering.  He secretly hoped his balls crawled back up inside so they survived this visit.  There had to be another fucking mission.  Just had to be.  Fuck.  He should have called Laswell first.  The major general would have to be cordial to the CIA regardless of what he wanted.

     Murphy sprayed him again, more thoroughly this time.  The water pressure stung against his bare skin, but Simon welcomed the pain.  It was clarifying, something to focus on besides the humiliation burning in his chest.

     A towel hit him in the face, thrown with calculated force.

     “Your room.  Now.”

     Simon wrapped the towel around his waist, preserving what little dignity remained to him.  He walked through the house, leaving wet footprints on the imported marble, up the grand staircase to the east wing.  His “room”.  A space smaller than the servants' quarters, contained only a military-issue bed, a wooden bench for activities he would rather not consider, and a small dresser.  No personal items.  Nothing that marked it as his.

     Murphy followed him in, shutting the door with a soft click that somehow sounded more threatening than a slam.  Simon stood at attention beside the bed, water still dripping from his hair down his back.

     “Bend over the bench.”

     Simon's muscles locked in refusal for a fraction of a second, an instinctive resistance he couldn't quite suppress.  Murphy noticed.  Murphy always noticed.

     “That's an order, Lieutenant.”

     Simon moved to the wooden bench, positioning himself as commanded.  He heard rather than saw Murphy unfasten his belt, the soft metallic clink followed by the sound of a zipper.

     What followed was mechanical, brutal efficiency.  No preparation.  No warning.  Just pain that tore through Simon's body like white-hot lightning.  He bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, refusing to make a sound.  His fingers gripped the edges of the bench until his knuckles turned white.

     Murphy's breathing grew heavier behind him, his rhythm unfaltering, precise as a metronome.  His uniform jacket brushed against Simon's back, the buttons cold against his skin.  The light scratching proving to be more of a welcome distraction than he would ever admit.  The contrast, Murphy fully clothed while Simon remained naked and vulnerable, was part of the humiliation, part of the control.

     When Murphy finished, he pulled away abruptly.  Simon felt warm liquid splash across his back and buttocks.  He remained perfectly still, waiting for permission to move.

     “Welcome home, husband.” Murphy's voice had regained its composure, as if they'd just finished a business meeting.  He tucked himself away, straightening his uniform with practiced motions.  He set Simon’s phone on the sparce dresser.  “We're hosting dinner guests at eight.   The Brigadier and his wife.  The Ambassador to France.  Several members of Parliament.”  He checked his watch.  “That gives you just under two hours to make yourself presentable.”

     Simon remained silent, still bent over the bench.

     “I expect you downstairs at precisely seven-forty-five.  Wear the blue suit I had tailored for you.  And for God's sake, shave properly.”  Murphy's hand came to rest on Simon's shoulder, squeezing with false affection.  “Don't embarrass me tonight, Lieutenant.  Your career depends on it.”

     The door closed behind Murphy with the same soft click.  Only then did Simon straighten, every movement causing fresh waves of pain.  He limped to the adjoining bathroom.  The one luxury his room contained.  He caught sight of himself in the mirror.  Eye black streaking like mascara tears from hollow eyes that stared back at him from a face he barely recognized anymore.

     Simon turned on the shower as hot as it would go, stepping under the scalding spray.  He scrubbed at his skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the feeling of Murphy's hands, Murphy's body.  It never worked.  Why couldn’t that fucking grenade have gone off?

     As he towel dried, his gaze fell on his phone, retrieved from his tactical vest before he'd been ordered to strip.  Well, at least he had been spared that.  Three new messages from Johnny.  Simon's finger hovered over the screen before he set it down unopened.  Better not to drag Johnny into this darkness.  Better to keep him safe, untainted.

     The blue suit hung in the closet, a perfect fit for a body that didn't feel like his own anymore.  Simon began to dress mechanically, preparing for another performance in the endless theater of his life.

 

--

 

     Johnny paced his quarters, checking his phone for what felt like the hundredth time.  Still no response from Simon.  The three messages he'd sent over the past few hours stared back at him, each one increasingly desperate.

     🧼Just checking if you're alright

     🧼 Let me know you made it home safe.

     🧼 Ghost?  Come on, just a word.

     He tossed the phone onto his bunk with a frustrated growl.  The device bounced once before settling among the rumpled sheets.  Something wasn't right.  The way Ghost had looked on the chopper, that text message, the immediate disappearance after debriefing.  It all added up to something Johnny couldn't quite piece together.

     “Fuck this.” he muttered, snatching his phone back up and pulling up Ghost's contact information.  His thumb hovered over the call button before he reluctantly set it down again.  If Simon wanted space, he should respect that.  But the knot in his stomach tightened, warning him that whatever Ghost was dealing with went beyond needing space.

 

 

Notes:

And yes, Captain Price knows that Ghost is married, he's got the personnel record. I doubt he would ever make the connection between the name and who the husband actually is. He sees what's going on with him and Soap and doesn't out the man. What he does with his personal life is his own business.

Chapter 2: Dinner Party

Summary:

The Major General entertains his elite group of cronies.

Notes:

-CW-
Ghost is used as free use entertainment for some of their dinner guests.

Chapter 2

Dinner Party

 

     The dining room of Murphy's estate gleamed under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers.  Silver place settings reflected the light, making the table shimmer like a lake at sunset.  Eight guests sat around the mahogany expanse, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings.

     Simon sat rigid in his chair, the blue suit feeling like armor against the scrutiny of Murphy's elite circle.  His face, freshly shaved and carefully composed, betrayed nothing of the pain that radiated through his body with each slight movement.  The suit hid the bruises well.

     “Another glass, darling?” Murphy's hand came to rest possessively on Simon's shoulder, fingers digging slightly into the fabric.

     “No thank you, sir.” Simon kept his voice low, neutral.  The less attention he drew to himself, the better.

     Murphy's smile never faltered as he turned back to the Brigadier seated across from them.  “As I was saying, my husband's latest mission was quite remarkable.  Taking out three hostiles while suspended upside down?  Extraordinary.”

     Simon stared at his barely touched plate.  How did Murphy know the details already?  Price must have been more impressed than he let on to have called Murphy directly after the mission.  Why would he call him though?  He wasn’t under Murphy’s direct line of command.  Maybe report it to their major?  Did Murphy call him?

     “I've always said Task Force 141 gets the best of the best.” the Brigadier replied, swirling his wine.  “Though I wonder if such risk-taking is always necessary.”

     Murphy's hand squeezed Simon's shoulder harder.  “My thoughts exactly.  I've expressed to Simon that while his bravery is commendable, I expect him to return home in one piece.”

     The Ambassador's wife leaned forward, her diamond earrings catching the light.  “It must be so difficult, waiting at home while your husband is in danger.”  Her sympathy was directed at Murphy, not Simon.

     “One adapts.” Murphy replied smoothly.  “And Simon knows how to make it up to me when he returns.”

     Laughter rippled around the table.  Simon felt heat crawl up his neck but kept his expression neutral, taking a small sip of water to avoid responding.

     As dinner plates were cleared and dessert served, conversation shifted to politics and military funding.  Simon remained silent, speaking only when directly addressed, offering the briefest possible responses.  The perfect officer's spouse, seen but rarely heard.

     After dessert came cocktails in the drawing room.  Crystal glasses clinked as servants poured aged scotch and brandy.  Simon stood slightly apart from the group, his own glass untouched.  Murphy held court near the fireplace, gesturing animatedly as he discussed defense contracts with two Members of Parliament.

     Simon caught Murphy's eye across the room.  A slight nod toward the hallway was all the communication needed.  Simon set his glass down and slipped away from the gathering, no one noticing his departure except his husband.

     The narrow corridor leading to the east wing felt longer than usual.  At the end, a small door stood apart from the others, distinguished only by the skull mask.  His mask.  Mounted on its surface.  A sick joke, a reminder of who and what waited inside.

     Simon entered without hesitation, closing the door behind him.  The room was indeed tiny, barely larger than a walk-in closet, divided by a wooden partition with a small opening at the bottom.  A bench, similar to the one in his bedroom but lower to the ground, occupied the space on his side.

     His fingers moved mechanically, removing the tailored suit piece by piece, folding each item with military precision.  The cool air raised goosebumps across his naked skin, but he barely noticed.  This wasn't the first time.  It wouldn't be the last.  Not unless he could get very lucky and not return from the next mission.

     Simon positioned himself on the bench, face down, his body angled toward the partition.  He reached forward and slid the privacy screen closed, leaving only his lower half exposed through the opening.  Then he waited, muscles tensed, breath shallow.

     Time stretched.  From the other side of the house, faint laughter and conversation drifted down the corridor.  Simon focused on a small crack in the wall, counting the seconds, then minutes.

     The door opened.  Closed.  Footsteps approached the partition.  No words, just the sound of a belt being unbuckled, fabric rustling.  Simon gripped the edges of the bench, bracing himself.

     The first guest was rough and quick, fingers digging bruises into Simon's hips, breath heavy with alcohol.  When he finished, he left without a word, the door opening and closing in quick succession.

     Simon remained motionless, his mind retreating to that place he'd constructed for these moments.  A fortress inside himself where nothing could reach.  He thought of the barracks, of cleaning his weapons, of the precise steps for field-stripping an M4.  Anything but the present.

     The second visitor entered soon after.  This one took longer, his movements more deliberate.  Simon recognized him by the expensive cologne.  The Ambassador.  This wasn’t his first visit to this room.  He was always more thorough, almost as if he were trying to prove something.

     Between visitors, Simon had just enough time to catch his breath, to rebuild the walls in his mind that each encounter threatened to crumble.  The third man was one of the MPs, his wedding ring cold against Simon's skin where he gripped him.

     The fourth was different.  There was a pause, the sound of a foil packet tearing.  The stranger was using protection.  It was a small mercy in this hell, one that Simon found himself pathetically grateful for.  This one, he never knew who, was always gentler, almost apologetic in his touches.

     By the time the fifth man entered, Simon had retreated so far into himself that he barely registered the pain anymore.  His body responded mechanically, accepting what was happening while his mind drifted miles away, back to the battlefield where, ironically, he felt safest.

     When the final visitor departed, Simon remained on the bench, waiting.  Protocol dictated he stay until…

     Three sharp knocks on the door.  The signal.

     Simon slowly pushed himself up, every muscle protesting the movement.  He dressed methodically, each button and zipper requiring more concentration than it should have.  His body felt hollow, disconnected, as if he were piloting it from a great distance.

     Before leaving, he reached for the skull mask mounted on the door.  His fingers traced the familiar contours, feeling the scratches and dents from countless missions.  He removed it carefully, cradling it against his chest like something precious.

     The corridor back to his room was mercifully empty.  Simon closed his door and leaned against it, sliding down until he sat on the floor, mask still clutched in his hands.  Only then, in the absolute privacy of his small room, did he allow his shoulders to shake silently.

     His phone lit up on the nightstand.  Johnny again.  Four messages now.

     Simon set the mask aside and crawled toward the bed, pulling himself up with effort.  He reached for the phone, thumb hovering over the screen.  Opening these messages meant inviting Johnny into this darkness, risking the only genuine human connection he had left.

     But tonight, the isolation was too much to bear.

     “I'm alive.” he typed, then deleted it.  Too dramatic.

     “Home safe,” he tried again.  A lie, but a necessary one.

His finger hovered over the send button for a long moment before he pressed it.  Seconds later, three dots appeared as Johnny typed a response.

     Simon set the phone down without waiting to see what it said.  He couldn't handle Johnny's concern right now, not when he felt so raw, so hollowed out.  Instead, he stripped again and headed for the shower, turning the water as hot as it would go.

     As steam filled the small bathroom, Simon caught sight of himself in the mirror.  Bruises in various stages of healing mapped his torso like a battlefield.  Fresh marks bloomed on his hips, his thighs.  The face staring back at him belonged to a stranger, eyes empty, mouth a tight line.

     He stepped under the scalding spray, letting it pound against his skin until the pain outside matched the pain inside.  Only then did he begin to feel real again, anchored in his body by the very thing he'd tried to escape.

     Tomorrow there would be more of the same.  Another dinner, another performance, another night in the entertainment room.  Unless…

     Simon shut off the water and reached for a towel.  His phone would be lighting up with Johnny's responses by now.  Perhaps there would also be a message from Price or Laswell.  A new mission.  An escape, however temporary.

     He dressed in silence, pulling on standard-issue military sweats that felt more like home than anything in this mansion.  Then he retrieved his mask from where he'd left it by the door, running his fingers over the smooth surface.

     Simon placed the mask on the nightstand beside his bed, positioning it so that the empty eye sockets faced him.  A reminder of who he was beneath all this.  Ghost, the soldier, the survivor.  Not Simon Riley, the general's compliant husband.

     He picked up his phone, finally ready to read Johnny's messages.

 

Chapter 3: Extraction

Summary:

Thankfully, duty calls, and Ghost gets the mission he's been desperately wishing for.

Notes:

--CW--
Suicidal thoughts and self destructive actions. Ghost doesn't want to come back from the mission.

Chapter 3

Extraction

 

     It was two more excruciating days of playing the role of dutiful spouse to the Major General.  Another party that ran far too long for Simon’s taste.  He had his uses here, and he would give literally anything, if he managed to never come back.  There had to be way.  Mercifully, before the third night of entertaining came, he was summoned back to duty and couldn’t be denied.  No briefing yet, but orders to lift out in two hours.

     Back in freshly laundered tac gear, black hoodie, jeans, and mask firmly in place, Ghost was once again human.  If he could never, ever be Simon Riley again, it would be too soon.  The black SUV that typically chauffeured his husband around drove Ghost back to Stirling where he belonged.  Delivering him directly to the tarmac where the plane waited, Ghost spotted his brilliant ray of sunshine waiting impatiently in the heat of the day for him.

     “Fancy.” Soap teased, handing over Ghost’s pack and weapons, all prepped and ready for his lieutenant, per the only text he’d received since the first night.

     “Thought Ah'd be going with Price.” Ghost said as he approached.

     “Captain's got his hands full with the Russians.” Johnny hefted the weapons case.  “Ye're stuck with me.”

     Ghost nodded, something uncurling in his chest.  The two of them.  No Murphy, no audience, no red lines on marble floors.  Just a mission.  Just survival.  Hell, if he died in Johnny’s arms, that would totally be worth it.  To look into those beautiful blue eyes as he went.  Fuck.  That was a piece of heaven right there.

     “South America.” Johnny continued as they boarded the plane.  “In and out before anyone knows we were there.  Ah’ll brief ye on the way.”

     Ghost stowed his gear and settled into his seat, watching as Johnny did the same settling right beside him.  The sergeant looked different somehow.  More focused, less chatty than usual.  His eyes kept returning to Ghost with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't.

     “Something on my face, Soap?” Ghost finally asked.

     Johnny's expression shifted, almost embarrassed at being caught staring.  “Just good to have ye back, is all.  Was starting to think ye'd fergotten about us mere mortals while on yer fancy leave.”

     The plane taxied down the runway, engines whining as they gathered speed.  Ghost leaned his head back, closing his eyes behind the mask. God it felt good to relax.  “Nothing fancy about it.”

     “Yer messages were shit, by the way.” Johnny said after a moment.  “Home safe?  That's all Ah get after ye vanish fer two days?”

     Ghost shrugged.  “Not much to report.”

     “Bullshit.” Johnny's voice lowered.  “Ye look like hell, Simon.  Even with that mask on.”

     Ghost tensed.  “Drop it, Soap.”

     “Ah'm just saying…”

     “Ah said drop it, Sergeant.”  The words came out sharper than intended.

     Johnny fell silent, hurt flashing across his features before his professional mask slipped back into place.  “Roger that, Lieutenant.”

     The guilt was immediate, but Ghost pushed it down with all the other feelings he couldn't afford.  Reading the file that Soap had provided.  He focused on the mission ahead, mentally reviewing the extraction plan, the potential complications, the contingencies.

     All he could do was hope that something went south.  He fucking prayed something went south.  A firefight, an ambush, anything that would give him the chance to end this nightmare once and for all.  One bullet.  That's all it would take.  And if it came from an enemy rifle instead of his own sidearm, so much the better.  No one would question a soldier dying in combat.

     The flight stretched for hours, the silence between them growing heavier with each passing kilometer.  Ghost pretended to sleep while Johnny reviewed the mission dossier, occasionally making notes in the margins.

     The hours gnawed at Soap like flies on shit.  There was something not right in Simon and he knew it.  This was his closest, dearest friend, despite the asshole’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge that he had someone who cared.  Something was wrong.  How to beat it through that thick skull that he cared and could handle it, that was the challenge. 

    Ghost has only been gone a couple of days.  He didn’t have family, John knew that.  He’d read parts of the hulking murder machine’s file.  Where the fuck did he go on friendly soil that had him returned this closed up, ugh!  Whatever the fuck this was.  This, this wasn’t right.  Ghost fucked with him and played and told him stupid jokes and…

     Something was very wrong with his Simon.  It only happened when he went on “leave”.  Why the bloody hell did the man hate leave so fucking much?  John had invited him to come home with him instead, more than once.  He just said that he had to go.  Orders.  What fucking orders did he have for leave?

     As they approached Colombian airspace, Johnny finally broke the silence.  “Look, Ah dinnae mean to pry earlier.”

     Ghost kept his eyes closed.  “Forget it.”

     “No, Ah need to say this.” Johnny leaned forward, voice low and intense.  “Whatever's going on with ye, and dinnae tell me it's nothing, Ah want ye to kin Ah've got yer back.  Not just on this mission.  Always.”

     Ghost opened his eyes, whiskey brown meeting crystal blues.  Johnny's gaze pierced through the mask.  The earnestness there was almost painful to witness.  He wasn’t worth this much concern.  He never had been.  Fucking hell.

     “Ah know you do.” he said finally.

     Johnny nodded, seeming satisfied with this small concession.  “Good.  Because we're about to drop into cartel territory, and Ah'd rather not have my lieutenant distracted by whatever's eating at him.”

     The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, announcing their approach to the drop zone.  Ghost straightened, checking his gear one last time.  Soap did the same, movements precise and efficient.

     “Ready?” Soap asked, standing as the jump light turned green.

     Ghost nodded, moving to the open door.  The wind whipped at his clothes, the roar of the engines nearly deafening.  Below, endless jungle stretched in all directions, hiding who knew what dangers.

     Perfect.

     “After you, Sergeant,” Ghost said, gesturing to the open sky.

     Johnny grinned, that wild, fearless smile that made him look years younger.  “See ye on the ground, Lt.”  The former paratrooper still loved jumping in.  That was painfully obvious.

     He stepped into empty space, disappearing instantly. Ghost followed without hesitation, plummeting toward the earth at terminal velocity.  The free fall cleared his mind like nothing else could, stripping away everything but the present moment.  Maybe he just wouldn’t pull the shoot.  Yea.  That would be a brilliant way to go.

     For these precious seconds, Simon Riley was truly free.

 

--

 

     Their chutes blossomed almost simultaneously against the darkening sky.  Ghost landed with practiced precision, rolling to absorb the impact before quickly gathering his parachute.  Johnny touched down thirty meters away, already moving to secure his gear.  Within minutes, they were fully equipped and moving through the dense Colombian jungle.

     Night fell rapidly in this part of the world.  Darkness became their ally as they navigated toward the compound using night vision goggles.  The steady rhythm of insects and distant howler monkeys provided cover for their movements.

     “Two klicks out.” Johnny whispered through their comms.  “Perimeter guards change at 0200.”

     Ghost checked his watch.  They had forty-three minutes.  “Roger that.”

     They moved like shadows through the undergrowth, their breathing synchronized, their movements fluid and coordinated.  This was where Ghost felt most alive.  Operating in perfect tandem with his Soap.  No words needed, just subtle hand signals and knowing glances.

     The cartel compound came into view, a collection of concrete buildings surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire.  Floodlights illuminated the perimeter, creating pools of harsh light amid the surrounding darkness.

     Soap tapped Ghost's shoulder, pointing to a section of fence partially obscured by vegetation.  “That's our entry point.”

     Ghost nodded, scanning the guard positions.  “Four tangos on rotation.  Two stationary at the main gate.”

     “Aye.” Johnny confirmed.  “Take out the cameras first?”

     “On it.”

     They circled the compound, keeping to the shadows.  Soap broke away periodically, placing small explosive charges at strategic points around the perimeter.  Insurance for their exit, if needed.

     Ghost disabled the security cameras with precisely aimed blinder pellets, the sound of the gel splattering nearly nonexistent.  Each camera went dark without alerting the guards.  Meanwhile, Soap rejoined him, giving a thumbs-up to indicate the charges were set.

     “We've got twenty-six minutes.” Ghost whispered.

     “Plenty of time.” Soap replied, a hint of mischief in his voice.  “Race ye to the holding area?  Loser buys drinks next leave.”

     Despite everything, Ghost felt a smile tug at his lips beneath the mask.  “You're on, Soap.”

     They breached the fence together, each taking a different approach to the main building.  Ghost moved like liquid darkness, taking down a guard with his knife before the man could even register his presence.  He dragged the body into the shadows, continuing his advance.

     Through his earpiece, he heard Johnny's quiet chuckle.  “That's one for me.  Ye're falling behind, Lt.”

     “Don't count your chickens yet, Sergeant.” Ghost replied, spotting another guard ahead.  “Soap.”

     “Ghost.”

     “What do you call a sprinter who only runs at night?”

     The groan came and Ghost smiled.

     “A fast asleep athlete.”  Two more guards fell to Ghost's silent efficiency. 

     “Bad Lt.  Bad.”  Johnny's voice came through again,  “Three-three.  All tied up.”

     “Not for long.” Ghost murmured, already moving toward his next target.

     They converged at the side entrance to the main building, Ghost arriving seconds before Soap.

     “Drinks are on you.” Ghost said, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice.

     Johnny's eyes crinkled at the corners.  “Worth it to see ye enjoying yerself.”

     The comment caught Ghost off guard.  Had he been enjoying himself?  The realization struck him.  Yes, he had.  For these precious minutes, he'd forgotten about Murphy, about the red lines and the parties and everything else.  There was only the mission, the night, and his Johnny at his side.

     The holding area was in the basement level, according to their intel.  They moved through the building with practiced stealth, eliminating any resistance they encountered.  Most of the cartel members were asleep or distracted, making their progress swift and silent.

     “Down this corridor.” Soap whispered, checking the building schematics on his wrist display.  “Should be the second door on the left.”

     Ghost took point, moving forward with his weapon raised.  The door was locked, but it took him less than thirty seconds to bypass the electronic system.

     “Show-off.” Johnny murmured, close enough that Ghost could feel his breath against his neck.

     “Only for you, and you love it.” Ghost replied without thinking.

     “Aye, that Ah do.”

     The door slid open, revealing a room filled with computer equipment and file cabinets.  The walls were lined with maps marked with shipping routes and drop points.  Most importantly, several crates of weapons sat open, revealing their contents.  Prototype assault rifles that had been stolen from a military research facility three weeks earlier.

     “Jackpot.” Johnny said softly.

     Ghost moved to the computers while Johnny secured the room.  “Taking pictures now.”

     He worked quickly, documenting everything while downloading files from the main terminal.  The information would be automatically encrypted and uploaded to Watcher, their CIA handler who operated remotely.

     “Those are definitely the missing prototypes.” Soap confirmed, examining the weapons.  “Serial numbers match.”

     Ghost finished his documentation, sending the final batch of images.  “Watcher will be pleased.”

     “Think she misses us?” Johnny asked, a teasing lilt to his voice.

     “Like a rash.” Ghost replied, earning a quiet laugh from his partner.

     Johnny moved closer, helping Ghost pack up the equipment.  “Remember that time in Prague when she had us staked out in that hotel room for three days?”

     “How could Ah forget?  You wouldn't stop complaining about the lack of decent food.”

     “The food was shite!” Soap protested.  “And ye weren't exactly pleasant company either, sitting there cleaning your knife for hours on end like some brooding movie killer.”

     Ghost snorted.  “Better than your constant fidgeting.”

     “Ah dinnae fidget.”

     “You're fidgeting right now.”

     Johnny glanced down at his hands, which were indeed tapping restlessly against his thigh.  He grinned sheepishly.  “Haud yer wheesht.” he laughed.

     They finished securing the intel and prepared to move out.  Ghost checked his watch.  They still had seventeen minutes before the next guard rotation.

     “We should plant the tracking devices on the weapons crates.” Johnny suggested.  “Let the Colombian authorities find them after we're gone.”

     Ghost nodded, already retrieving the tiny GPS trackers from his pack.  They worked in tandem, placing the devices in inconspicuous locations on each crate.

     “Remember Caracas?” Johnny asked as they worked.  “That nightclub mission?”

     “You mean when you nearly blew our cover by flirting with the bartender?”

     “She had information!” Soap defended himself.  “And it worked, didn't it?”

     Ghost shook his head, but he was smiling beneath the mask.  “Your definition of 'worked' is very generous.”

     “Got us in, didn't it?” Soap bumped his shoulder playfully against Ghost's.  “Besides, not all of us can be mysterious masked men.  Some of us have to use our natural charm.”

     “Is that what you call it?”

     Johnny clutched his chest in mock offense.  “Ye wound me, Simon.  And here Ah thought we were friends.”

     The use of his real name should have bothered him, should have triggered memories of Murphy and everything waiting for him back in London.  Instead, it felt right coming from Johnny, warm and familiar and safe.

     “We're more than friends.” Ghost said softly, the words escaping before he could stop them.

     Johnny went still, his eyes finding Ghost's through the mask.  Something shifted in the air between them, charged and electric.

     “Aye.” Johnny agreed, his voice lower.  “That we are.”

     For a moment, Ghost forgot about everything else.  There was only Johnny, standing close enough that Ghost could count the faint freckles across his nose, could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes.  His hand moved of its own accord, reaching up to touch Johnny's face.

     The distant sound of voices broke the spell.  Ghost dropped his hand, reality crashing back.  What was he thinking?  He couldn't drag Johnny into his mess, couldn't risk Murphy's wrath falling on him.

     “We should move.” Ghost said, his voice rough.

     Johnny nodded, though something like disappointment flickered across his features.  “Aye, time to go.”

     They exited the room the same way they'd entered, moving through the compound with renewed urgency.  The voices grew louder, someone had discovered one of the bodies.

     “Looks like our quiet exit just got complicated.” Soap muttered.

     An alarm blared through the compound.  Floodlights activated, bathing the grounds in harsh illumination.

     “Plan B.” Ghost decided, tapping his comm.  “Time to use those charges.”

     His maniacal little firebug grinned, pulling out the detonator.  “Was hoping ye'd say that.”

     The first explosion rocked the eastern perimeter, drawing guards away from their position.  They used the distraction to move toward their extraction point, encountering minimal resistance.

     A second explosion followed, then a third.  The compound erupted into chaos, guards shouting and running toward the blasts.

     “Your timing is impeccable,” Ghost commented as they reached the fence.

     “Just one of my many talents,” Johnny replied, winking.

     They were halfway to the fence when Ghost's earpiece crackled with new information.

     “Shit.” Ghost hissed, grabbing Johnny's arm.  “The intelligence was incomplete.  There's a hostage in the detention area.  Watcher just confirmed it's the Colombian Minister's daughter.”

     Johnny's eyes widened.  “Are ye serious?  We're supposed to be ghosts in and out.”

     “Change of plans.  Detention block's on the other side of the compound.”

     Without hesitation, they pivoted, moving against the flow of guards rushing toward the explosions.  The detention area was underground, beneath the main building's east wing.  They encountered three guards at the stairwell, dispatching them with brutal efficiency.

     The stench hit Ghost first as they descended.  Blood, urine, and desperation.  The concrete walls amplified every sound, water dripping somewhere in the darkness.  Four cells lined the narrow corridor, three empty.  In the last cell, a young woman huddled in the corner, her once-expensive clothes filthy and torn.

     Soap picked the lock while Ghost stood guard.  The woman flinched when the door swung open.

     “We're here to help,” Soap said softly in Spanish.  “Your father sent us.”

     Ghost kept his weapon trained on the corridor as Johnny helped the woman to her feet.  She was weak but conscious, her eyes darting between them with cautious hope.

     “Can you walk?” Ghost asked in English.

     She nodded, straightening her shoulders.  “Yes.”

     “Good.  Stay between us.  We're getting you out.”

     They retraced their steps, the woman keeping pace admirably despite her condition.  The compound had fully awakened now, guards swarming like disturbed ants.  Ghost triggered another set of explosions, creating a path toward their extraction point.

     They were three hundred meters from the fence when a spotlight caught them in its glare.

     “There!  Intruders with the prisoner!”

     Bullets peppered the ground around them.  Ghost pushed the woman toward Johnny, already turning to face the oncoming guards.

     “Go!  Get her to the extraction point!”

     Johnny hesitated, one arm supporting the hostage.  “Not without ye!”

     More bullets, closer this time.  Ghost fired back, dropping two guards.  “That's an order, Sergeant!  Get her out!”

     “Simon!”

     “Acknowledge the order, Soap!” Ghost roared, already moving toward the attackers, drawing their fire away from Johnny and the hostage.

     Something flashed in Johnny's eyes.  Anger, fear, desperation.  “Acknowledged,” he growled.  “But Ah'm coming back for ye!”

 

Chapter 4: Mission Gone South

Chapter 4

Mission Gone South

 

     Something flashed in Johnny's eyes.  Anger, fear, desperation.  “Acknowledged,” he growled.  “But Ah'm coming back for ye!”

     Ghost didn't respond, already engaging the nearest group of guards.  He heard Johnny's footsteps retreating, the hostage with him.  Good.  That was good.  He could do this now.

     A strange calm settled over him as he moved deeper into the compound, firing with deadly precision.  One guard down.  Two.  Three.  He reloaded smoothly, never breaking stride.  Four. Five.

     The weight on his chest lifted with each pull of the trigger.  This was right.  This was how it should end.  Not in Murphy's mansion, not as a toy for powerful men, but here, on the battlefield, doing what he was born to do.

     He found the armory easily enough, dispatching the two guards outside with mechanical efficiency.  Inside, crates of ammunition and explosives lined the walls.  Ghost smiled beneath his mask.  Perfect.

     Working quickly, he rigged the explosives, setting timers for staggered detonations.  He'd take half the fucking compound with him.  A fitting end.

     Ghost was placing the final charge when the first bullet caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around.  Three guards at the door.  He dropped to one knee, returning fire, killing two before the third got off another shot that grazed his thigh.

     The guard fell a moment later, Ghost's bullet between his eyes.

     The first explosion rocked the building before Ghost could reach the door.  The floor buckled beneath him as the second charge detonated.  He staggered, trying to maintain his balance as concrete cracked and walls caved.

     The third explosion was closer, too close.  The floor gave way entirely, plunging Ghost into darkness as tons of concrete and steel collapsed around him.

     Pain.  Darkness.  The taste of blood and dust in his mouth.  Ghost couldn't tell how long he'd been unconscious.  Minutes?  Hours?  His body felt crushed, pinned beneath something heavy.  His right arm was trapped, his left barely mobile.  He managed to reach up, pushing his mask to the top of his head, gasping for clearer air.

     The space around him was tight, formed by collapsed beams that had created a small pocket amid the destruction.  Faint light filtered through cracks above him, illuminating dust particles dancing in the air.

     The compound had fallen silent.  No gunfire, no shouting, just the occasional crackle of flames and the distant, rhythmic dripping of water.  Ghost tried to move his legs and was rewarded with a fresh wave of agony that nearly sent him back into unconsciousness.

     Through a narrow gap in the rubble, he could see a patch of sky gradually lightening from black to deep blue to the first hints of pink.  Dawn was coming.

     Simon allowed himself a small smile.  He'd done it.  The hostage was safe, likely already on the helicopter with Johnny, kilometers away from this place.  The mission was complete.  And he...  he was finally free.

     The pain was fading now, replaced by a pleasant numbness that spread from his extremities inward.  Not a bad way to go, all things considered.  Better than he deserved, certainly better than returning to Murphy.

     As the first golden rays of sunlight broke through the jungle canopy, casting warm light through the cracks above him, Simon closed his eyes.  It was alright.  Everything was alright now.

 

—

 

     The helicopter blades whipped the air into a frenzy as Johnny secured the Minister's daughter into a jump seat.

     “Ye're safe now.” he shouted over the noise, checking her harness.  “Yer father will meet ye at the embassy.”

     She grabbed his wrist, her eyes wide.  “Su amigo.”

     “Ah'm going back fer him.” Soap turned to the pilot.  “Get her out of here.  Now.”

     “Orders are to extract both of you!” the pilot protested.

     Soap's expression hardened.  “New orders.  Go.  Ah'll call for extraction when Ah have Ghost.”

     Before the pilot could argue further, Soap jumped from the helicopter, hitting the ground in a roll.  He watched only long enough to ensure the chopper lifted off safely before turning back toward the compound.

     The jungle seemed to part before him as he ran, every sense heightened, every movement precise.  The compound was still in chaos, fires burning in several buildings, guards shouting contradictory orders.  Soap moved like a vengeful spirit through the confusion, cutting down anyone who stood between him and Ghost.

     One guard spotted him, raising his weapon.  Soap's knife found the man's throat before he could fire.  Another turned a corner, directly into Johnny's path.  A swift strike to the windpipe, followed by a blade between the ribs.  He didn't slow down.

     Soap reached the main building, or what remained of it.  Half had collapsed into a smoking ruin.  He circled the destruction, searching for any sign of Ghost.  Bodies littered the ground, casualties of the explosions and subsequent firefight.

     A guard emerged from behind a pile of rubble, firing wildly.  Soap dropped to one knee, returning fire with cold precision.  The guard fell.  Two more appeared from around the corner of an intact section.  Soap threw his last grenade, not waiting to see the results before moving again.

     He found Ghost's mask first, half-buried in debris near what had been the armory.  Johnny's heart stuttered in his chest as he picked it up, fingers tracing the familiar contours.  It was still attached to something.  Following the material, Johnny began digging frantically through the rubble.

     “Simon!” he yelled, heedless of any remaining guards who might hear.  “Simon, answer me!”

     His hands bled as he tore at concrete and twisted metal, throwing aside pieces larger than he should have been able to move.  Nothing mattered except finding Ghost.  Nothing.

     A faint groan froze him in place.  Johnny went still, listening intently.  There it was again, barely audible beneath the settling debris.

     “Simon!  Ah'm here!  Keep making noise!”

     Soap followed the sound, digging with renewed determination.  He cleared away a large section of concrete to reveal a small cavity beneath.  And there, bloodied and half-buried, was Simon.

     “Ah've got ye.” Johnny said, his voice breaking as he carefully cleared debris from around Simon's body.  “Ah've got ye, Simon.  Stay with me.”

     Simon's eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then widening in disbelief.  “Johnny?  You... came back?”

     “Of course Ah came back, ye bloody eejit.” Johnny's hands were gentle despite his harsh words, assessing Simon's injuries with practiced efficiency.  “Did ye really think Ah'd leave ye behind?”

     Simon coughed, blood speckling his lips.  “You should have.  The mission.”

     “Fuck the mission.” Johnny worked methodically to free Simon's trapped limbs.  “The girl's safe.  Extraction complete.  My only mission now is getting ye out of here.”

     Simon's laugh was weak, ending in another cough.  “Always...  stubborn.”

     “Look who's talking.” Johnny finally freed Simon's legs, wincing at the obvious break in the right femur.  “This is gonna hurt, but Ah need to move ye.”

     Simon nodded, bracing himself.  Johnny lifted him as carefully as possible, but couldn't prevent the cry of pain that escaped Simon's lips.

     “Sorry, sorry.” Johnny murmured, adjusting his hold to better support the injured leg.  “Just hold on to me.”

     Simon's arms wrapped weakly around Johnny's neck, his face pressed against Johnny's shoulder.  “Didn't want to...  come back.  Was ready...  to go.”

     Johnny's stride faltered for only a moment before he continued moving toward the perimeter.  “Well, too bad.  Ye're stuck with me.”

     The journey back through the compound was slower with Simon in his arms, but no less determined.  Johnny used his last detonator to create a final distraction, allowing them to slip through the fence without encountering the few remaining guards.

     Once in the jungle, Soap activated his emergency beacon.  The extraction team would be monitoring, waiting for his signal.

     He found a small clearing about a kilometer from the compound, gently laying Simon on the ground.  Simon's breathing was labored, his skin pale beneath the blood and dirt.  Johnny worked quickly, applying field dressings to the worst wounds, stabilizing the broken leg as best he could, a splint of tree branches and bandages.

     “Why?” Simon asked suddenly, his voice stronger than before.  “Why come back for me?”

     Johnny paused, his hands still on the makeshift splint.  The question hung between them, heavy with implications neither had dared voice before.

     “Ye kin why.” Johnny said finally, meeting Simon's gaze directly.

     “Tell me anyway.” Simon's eyes were clear despite the pain, focused entirely on Johnny's face.

     Johnny swallowed hard, his hands moving to cup Simon's face, thumbs gently wiping away dirt and blood.  “Because Ah love ye, ye stubborn bastard.  Have for years.”

     Simon's breath caught, a look of wonder and disbelief crossing his features.  “Johnny...”

     “Ye dinnae have ta say anythin’.” Johnny returned to treating Simon's injuries, avoiding his eyes now.  “Just had to tell ye, in case…”

     Simon's hand caught his wrist, grip surprisingly strong.  “Ah love you too.”

     Johnny went still, hardly daring to breathe.  “What?”

     “Ah love you.” Simon repeated, more firmly this time.  “Why do you think Ah wanted to die out here?  Better than going back to…” he stopped abruptly.

     “To what, mo ghràidh?” the fucking proverbial cat was out of the bag now, he had nothing to lose with the sweet term.

     Simon's eyes dropped, unable to meet Johnny's gaze any longer.  The weight of his secrets pressed down harder than the concrete that had nearly crushed him.  “Ah can't, Johnny.  Ah'm married.”

     The words hung between them, heavier than the humid jungle air.  Johnny's face fell, the light in his eyes dimming like a candle snuffed out.  His hands stilled on Simon's bandages.

     “Married?” Johnny's voice cracked on the word.  “Since when?”

     “Since Ah was 23.  Before Ah joined the 141^st.”

     Johnny's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching along his temple.  He resumed bandaging Simon's wounds, his movements more mechanical now.  “Ye kin, ye could just divorce the bastard, right?”

     There was such desperate hope in Johnny's voice that Simon almost couldn't bear to crush it.  But he'd already let this go too far.  “It's not that simple.”

     “Why not?” Johnny demanded, tying off the bandage with more force than necessary.  “Who is he?”

     Simon took a painful breath.  “Major General Grayson Murphy.”

     Johnny's hands froze.  His face went pale, then flushed with understanding.  “The Major General?  The one who oversees half the bloody special operations in Europe?  The one who...”

     “The one who signs your paychecks.  Yes.” Simon winced as he shifted, pain lancing through his broken leg.  “It wasn't by choice, Johnny.”

     “What do ye mean?”

     Simon closed his eyes, the memories he'd fought so hard to bury now crawling to the surface like maggots from a corpse.  “It started with Roba.”

     Johnny's expression darkened at the name.  Everyone in special forces knew of Manuel Roba, the terrorist who'd made his reputation torturing captured soldiers.

     “Eight months.” Simon's voice hollowed.  “Eight months in a hole so small Ah couldn't stand up straight.  Eight months of...  things Ah still can't talk about.”  His fingers dug into the dirt beneath him.  “When Ah finally got out, dug my way out of my own fucking grave after they thought Ah was dead.  Ah made it back to British authorities only to be accused of betraying my unit.”

     “That's insane.” Johnny whispered.

     “Ah saw my CO, Vernon, hand over intel to Roba.  But it was my word against a dead man.” Simon's laugh was bitter, edged with old pain.  “Ah wasn't in custody yet, still under investigation.  They let me go home for Christmas.  To see my family.”

     The distant sound of helicopter blades thudded on the air, but neither man acknowledged it.

     “They were all dead, Johnny.  My mum.  My dad.  My brother.  Christmas morning, and they were just...  gone.” Simon's voice cracked.  “Military police were waiting.  Said Ah did it.  Said Ah was a traitor who killed my family to cover my tracks.”

     Johnny's face contorted with horror.  “That's not possible.  Ye would never…”

     “Ah know that.  You know that.  But they threw me in military prison anyway.”  Simon's eyes were distant, seeing not the jungle canopy above but the cold concrete walls that had held him.  “That's where Murphy found me.  Said he'd heard my story, believed in my innocence.  Offered to help.”

     Johnny's hand found Simon's, squeezing gently.  “But there was a price.”

     Simon nodded.  “Ah belonged to him.  Had to marry him, service him however he wanted.  Had to join SAS, meet Price, help build the 141.  All according to his plan.”  His eyes finally met Johnny's again, raw with emotion.  “That's why Ah can't leave.  That's why Ah wanted to die out here.  It was the only escape Ah can see.”

     The helicopter was closer now, the distinctive whump-whump of its blades cutting through the jungle sounds.

     “He'd ruin you, Johnny.  If he knew about us, about my feelings for you...  he'd destroy your career in a heartbeat.  Probably have you reassigned to some godforsaken outpost where you'd never see action again.”  Simon's hand tightened around Johnny's.  “Ah couldn't let that happen.”

     Johnny was quiet for a long moment, his blue eyes stormy with emotion.  Then he leaned down, pressing his forehead against Simon's.  “Listen to me, ye bloody idiot.  Ah dinnae care about my career.  Ah dinnae care about Murphy.  Ah care about ye.”

     “You don't understand.”

     “No, ye dinnae understand.” Johnny's voice was fierce.  “Ah watched ye throw yerself into danger over and over.  Watched ye disappear for days and come back looking like ye'd been through hell.  Ah kin something was wrong, but ye wouldnnae let me in.”

     The helicopter appeared above the clearing, hovering as it prepared to land.  The wind from its blades whipped the vegetation around them, but Johnny didn't move away.

     “Ah amnnae leavin’ ye to face this alone.  Not anymore.” Johnny's eyes burned with determination.  “We'll figure it out together.”

     Simon wanted to argue, to push Johnny away for his own protection.  But he was so tired of fighting alone.  So tired of the emptiness.  “It won't be easy,” he warned.

     Johnny's smile was grim but determined.  “Nothing worth having ever is.”

     As the medics rushed toward them with a stretcher, Johnny pressed a quick, fierce kiss to Simon's forehead.  “Trust me, Simon.  Just this once, trust someone else to have yer back.”

     And for the first time in years, Simon felt something like hope unfurl in his chest.  It was fragile, dangerous, but it was there.

     The extraction team reached them, efficiently transferring Simon to the stretcher.  As they lifted him toward the helicopter, Johnny walked alongside, never letting go of his hand.

     “We're going to get you home.” one of the medics shouted over the roar of the helicopter.

     Simon's eyes found Johnny's.   Home.  Not Murphy's mansion.  Not the red lines and humiliation.  Home was wherever this man was.

     “Let’s start with Bogota an’ some medical care fer my mate here.  Then we can worry about the rest, ay?” Johnny suggested easily.  Get him to a local hospital and buy him some time to think about how to fix this.

     As the helicopter lifted off, carrying them away from the smoking ruins of the compound, Simon made a decision.  He wasn't going to die.  Not today.  Not when he finally had something, someone, worth living for.

     Murphy would fight.  The battle ahead would make their mission look like a training exercise.  But for the first time since he'd dug himself out of that grave in the desert, Simon Riley was ready to fight for his life rather than his death.

     The helicopter banked, turning toward the extraction point where a medical team would be waiting.  Johnny sat beside the stretcher, his presence steady and unwavering.  Simon closed his eyes, letting the exhaustion finally claim him.  But his hand remained firmly clasped in Johnny's, an anchor in the storm that was surely coming.

 

Notes:

There's just no way on this earth that Johnny was leaving his boy behind. Not in any reality.

Chapter 5: Got Yer Back

Summary:

Soap has to make a choice about their future, and it kills him that Ghost isn't awake enough to do it himself.

Chapter 5

Got Yer Back

 

     The helicopter's descent onto the hospital helipad was a blur of motion and noise.  Simon drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain medication making everything hazy.  Through the fog, he felt Johnny's hand still firmly grasping his own, an anchor in the storm.

     “We arennae going any further.” John announced as the medical team rushed to meet them.  “He needs immediate surgery.”

     One of the extraction team stepped forward.  “Protocol is to transport to a British military facility.”

     “Look at him!” Soap's voice cracked with desperation.  “He's got internal bleeding, a shattered femur, and God knows what else.  He willane survive another flight.”

     Simon tried to focus on Johnny's face above him, the fierce protectiveness there warming something deep in his chest despite the pain.  The Colombian doctors were already moving him, rattling off medical terms in rapid Spanish as they wheeled him toward the building.

     “Sergeant MacTavish, we need to follow procedure.” the extraction officer insisted.

     “Then follow it without us.” Soap snapped, never leaving Simon's side as they entered the hospital.  “Ah'm staying with him.”

     The next hours passed in fragments for Simon.  The bright lights of an operating theater.  The masked faces of surgeons.  Johnny's voice, distant but determined, arguing with someone in the hallway.  Then darkness again.

     When he finally resurfaced, the room was dim and quiet.  A private room, surprisingly well-appointed for what appeared to be a regional hospital.  His body felt weighted down, encased in plaster and bandages.  An IV dripped steadily beside him.  Through the window, he could see stars twinkling in the Colombian night sky.

     “Hey there.” Johnny's voice, soft and relieved, drew Simon's attention to where he sat beside the bed.  “Welcome back.”

     Simon tried to speak, but his throat was too dry.  Johnny immediately reached for a cup of water, helping him take small sips through a straw.

     “How bad?” Simon managed after his third sip.

     “Bad enough.” Johnny replied, setting the cup aside.  “Broken femur, three broken ribs, punctured lung, internal bleeding, concussion.  But ye'll live.”  He paused, a small smile playing at his lips.  “Whether ye want to or not.”

     Simon huffed a weak laugh that immediately turned into a grimace of pain.  “Always...  stubborn.”

     “Learned from the best.” Johnny's hand found Simon's again, squeezing gently.  “Rest.  Ah'll be here.”

     Simon drifted off again, the medication pulling him under.  When he woke next, sunlight was streaming through the window.  Johnny was pacing the room, phone pressed to his ear, voice low but intense.

     “...understand the protocol, sir, but he's in no condition to be moved yet.”  A pause.  “Yes, Captain Price.  The doctors say at least three days before transport is safe.”  Another pause.  “Ah appreciate that, sir.  Ah'll keep ye updated.”

     Johnny ended the call, noticing Simon was awake.  “Price sends his regards.  Says ye're too stubborn to die.”

     “He's not wrong,” Simon croaked.

     Johnny moved to the bed, perching carefully on the edge.  “The extraction team's gone.  Price convinced them to head back without us.”

     “Small mercies.”

     Johnny's expression turned serious.  “Ah made another call, too.  To Laswell.”

     Simon's chest tightened.  “CIA Laswell?  Why?”

     “Because we need options, Simon.” Johnny's eyes never left his face.  “Ah told her everything.”

     “Everything?”  The heart monitor beside the bed betrayed Simon's spike of panic.

     “Everything about Murphy.  Not about us.” Johnny's hand found Simon's again.  “She wasnnae surprised.  Said she's had suspicions about Murphy for years, but no proof.”

     Simon closed his eyes, the weight of his secrets suddenly lighter and heavier all at once.  “And?”

     “And she's looking into options.  Legal ones, first.  Divorce on grounds of coercion.  Protection orders.  Witness protection, if necessary.”

     “It won't work.” Simon whispered.  “He's too powerful.”

     “Maybe.  But Laswell has resources too.  And she owes me a favor from Caracas.  An’ ye more favors than she ken count.”

     A nurse entered, checking Simon's vitals and adjusting his medication.  John stepped back, switching to flawless Spanish as he chatted with her.  Simon watched him, this man who'd walked into hell to bring him back, who was now fighting battles Simon had given up on long ago.

     When they were alone again, Johnny moved closer, lowering the railing on the bed.

     “What are you doing?” Simon asked.

     “The nurse said ye need rest.  Ah'm making sure ye get it.”  With careful movements, Johnny stretched out beside Simon on the narrow hospital bed, mindful of the tubes and wires.  He settled on his side, one arm gently draped across Simon's chest.

     “This isn't exactly regulation, Sergeant.” Simon murmured, but he found himself leaning into Johnny's warmth.

     “Fuck regulations.” Johnny's breath was warm against Simon's neck.  “Ah almost lost ye yesterday.  Twice.  Ah'm not letting ye out of my sight.”

     They lay in silence for a while, the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and Johnny's steady breathing lulling Simon into a state of calm he hadn't felt in years.

     “We have options.” Johnny said finally, his voice quiet in the stillness of the room.  “We could go back, face Murphy, fight this legally with Laswell's help.”

     Simon's hand found Johnny's, fingers intertwining.  “He'd destroy you.”

     “Let him try.”  The fierce protectiveness in Johnny's voice made Simon's heart clench.  “Or we could just...  not go back.”

     Simon turned his head slightly to look at Johnny.  “What?”

     “Leave the service.  Disappear.  South America, Asia, bloody Antarctica for all Ah care.” Johnny's eyes held his, utterly serious.  “Start over somewhere he cannae reach us.”

     The possibility hung in the air between them, tantalizing and terrifying.  Freedom.  A life without Murphy, without the red lines and the parties and the endless humiliation.

     “He'd never stop looking,” Simon said finally.  “Not after everything he's invested in controlling me.”

     Johnny was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on Simon's arm.  “What if he thought ye were dead?”

     Simon's breath caught.  “Fake my death?”

     “It wouldn't be hard to arrange.  The explosion at the compound already destroyed most of the evidence.  We could leave just enough to convince them.”

     “And then what?  Live as ghosts?”

     “Live as free men.” Johnny's gaze was steady, unflinching.  “New identities, new lives.  Laswell could help with that too.”

     Simon closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine it for the first time.  A small house somewhere warm.  Waking up beside Johnny every morning.  No more masks, literal or figurative.  Just...  life.

     “Or,” Johnny continued, his voice dropping even lower, “there's a third option.”

     Simon opened his eyes, meeting Johnny's gaze.  There was something darker there now, something dangerous.

     “Murphy isn't invincible,” Johnny said carefully.  “Accidents happen, even to powerful men.”

     The implication hung heavy between them.  Simon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the hospital's air conditioning.

     “That's a line we can't uncross.” he whispered.

     “Ye're not the only one he's hurt, Simon.  Laswell mentioned investigations, other young soldiers who mysteriously disappeared after catching his attention.” Johnny's jaw tightened.  “He's a predator.”

     Simon stared at the ceiling, processing this new information.  How many others had there been?  How many lives had Murphy destroyed while the system protected him?

     “We need time.” Simon said finally.  “Time to think, to plan.  Whatever we decide...  it has to be right.”

     Johnny nodded, settling more comfortably against Simon's side.  “We have three days before the doctors clear ye for transport.  Three days to decide our future.”

     “Our future.” Simon repeated, the words foreign but wonderful on his tongue.  “Ah like the sound of that.”

     Johnny pressed a gentle kiss to Simon's temple.  “Get some rest, mo ghràidh.  We've got battles ahead, but right now, just heal.”

     As Simon drifted toward sleep, Johnny's solid presence beside him, he found himself thinking not of Murphy or the pain or the years of abuse, but of possibilities.  Of sunrises in strange cities, of waking up beside this man day after day, of freedom.

     For the first time in longer than he could remember, Simon Riley fell asleep without fear of what tomorrow would bring.

     The Colombian night settled around the hospital, stars shining through the window as the two men slept, bodies curved toward each other like parentheses, containing between them a future yet to be written.

 

--

 

     Less than 48 hours later, the doctors deemed Ghost’s breathing stable enough to pull the chesttube.  That was a blessing all unto itself.  He’d spent most of the time under heavy pain medication from his extensive injuries.  The Columbian medical staff didn’t want to release him for transport, but couldn’t really deny the capacity of the extraction team to manage him at least for the flight to a British hospital.  It irritated the fuck out of Soap.  The man had already been through a couple of surgeries and his leg was barely put back together.  That was going to take a specialist to even begin to fix.  And here they were all but forcing the pair of them back home.

     It made his choice a lot easier, if he stopped and gave it any thought.  He really wished that it was Simon’s choice.  The big menace hadn’t committed to any of their possible moves for the future.  One lucid conversation and a lot of rambling medicated ones.  Well, he knew that his partner didn’t want to go back.  If the man was ready to off himself rather than return home, going back and risking Murphy having even the slightest chance of cornering Simon back into that situation was off the table.  So he made the choice.  If Simon hated it, they could talk about the alternatives when he’d healed.  That seemed reasonable.

     A part of him truly wished that he was doing this because he was a possessive, jealous twat that couldn’t allow the man he loved to go back to his husband.  Yea, he really wished that was the only motivation.  But if that was the only motivation, then divorce would be an option.  Or, Simon wouldn’t be wanting out of the marriage at all, and well, they probably wouldn’t even be here.  So, there was that.

     He made the choice.

     A specialized medical transport arrived with orders to take them back to England and their medical facilities.  At the same time, a less specialized, private transport arrived to take them to a small private plane with no markings or recognizable designations.  It was documented that they left the medical facility with the medical transport.

     The early morning air hit Simon like a physical blow as they wheeled him from the hospital's rear entrance.  Overhead, the sky burned orange and pink, the sun not yet fully crested over the Bogota skyline.  The stretcher beneath him rattled with each movement, a far cry from the solid hospital bed he'd grown accustomed to over the past two days.

     “Cuidado con la pierna,” one of the transporters barked as they navigated a small step.  Be careful with the leg.

     Simon bit back a groan as the stretcher jostled, sending shards of pain through his casted leg.  The plaster encasing his right femur felt impossibly heavy, a constant reminder of the shattered bone beneath.  Bandages wrapped his torso in a tight embrace, each breath a careful negotiation between necessity and agony.  His left arm throbbed where a bullet had torn through muscle, while his uncasted leg bore similar bandages covering another gunshot wound.

     “Easy,” Johnny's voice cut through the haze of pain and medication.  “Fucking hell, gently!”

     The men continued their conversation in rapid Spanish, the words blurring together in Simon's sedated mind.  The IV pole clanked against the metal frame of the stretcher, the sound reverberating through his skull like a church bell.  The clear tubing snaked from the crook of his uninjured arm, delivering a steady stream of antibiotics and painkillers that kept the worst of the agony at bay.

     They approached an unmarked van, its rear doors thrown open to reveal a sparse interior.  No ambulance markings, no medical equipment beyond the most basic necessities.  Just a rickety stretcher bolted to the floor and space for one attendant.

     “Esta no es una ambulancia adecuada,” Johnny protested, his Scottish accent coloring the Spanish words.  This is not a proper ambulance.

     More rapid Spanish, dismissive hand gestures.  Simon's stretcher hovered for a moment between the hospital gurney and the van's waiting berth.  The transfer, when it came, sent waves of agony crashing through Simon’s body despite the medication.  He couldn't hold back the guttural groan that escaped his lips as his broken body settled onto the thin mattress of the transport stretcher.

     “Está bien, mi amor,” Johnny murmured close to his ear as he climbed in beside him.  “Ah'm here.”

     The doors slammed shut, plunging them into dimness broken only by thin strips of light filtering through tinted windows.  The engine rumbled to life, and then they were moving, each bump in the road a fresh assault.

     Johnny watched Simon's face contort with pain as the van lurched forward.  His heart clenched seeing the man he loved suffering so much.  The driver seemed determined to hit every pothole in Bogotá, each jolt sending visible waves of agony through Ghost's body.

     “Hey.” Johnny said softly, leaning closer to Simon.  “Ah kin it hurts.  We'll be there soon.”

     Simon's eyes fluttered, glazed with medication and pain.  His fingers weakly squeezed Johnny's hand in acknowledgment.

     Soap glanced at his watch, calculating the minutes until they reached the airfield.  Thirty, if traffic cooperated.  Thirty minutes until the point of no return.

     The weight of what he'd done, what he was doing, settled on Johnny's shoulders like a physical burden.  He'd made the choice.  Without Simon's full awareness or consent.  The knowledge gnawed at him, a cold, slithering thing in his gut.

     “Ah hope Ah did right by ye.” Johnny whispered, too low for even the driver to hear.  “Ah truly do.”

     Simon's eyes had closed again, his breathing shallow but steady.  Johnny studied his face, the sharp angles softened somewhat by the hospital stay, the stubble darkening his jaw.  Even wounded, even vulnerable, there was something indestructible about Simon Riley.  Until there wasn't.  Until Johnny had found him ready to die rather than return to that monster who called himself Simon's husband.

     Johnny had seen the desperation in Ghost's eyes in that compound.  The relief when he thought death was finally claiming him.  It haunted Soap's dreams, the two nights they'd spent in the Colombian hospital.

     “Ah coulnnae let ye go back there,” Johnny murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Simon's forehead.  “Ah just coulnnae.”

     But what if Simon disagreed with his choice?  What if, when the medication wore off and clarity returned, Simon resented him for making this decision?  For taking away his agency after Murphy had already stolen so much from him?

     The van hit another pothole, and Simon groaned, his eyelids fluttering.

     “Sorry, mo ghràidh.” Johnny soothed, wishing he could absorb the pain himself.  “Not much longer.”

     They had discussed options, yes.  But Simon had never committed to any of them.  Had never explicitly said, “This is what I want.” And now Johnny had chosen for him, set them on a path that couldn't be easily reversed.

     Would Simon think Johnny was just another man making choices for him without his consent?  The thought made Johnny's stomach turn.

     But the alternative, watching Simon return to that monster, that was unthinkable.  Johnny would rather Simon hate him for this choice than watch him die inside day by day under Murphy's control.

     “Ye were ready to die rather than go back.” Johnny whispered, the words a prayer and a justification both.  “Ah had to choose something else.  Anything else.”

     Johnny's hand found Simon’s, fingers intertwining with gentle pressure.  “Not much longer now,” he promised, his thumb tracing soothing circles on Simon's palm.

     Simon tried to focus on Johnny's face through the medication fog.  The sergeant looked exhausted, dark circles beneath his eyes, stubble darkening his jaw.  He hadn't left Simon's side since digging him out of his self-made grave, not even to shower properly or change clothes.

     “Where...?” Simon managed, his voice a dry rasp.

     “To the airstrip,” Johnny replied, his free hand adjusting the blanket covering Simon's legs.  “Just rest, aye?  Ah've got everything handled.”

     The van hit a pothole, and Simon's body jerked involuntarily.  Fresh pain bloomed across his chest where surgeons had repaired the damage to his punctured lung.  Johnny cursed, bracing himself against the wall with one arm while keeping his other hand firmly clasped around Simon's.

     “Lo siento,” called the driver from the front.  Sorry.

     “Ye should be fucking sorry,” Johnny muttered under his breath, too low for anyone but Simon to hear.

     The ride continued, each minute stretching like an hour as the van navigated Bogota's morning traffic.  Simon drifted in and out of consciousness, anchored only by Johnny's steady presence beside him.  The sedatives made everything dreamlike, disconnected, as if he were watching his own transport from somewhere outside his broken body.

     When the van finally slowed, Simon forced his eyes open.  Through the tinted windows, he could make out a small airstrip, a single plane waiting on the tarmac.  No commercial markings, no identifying features beyond its sleek, utilitarian design.

     “Here we go,” Johnny said, squeezing his hand as the van came to a stop.  “Almost there.”

     The rear doors opened, flooding the interior with harsh morning light.  Different hands reached for the stretcher now, speaking the same rapid Spanish but with different cadences, different inflections.  Johnny never left his side, overseeing every movement with hawk-like intensity.

     “Yo lo llevaré,” Johnny insisted as they approached the plane's steps.  I'll carry him.

     The transporters hesitated, exchanging glances before stepping back.  With careful movements, Johnny disconnected the IV bag from its pole, holding it elevated in one hand while he and one of the men lifted Simon from the stretcher.  The transition to Johnny's arms sent fresh waves of pain radiating through Simon's body, but there was also comfort in the familiar strength that held him.

     “Ah've got ye,” Johnny murmured, his breath warm against Simon's ear as he navigated the narrow steps into the aircraft.  “Trust me.”

     Inside, the plane was sparse but functional, a medical berth already prepared near the rear.  Johnny laid Simon down with infinitely more care than the hospital transporters had shown, reconnecting the IV to a hook above the berth before adjusting blankets and pillows to maximize comfort.

     “How's that?” Johnny asked, his hand returning to Simon's.

     Simon managed a small nod, the most he could muster through the haze of pain and medication.  The plane's engines were already whining to life, the vibrations humming through the metal floor beneath them.

     As the aircraft taxied toward the runway, Johnny settled into a seat beside Simon's berth, never letting go of his hand.  Through half-lidded eyes, Simon watched him stare out the small window at the receding airport.  Johnny's profile was etched with worry, with fatigue, but also with a fierce determination that Simon had come to rely on more than he'd ever admitted.

     The plane gathered speed, pressing them back into their seats as it lifted off Colombian soil.  Only then did Johnny's shoulders relax slightly, a long breath escaping him as if he'd been holding it since they left the hospital.

     “We're clear,” he said, more to himself than to Simon.

     Simon watched through the medication fog as Johnny bowed his head, eyes closed, lips moving in silent words.  A prayer?  From Johnny?  The sergeant had never struck him as particularly religious before.  There was something vulnerable in the gesture, something desperate and hopeful all at once.

     When Johnny opened his eyes again, they were suspiciously bright in the cabin's dim lighting.  He turned to Simon with a smile that didn't quite reach those eyes.

     “Get some rest, aye?  Long flight ahead.”

     Simon wanted to ask where they were going, wanted to understand the weight that seemed to press down on Johnny's shoulders.  But the medication was pulling him under again, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision.  The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was Johnny's face, those blue eyes watching him with a mixture of love and fear and something that might have been guilt.

     In his dreams, Simon saw red lines on marble floors, heard Murphy's cold laugh, felt hands on his body that made him want to scream.  But then Johnny was there, pulling him away, leading him toward something bright and unknown.  Toward freedom, perhaps.  Or toward a different kind of prison.  Either way, they were moving forward together, and that was more than Simon had dared hope for in years.

     Johnny woke with a start, his neck stiff from the awkward position against the cabin wall.  His first instinct was to check Simon, who still slept, face slack with medication.  The steady rise and fall of his chest loosened something tight within Johnny's own.

     The plane hummed around them, cruising at altitude, carrying them farther and farther from Murphy with each passing second.  Johnny glanced at his watch, they'd been airborne for nearly four hours.  Four hours of freedom.  Four hours since he'd made the choice that would change both their lives forever.

     He carefully extracted his hand from Simon's, flexing his cramped fingers before standing to stretch his legs.  At the small window, he pressed his forehead against the cool glass, watching the endless expanse of clouds stretching out beneath them.  Somewhere behind them lay Colombia, the compound, the hospital.  Somewhere behind them lay England, the Task Force, and Murphy.

     “Thank God.” Johnny whispered, the words fogging the window.  “Thank fucking God.”

     He'd almost lost Simon.  Not once, but twice.  First to the explosion Simon had deliberately triggered, then to the injuries that followed.  The memory of digging through that rubble, hands bleeding, lungs burning with dust, sent a shudder through Johnny's frame.  The relief when he'd found Simon alive had been so overwhelming he'd nearly collapsed right there amid the debris.

     Johnny turned back to look at Simon, cataloging the visible injuries.  The cast encasing his right leg.  The bandages wrapping his torso.  The sling supporting his left arm.  The cuts and bruises mapping his face.  So much damage, but he was alive.  He would heal.  They had time now.

     Time Johnny should have taken years ago.

     The guilt hit him like a physical blow, driving him back into the seat beside Simon's berth.  How had he missed it?  The signs had been there all along.  Simon's withdrawal after leaves, the recklessness in the field, the way he flinched sometimes when touched unexpectedly.  Johnny had noticed, had even commented, but he'd always allowed Simon to deflect, to change the subject, to maintain that careful distance.

     “Ah'm such a bloody idiot,” Johnny muttered, running a hand over his face.  “Ah should've seen it.”

     He remembered a mission in Belarus, nearly two years ago.  They'd been holed up in an abandoned apartment for three days, waiting for their target.  Simon had received a call on the second night.  Johnny had pretended to sleep, but he'd heard Simon's voice, that soft, subservient tone so unlike his usual confident drawl.  Had heard the “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” and “I understand, sir.”  Had seen how Simon's hands shook after ending the call.

     Johnny had asked the next morning.  Simon had brushed it off as a call from command.  And Johnny, respecting his privacy, honoring those unspoken boundaries between them, had let it go.

     How many times had he missed the signs?  Johnny had been a fucking idiot.  He should have pressed harder, should have demanded answers when Simon withdrew after each “leave.” All those times Ghost had pushed him away weren't rejection, they were protection.

     Johnny remembered that night in Kazakhstan when Simon had a fever of 103.  He'd stripped him down and packed ice around his burning body, and Simon had grabbed his wrist, delirious, whispering, “Don't tell him Ah'm sick.  He hates weakness.” Johnny had assumed he was talking about Price.

     Then there was Alejandro's safehouse in Mexico.  The bullet had torn through Johnny's shoulder.  Simon held him down, Soap biting into a leather belt, tears streaming silently down his face as Simon dug out the metal.  He worked with a methodical precision, stripping the shirt from Johnny's torso, laying bare the wound.  The knife glinted in the dim light, a clean flash before it disappeared into Johnny's flesh.  Johnny's muffled groan filled the room, mingling with the sound of Simon's steady breathing. 

Ghost extracted the bullet and set to disinfecting, the smell of alcohol sharp in the air.  Cotton clouds of blood and iodine littered the floor.  With nimble fingers, Simon stitched the torn skin, pulling each thread with a gentle care that seemed at odds with the roughness of his hands.  “Doin' real good, Johnny,” he’d said, voice gravelly but soft.  “Real good.”  

Those whiskey-brown eyes met Johnny's crystal blues through the ever-present mask, a moment of connection that held something more than camaraderie.  It had stirred something deep in Johnny, something he'd tried to bury.  That look, that voice, the unexpected gentleness had all lingered, refusing to be ignored.  They'd just met that day, just escaped betrayal together, but Johnny felt it all the same.  How many times had he convinced himself that it was just him?  That Ghost didn’t feel the same?

     And Christ, the coffee.  Every fucking morning, Simon would have Johnny's coffee waiting, cream and three sugars, alongside his own tea.  Never mentioned it, just did it.  He'd loved that morning ritual, that quiet moment of routine and companionship before the chaos of the day took hold. 

Johnny had believed, maybe even hoped, that Ghost was attracted to him.  But every time he dared to hint to Ghost that it was more, the giant menace dismissed it as simply taking care of his sergeant, keeping things professional.  Always reminding him that they weren’t allowed to fraternize, despite his constant flirting.  How blind could one man be?

     Then there was their bench behind the barracks at Stirling, where they'd sit smoking late into the night when Simon's nightmares drove him from his bed.  Johnny would find him there, shoulders hunched, staring into nothing.  He'd sit beside him, their shoulders touching, neither speaking until the cigarettes burned down to their filters. 

Sometimes an hour would pass in silence.  Sometimes two.  Johnny never pushed to find out what demons haunted Simon, assuming they were specters from his past, shadows of those months when he'd been MIA, reported dead.  He thought he was being respectful, giving Simon space to face the ghosts on his own terms.  Now he saw how wrong he'd been, how blind.  These weren't memories tormenting Simon; they were Murphy's hands, Murphy's threats.  Alive and fucking well and abusing him in the here and now.  Johnny should have asked, should have pressed, should have done something.  Anything.  Instead, he'd done nothing. 

   “Ah should have made ye fucking talk.” Johnny whispered, his voice breaking in the quiet cabin.  “Ah should have broken down that wall.”

     He thought of the night after the disastrous operation in Georgia.  Simon had been shaking so badly he could barely light his cigarette.  Johnny had taken the lighter from his trembling hands, lit it for him, then kept hold of Simon's wrist longer than necessary.  Simon hadn't pulled away.  Instead, he'd leaned slightly into Johnny's space, their shoulders pressing together as if seeking warmth.

Stretching out again, doing his best to find a comfortable position and think of something better, something brighter.  He tried to focus on their future, wherever that landed them.  He had Simon now.  Regardless of how he felt about the choice John had made for them, he had Simon.  They would work it out.  He allowed the sound of the plane’s engines to lull him back to sleep.

     When Simon woke again, the plane was cruising at altitude, the steady hum of engines a constant backdrop to his thoughts.  Johnny still sat beside him, head now resting against the wall, eyes closed in exhausted sleep.  Their hands remained intertwined, as if even in unconsciousness, Johnny refused to let him go.

     Simon studied his face, memorizing each line, each freckle, each stubborn strand of hair that fell across his forehead.  Whatever Johnny had done, whatever choice he'd made that had put that look of desperate prayer on his face, Simon knew it was for him.  To protect him.  To save him.

     For the first time in longer than he could remember, Simon Riley felt something like peace settle over him.  Not happiness, not yet.  But a quiet certainty that whatever came next, he wouldn't face it alone.

 

Chapter 6: New Beginnings

Summary:

The million dollar question, what did Soap ultimately pick?

Chapter 6

New Beginnings

 

     Four days later, the intercom at the front gate buzzed.  Major General Murphy set down his tumbler of whisky, smoothing his uniform as he moved to answer it.  The security camera showed two officers in dress blues standing at attention.

     “Yes?” Murphy's voice remained steady, authoritative.

     “Major General Murphy, sir.  Lieutenant Colonel Davis and Major Wilson.  We need to speak with you in person, sir.”

     Murphy buzzed them through, watching through the window as they marched up the stone path to his front door.  Something in their rigid posture sent a chill down his spine.  He straightened his already impeccable uniform and opened the door before they could knock.

     “Gentlemen.” Murphy greeted them with the practiced formality of a man who'd spent decades perfecting his public persona.

     “Major General Murphy.” Lieutenant Colonel Davis saluted crisply.  “May we come in, sir?  We have news regarding Lieutenant Simon Riley.”

     Murphy's expression remained neutral as he stepped aside.  “Of course.”

     He led them into his study, the same room where Simon had stood behind the red line countless times.  The officers declined his offer of drinks, remaining standing even when he gestured toward the leather chairs.

     Davis removed an envelope from his breast pocket, extending it with both hands.  “Sir, it is with deep regret that we inform you of the death of your husband, Lieutenant Simon Riley.”

     Murphy accepted the envelope, his hands steady.  “What happened?”

     “The medical transport plane went down over the mid-Atlantic, sir.  No survivors.”  Major Wilson's voice was practiced, detached.  “Search and rescue operations have been called off as of 0600 this morning.”

     Murphy stared at the envelope in his hands.  Simon. Dead.  The control he'd exercised for years, gone in an instant.  The careful plans he'd made, the future he'd arranged, all vanished like smoke.

     “I see.” Murphy's voice betrayed nothing of the rage building inside him.  “Thank you for bringing me this news personally.”

     “The military extends its deepest condolences, sir.” Davis continued.  “Lieutenant Riley's service record was exemplary.  His sacrifice will not be forgotten.”

     Murphy nodded, his mind already calculating.  The will he'd forced Simon to sign.  The insurance policies.  The property rights.  At least those would remain intact.

     “Is there anything we can do for you, sir?” Wilson asked.

     “No.” Murphy placed the envelope on his desk.  “I've been a military man my entire life.  I understand the risks our soldiers take.”

     The officers exchanged glances, perhaps expecting more emotion from a man who'd just lost his husband.

     “The funeral arrangements.” Davis began.

     “Will be handled privately.” Murphy cut him off.  “Lieutenant Riley would have wanted it that way.”

     He escorted the officers back to the door, accepting their final salutes with the stoic dignity expected of a man in his position.  Only when the door closed behind them did Murphy allow his mask to slip.

     He returned to his study, pouring himself another generous measure of whisky.  The envelope remained unopened on his desk.  Simon was gone.  His property, his possession, taken from him without his permission.

     Murphy downed the whisky in one swallow, then hurled the crystal tumbler against the wall, watching it shatter into a thousand glittering pieces.

 

---

 

     Captain Price stared at the paper in his hands, the official notification of the crash feeling impossibly light for the weight of its contents.  The office around him seemed suddenly too quiet, too empty.

     “Bloody hell.” he muttered, reaching for the bottom drawer of his desk.  He pulled out a bottle of whisky – Ghost's whisky – that he'd confiscated months ago after finding the lieutenant drinking alone on the firing range at three in the morning.

     The door opened without a knock, and Gaz stepped in.  One look at Price's face told him everything.

     “So it's true then?” Gaz asked, closing the door behind him.

     Price nodded, unscrewing the cap on the bottle.  “Got the official word just now.  Plane went down somewhere over the Atlantic.  No survivors.”

     Gaz dropped heavily into the chair across from Price.  “And Soap?”

     “Same report.” Price's voice roughened.  “Both of them, gone.”

     He poured two generous measures into mugs, sliding one across to Gaz.  No glasses in the office, Ghost would have appreciated the improvisation.

     “Empty coffins.” Gaz said quietly, staring into his mug.  “That's all we'll have to bury.”

     Price lifted his mug.  “To Ghost and Soap.  Finest soldiers I ever had the privilege to serve with.”

     “To Ghost and Soap.” Gaz echoed, clinking his mug against Price's.  “Wherever they are now.”

     They drank in silence, the whisky burning a path down their throats.  Ghost's favorite brand, good old fashioned Kentucky bourbon.  Price had always given him grief about his taste in whiskey.

     “You know what pisses me off the most?” Price said finally, pouring them each another measure.  “We don't even know what happened on that mission.  How they ended up so badly injured they needed medical transport.  The reports are all classified above our clearance.  All we’ve got is that little bit Soap could relay over the phone from Bogata.”

     Gaz nodded, turning his mug in his hands.  “Something doesn't add up.  Ghost was too good to get caught in a simple collapse.  And Soap?  That lad had nine lives.”

     “Had.” Price repeated, the past tense sitting uncomfortably on his tongue.  “Christ, I can't believe they're gone.”

     They fell silent again, each lost in their own memories.  Price remembered Ghost's first day with the 141, mask already firmly in place, eyes wary behind the dark sunglasses.  He'd been a mystery then and remained one until the end.

     “To empty coffins.” Price said finally, raising his mug once more.  “And the men we'll never forget.”

 

---

 

     24 hours prior, Ghost and Soap’s plane landed in São Paulo. Brazil.  Simon was more lucid when it finally touched down.  He was able to at least offer some slight assist as Soap carried him from the plane to situate him in a nondescript jeep that waited for them with nothing but burner phones with GPS coordinates preloaded.  This was it.

     Soap removed the now depleted IV, bandaging up the site, settling Ghost in as best he could.  Front seat laid all the way back, blankets taken from his berth in the plane to cushion him for the ride.  Keys were in the ignition, so off they went.  It was Brazil, so that would be a challenge.  He didn’t speak Portuguese.  He had to hope that he found people who spoke English, or could at least fake it with the Spanish he did know.

     The drive was almost two hours, leaving the bustling city an hour in their rearview mirror by the time they reached the secluded coordinates.  It was a quaint little one bedroom cottage.  Once he’d made certain the inside was secure, and located the well worn queen sized bed, Soap jostled Simon gently awake.

     “Sorry, mo ghràidh.  We’re here, just need ta get ye inside.” Johnny prompted him, maneuvering his legs out of the door.

     “Should Ah ask where here is, or is that still classified?” Simon gave him a teasing smile.  It was warm, strained with the pain from the journey, but genuine warmth and it unfurled something tightly coiled in Johnny’s heart.

     “Aye, so classified Ah dinnae kin where we were until Ah got the GPS on the phone goin’.” Johnny shared, amused, but completely serious.

     “Fancy.” Simon smirked.

     “Come on now, one more go, an ye ken settle in.” Soap prompted his partner, securing one strong arm underneath Ghost’s arms and helping him lift.  The jarring pushed out a groan of pain from the giant menace, but he stifled it down, feeling Soap tense against him.  It was a sharp reminder and Johnny did his best not to put any more pressure on the broken ribs than necessary as they hobbled in. 

     The cottage was a simple structure, worn by time but sturdy.  As Johnny helped Simon through the front door, the floorboards creaked beneath their feet.  The main room was small and sparse, a kitchen area with an ancient gas stove, a refrigerator that hummed too loudly, and basic countertops along one wall.  A threadbare sofa faced a small television that looked at least twenty years old, its fabric faded to a nondescript beige.  Two mismatched wooden chairs flanked a tiny dining table that bore the scars of countless meals.

     “Home sweet home,” Johnny muttered, guiding Simon toward the bedroom visible through a doorway at the back.

     The bedroom contained little more than a queen-sized bed with a metal frame that had seen better days.  The mattress sagged slightly in the middle, but the sheets looked clean.  Johnny helped Simon onto it, careful not to disturb his injuries.

     “How's that?” Johnny asked, arranging pillows to elevate Simon's casted leg.

     “Better than a collapsed building,” Simon replied, his voice strained but with a hint of humor.  “Fucking hell, it hurts.”

     Johnny nodded, fishing in his pocket for the pain medication they'd been given before leaving the hospital.  “Ye're due for these.  Ah'll get some water.”

     He found a glass in one of the kitchen cabinets, running the tap until the water ran clear.  The pipes groaned in protest but functioned.  At least they had running water and electricity, the overhead light had flickered on when he'd hit the switch.  Basic amenities, nothing more.

     After helping Simon take his medication, Johnny squeezed his hand.  “Rest a bit.  Ah'm gonna have a look around, see what we're working with.”

     Simon nodded, already feeling the pull of the medication.  “Don't go far.”

     “Wouldn't dream of it,” Johnny replied with a soft smile.

     He began a methodical search of the cottage, starting with the bedroom.  The closet door stuck slightly, requiring a firm tug to open.  Inside, he found clothing hanging neatly on metal hangers, five complete changes for each of them.  Plain t-shirts, button-ups, jeans, cargo pants, even underwear and socks.  All in their correct sizes. 

     “Well, someone's been shopping,” Johnny murmured to himself.

     On the floor of the closet sat a black laptop bag.  Johnny carried it to the dining table, unzipping it to find a brand-new laptop inside.  He opened it, finding nothing but the basic load up from an unused device

     “Curious,” he muttered, digging deeper into the bag.

     His fingers found a manila envelope.  Inside was a list of medical appointments, orthopedic specialists, physical therapists, even a respiratory doctor to check Simon's healing lung.  All scheduled over the next six weeks at various clinics in São Paulo. 

     Next came two passports, driver's licenses, and various identification cards.  Johnny examined them carefully, expertly forged documents for “Samuel Rivers” and “Jon McTavish.” Similar enough to their real names to be comfortable, different enough to be untraceable.

     Beneath the documents was a thick envelope.  Johnny opened it to find Brazilian reais, stacks of them, along with a debit card and PIN code.  Enough money to live modestly for a month or two.

     Johnny ran a hand through his hair, processing everything.  This wasn't a permanent solution, just a waystation until Simon healed enough for further travel.  Laswell had thought of everything, as usual.

     The burner phone in Simon's pocket chimed with an incoming message.  Johnny returned to the bedroom, finding Simon awake enough to be fumbling for the device.

     “Here, let me,” Johnny said, retrieving the phone.

     The message was simple: “Contact when ready to travel.  – W”

     “Watcher,” Simon murmured, his eyes clearer than they had been earlier.  “She's waiting for us to make the next move.”

     Johnny nodded, settling on the edge of the bed.  “Aye.  She's set us up with doctors, money, new identities.  But this isn't our final stop.”

     Simon's hand found Johnny's, fingers intertwining.  “We're really doing this, aren't we?  Just...  disappearing.”

     “Aye,” Johnny confirmed, squeezing Simon's hand.  “We're officially dead men.  Plane went down over the Atlantic.  No survivors.”

     Simon was quiet for a long moment, staring at the ceiling.  “Murphy?”

     “Receiving the news as we speak, Ah'd imagine.” Johnny replied, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice.

     Simon's laugh was soft, tinged with disbelief.  “Free,” he whispered.  “Actually free.”

     Johnny leaned down, pressing his forehead against Simon's.  “Free,” he agreed.  “And together.”

     For the first time since Johnny had known him, Simon Riley smiled without a shadow behind his eyes.  It was small, cautious, like a man testing ice he wasn't sure would hold his weight.  But it was real.

     Outside, the Brazilian sun began to set, casting long shadows through the cottage's small windows.  They had a month, maybe two, in this aging sanctuary.  Time for Simon to heal, for both of them to adjust to their new reality.  And then?

     Johnny glanced at the message on the phone.  Watcher was waiting.  The next chapter of their lives was yet to be written, but for now, this cottage with its creaking floors and sagging mattress was exactly what they needed, a place to breathe, to heal, to begin again.

     “We should eat something,” Johnny said, reluctantly standing.  “Ah'll see what's in the kitchen.”

     “Johnny,” Simon called as he reached the doorway.  When Johnny turned, Simon's expression was serious, vulnerable in a way Johnny had rarely seen.  “Thank you.  For making the choice Ah couldn't.”

     Johnny swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.  “Always, mo ghràidh.  Always.”

     He returned to the kitchen, finding the refrigerator stocked with basics, eggs, bread, cheese, some fruit and vegetables.  In the tiny pantry, canned goods and pasta.  Enough to get by until they could venture out.

     As Johnny prepared a simple meal, he listened to the unfamiliar sounds of their new home, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant calls of unfamiliar birds, the occasional vehicle passing on the road beyond their secluded driveway.  Not the sounds of battle, not the sterile silence of hospital rooms, not the oppressive quiet of Murphy's mansion.

     Just the sounds of life.  Ordinary, unremarkable, precious life.

     When he returned to the bedroom with two plates of scrambled eggs and toast, he found Simon sitting up against the pillows, studying the fake passport Johnny had left on the bedside table.

     “Samuel Rivers,” Simon said, testing the name on his tongue.  “Bit on the nose, isn't it?”

     “Laswell's not known for her creativity,” Johnny replied with a smile, handing Simon a plate.  “At least she didn't make ye Samuel Ghost.”

     Simon snorted, accepting the food.  “And you're still basically you.  Jon McTavish.  Hardly a stretch.”

     “Easier to remember,” Johnny pointed out, settling carefully beside Simon on the bed.  “Less likely to slip up.  Besides, Ah’m sure it’ll change again once we get ye on the mend and ken move.”

     They ate in comfortable silence, the first meal of their new lives.  When they finished, Johnny took the plates back to the kitchen, returning with a damp cloth to help Simon clean up and change into fresh clothes from the closet.

     “We should contact her,” Simon said as Johnny helped him into a clean t-shirt.  “Watcher.  Let her know we arrived safely.”

     Johnny nodded, retrieving the burner phone.  “Ah’m sure she knows.”

     He helped Simon settle more comfortably, then stripped down to his boxers and carefully climbed into bed beside him, mindful of the injuries.  The mattress dipped in the middle, naturally rolling them toward each other.  Johnny didn't fight it, instead gently adjusting Simon until they fit together, Johnny's body a protective curve around Simon's.

     “This is real, right?” Simon whispered into the darkness.  “Not just the medication making me hallucinate?”

     Johnny pressed a soft kiss to the back of Simon's neck.  “It's real, mo ghràidh.  We're here.  We're safe.”

     Simon's hand found Johnny's where it rested on his stomach.  “Ah never thought Ah'd have this,” he admitted, voice thick with emotion.  “Never thought Ah'd be free of him.”

     “Well, get used to it,” Johnny murmured against his skin.  “Because Ah'm not going anywhere.”

     As Simon's breathing deepened with sleep, Johnny remained awake, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of their sanctuary.  Tomorrow they would face the reality of their new existence.

     But tonight, in this aging cottage with its creaking floors and sagging mattress, they were simply Simon and Johnny.  Two men who had chosen each other over everything else.  Two soldiers who had finally found a battle worth fighting, the battle for their own happiness.

     Johnny tightened his arm around Simon's waist, careful of his injuries.  “Sleep well, mo ghràidh,” he whispered to the already-sleeping man.  “Ah'll be here when ye wake up.”

     Outside, crickets chirped in the Brazilian night, a gentle chorus welcoming them to their new life.  Inside, two dead men began to live again.

 

--

 

     Two months passed in a haze of surgeries, physical therapy, and tight-lipped planning.  They slipped out of the Bogotá hospital exactly when the medevac was due, leaving no sign they’d ever been alive after those three days in Colombia.  Laswell’s team wiped every trace.  After that, Simon was whisked straight to a CIA safe house in Brazil, and then he and Johnny simply vanished into the ether.

     Now the transport plane’s engines hummed beneath them, its cargo hold refitted into a bare but workable living space for the long flight north.  Simon shifted on the narrow cot, the cast on his leg jutting awkwardly.  He’d refused another dose of painkillers.  He needed every thought crystal-clear for what came next.

     Johnny sat opposite, rummaging through a canvas kit.  His hair had grown long since Colombia, now curling beneath a trimmed beard.  Enough to mask his face, but not his eyes. Johnny extracted two passports and held them out.

     “Your pick.” he said.  “Lance or Hugh Campbell?”

     Simon reached for the top booklet.  Hugh Campbell, but paused as he flipped it open.  The photo inside was unmistakably Johnny.  Simon frowned.  “That’s…  you.”

     Johnny laughed and shrugged.  “They got swapped.  Ah’m Hugh, ye’re Lance.”

     “Twat names.”  Simon closed the passport and handed it back.  He took the other one.  Lance Campbell, and the picture on its photo slot showed him, still gaunt from surgery but unmistakably Simon.  He tapped the name.  “Lance Campbell, then.”

     Johnny nodded, trading passports.  “So Ghost becomes Lance.”  He began slotting the IDs, driver’s licenses, credit cards, into their wallets.  “And Ah’m Hugh.  We shred the old ones once we’re back on the ground.”

     Simon watched in silence as Johnny worked with methodical precision.  According to Laswell, the plane they’d boarded didn’t exist.  Ghost and Soap had died over the Atlantic.  Empty coffins, one last funeral at Dover, and that was that.  Only Murphy, Price and Gaz mourned them.

     Simon leaned back against the cold metal wall.  The past two months had been a fever dream.  Rescue, recovery, exile.  Laswell had delivered on every promise, and unearthed evidence on Murphy far darker than either of them had known.  Other victims, other ruined lives.

     “Ye should sleep.” Johnny murmured as he settled next to him.  “Still a few hours before we land.”

     Simon closed his eyes, letting Johnny’s warmth seep through his fatigue.  “Do you think Murphy bought it?  The crash?”

     Johnny’s arm wrapped around him, careful not to press against the healing rib bruises.  “Every report points to it.  Laswell made sure.  He cannae touch ye anymore, mo ghràidh.”

     Simon exhaled.  Near twenty-five years of nightmares.  Torture, betrayal, forced loyalty under Murphy’s thumb, suddenly seemed like a closed chapter.  He drifted off to Johnny’s steady breathing.

     Hours later, the gentle rumble of descent woke him.  He blinked and saw Johnny gathering their packs, excitement flickering in his eyes.  Simon swung his legs over the edge of the cot.  His leg throbbed but held.  “Ready?”

     “Always,” Johnny said, helping him stand.

     They disembarked onto a private airstrip carved from forest.  The pilot never looked back, never saw their faces.  Another layer of anonymity.  Johnny slid the keys to a waiting Land Rover out of his pocket.

     Inside the rugged vehicle, Johnny guided Simon into the passenger seat, then stowed their meager gear.  The engine rumbled to life, and they set off northward.  Through forest, over farmlands, until the greenery gave way to rolling hills and finally to a slate-gray coastline beneath an overcast sky.

     Johnny followed a narrow lane down to a lone stone cottage hugged by the wind.  He cut the engine and turned to Simon.  “Home.”

     Simon stared at the sturdy little house: whitewashed walls, a slate roof, windows wide to the sea.  Laswell had set them up off the grid.  Solar panels on the roof, generator, well water, no paper trail.  “Perfect.” he whispered.

 

Notes:

It's sad that Price and Gaz weren't in on it. They'd absolutely keep their secret. Maybe in the future, when Ghost has had some time to heal...

Chapter 7: Haunting Memories

Summary:

Alone in their bedroom of their seaside cottage, Simon is plagued with memories from his past.

-- CW --

The first section gets graphic in Simon's recollection of what Murphy did to him.
If this is going to bother you, please skip to the second section. Johnny does come looking for him.

Chapter 7

Haunted Memories

 

     Johnny unlocked the door and ushered him inside.  The interior was sparce.  One bedroom, a two-seat table by the window, a small kitchen corner, a hearth waiting for a fire.  Johnny began unpacking, pointing out possibilities.  “Shelves here, kitchen extension there…  garden space outside.”

     Simon let the motion of Johnny’s hope fill him until his good leg buckled.  He limped to the bedroom, collapsing onto the narrow bed.  The cast made him feel like a child again, needy and vulnerable. 

     Curling in on himself as the word home registered in his thoughts.  The echoes of shouting.  “On the red line soldier!”

     The memory crashed into Simon like a shock wave, sudden and brutal.

     He was twenty-three again, freshly rescued from that hellhole in Mexico, military prison walls still fresh in his mind.  The car that collected him wasn't marked.  The driver silent.  They'd driven for hours until they reached an estate much like Murphy's London mansion, but smaller, more secluded.

     Colonel Murphy, not yet a Major General then, stood waiting on the steps.  Crisp uniform, silver at his temples, shoulders squared with the confidence of a man who'd never questioned his own authority.  Could have been handsome, had the day unfolded differently.

     “Sergeant Riley.” Murphy had extended his hand.  “I've heard a great deal about you.”

     Simon had been too exhausted, too broken to question why a colonel would take personal interest in a disgraced sergeant accused of treason and familicide.

     “I believe your story.” Murphy had said, leading him inside.  “About Roba.  About Vernon.  I have connections that can clear your name.”

     Simon remembered the way hope had flared in his chest.  How desperate he'd been to believe.

     “The military needs men like you, Riley.  Men who survive.  Men who endure.” Murphy's voice had been hypnotic, reasonable.  “I can give you a second chance.  SAS training.  A place in the most elite units.”

     The study had been lined with military honors.  Photographs of Murphy with prime ministers, presidents.  Power made tangible.

     “I'll need certain...  assurances of your loyalty, of course.”

     That's when Simon had first seen it.  The red line inlaid in the floor.  So innocuous.  Just a line.

     “Stand there.” Murphy had pointed.  “On the red line, soldier.”

     “Yes Sir!” Simon had sounded off immediately, military training kicking in despite everything.

     Murphy had circled him slowly, appraising.  “Strip.”

     Simon had hesitated, confusion clouding his face.

     “That's an order, Sergeant.  I need to see what Roba left me to work with.”

     Simon had complied mechanically, each piece of clothing removed revealing more scars, more evidence of what he'd endured.  Murphy's eyes had lingered, clinical and possessive at once.

     “Hands behind your back.  Eyes forward.”

     The humiliation had burned worse than any of Roba's tortures.  Murphy's hands, cool and methodical, had traced each scar, each healing wound.  Cataloging.  Claiming.

     “You're damaged goods, Riley.  No one else would take you now.  But I see potential.”

     Those hands had moved lower.  Simon had gone rigid, but didn't move.  Couldn't move.  The red line held him like a physical restraint.

     “Your service record was exemplary before the...  incident.  I can restore that.  Give you back your career.  Your freedom.”  Murphy's breath had been hot against his ear.  “All you have to do is serve me.  Just as you've always wanted to serve your country.”

     Simon had closed his eyes, swallowing the bile rising in his throat.  The memory was so vivid, he could still feel the cold marble beneath his feet, the weight of Murphy's gaze.

      ”On your knees, Sergeant.”

     Murphy's command sliced through the silence.  Simon hesitated, just a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

     “That's not obedience, Riley.” Murphy's voice hardened.  “Immediate compliance.  That's what I require.  On your knees.  Now.”

     Simon sank down, the cold marble biting into his bare skin.  His body trembled, from cold, from exhaustion, from something deeper he refused to name.  Murphy circled him again, each footstep echoing in the cavernous room.  He’d thought he’d escaped the nightmare of Roba.  Maybe he should have stayed in the grave.

     “You're filthy.” Murphy observed, his nose wrinkling.  “Roba's prison, the military detention... I can smell it on you.”

     Simon kept his gaze fixed on the red line before him, trying to anchor himself to that thin crimson streak.  Focus on the line.  Not on what's happening.  Not on what's coming.

     “Follow me.” Murphy ordered, already moving toward the French doors that led to the back garden.

     Simon rose on unsteady legs, following naked through the house, past priceless artwork and antique furniture that blurred in his peripheral vision.  The evening air hit him like a physical blow as they stepped outside.  Colder than he'd expected, raising goosebumps across his exposed skin.

     The garden stretched before them, immaculate and geometric.  Stone pathways between perfect hedgerows.  A fountain burbling quietly in the center.  And there, coiled neatly against the stone wall, a garden hose.

     “Stand there.” Murphy pointed to a flat stone in the center of the patio.

     Simon moved to the spot, the rough stone scraping against his bare feet.  Murphy took his time retrieving the hose, unwinding it with deliberate slowness.  The metal nozzle glinted in the fading light.

     “Military men understand the importance of cleanliness.” Murphy said conversationally, turning the spigot.  Water hissed through the hose.  “Before you enter my home properly, you'll be cleaned.  Thoroughly.”

     The first blast hit Simon's chest like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs.  The water was ice-cold, the pressure painful against his still-healing wounds.  He gasped involuntarily, stumbling backward.

     Murphy's face darkened.  “Did I give you permission to move, Sergeant?  Or to make noise?”

     “No, sir.” Simon managed, fighting to keep his voice steady.

     “Then get back on your mark and take it silently.  Like a soldier.”

     Simon returned to the stone, bracing himself.  The second blast hit harder, targeting his face, forcing him to clench his eyes shut as water filled his nose and mouth.  He choked but swallowed the sound, forcing himself to remain still as Murphy methodically sprayed every inch of his body.

     The cold seeped into his bones.  His teeth chattered uncontrollably.  Still, Murphy continued, directing the powerful jet against Simon's back, his legs, between them.

     When the torrent finally stopped, Simon stood shivering violently, water pooling around his feet.  He barely registered Murphy's approach until a rough towel was thrown at his chest.

     “Dry yourself.  Then inside.”

     Simon's fingers were numb, clumsy as he tried to comply.  The towel scraped against his raw skin, but he welcomed the pain.  It kept him present, kept him from slipping away completely.

     Murphy watched with clinical interest, then turned and walked back toward the house without checking if Simon followed.  He didn't need to.  They both knew Simon had nowhere else to go.

     Back in the study, a straight-backed wooden chair had been positioned in the center of the room, directly on the red line.  Murphy stood beside it, posture rigid, expectant.

     “Come here.”

     Simon approached, the plush carpet beneath his feet a jarring contrast to the cold stone outside.  The towel was still clutched around his waist, his last shield against what was coming.

     “Drop the towel and bend over the chair.”

     Something in Simon rebelled.  This wasn't what he'd signed up for.  This wasn't military service or even punishment.  This was…

     “I won't ask again, Sergeant.” Murphy's voice dropped dangerously.  “Your career, your freedom, your very life depends on your obedience in this moment.  Choose wisely.”

     Simon's throat constricted.  The towel fell to the floor.  He moved to the chair and bent forward, gripping the wooden seat with white-knuckled hands.  The polished back pressed uncomfortably against his stomach.  His legs trembled with the effort to remain standing.

     Murphy's footsteps circled behind him.  A drawer opened, closed.  The soft clink of a belt buckle being unfastened.

     “I've had my eye on you for some time, Riley.” Murphy's voice was conversational, as if discussing the weather.  “Since you first joined.  Such potential.  Such raw talent.  Wasted in the regular forces.”

     Cold fingers traced the line of Simon's spine, lingering on each vertebra along the lined scars from the whip he’d acquired not a year ago.  He shuddered, unable to suppress the reaction.

     “So responsive.” Murphy murmured approvingly.  “That's good.  I prefer my men...  engaged.”

     The first intrusion came without warning.  No preparation, no gentleness.  Just blinding, tearing pain that shot up Simon's spine and exploded behind his eyes.  A sound escaped him, half gasp, half sob, before he could catch it.

     “Quiet.” Murphy commanded.  “Take it like a soldier.”

     Simon bit down on his lower lip until he tasted blood.  The pain gave him something to focus on besides the violation happening behind him.  He fixed his gaze on a spot on the carpet, counting the threads, forcing his mind away from his body.

     Murphy's rhythm was mechanical, precise.  His breathing barely changed, even as the pace increased.  One hand gripped Simon's hip with bruising force.  The other pressed between his shoulder blades, keeping him pinned.  His rhythm faltered, his breathing finally quickening as he neared his climax.  Simon kept his eyes fixed on that single spot on the carpet, counting threads, reciting weapon specs in his head, anything to distance himself from what was happening to his body.

     Without warning, Murphy pulled out.  Warm, sticky wetness splattered across Simon's back, running down his sides.  The humiliation burned hotter than the pain.  Simon's teeth broke through his lower lip, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth as he fought to remain silent.

     “Good soldier.” Murphy panted, his voice thick with satisfaction.

     Simon thought it was over, that he could finally straighten up, find whatever dignity remained.  Then he heard it.  The unmistakable sound of liquid hitting his skin.  Warm urine streamed down his back, mixing with the semen, running down his legs to pool on the expensive carpet.

     “This is what you are now.” Murphy said calmly, as if discussing the weather.  “Mine.  My property.  Marked as such.”

     Simon's shoulders shook with the effort of containing his sobs.  He wouldn't give Murphy the satisfaction of hearing him break.  But his body betrayed him, trembling uncontrollably as the last of Murphy's urine trickled down his spine.

     “You may stand now.”

     Simon pushed himself upright, his legs nearly buckling beneath him.  Pain radiated through his body, but he forced himself to stand at attention, eyes forward, face blank despite the filth running down his back and legs.

     Murphy circled him slowly, admiring his handiwork.  His expression had softened into something almost tender, a look more terrifying than his earlier clinical detachment.

     “You did very well, Riley.” he murmured, reaching up to stroke Simon's cheek with surprising gentleness.  “Such perfect control.  Even in extremis.”

     Simon stared straight ahead, focusing on a painting across the room.  A naval battle, ships burning on a stormy sea.  He imagined himself on one of those ships, sinking into the cold depths.

     “With proper training, you'll be exceptional.” Murphy's fingers traced Simon's jawline, down his throat.  “The SAS will be just the beginning.  I have plans for you.  Special operations.  A new task force being formed.  You'll be my perfect weapon.”

     The fingers moved to Simon's chest, lingering over his heart.  “And my perfect husband.”

     Simon's eyes snapped to Murphy's face before he could stop himself.  “Husband?”

     Murphy smiled, pleased to have finally broken Simon's stoic silence.  “Of course.  You'll need my protection, my sponsorship.  Marriage is the most efficient arrangement.  Legal, binding.”

     “I...” Simon's voice failed him.

     “You'll agree, of course.” Murphy's tone made it clear this wasn't a request.  “The alternative is returning to military prison.  Charged with treason.  With murdering your family.”

     The room seemed to tilt beneath Simon's feet. 

    The memory fractured, splintering into a kaleidoscope of torment.  Simon's mind pitched backward into another day at Murphy's estate, a week after that first terrible encounter.  The garden hose, cold water striking his naked body with bruising force.  He'd gasped reflexively, water filling his mouth, choking him.

     “Control yourself, Riley!” Murphy had barked.  “You're filthy from training.  Did you think you could track mud into my home?”

     Simon had tried to straighten, to maintain his dignity as the frigid water pummeled his already bruised ribs.  The SAS training had been brutal that day, and he'd barely had time to report to Murphy before being ordered to strip in the garden.

     “S-sorry, sir.” he'd stammered through chattering teeth.

     “Sorry isn't good enough.” Murphy had increased the water pressure, directing it deliberately at Simon's face.  “You will learn discipline.  You will learn perfection.”

     The memory shifted again.  The wooden bench in Murphy's study.  The red line.  Simon bent over, gripping the edges until his knuckles turned white.  Murphy behind him, one hand pressing Simon's face against the polished wood.

     “This is what you're good for.” Murphy had grunted, each thrust punctuated with words that burned themselves into Simon's soul.  “This is all you'll ever be good for.”

     When it was over, Murphy's tone had changed completely.  Gentle fingers stroking Simon's hair, lips pressed against his ear.

     “Such a perfect specimen.” he'd murmured.  “So strong.  So resilient.  You'll train harder, won't you?  Become even better for me.  The SAS is just the beginning.  I have plans for you, Riley.  Great plans.”

     Simon had nodded numbly, unable to form words.

     “You'll make a perfect husband.” Murphy had continued, helping Simon stand on trembling legs.  “Once you've proven your loyalty.  Once you've shown me you understand your place.”

     A gentle kiss on his forehead, a mockery of tenderness that made Simon's stomach heave.

 

--

 

     Simon had been missing for too long.  Maybe he’d needed a nap.  A little smile curled on Johnny’s lips as he went in search of his wayward heart.  They would get though this, he had no doubt.  He found his partner moments later.  The massive man, masked face buried into a pillow, the shudder of his shoulders was the only hint that he wasn’t asleep.  Curling up beside his behemoth of a Ghost, Johnny pulled him in tight, strong arms enveloping and sheltering him.  

     “Ah love ye.” he whispered into Simon’s hair.  “We’re safe.” he reassured Simon, leaving gentle kissed to the back of his covered head.  He would love to run his fingers through those gorgeous blond curls, but there was the mask.  He didn’t push it.  Whatever it was to Simon, he would respect it.  There was plenty of time to pull the man he loved out of it. 

     “Love you too.” he gritted out in an attempt to disguise the silent suffering.

     Simon closed his eyes and let the words seep into him, carried on the brine-sweet air.  Safe.  Love.  The emotions surged and collided, and he felt himself coil inward as though seeking cover.  His chest constricted with the weight of it, the pure rush.  Years of abuse, of knowing nothing but strict protocols and masks.  He’d trained himself to survive by shutting everything out, but now it all flooded back in.  Johnny’s warmth.  The steady pound of surf against the shore.  The impossible fact of survival when all he’d wanted was death, now a life laid out before him.  A life with this beautiful man who’d given up everything just to make him safe.

     Johnny held him tightly, his presence strong and true, an anchoring point amidst the swell.  Simon let the sound of the waves, the soft beat of Johnny’s heart, fill him until he was afraid he might drown in it.  An old fear, the fear of being wanted, the fear of being precious.  Could he ever unlearn what the years had taught him?  That he was nothing but a tool, a weapon, something to be used and then discarded.  That love was a lie to keep him in line.  Murphy's shadow had loomed so large, even these past months, that Simon had begun to believe he would never escape it.

     But Johnny had never wavered.  Had never let go, even when Simon was too far gone to hold on himself.  Simon breathed in the scent of Johnny’s skin and let the comfort spread through him.

     “Love you too.”  His voice was rough with the effort of saying it.

     Johnny kissed his forehead, a gentle promise.  “More than anything else this life could offer.  More than anything.”

     Johnny lay there for what seemed like hours, holding Simon close as the tremors gradually subsided.  The mask had shifted, revealing just the edge of Simon's jaw, but Johnny made no move to adjust it.  Some boundaries weren't meant to be crossed without permission.  Instead, he ran his hand in slow circles across Simon's back, feeling each knot of tension beneath his palm.

     When Simon's breathing finally evened out, Johnny spoke softly into the quiet room.  “Ye can tell me anything, ye know.  Anythin’ at all.”

     Simon stiffened slightly against him.  A barely perceptible shake of his head vibrated against Johnny's chest.

     “Alright.” Johnny whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the nape of Simon's neck.  “Alright.”

     Simon's body gradually relaxed again, sinking deeper into Johnny's embrace.  After a few moments, he rolled over, allowing himself to be cradled more fully in Johnny's arms.  His masked face tucked beneath Johnny's chin, his breath warm against Johnny's collarbone.

     “Listen.” Johnny murmured.  “D'ye hear that?  The sea.”

     The rhythmic crash of waves filtered through the cottage windows, steady and ancient.

     “My family's lived with that sound for generations,” Johnny continued, his voice a low rumble in his chest.  “Up north in a wee village near Inverness.  My grandfather's grandfather built the stone cottage my parents still live in.  Said a man needs the sea to remind him how small he is.”

     Simon's breathing deepened as Johnny spoke, each exhale a little less ragged than the one before.

     “The winters are brutal, but there's something about watching the storms roll in from the North Sea.  Makes ye feel alive, ye know?  Connected to something bigger.”

     A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant waves and the occasional creak of the cottage settling around them.  Johnny had almost thought Simon had fallen asleep when he felt him take a deep, shuddering breath.

     “He used to hose me down in the garden.” Simon's voice was so quiet Johnny had to strain to hear it.  “Like a dog.  Said I was too filthy to enter his home properly.”

     Johnny's arms tightened instinctively around Simon, but he remained silent, afraid that speaking might break whatever had finally allowed Simon to open up.

     “Red lines.” Simon continued after a moment.  “He had them everywhere. In the marble, in the carpet.  Wouldn't let me cross them without permission.  Had to stand on them while he...  while he...”

     Johnny pressed his lips gently to Simon's forehead, just above the edge of the mask.  “Ye dinnae have to say it if ye're not ready.”

     “Ah want to.” Simon's voice strengthened slightly.  “Need to get it out before it poisons me completely.”

     The waves crashed outside as Simon spoke haltingly about dinner parties where he was displayed like a trophy, about a hidden room with a bench and a partition designed for the entertainment of Murphy's powerful friends.

     Simon's voice cracked as he laid bare the worst of it, the twisted rituals Murphy had forced upon him, the humiliation and pain disguised as discipline.  He spoke of being treated like an object, a possession to be loaned out to curry favor with powerful men.  The red lines, the wooden bench, the garden hose, all instruments in Murphy's methodical destruction of Simon Riley.

     Johnny listened in silence, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against Simon's ear.  Only the occasional tightening of his arms revealed the rage building inside him.  His jaw clenched so hard his teeth might crack, but he kept his voice gentle.

     “He can never touch ye again.” Johnny whispered when Simon finally fell quiet.  “Never.”

     Simon's body trembled against him.  “Ah keep thinking he'll find us.  That one day Ah'll wake up and he'll be standing there.”

     “Not while Ah'm breathing.” Johnny pressed his lips to Simon's forehead, just above the edge of the mask.  “Not ever again.”

     He shifted slightly, cradling Simon's face in his hands.  The mask remained, but Johnny didn't mind.  It was Simon's shield, and he'd earned the right to keep it as long as he needed.

     “Listen to me, Simon Riley.” Johnny said, his Scottish brogue thickening with emotion.  “That bastard broke every law, human and divine.  What he did…”  His voice caught, the fury threatening to spill over.  He swallowed it down.  Not now.  Simon needed his strength, not his rage.  “What he did wasnae your fault.  Not one bit of it.”

     Simon's fingers curled into Johnny's shirt.  “Ah could have fought harder.  Could have…”

     “No.” Johnny cut him off gently but firmly.  “Ye survived.  That's what matters.  Ye survived and found yer way to me.”

     The sea crashed outside, punctuating his words.  Johnny brushed his thumb along the edge of Simon's jaw, just below the mask.

    “Ah swear on my life, on everything Ah hold dear, that Ah will never let anyone hurt ye like that again.”  Another soft kiss to Simon's forehead.  “Ye're safe now.  We're safe.”

     Simon exhaled shakily.  “How can you still want me after knowing all that?  After knowing what Ah let him do?”

     The question broke Johnny's heart.  He gathered Simon closer, as if he could physically shield him from the memories.

     “Because Ah love ye, ye daft man.  All of ye.  The parts that are healing and the parts that are still broken.” Johnny's voice dropped to a fierce whisper.  “And because ye didnae 'let' him do anything.  Ye survived.  There's no shame in survival.”

     Simon fell silent, his breathing gradually steadying against Johnny's chest.  Outside, the sky darkened as evening approached, casting long shadows across the cottage floor.

     “We should eat something.” Johnny murmured after a while, though he made no move to release Simon.

 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! We are diving into the cleaning up and healing stages of this one!
Unfortunately, I am having to go out of town for a week for work and will not have access to AO3 next week to post.
The next chapter of this one will go up on 10/16.
Be good to each other!

Chapter 8: Burnt Bacon

Summary:

The title says it all.

Notes:

So, this one is a good contender for my favorite chapter. The boys get some very tender, healing moments. And boy does Simon need them.

Chapter 8

Burnt Bacon

 

     Morning light crept through dusty windows.  Simon woke to the aroma of coffee.  Johnny was at the stove, bacon crisping in a pan.  He was starved, he had to admit.  They hadn’t made it to dinner the night before.  It was all still a blur.

     “Morning.” Johnny said without turning.  “Laswell left us some basics.  Should hold us for a few days.”

     Simon and joined him at the table.  Johnny set steaming mugs before him.  “Slept?”

     “Like a rock.” Simon wrapped his hands around the mug.  “Better than Ah can remember.”

     He folded the mask up enough that he could enjoy the warm drink in his hands, a sip and he gave Johnny a surprised smile.  “Tea?”

     “Aye.” he nodded.  He leaned in, daring to place a sweet kiss to the plush, beautiful lips newly exposed for him.  Simon’s breath caught, but he didn’t recoil.  “Sorry, Ah shoulda asked first.”  He apologized immediately. 

     “No, come do that again.” Simon beckoned him closer, one hand resting on Johnny’s forearm as he leaned in again. 

     Johnny leaned in once more, and this time Simon was ready.  The first brush of lips was tentative, a delicate question rather than a demand.  Simon's breath caught in his throat as Johnny's mouth pressed gently against his, warm and inviting.  The contact sent electricity racing down his spine, nothing like the invasive touches he'd endured for so many years.

     Johnny tasted of coffee, rich and slightly bitter, mingling with the sweetness of the tea still lingering on Simon's lips.  The combination was intoxicating.  Simon's heart hammered against his ribs, a wild rhythm that seemed to echo through his entire body.  His hand trembled slightly where it rested on Johnny's forearm, fingers tightening instinctively.

     “This okay?” Johnny whispered against his mouth, pulling back just enough to search Simon's eyes.

     Simon nodded, not trusting his voice.  Johnny smiled and leaned in again, this time with slightly more pressure.  Simon found himself responding, his lips parting slightly as Johnny's hand came up to cup his jaw, thumb stroking gently along his cheekbone.  The tenderness of the gesture nearly undid him.

     The scent of bacon and the salt-laden air from the open window enveloped them, grounding Simon in this moment, in this place so far from red lines and marble floors and gardens with hoses.  Johnny's other hand found Simon's, fingers intertwining on the table between them.

     “Still good?” Johnny murmured, breaking the kiss again to check.

     “Yes.” Simon managed, his voice rough.  “Don't stop.”

     Johnny's smile widened, and he returned to the kiss, each touch of his lips reverent, as if Simon were something precious, something to be cherished rather than used.  Simon couldn't remember the last time he'd been kissed like this, if he ever had.  The boy he'd fumbled with at eighteen had been eager but clumsy, nothing like the deliberate care Johnny was showing him now.

     Simon found himself leaning further into the contact, his free hand hesitantly moving to Johnny's shoulder, feeling the solid warmth beneath his thin t-shirt.  Johnny responded by deepening the kiss slightly, his tongue tracing the seam of Simon's lips in a silent request.

     Simon froze for a moment, old fears threatening to resurface.  Johnny immediately sensed the tension and pulled back.

     “Too much?” he asked, no judgment in his voice, only concern.

     Simon shook his head, embarrassed.  “No, just...  it's been a long time.  And never like this.”

     Johnny's eyes softened.  “We can go as slow as ye need.  There's no rush, mo ghràidh.  We have all the time in the world now.”

     The Scottish endearment warmed something in Simon's chest.  He nodded, gathering his courage.  “Try again?”

     Johnny smiled and leaned in once more.  This time when his tongue traced Simon's lips, Simon parted them willingly, allowing Johnny to deepen the kiss.

     The first touch of Johnny's tongue against his lips sent a thrill down Simon's spine.  His heart raced as he parted his lips, inviting Johnny deeper.  This was so different from anything he'd experienced before.  Not demanding or controlling, but gentle and giving.  Johnny tasted like coffee and something uniquely him, a flavor Simon already knew he'd never get enough of.

     Simon tentatively touched his tongue to Johnny's, testing, exploring.  The sensation was electric, intimate in a way that made his breath catch.  Johnny responded with equal gentleness, not pushing, just meeting him halfway.  Their tongues brushed against each other, retreated, then met again in a slow dance of discovery.

     A small laugh escaped Johnny when their tongues poked at each other awkwardly, and Simon found himself giggling in response, the sound strange and unfamiliar from his own throat.  How long had it been since he'd laughed during any kind of intimacy?  Had he ever?

     The moment of levity eased something in Simon's chest, and he leaned in further, his hand moving to cup the back of Johnny's neck.  Their tongues slid alongside each other more confidently now, and Simon felt a rush of warmth flood through him as he explored Johnny's mouth.  The wet heat, the taste, the sensation of Johnny's tongue against his own.  It overwhelmed him in the best possible way.

     Johnny's hand came up to cradle Simon's face, thumb stroking his cheekbone with such tenderness it made Simon's chest ache.  He'd never been touched like this, as if he were something precious, something worth cherishing.  Every brush of Johnny's fingers, every stroke of his tongue spoke of care and devotion rather than possession.

     When they finally pulled apart, Simon was breathing hard, his lips tingling.  Johnny's eyes were dark, pupils dilated, but there was no demand in them, only wonder and affection.

     “Alright?” Johnny whispered, his thumb still caressing Simon's cheek.

     Simon nodded, unable to find words for the storm of emotions inside him.  He felt cracked open, exposed in a way that should have terrified him but somehow didn't.  Not with Johnny.

     “More than alright.” he finally managed, his voice rough.

     Johnny smiled, that sunshine smile that had first drawn Simon to him two years ago, before everything had gone to hell.

     “The bacon's burning.” Simon said suddenly, the smell of charring meat cutting through the haze of desire.

     Johnny cursed and jumped up, rushing to the stove where their breakfast was indeed smoking.  “Shit!”  He grabbed the pan off the heat, waving away the smoke.  “Look what ye made me do, distracting me with yer irresistible lips.”

     The teasing tone in Johnny's voice made Simon's chest warm in a different way.  This was normal.  This was what people did, they kissed in kitchens and burned breakfast and laughed about it.

     Simon slid beside Johnny at the stove, reaching around him to snatch a piece of the blackened bacon.  He popped it into his mouth, savoring the bitter crunch.

     “Oi!  That's the worst bit.” Johnny protested, but his eyes crinkled with amusement.

     “Always liked things a bit burnt.” Simon replied, reaching past Johnny to drop bread into the toaster.  Their shoulders pressed together in the narrow kitchen space, and Simon realized he wasn't flinching from the contact.  Instead, he found himself leaning into it, craving more of Johnny's warmth.

     Johnny laughed, the sound rumbling through Simon's chest where they touched.  “Well, there's plenty more where that came from.  Ah've cremated half the package.”

     Simon broke off another piece of charred bacon and held it up to Johnny's lips.  “Chef's tasting portion.”

     Johnny's eyes widened briefly before he accepted the offering, his lips brushing against Simon's fingertips.  The intimate gesture sent a pleasant shiver down Simon's spine.

     “Mm, delicious.” Johnny declared, clearly lying through his teeth.  He scraped the remaining bacon onto a plate, even the blackened pieces.  “Crispy, just how ye like it.”

     The toast popped up, and Simon grabbed it, his fingers working quickly to spread butter across the warm surface.  The simple domesticity of it all made his chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with pain.  This was real.  This was happening.  He was standing in a kitchen with Johnny, making breakfast together like normal people.

     They settled at the small table by the window, plates loaded with burnt bacon and buttered toast.  The sea breeze drifted in, carrying the scent of salt and freedom.

     “So,” Johnny said between bites, “we should get our story straight for the locals.  Nothing too complicated.”

     Simon nodded, adjusting his mask slightly to take another bite.  “We're Lance and Hugh Campbell, private security retirees.”

     “Aye.” Johnny agreed.  “Lance got injured overseas, and we came here to recuperate.”

     “Brothers?” Simon asked, testing the word.

     Johnny's eyes flashed with something Simon couldn't quite name.  “Could be.  Or partners.  Whatever feels more comfortable for ye.”

     Simon considered this as he chewed. Partners.  The word carried weight, meaning.  It felt right.  “Partners.” he decided.  “In every sense.”

     Johnny's smile was brighter than the morning sun streaming through the window.  “Aye, Ah like that.”  He reached across the table, hand palm-up in invitation.  “Partners.”

     Simon placed his hand in Johnny's, their fingers intertwining on the worn wooden surface.  “Been a long time since Ah've been anyone but Ghost.” he admitted quietly.

     “Ye dinnae have to be Ghost anymore.” Johnny said, squeezing his hand gently.  “Not unless ye want to be.”

     Simon stared at their joined hands, calluses meeting calluses.  “Lance.” he tested the word.  “Sounds like some sort of cheesy hero in a romance novel.”  At that, they both laughed.

     “Oi.  Hugh’s not much better.  There must be a million Hugh Grant stupid romantic comedies.” Johnny laughed, considering his own cover.

     “Or Hugh Jackman.  At least you can lean into Wolverine there.  No, Lance…” he made a motion as if tossing long hair he didn’t have.  “That is book cover material there.”

     “Romance cover with a wee Fabio mullet.” Johnny teased, flexing his arms in an exaggerated pose.  “Ye could be holding a swooning lass while standing on a cliff, wind in yer hair.”

     Simon snorted, nearly choking on his tea.  “And you'd be the rugged Highlander, kilt and all?”

     “Och aye!” Johnny affected an even thicker Scottish accent.  “The Campbell clan would be proud.”

     Simon reached for another piece of burnt bacon, holding it up like a trophy.  “To the Campbell boys, masters of the perfectly blackened breakfast.”

     “Perfectly blackened.” Johnny echoed, clinking his piece against Simon's before popping it into his mouth.  His face scrunched up comically as he chewed.  “Christ, that's awful.”

     The laughter that bubbled up from Simon's chest felt foreign but welcome.  Johnny's eyes crinkled at the corners, his whole face transformed by joy.  Something inside Simon's chest unwound further, like a tightly coiled spring finally finding release.

     Johnny leaned across the small table and pressed another kiss to Simon's lips, this one tasting of burnt bacon and coffee.  Simon melted into it, his hand coming up to rest against Johnny's stubbled cheek.

     “We're gonna need groceries.” Johnny murmured against his lips.  “Unless ye fancy burnt bacon fer every meal.”

     “Wouldn't be the worst thing,” Simon replied, stealing one more kiss before pulling back.

     They cleaned up together, shoulders bumping in the narrow kitchen space.  Johnny washed while Simon dried, the simplicity of it almost overwhelming.  No red lines.  No protocols.  Just two men, side by side, doing something as simple as washing dishes.

     “Weather looks good.” Johnny said, nodding toward the window as he handed Simon the last plate.  “Fancy a walk down to the beach?”

     Simon glanced down at his casted leg, then out at the steep path visible through the window.  The thought of navigating those rocky steps made his hip ache in anticipation.

     “Maybe not today.” he admitted reluctantly.  “Don't think Ah'm quite up for those steps yet.”

     Johnny nodded, no disappointment visible in his expression.  “The porch has a better view anyway.”

     He dried his hands on a tea towel, then offered one to Simon.  “Shall we?”

     Simon took the offered hand, letting Johnny lead him through the cottage's small living space to the front door.  The wooden porch wrapped around two sides of the cottage, offering an unobstructed view of the sea below.  Two weathered Adirondack chairs sat facing the horizon, positioned close enough that their occupants could hold hands across the small gap.

     They settled into the chairs, the wood creaking beneath their weight.  Johnny's hand found Simon's immediately, fingers intertwining with practiced ease.  The sea stretched before them, endless blue meeting bluer sky at a horizon so distant it seemed unreal.

 

--

 

     Two days passed in a haze of gentle moments and small discoveries.  Simon's leg felt less like a throbbing beacon of pain and more like a dull ache that flared only when he pushed too far. 

     He lay sprawled across their bed, the afternoon sun warming the sheets around him.  Just boxers and a long-sleeved shirt felt like enough coverage now, at least when they were alone.  The cottage had become a sanctuary, a place where he could simply exist without standing at attention or measuring his words.

     The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam.  Johnny emerged with a towel slung low around his hips, another draped across his shoulders as he dried his hair.  Water droplets clung to his chest, catching the sunlight.

     “Comfortable, are we?” Johnny asked, his Scottish brogue thickening as his eyes traveled over Simon's lounging form taking up most of their bed.

     Simon shifted against the pillows, allowing himself a small smile.  “Getting there.”

     Johnny tossed the smaller towel aside and approached the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he crawled toward Simon.  His skin smelled of soap and clean water, his damp hair curling slightly at the ends.

     “Hello there,” Johnny murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Simon's lips.  He paused, asking tentatively, “May Ah?” indicating the mask.  A little nod and he folded the material of the soft gray balaclava between them up to capture the most perfect, plush pink lips he’d ever known.

     Simon's eyes fluttered closed, his hand coming up to cup Johnny's stubbled cheek.  The kiss deepened, Johnny's tongue gently seeking entrance.  Simon opened to him with a sigh, still marveling at how different this felt, being kissed because he was wanted, not because he was owned.  The intimacy, the meeting of their lips.  Not some random press to his body to offer false praise.  No, this was so different.  Sincere.  Lips slotting together, a welcome and invited merging.

     Johnny pulled back slightly, his blue eyes darkened with desire.  “Missed ye, even though Ah was just in the shower.”

     “Sook.” Simon teased, but his voice lacked any real mockery.

     Johnny grinned and kissed him again, this time trailing his lips along Simon's jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below his ear that he’d discovered the day before.  Simon shuddered, heat pooling in his belly.  Johnny's hand slid from Simon's shoulder down his arm, fingers tracing patterns on his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

     When Johnny's hand moved to his hip, then slowly up his thigh, Simon's breath caught.  Johnny's touch was gentle but purposeful, his fingertips leaving trails of electricity in their wake.  He stopped just short of where Simon was hardening beneath his boxers, his hand hovering in question.

     “Can Ah touch ye, mo ghràidh?” Johnny whispered against his ear.

     Simon shivered, both from the words and the sensation of Johnny's breath against his skin.  He glanced down at his casted leg, the bulky plaster a stark reminder of his limitations.

     “Ah can't do much with this thing on.” Simon said, frustration coloring his voice.

     “Ye dinnae have to do anything.” Johnny murmured, his voice like warm honey.  “Just let me take care of ye.  All ye need to do is enjoy.”

     Simon hesitated, weighing the offer.  This was different territory.  Being touched without expectation of reciprocation.  Murphy had always demanded performance, service.  This felt... dangerous in its generosity.

     “Ah'd like to try.” he finally whispered, the words barely audible.

     Johnny's smile was gentle as he lowered his hand, palm pressing lightly against Simon's growing hardness through the cotton boxers.

     Simon gasped at the contact, his hips instinctively lifting into Johnny's touch.  The sensation was electric, so different from anything he'd experienced before.  This wasn't a demand or a duty.  This was desire, freely given and received.

     “Still okay?” Johnny asked, his thumb tracing small circles.

     Simon nodded, unable to form words as Johnny leaned down to capture his lips in a tender kiss.  The dual sensation of Johnny's mouth on his and the steady pressure of his hand was overwhelming.  Heat bloomed across his skin, a flush that had nothing to do with shame and everything to do with want.

     Johnny took his time, stroking Simon through the thin fabric, each touch reverent.  His lips moved from Simon's mouth to his jaw, then down his neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses that made Simon shiver.

     “Ye're so beautiful.” Johnny whispered against his collarbone.  “So perfect.”

     Simon closed his eyes, letting the sensations wash over him.  Johnny's words, his touch.  They were rewriting years of degradation with each passing second.

     With careful movements, Johnny shifted down the bed, mindful of Simon's injured leg.  He settled on Simon's good side, his breath warm through the cotton as he leaned close.

     “Can Ah kiss ye here?” Johnny asked, his eyes meeting Simon's.

     Simon's heart hammered against his ribs.  He nodded, a small, jerky movement.

     Johnny lowered his head, pressing his lips to Simon's clothed erection.  Even through the material, the heat of Johnny's mouth sent sparks of pleasure coursing through Simon's body.  Johnny moved slowly, deliberately, each kiss a declaration.  An attestment to his love and devotion to the man in his heart.

     Simon's fingers twisted in the sheets as Johnny continued his gentle exploration, kissing along his length, breathing hot against the sensitive tip.  The fabric dampened beneath Johnny's attention, clinging to Simon's skin.

     “Fuck, Johnny.” Simon breathed, the words escaping without permission.

     Johnny looked up, his eyes dark with desire.  “Good?”

     “So good.” Simon managed.

     Johnny's fingers hooked into the waistband of Simon's boxers, tugging just enough to make his intention clear.  “May Ah?”

     The question hung in the air between them. Simon felt a moment of panic.  To be so exposed, so vulnerable, but it faded as quickly as it came.  This was Johnny.  Johnny who had saved him.  Johnny who looked at him like he was precious, not property.

     “Yes.” Simon whispered, his voice rough with desire.  “Please.”

     Johnny eased the boxers down, gentle hands guiding the fabric over Simon's hips and thighs, careful to avoid jostling the cast.  Cool air kissed Simon's heated skin, making him shiver.  He felt exposed, vulnerable, but the look in Johnny's eyes, reverent, hungry, adoring, chased away any hesitation.

     Johnny lowered his head, pressing his lips to Simon's inner thigh.  Soft, butterfly kisses worked their way upward, each one sending tiny jolts of electricity through Simon's body.  When Johnny's mouth finally found his cock, Simon's breath hitched.  The gentle press of lips against his sensitive flesh drew a low moan from deep in his chest.

     Taking his time, his amazing little firebug drew his lips along Simon's length with agonizing slowness.  Each caress was deliberate, worshipful.  Simon's fingers tangled in the sheets, his head falling back against the pillows as another moan escaped him.

     “Ye're gorgeous.” Johnny murmured against his skin.  “Love the way ye sound.  So perfect.”

     Simon couldn't find words to respond, could only gasp as Johnny's exploration continued.  The gentle press of lips gave way to open-mouthed kisses, hot and wet against his aching flesh.  Johnny's tongue darted out, tracing patterns that made Simon's toes curl.  Every touch was reverent, asking rather than demanding.

     “Johnny.” Simon breathed, his hips lifting slightly of their own accord.

     A chill ran down the younger man’s spine.  The sound of his name on Simon’s lips was electric.  He wrapped his hand around the base of Simon's cock, steadying him.  His tongue circled the sensitive tip, tasting the wetness gathered there.   Simon couldn't hold back the deep, sultry moan that rumbled through his chest.  This was nothing like what he'd known before.  This was connection, not service.  His former husband would never have lowered himself to put his lips where Johnny’s worshiped.  Fucking hell, it was amazing.

     Johnny looked up, meeting Simon's gaze.  “Can Ah take ye in my mouth, love?”  After everything his beautiful menace had gone through, there was nothing he was doing, unless Simon wanted it.  If it was too soon, then it was too soon.  He’d spend every day for the rest of his life making certain that his walking wall of mayhem knew this was his choice.

     The question, so simple, so respectful, nearly undid Simon completely.  No one had ever asked.  No one had ever cared what he wanted.

     “Yes.” Simon gasped.  “God, yes.”

     Johnny's lips parted, sliding over him with exquisite gentleness.  Wet heat enveloped him, sending waves of pleasure cascading through his body.  Simon's hand found Johnny's hair, fingers threading through the damp strands, not guiding, just touching.

     Moving slowly, his brilliant Scot took him deeper with each downward motion.  His tongue pressed against the underside of Simon's cock, finding sensitive spots that made Simon gasp and tremble.  The suction was perfect.  Not too hard, not too soft.  Just right to send Simon spiraling toward ecstasy.

     “Fuck, Johnny!” Simon groaned, his accent thickening with desire.  “That's...  Christ, that's amazing.”

     Every touch tender and loving, Johnny worked his mouth up and down Simon's cock with practiced care, his tongue swirling around the sensitive head before taking him deeper.  The heated, wet sounds filled the quiet bedroom as Johnny hollowed his cheeks, creating the perfect suction that made Simon's toes curl against the sheets.  His tongue lashed against the underside, finding that sensitive spot that made Simon's breath catch.

     Simon's hips began to move of their own accord, small, tentative thrusts at first, as if testing whether this was allowed.  Johnny moaned encouragingly around him, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure up Simon's spine.  Taking the cue, Johnny increased his pace, his blue eyes fixed on Simon's face, watching for every reaction, every flutter of his eyelids, every parting of his lips.

     “Johnny.” Simon gasped, his accent thickening as his control slipped.  “That's...  fuck, that's perfect.”

     Yep, no doubt about it.  The sound of his name like that, the heated moans escaping his lover, they shot right down Johnny’s spine and straight up his cock.  Fucking hell if that wasn’t the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.  Humming in response, he redoubled his efforts as Simon began to buck more confidently into his wet heat.  One hand braced on Simon's hip, not to restrict but to steady, the other gently cupped his balls, rolling them with just enough pressure to make Simon see stars behind his closed eyelids.  He would have asked, but his mouth was full.

     Simon's fingers tightened in Johnny's hair, not directing, just holding on as if Johnny were his anchor in a storm of sensation.  The pleasure built low in his belly, coiling tighter with each slide of Johnny's mouth, each expert flick of his tongue.

     “Ah'm close.” Simon warned, his voice strained.  “Johnny, Ah'm gonna…”

     His only response was to take him deeper, his eyes never leaving Simon's face, silently communicating that this was exactly what he wanted.  The intensity in that gaze.  His desire, his devotion, his acceptance, it all pushed Simon over the edge.  His back arched as much as his injured leg would allow, a hoarse cry tearing from his throat as his release hit him like a tidal wave.

     Johnny stayed with him through every pulse, swallowing around him, easing him through the aftershocks with gentle suction and soothing strokes of his tongue.  Only when Simon collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, did Johnny finally pull away, pressing tender kisses to his inner thighs, his hip bones, his stomach.

     “Beautiful,” Johnny murmured, working his way up Simon's body until they were face to face again.  “So beautiful, mo ghràidh.”

     Simon's heart hammered against his ribs, his body humming with afterglow.  He reached for Johnny, pulling him down into a kiss that tasted of himself on.  Fuck, if that wasn’t something.  Never.  No one had ever done anything like this for him.  The intimacy of it, tasting himself on Johnny's tongue, made his chest tight with emotion.

     “Let me.” Simon whispered against Johnny's lips, his hand sliding down Johnny's still-towel-clad hip.

     Johnny caught his wrist gently.  “Ye dinnae have to, love.  This was for ye.  When yer comfortable with this, then Ah’ll enjoy sharing it with ye so much more.”

     Simon pulled Johnny closer, wanting to feel his weight, his warmth, his realness.  The tenderness in Johnny's eyes nearly undid him completely.  No one had ever looked at him like that.  It was like he was something precious, not something to be used.

     “You're certain?” Simon's voice was hoarse, barely audible.

     Johnny nodded, pressing their foreheads together.  “Aye, mo ghràidh.  We have all the time in the world.”

     Was he that fragile?  That broken?  Simon couldn't tell.  His body was still shivering from the force of his orgasm and he held Johnny as close as he could, their mouths merged together as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

     Johnny's arms encircled him, strong and steady, a shelter in the storm of Simon's emotions.  The kiss deepened, not with hunger but with something that felt dangerously like healing.  Simon tasted himself on Johnny's tongue, the intimacy of it making his chest tighten.

     “Stay.” Simon whispered against Johnny's lips.  He didn't mean just for the moment.  He meant forever.

     Johnny seemed to understand.  His eyes softened, the blue depths swimming with emotion.  “Wild horses coulnnae drag me away.”

     They lay together in the warm afternoon light, Johnny's towel long since abandoned.  Simon's fingers traced idle patterns across Johnny's bare chest, mapping scars and muscle as if memorizing territory.  His touch lingered on a puckered bullet wound just below Johnny's collarbone.

     “Uzbekistan.” Johnny murmured, watching Simon's exploration.  “Two years ago.”

     Simon nodded, remembering.  He'd been there, had helped carry Johnny to the extraction point, blood soaking through makeshift bandages.  He'd thought he might lose him then.  The memory made his fingers tighten against Johnny's skin.

     “Ah've got ye.” Johnny whispered, as if reading his thoughts.  “Not going anywhere.”

     The sea breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the distant cry of gulls.  Simon closed his eyes, letting the sounds wash over him.  For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt...  safe.  Not just physically, but something deeper.  As if the broken pieces inside him might eventually find their way back together.

     Johnny's heartbeat thumped steadily beneath his ear, a rhythm more soothing than any lullaby.  Simon felt himself drifting, the emotional and physical exertion of the day pulling him toward sleep.

     “Rest.” Johnny murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.  “Ah'll be here when ye wake.”

     Simon surrendered to the darkness, Johnny's warmth anchoring him to this new reality.  A reality where touch meant comfort, not control.  Where vulnerability wasn't weakness to be exploited, but strength to be shared.

     As he slipped into dreams, Simon felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.  Something that felt dangerously like hope.

 

Notes:

Thank you so so much for all of the amazing feedback for this little piece!

You are all amazing!

Chapter 9: A Favor

Summary:

Soap leaves to payback a "favor" that he exchanged for his and Ghost's new life.

--

     “Sounds like water, something in the background.  Little loud.” Simon commented.

     “Observant as ever.  On a ferry.  Actually, gonna be getting off soon.  Just glad we got some reception.  That’s why Ah dinnae kin if Ah’d be able to get to hear yer amazing voice.” Soap admitted.

     “Makes sense.  Still gonna be home tomorrow?” he pressed.

Chapter 9

A Favor

 

     Two weeks slipped by in a blur of healing and domesticity.  Simon's cast itched constantly now, a sure sign it was nearly time for removal.  Their days had fallen into a comfortable rhythm.  Morning tea on the porch, physical therapy exercises that Johnny insisted on supervising, afternoons spent reading or watching the sea.  Sometimes they ventured into the small village a few miles down the coast, introducing themselves as the Campbell partners, private security retirees seeking peace after “the accident.”

     Simon was arranging driftwood in the fireplace when Johnny's phone buzzed.  He glanced over to see Johnny check the screen, his expression shifting subtly before he stepped outside onto the porch.  Simon thought nothing of it at first, focusing on positioning the kindling just right.  But when Johnny didn't return after several minutes, curiosity prickled at the back of his neck.

     Through the window, he could see Johnny pacing the length of the porch, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand gesturing occasionally.  His voice was too low to make out the words, but there was an intensity to his posture that Simon recognized from their field days.  Business, not pleasure.

     Johnny ended the call and stood at the railing for a long moment, staring out at the sea, shoulders tense.  Simon returned to the fireplace, pretending to be absorbed in his task when Johnny finally came back inside.

     “Everything alright?” Simon asked, keeping his voice casual.

     “Aye.” Johnny replied, tucking his phone into his pocket.  “Just checking on some things.”

     That night, Johnny was quieter than usual, his mind clearly elsewhere as they ate dinner.  He kept glancing at Simon when he thought Simon wasn't looking, a calculation happening behind those blue eyes that Simon couldn't quite decipher.

     The next morning, Simon woke to find Johnny already dressed, stuffing clothes into a small duffel bag.

     “Going somewhere?” Simon asked, pushing himself up against the pillows, suddenly alert.

     Johnny turned, a flicker of something, guilt maybe, crossing his features before his expression softened.  “Ah need to take care of an errand.  Be gone for three days at most.”  He zipped the bag closed with a finality that made Simon's stomach tighten.  “Figured Ah'd check on our new bed while Ah'm out.  The one we ordered last week.  They said it might be ready early.”

     Simon frowned. “Ah'll come with you.”

     “Not with that cast, mo ghràidh.” Johnny crossed to the bed, sitting on the edge.  His hand found Simon's, squeezing gently.  “One more week and it comes off, remember?  We'll go together then.  Make a proper trip of it.”

     “Ah don't like this.” The words escaped before Simon could stop them.  His chest constricted with a familiar dread.  “Why now?  What's the rush?”

     Johnny's eyes searched his face.  He leaned forward, pressing his lips to Simon's forehead, then his cheeks, the corner of his mouth.  He didn’t wear the mask to bed anymore.  Slowly, the days he went without it had begun.  It warmed Johnny like he couldn’t describe.  Another sweet kiss to his perfect boy.  Each kiss was tender, lingering, as if trying to imprint reassurance directly onto Simon's skin.

     “Ah promised a couple favors.” Johnny admitted finally, his forehead resting against Simon's.  “For our escape.  For all this.”  His hand gestured vaguely, encompassing their cottage, their freedom, their lives.  “Need to make good on one of them now.”

     Simon's fingers tightened around Johnny's wrist.  “Are you in danger?”  The question hung between them, heavy with all the unspoken fears of the past months.

     “No, mo ghràidh.” Johnny's smile was warm, genuine.  “It's a simple task.  In and out.  Nothing Ah haven't done a hundred times before.”

     “Then let me come with you.” Simon hated the edge of desperation in his voice, but he couldn't shake the cold dread pooling in his stomach.

     Johnny cupped Simon's face in his hands.  “Trust me, Simon.  Ah'll be back before ye kin it.  And then we'll go pick up that bed together next week.  Something big enough for this very tall menace Ah seem to have fallen in love with.”

     The teasing tone coaxed a reluctant smile from Simon.  He leaned into Johnny's touch, drawing strength from the steady warmth of his hands.

     “Three days.” Simon said finally.  “Not a minute more.  Ah will come after you.”

     “Three days.” Johnny promised, sealing it with another kiss, this one deeper, filled with all the words he wasn't saying.

     Simon watched from the porch as Johnny loaded his bag into the Land Rover.  The morning sun caught in his black hair, shining as he waved one last time before driving away.  Simon stood there long after the vehicle had disappeared around the bend, the empty road mocking his unease.

     He trusted Johnny.  He did.  But trust had never come easily to Simon Riley, and old habits died hard.

     Back inside, Simon found himself drawn to Johnny's side of the closet.  He ran his fingers over the shirts hanging there, bringing one to his face to inhale Johnny's scent.  His berry flavored shampoo, coffee and something uniquely him.  His hand brushed against something solid tucked between folded sweaters.  A small black case, locked.

     Simon pulled back as if burned.  No.  He wouldn't do this.  Wouldn't let Murphy's poison infect what he had with Johnny.  Whatever Johnny was doing, whatever favor he was repaying, Simon had to trust him.

     He closed the closet door and limped to the kitchen.  Three days.  He could manage three days on his own.  He'd survived so much worse.

     The cottage felt different without Johnny's presence.  It was too quiet, too empty.  Simon made tea and took it out to the porch, settling into his usual chair.  The sea stretched before him, vast and indifferent.  He tried to focus on the waves, on the gulls wheeling overhead, on anything but the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.

     Three days.  Johnny would be back in three days.

     Simon believed that with everything he had.  He had to.  The alternative was unthinkable.

 

---

 

     The rest of that day crawled by with excruciating slowness.  Simon cleaned his already spotless sidearm twice, reorganized the pantry, and attempted to read the book Johnny had left on the coffee table.  By late afternoon, he'd worn a path in the wooden floors from pacing.

     His phone remained silent.  No calls, no texts.  He checked it every few minutes anyway, just in case.  Then, well after dark, it happened.

     🧼  Sorry mo ghràidh, wasn’t trying to ignore you.  was a very long trip.  gonna take a break now.  love you more than anything.  i’ll text in the morning.

     💀 I’m just glad you made it safely.  I love you.  Be careful Johnny.  I can’t go back to life without you.

     🧼  Not happening you big sook.  you’re stuck with me.  sleep well.  i’ll call in the morning, should be able to anyway.  If i don’t i’ll text.  love you.

     💀 Love you too.

 

     Sleep eluded Simon that night.  The bed that had been tiny with Johnny here, suddenly felt too large, too cold without his favorite hobgoblin’s solid warmth beside him.  Simon tossed and turned, his mind conjuring increasingly elaborate scenarios of what “favor” Johnny might be repaying.  None of them were comforting.  He knew Johnny’s skill set intimately.  The only one on the planet that rivaled his own.

 

--

 

     Dawn found him on the porch, bleary-eyed and tense, watching the road as if he could manifest Johnny's return through sheer force of will.

     His phone buzzed and he nearly jumped out of his skin. 

     “’ello.” Simon managed.  The only one living that had his number was Soap.

     “There’s my sweet love.  Missed ye last night.” came the familiar tone of his partner and it washed over him like a soothing balm.

     “Yea, me too.  Couldn’t sleep.” he admitted.

     “Aye.  Got a couple hours, but was strange not havin’ ta fight fer bed space.  No gigantic arms flailing or slappin me in the wee hours.” Johnny teased.  There was the sound of some sort of horn in the background.  A boat of some kind?

     “Sounds like water, something in the background.  Little loud.” Simon commented.

     “Observant as ever.  On a ferry.  Actually, gonna be getting off soon.  Just glad we got some reception.  That’s why Ah dinnae kin if Ah’d be able to get to hear yer amazing voice.” Soap admitted.

     “Makes sense.  Still gonna be home tomorrow?” he pressed.

     “Aye my love, still on track to be home.  Probably later in the evening.  But tomorrow.”

     “Ah love you Johnny.  Please be safe.” Simon bid him again.

     “Promise, mo ghràidh, a little chore an Ah’ll be back with ye.  In fact, Ah was thinkin’, no one is gonna deliver that mammoth of a bed.  We’ll have to probably strap it to the truck.  Might need to pick up some bungies on the way home.” Johnny considered.

     “Good idea.  We don’t have any.  Getting things together though.  No rush.” Simon smiled at the thought.  Their first furniture purchase together.  That had to be some kind of couple landmark.

     “True.  Ah’ve got ta go love, we’re pulling in.  Text ye later.” Johnny promised.

     “Alright sweet’eart.  Love you.” Simon offered as the phone went silent.

     The call ended, and Simon stared at the silent phone in his hand.  Something didn't feel right.  He couldn't put his finger on it, but years of operating in the field had honed his instincts, and right now, they were screaming at him.  Ferry.  Johnny had mentioned a ferry.

     Simon limped back inside the cottage, his cast scraping against the wooden floor.  He paused at their bedroom door, glancing at the closet.  Johnny's side.  Where his clothes still hung, carrying his scent.  Where that locked case was hidden between sweaters.

     And where Johnny's laptop might be.

     Simon crossed to the closet and slid the door open.  Sure enough, tucked on the top shelf was Johnny's sleek black computer.  He reached up, wincing as his ribs protested, still tender but well on the mend, and brought it down.  They'd never discussed passwords or privacy, there had been no need.  But now Simon found himself hesitating, Johnny's trust weighing heavy on his conscience.

     “Forgive me, love.” he muttered as he opened the lid.

     The screen lit up, requesting a password.  Simon tried the obvious first.   Johnny's birthday.  Access denied.  His own birthday.  Access denied.  He tried “Campbell” and “Ghost” and even “moghràidh.”  Nothing worked.

     Simon's lips quirked in a half-smile.  Of course Johnny would be thorough with security.  He sat on the edge of the bed, thinking.  What would Johnny use?  Something meaningful, something...

     Simon typed “burntbacon” and the screen unlocked.

     He exhaled slowly, equal parts relieved and guilty.  Johnny's browser opened to a search page, and Simon quickly typed in their location near Shegra, Scotland.  He pulled up a map and began searching for ferry routes within a twelve-hour drive.

     Several options appeared along the English coast.  Portsmouth, Plymouth, Dover.  All with connections to the continent.  Further south, ferries to Spain and northern France.  Simon's fingers tapped impatiently on the keyboard as he calculated driving times from their cottage.

     “Where are you, Johnny?” he whispered, scanning the routes.

     The ferry to Santander, Spain would take nearly twenty-four hours to cross.  The ones to France were shorter.  But Johnny had mentioned getting off soon during their call.  That suggested a shorter crossing, perhaps to Ireland or between Scottish islands.

     Simon pulled up another search, checking for recent ferry accidents, delays, anything that might hint at Johnny's whereabouts.  Nothing significant appeared.

     He leaned back, running a hand over his face.  What favor could Johnny be repaying that required a ferry crossing?  And to where?  It had to be somewhere significant, somewhere connected to their past or to the people who had helped them disappear.

     A memory surfaced, Johnny mentioning Laswell's connections in Brussels.  The European Union headquarters.  Where decisions about international fugitives were sometimes quietly made or unmade.

     Simon checked the ferry routes again.  If Johnny had driven, possible.

 

--

 

     The ferry docked mid-morning with a low groan of metal against concrete.  John stepped onto French soil, nondescript in his all-black attire.  His skull cap sat low over his brow, the black gaiter masking the lower half of his face, just another traveler bundled against the autumn chill.  He blended seamlessly with the crowd disembarking around him, eyes constantly scanning, assessing.

     He walked briskly through the terminal and into bright, crisp light.  The air smelled of salt and diesel as he moved away from the docks, counting streets, memorizing landmarks.  Six blocks north, then two east, exactly as the instructions had detailed.  There, in a side street, waited the ordinary gray Peugeot, keys hidden above the driver’s side wheel well.

     Soap slid behind the wheel with economical, practiced movements.  The engine started with a quiet purr.  He drove unhurriedly through the city, just another commuter on a mid-morning run.  His mind remained focused, compartmentalizing his thoughts.  Simon would be worried, he knew.  The weight of that knowledge sat heavy in his chest, but this was necessary.  A debt that needed repaying.  A final loose end that needed tying.

     Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the underground parking garage of a nondescript apartment building on the outskirts of town.  Level 3, Section C, just as the dossier had specified.  He parked between two identical sedans, killed the engine, and sat motionless for thirty seconds, surveying his surroundings.

     Satisfied he hadn’t been followed, Soap popped the boot and retrieved the locked black case.  The familiar weight of it in his hand triggered muscle memories from countless operations.  He closed the boot softly and headed for the stairwell, avoiding the elevator with its cameras.

     The concrete steps echoed under his measured footsteps as he climbed.  He encountered no one.  At the top, the heavy metal door swung open onto a flat expanse of gravel and tar paper, warmed by the late-morning sun.

     The rooftop was perfect.  A small maintenance shed housed the stairwell exit, offering cover and a stable surface.  Soap moved behind it, dropping to one knee to unlock the case.  Inside, the rifle’s components lay like old friends.  Barrel, stock, scope, bipod, magazine.  His gloved fingers assembled them with the automatic precision honed over thousands of repetitions.

     A gentle breeze blew from the north.  Temperature moderate.  Soap made the necessary adjustments to his scope, then lay prone on the gravel.  Through his binoculars he scanned the building across the boulevard, counting windows, verifying the target location.  Fifth floor, third window from the left.  Curtains stirred with movement, lights already on in the morning glow.

     He swapped the binoculars for the rifle, his breathing slowing as he peered through the scope.  The crosshairs settled on the chosen window.  His mind flickered briefly to Simon, to their cottage by the shore.  To promises made.

     “Just one more job.” he whispered, words muffled by his gaiter.  “Then home.”

     Minutes stretched.  Soap’s body remained perfectly still save for the steady rise and fall of his chest.  Then the curtains parted.  A tall man with silver temples appeared, flawless in his military dress uniform.  Major General Grayson Murphy.

     Soap’s finger hovered over the trigger, calm settling over him like a shroud.  Murphy moved to the window, glass of whisky in hand, gazing out as though he owned everything his eyes surveyed.

     The crosshairs centered on Murphy’s chest.  Johnny exhaled softly, squeezing the trigger between heartbeats.

     The glass shattered.  Murphy jerked backward as the tumbler slipped from his hand.  One shot.  Clean.  Center mass.  The Major General slumped out of view.

     Soap didn’t linger.  His hands worked with practiced efficiency, breaking down the rifle and returning each part to its precise place in the foam-lined case.  Latches clicked shut.  He stood, brushing gravel from his knees.

     The descent was as uneventful as the climb.  No alarms, no sirens.  Back at the Peugeot, he placed the case back in the boot, started the engine, and drove out of the garage with the unhurried poise of someone running legitimate errands.  He returned the car to its original spot, wiped the steering wheel and door handle, and left the keys where he had found them.

     The walk back to the terminal took twenty-three minutes.  Soap’s stride was measured, his posture relaxed despite the adrenaline still coursing through him.  Distant sirens began to wail, but they weren’t for him.  Not yet.  Perhaps not ever.

     At the terminal, he boarded the waiting ferry, ticket already in hand.  He found a seat by the window, watching the city recede under the bright sky.  Only then did he remove the gaiter, inhaling the crisp morning air that reminded him of home.  Of Simon.

     He pulled out his phone and typed with steady fingers.

     🧼 On my way back, mon amour.  All debts paid.  We’re free now.

     He pressed send, powered off the phone, and tucked it away.  The ferry’s engines hummed beneath him as it cut across the water.  Johnny closed his eyes, exhaustion finally catching up.  It was done.  The man who had tormented Simon for decades was gone.

     The guilt he had expected never materialized.  Only a sense of rightness, of balance restored.  He had protected what was his.  Had done what Simon couldn’t without risking everything they’d built.

     As the ferry carried him back toward home, toward the cottage by the shore, Johnny allowed himself to imagine Simon’s face when he returned.  The relief in those eyes, the future that stretched before them now, truly free at last.

 

---

 

     Simon was on his third cup of tea, staring at his silent phone, when the news alert appeared on Johnny's laptop.  His fingers froze on the keyboard, eyes widening as he read the headline.

     “BREAKING: Major General Grayson Murphy Assassinated in Calais”

     The mug slipped from his grasp, shattering against the wooden floor.  Tea spread in a dark pool around the ceramic shards, but Simon couldn't tear his eyes from the screen.

     The article was brief, details still emerging.  A single shot through a hotel window.  Military police investigating.  No suspects identified.

     Simon's chest constricted, his lungs suddenly unable to draw breath.  Murphy.  Dead!  The shadow that had loomed over him for decades, suddenly...  gone.

     And Johnny was on a ferry.  Had packed a small bag and left with vague explanations about “favors” and “debts.”

     “Oh, Johnny.” Simon whispered, his voice breaking.  “What have you done?”

     He closed the laptop, pushing it away as if it might burn him.  His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, mind racing through implications, consequences.  If Johnny was caught, if there was evidence linking him to Murphy's death...

     Simon forced himself to breathe, to think.  Johnny was too good to leave evidence.  Too experienced.  Too careful.  He had pulled off at least a dozen clean elimination missions that Simon had been a party to.  Maybe not as experienced as the Ghost, but very capable.  And Murphy had enemies, countless enemies.  The investigation would have dozens of leads to follow that had nothing to do with a Scottish ex-soldier presumed dead months ago.

     Still, the timing couldn't be coincidence.  Johnny had done this for him.  Had taken the risk, shouldered the burden, eliminated the threat that Simon had lived with for so long.

     His phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a text message.  Johnny's message about debts paid and freedom won confirmed what Simon already knew.  He stared at the words until they blurred, emotion welling up from some deep place he'd thought long dead.

     Relief.  Guilt.  Fear.  Gratitude.  Love.  They crashed through him in waves, leaving him breathless.

     Simon typed a response, deleted it, typed again.  What could he possibly say?  'Thank you for killing my abuser'?  'I'm angry you risked everything'?  'I love you more than I can bear'?

     In the end, he settled on simplicity.

     💀 Come home to me.  I love you.

     He sent the message, knowing Johnny wouldn't receive it until he turned his phone back on.  He assumed that his sweet madman was smart, and turned off the phone to eliminate any chance of being traced.  Until then, all Simon could do was wait.

     The cast on his leg suddenly felt like an anchor, holding him in place when every instinct screamed to move, to act, to find Johnny and bring him home safely.  Instead, he forced himself up from the chair, limping to the kitchen for a broom to clean up the broken mug.

     As he swept the ceramic shards into a neat pile, Simon's mind returned to Murphy.  To the red lines and the wooden bench and the garden hose.  To decades of pain and humiliation and fear.  To the man who had owned him, body and soul, since he was twenty-three years old.

     Gone now.  Just...  gone.

     Simon leaned heavily on the broom, a sob catching in his throat.  Not for Murphy, never for Murphy, but for the young man he'd once been.  For all the years stolen.  For the scars that might never fully heal.

     But also, perhaps, for the future that now stretched before him.  A future without Murphy's shadow.  Without the constant fear of discovery, of being dragged back into that life.

     A future with Johnny, if he made it home safely.

     Simon straightened, wiping roughly at his eyes.  Johnny would make it back.  He had to believe that.  And when he did, they would face whatever came next together.

     The shattered mug cleaned up, Simon returned to the porch, settling into his usual chair.  The sea stretched before him, vast and unchanging.  Somewhere out there, Johnny was making his way back to him.  All Simon could do now was watch and wait.

     And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he allowed himself to hope.

 

---

 

     The drive north from Dover was interminable.  Johnny had swapped vehicles twice, using cash and the fake ID that Laswell's people had provided months ago.  The news was everywhere.  Radio, petrol station televisions, newspapers at every shop.  Murphy's assassination had ignited a firestorm of speculation.  Terrorism.  Political rivals.  Foreign intelligence services.  No mention of a personal vendetta, of justice served after decades of abuse.  And why would they?  Johnny never knew the man, and his husband, Simon Riley, was dead.

     Johnny kept the gaiter around his neck, ready to pull up if needed, but his face wasn't the one authorities were seeking.  The description that eventually emerged, tall, possibly Eastern European, seen near the hotel, bore no resemblance to him.  Still, he took no chances, avoiding cameras, paying cash, keeping his head down.

     By the time he crossed into Scotland, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones.  He'd been driving for nearly eighteen hours, stopping only when absolutely necessary.  The closer he got to home, to Simon, the more urgent his need to arrive became.

     The coastal road appeared finally, winding along cliffs that dropped sharply to the sea below.  Johnny's hands tightened on the steering wheel as familiar landmarks came into view.  The old lighthouse.  The stone wall that marked the boundary of their property.

 

 

Notes:

And yes, the chapter we've all been waiting for! Soap handled their business and couldn't be more satisfied with the result, all things considered.

Chapter 10: New Bed

Summary:

After the favor Johnny had done for him, Simon makes a point to take care of his boy when he gets home.

--

     The journey home was dusty and bumpy once, the Land Rover jolted over a rut.

     “Everything okay up there?” Johnny called back.

     Simon gave a thumbs-up.  “Like varnish on a beam.”

Chapter 10

New Bed

 

     The cottage came into view, its weathered stone walls a welcome sight after the endless drive.  Johnny cut the engine in the gravel drive, sitting for a moment in the silence.  His body ached, muscles stiff from hours behind the wheel.  But he was home.  The weight of the past three days, of what he'd done, seemed to settle deeper into his bones as he gathered his bag.

     He barely made it halfway up the path before the door flew open.  Simon stood there, silhouetted against the warm light from inside, his face a mixture of relief and something deeper, more primal.  Johnny dropped his bag as Simon moved toward him with surprising speed despite the cast.

     “Johnny.” Simon breathed, and then he was there, solid and real, arms wrapping around Johnny so tightly it almost hurt.

     Johnny sank into the embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of Simon's skin, his shampoo.  Home.  He was home.  Simon's lips found his, desperate and hungry, as if trying to convince himself Johnny was really there.  Johnny kissed him back with equal fervor, pouring everything he couldn't say into the contact.

     When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Simon kept his hands on Johnny's face, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones as if memorizing him.

     “You're really here.” Simon whispered, voice rough with emotion.  “You came back to me.”

     “Ah promised, didn't Ah?” Johnny managed a tired smile, leaning into Simon's touch.  “Wouldnnae leave ye, mo ghràidh.  Not ever.”

     Simon's eyes searched his, a question there that Johnny knew he couldn't answer.  Not directly.  Not yet.

     “Don't ask.” Johnny said softly.  “Please.”

     Understanding passed between them, silent and heavy.  Simon nodded once, his gaze never leaving Johnny's.  They both knew what had happened, what Johnny had done.  The debt that had been paid in blood.  It wasn’t the first time Johnny had killed for him, but Simon secretly hoped it was the last time he had to.

     “Come inside.” Simon said instead, arm sliding around Johnny's waist.  “You look dead on your feet.”

     Johnny let himself be led into the cottage, the warmth enveloping him like an embrace.  The familiar scent of home.  Sea air, wood smoke, and something cooking.  It all combined brought a lump to his throat.

     “Ye've been cooking?” he asked, spotting the pot simmering on the stove.

     “Figured you'd be hungry.” Simon guided him to a chair at the kitchen table.  “Sit.  Before you fall down.”

     Johnny sank into the chair gratefully, muscles protesting even that small movement.  Simon moved around the kitchen with practiced ease despite the cast, ladling stew into a bowl and setting it before Johnny with fresh bread.

     “Eat.” Simon ordered gently.  “Then bath.  You look like you haven't slept in days.”

     Johnny didn't argue, falling on the food with sudden, ravenous hunger.  The stew was simple but perfect.  Chunks of tender beef, potatoes, carrots in a rich broth.  Simon had learned to cook surprisingly well over the past few weeks.

     “S'good,” Johnny mumbled between bites.  “Really good.”

     Simon sat across from him, watching with a mixture of concern and something that looked dangerously like love.  “There's more if you want it.”

     Johnny finished two bowls before finally pushing the plate away, fatigue hitting him like a physical blow now that his hunger was sated.  Simon was there immediately, helping him stand.

     “Bath's already drawn.” Simon said, leading him toward the bathroom.  “Thought you might need it.”  Johnny loved his nice, relaxing baths.

     The bathroom was warm with steam, the old clawfoot tub filled with water that smelled of lavender.  Bubbles floated on the surface, catching the light from the single lamp.

     “Ye added bath salts?” Johnny asked, a small smile tugging at his lips despite his exhaustion.

     “Picked them up in the village last time we were down, wanted to surprise you.” Simon admitted, hands already working at Johnny's shirt buttons.  “Thought they might help with the aches.”

     Johnny let Simon undress him, too tired to do it himself.  The tenderness in Simon's movements nearly undid him.  After everything he'd done, everything he was, Simon still touched him like he was something precious.

     “In you go.” Simon said when Johnny was finally naked.  “Before it gets cold.”

     Johnny sank into the hot water with a groan of pure pleasure.  The heat immediately began to work on his knotted muscles, the lavender scent calming his racing mind.

     “Joining me?” he asked, eyes already drifting closed.

     “Can't with this bloody thing.” Simon tapped his cast against the side of the tub.  “Not unless you fancy fishing me out when Ah get stuck.”

     Johnny chuckled despite himself.  “Rain check, then.”

     “Definitely.” Simon perched on the closed toilet lid, watching as Johnny settled deeper into the water.  “Ah'll leave you to it.”

     “No.” Johnny's hand shot out, catching Simon's wrist.  “Stay.  Please.”

     Simon nodded, settling back down.  For a while, they simply existed in comfortable silence, Johnny soaking in the warm water, Simon a reassuring presence beside him.

     “Cast comes off in two days.” Simon said finally, reminding him.

     Johnny opened his eyes, looking over at Simon.  “That's good.  We can finally pick up that bed, then too.”

     “Mmm.” Simon agreed.  “Ordered it two weeks ago.  Should be ready by now.”

     The mundane conversation was a balm, grounding Johnny in this moment, in their shared future.  Not in what he'd done, or the years of horror that had led to it.

     “Think it’ll clear the door?” Johnny asked, closing his eyes again.

     “Barely.  Might have to angle it, or take it off the hinges.” Simon replied with a grin.  “Worth it, though.  This double bed is murdering my back.”

     “Aye, and ye hog most of the space, ye great lummox.” Johnny smiled as tension drained from his shoulders.

     They chatted like that for nearly an hour, Simon sat on the toilet lid, beside the tub, Johnny soaking until the water chilled.  They spoke of the cottage, the garden they’d plant, the bookshelf Johnny would build, all as if Murphy had never existed.  All as if Johnny hadn’t lodged a bullet in his chest only a day ago.

     When the water grew too cold to linger, Simon helped Johnny out and wrapped him in a towel warmed by the radiator.  His touch was gentle on Johnny’s skin.

     “Better?” Simon asked.

     Johnny leaned into him.  “Much.  Thank you.”

     They made their way to the bedroom.  Johnny squeezed into clean boxers before collapsing onto the narrow cot. Simon settled beside him, shifting so his cast wouldn’t press.  In the hush, Simon whispered, “Ah love you.  Whatever happens, whatever you’ve done.”

     Johnny turned, burying his face in Simon’s neck.  “Ah love ye too.  More than anything.”

     For the first time in three days, Johnny slept without dreams.

 

--

 

     Morning light streamed through the curtains they’d forgotten to close.  Johnny woke to Simon watching him with soft concern.

     “Morning.” Simon murmured, pressing a kiss to Johnny’s forehead.

     “Mmm.  What time is it?” Johnny stretched, muscles protesting.

     “Nearly ten.  You needed it.”

     Johnny sat up, running a hand through his hair.  “Christ, Ah cannae remember the last time Ah slept this late.”

     “You were exhausted.” Simon’s hand found his.  “Feel better?”

     “Aye.” The bone-deep weariness had lifted.  Murphy was gone.  They were safe, here in their remote cottage.

     The next day passed in quiet domesticity.  They avoided the news and any mention of Calais, focusing instead on Simon’s cast coming off and the bed they’d pick up together.  On the second day, anticipation made Simon fidget like a child on Christmas morning.

     “Stop that.” Johnny laughed as they climbed into the Land Rover.  “Ye’re unbearable.”

     “Can’t help it.” Simon admitted.  “Been dreaming of this day.  Thing’s fucking annoying!”

     The doctor’s office lay well beyond the nearest village.  The cast removal was swift.  The saw’s buzz, the crack of plaster, and Simon’s pale, slightly wasted leg was free.

     “Bone’s good.” the doctor said.  “Take it easy for a few weeks.  Light exercise only.”

     Simon flexed his leg.  “Feels strange.”

     “It will.  Gentle now.”

     They drove on to the furniture shop, a squat building at a crossroads.  The owner led them to a box that housed a simple pine frame.

     “Just what you need.” he said.

     “It’s perfect.” Simon breathed.  They bought ratchet straps, blankets for padding, and marched the frame out to the Land Rover.  The settled the frame precariously in the back and hoisted mattress and box spring on top.  Johnny took one end, Simon the other.  Inch by inch, they slid it onto the roof rack, securing blankets first, then straps.

     “Hold it steady,” Johnny called as Simon tightened the last strap.

     “Got it,” Simon panted.

     The journey home was dusty and bumpy once, the Land Rover jolted over a rut.

     “Everything okay up there?” Johnny called back.

     Simon gave a thumbs-up.  “Like varnish on a beam.”

     At the cottage, they unfastened the ropes and lowered the pieces through the single doorway.  They assembled the pine frame in the corner.  When the final bolt clicked in place, Simon sank onto the new mattress Johnny had fitted with fresh sheets.  Johnny joined him, laying on the quilt beside him.

 

Notes:

One more chapter left. This is a short one, I apologize, but wanted to safe the fun stuff for the end. Thank you all for taking the time to read this!
Soap does everything he can to show Ghost there's a better way to love someone.

Chapter 11: Together

Summary:

After a lot of healing, Simon finally decides he wants to attempt something intimate with his Johnny.

Chapter 11

Together

 

     “First proper bed Ah’ve ever had.” Simon said, voice thick with relief.  Compared to the old one they’d stacked outside, this was huge.  He didn’t hang off of it and he loved it!

     Johnny curled against him.  “We did all right.”

     Simon stretched his newly freed leg across the expanse of mattress, savoring the sensation of having room to move.  The cast had been like a prison.  It was one more confinement in a life full of them.  He kicked off his shoes, hearing them thump against the wooden floor with satisfaction.

     “God, this is bloody heaven.” he said, running his hands across the comforter.  “Feels like we're proper people now.”

     Johnny's laugh was soft in the quiet room.  “Aye, no more cramped quarters.”

     Something stirred in Simon's chest, a warmth that spread through him at the sight of Johnny's smile.  Without thinking, he rolled toward him, pushing himself up and over until he was straddling Johnny's hips, pinning him to the mattress.

     “Hi there.” Johnny whispered, surprise and heat mingling in his eyes.

     Simon lowered his head, capturing Johnny's mouth in a slow, deliberate kiss.  He took his time, exploring the softness of Johnny's lips, the warmth of his mouth.  Johnny's groan vibrated against his chest as he responded, hands coming up to grip Simon's waist.

     Johnny kicked his own shoes off, sound of them landing with dull thuds on the floor wafting up.  He shifted beneath Simon, slotting one powerful thigh between Simon's legs, creating delicious pressure exactly where Simon needed it.

     “Fuck, Johnny.” Simon gasped against the smaller man’s mouth, instinctively grinding down against the firm muscle of his thigh.  The friction sent sparks racing up his spine.

     Johnny's hands slid up Simon's sides, fingers tracing patterns that made his skin tingle even through the fabric.  “That's it, love.” he encouraged, voice rough with desire.

     Simon sat back just enough to grab the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion.  The cool air raised goosebumps across his exposed skin.

     “Want to feel you.” Simon said, tugging at Johnny's shirt.  “All of you.”

     Johnny's eyes darkened as he lifted himself just enough for Simon to strip the shirt from his body.  When Simon lowered himself again, the contact of skin against skin drew a shuddering breath from both men.

     “Christ, ye're beautiful.” Johnny whispered, hands reverently tracing the scars that mapped Simon's torso.

     Simon captured Johnny's wandering hands, pinning them above his head as he leaned down for another kiss.  This one was deeper, hungrier.  Johnny arched beneath him, seeking more contact, more friction.

     “Been wanting this.” Simon murmured against Johnny's neck, tasting the salt of his skin.  “Been wanting you.”

     Johnny's laugh was breathless.  “Ye've had me since the moment ye walked into Price's briefing room, ye just dinnae kin it.”

     Simon released Johnny's hands to trace the definition of his chest, lingering on the puckered scar below his collarbone.  His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for Johnny's belt buckle.  The metal felt cool against his fingertips, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Johnny's skin.  He fumbled with it for a moment, suddenly clumsy despite years of handling far more complex mechanisms in the field.

     “Let me help.” Johnny whispered, his hands gently covering Simon's.

     “No.” Simon said, his voice low and determined.  “Ah want to do this.”

     Johnny's hands retreated, coming to rest on the mattress beside him.  The trust in that simple gesture made Simon's heart clench.  He worked the belt free, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft hiss.  The button came next, then the zipper, each small victory sending a fresh wave of anticipation through him.

     Simon hooked his fingers into the waistband of Johnny's jeans, tugging them down over his narrow hips.  Johnny lifted himself off the mattress, making it easier for Simon to slide the denim down his muscular thighs.  The sight of Johnny beneath him, willing and wanting, nearly took Simon's breath away.

     “You're stunning.” Simon murmured, running his hands up Johnny's now-bare legs.

     Johnny's skin flushed at the compliment, the color spreading from his cheeks down his neck to his chest.  Simon bent to press his lips to that blush, tasting the warmth, feeling Johnny's pulse race beneath his mouth.

     “Been wanting to do this for so long.” Simon admitted against Johnny's collarbone.  “Wanted to make you feel good, the way you've made me feel.”

     Johnny's hands came up to cup Simon's face, drawing him into a kiss that was both tender and urgent.  “Ye've always made me feel good, just by being with me.”

     Simon deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against Johnny's, exploring and claiming.  The taste of him was intoxicating.  He pressed himself closer, reveling in the sensation of skin against skin, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through his body.

     “Can Ah touch you?” Simon asked, his hand hovering just above the waistband of Johnny's boxers.

     “Ye never have to ask.” Johnny replied, his Scottish brogue thickening with desire.  “Ah'm yers, Simon.  All of me.”

     Simon slid his hand beneath the thin cotton, wrapping his fingers around Johnny for the first time.  The heat of him, the silken hardness, drew a groan from deep in Simon's chest.  Johnny's eyes fluttered closed, his head falling back against the pillows as Simon began to move his hand in slow, deliberate strokes.

     “Look at me.” Simon whispered, his voice rough with need.  “Want to see your eyes.  You’ve got the most beautiful eyes.”

     Johnny's gaze met his, blue depths dark with desire, utterly vulnerable in a way Simon had never seen before.  It stole his breath, this utterly exposed, raw version of the man he loved.

     Simon lowered himself down Johnny's body, his newly freed leg stretching with delicious freedom as he positioned himself between Johnny's thighs.  He paused, heart hammering against his ribs as he contemplated what he was about to do.  Johnny had done this for him, had shown him pleasure without demands or expectations.  Now Simon wanted to return that gift, to worship Johnny's body the way Johnny had worshipped his.  He wasn’t being forced.  It wasn’t some prize or powerplay his sweet firecracker of a partner had sparked off, it was his own idea.  To see those perfect, incredible eyes blown wide with pleasure, all because of him.  So worth it.

     “Simon.” Johnny murmured, propping himself up on his elbows.  “Ye dinnae have to…”  He’d be lying if he didn’t say every fiber of his being in that moment wished for it, but there was nothing, no reality in which he would ever force Simon to do it.  The giant of a man threatening him with a demonstration of his devotion had been through too much for anyone. 

     “Ah want to.” Simon interrupted, his voice rough with desire.  “Fuck, Johnny, Ah want to taste you.”

     Simon lowered his head, inhaling the musky scent of Johnny's arousal.  His lips brushed against the sensitive skin of Johnny's inner thigh, drawing a shuddering breath from the man above him.  Simon took his time, exploring with tentative kisses, learning what made Johnny's breath catch, what made his muscles tense with anticipation.

     When his mouth finally found Johnny's cock, the heat of it against his lips sent a jolt through Simon's body.  He traced the length with his tongue, savoring the taste, the texture, the way Johnny's thighs trembled beneath his hands.  This was the way things were supposed to be.  Drenched in love and saturated with desire for each other.  The stuff dreams were made of.

     “Christ, Simon.” Johnny gasped, his Scottish accent thickening as Simon circled the base with his lips, nosing against the dark thatch of coarse hair.

     Simon hummed in response, the vibration making Johnny buck slightly.  He explored further, learning the contours of Johnny's balls with his tongue, reveling in the broken sounds that fell from Johnny's lips.  Each gasp, each strangled moan, emboldened Simon further.  He worked his way back up, licking a stripe along the underside of Johnny's cock before taking the head into his mouth.

     “Ye dinnae,,,  ye dinnae have to, mo ghràidh.” Johnny tried again, his voice wrecked.  He would give Simon every possible chance to change his mind, if he wanted to, no matter how much the idea of him pulling away in that second killed him.

     Simon pulled back just enough to speak.  “Ah want to, Johnny.  Let me make you feel good.”

     Johnny's hand found Simon's hair, fingers threading through the strands without pulling or pushing, just connecting.  The touch was so tender, so unlike anything Simon had experienced before, that his chest ached with emotion.

     Returning to his exploration, Simon took his lover deeper this time, learning the weight of him on his tongue.  Johnny's moans grew louder, filthier, a stream of Gaelic endearments and English profanities mingling in the quiet room.  The sounds went straight to Simon's core, igniting something primal within him.

     “Simon, fuck…  yer mouth.” Johnny's words dissolved into a groan as Simon hollowed his cheeks, creating suction that made Johnny's hips lift from the mattress.

     He still couldn't believe how completely he responded to Johnny's pleasure.  Each moan, each gasp, each whispered endearment made him harder, made him want to give more, take more.  This brilliant ray of sunshine beneath him, coming apart at his whim, teaching him the magic that he could wrought with his tongue.  It was intoxicating.  More consuming than any bottle they’d shared in their two years of service together.

     Simon lost himself in the moment, treasuring each gasp and moan that escaped Johnny's lips.  The weight of him on his tongue, the taste, the heat, it all combined into something Simon had never experienced before.  Something sacred.  He worked his mouth up and down Johnny's length, his own arousal building with every sound Johnny made.

     When Johnny's fingers tightened in his hair, gently tugging him back and Simon knew he was close.  He looked up to see Johnny's face flushed with pleasure, his blue eyes dark and desperate.

     “Simon, wait.” Johnny gasped.  “Come here.”

     Simon gave one last lingering lick before crawling up Johnny's body.  Their mouths met in a passionate kiss that left them both breathless.  Johnny's hands roamed across Simon's back, pulling him closer.

     “Ye're amazing,” Johnny whispered against his lips.

     Simon sat back on his heels, suddenly aware of how constricting his pants had become.  His hands trembled slightly as he unfastened his belt, sliding the zipper down.  Johnny watched him, eyes never leaving his face as Simon kicked his pants away.

     Their eyes locked, whiskey brown meeting crystal blue, and Simon felt stripped bare in a way that had nothing to do with his nakedness.  He swallowed hard, gathering his courage.

     “Ah think...  Ah'd like to try.” Simon said, the words coming out more hesitant than he'd intended.  “If you want to.”

     Johnny's expression softened, his hand coming up to cup Simon's cheek.  “Only if ye're sure, mo ghràidh.  We dinnae have to do anything ye're not ready for.”

     “Ah want to.” Simon insisted, leaning into Johnny's touch.  “Ah trust you.”

     “Remember,” Johnny said, his thumb stroking Simon's cheekbone, “at any time, ye say stop, an’ we stop.  No questions asked.”

     Simon nodded, warmth blooming in his chest at Johnny's care.  This was so different from anything he'd known before.  This was choice.  This was trust.  Everything about this felt right.

     “Ah know.” he whispered.  “That's why Ah want it to be you.”

     Johnny pulled him down for another kiss, this one gentler but no less passionate.  His hands skimmed down Simon's sides, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

     “Lie back.” Johnny murmured against his lips.

     Simon complied, settling against the pillows as Johnny reached for the bedside drawer.  The click of a bottle opening sent a shiver of anticipation down Simon's spine.  Johnny's movements were unhurried, his eyes never leaving Simon's face as he warmed the lubricant between his fingers.

     “Still okay?” Johnny asked, positioning himself between Simon's legs.

     He nodded, unable to find his voice.  Johnny's first touch was gentle, questioning, giving Simon time to adjust.  The sensation was strange but not unpleasant, especially with Johnny's other hand stroking his thigh, his lips pressing soft kisses to Simon's hip.

     Johnny's touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as he spread Simon's thighs wider with gentle hands.  His lips trailed down Simon's stomach, leaving a path of feather-light kisses that made Simon's skin tingle.  When Johnny's mouth found his aching cock, the wet heat of it drew a gasp from deep in Simon's chest.  Johnny took his time, alternating between gentle kisses and teasing sucks at the sensitive tip, his eyes never leaving Simon's face.

     “Alright?” Johnny murmured, his breath warm against Simon's heated skin.

     Simon nodded, unable to form words as Johnny's tongue traced a path along his length.  The dual sensation of Johnny's mouth on him and the slick finger circling his entrance was overwhelming in the best possible way.

     “Can Ah touch ye here?” Johnny asked, his finger pressing gently against Simon's rim without breaching.

     “Yes.” Simon whispered, the word catching in his throat.

     Circling slowly, Johnny's finger spread the warmed lubricant with careful attention.  Simon had never experienced this kind of preparation before, this deliberate care.  With Murphy, it had always been pain and force, brutal intrusions that left him bleeding and raw.  This.  Fuck.  Johnny's gentle touch, the slick glide of lubricant, this was entirely new.

     Johnny watched Simon's face intently, reading every flicker of expression.  “Still good?”

     Simon nodded again, tension gradually melting from his muscles as Johnny continued the careful ministrations.  The lubricant warmed against his skin, Johnny's finger moving in slow, soothing circles that had Simon relaxing into the touch.

     “Ah'm gonna press in now, just a little.” Johnny said, his voice low and reassuring.  “Is that okay?”

     Simon bit his lip, a flicker of old fear surfacing briefly before he pushed it away.  This was Johnny.  Johnny who had killed for him.  Johnny who had saved him in every way a person could be saved.  He gave a small nod, bracing himself for the familiar burn.

     But it didn't come.  Johnny's finger breached him with such exquisite gentleness that Simon barely felt it.  Just a slight pressure and fullness that was nothing like the searing pain he'd expected.  He released the breath he'd been holding, surprise washing over him.

     “Ye okay?” Johnny asked immediately, stilling his movements.

     “Solid.  It doesn't hurt.” Simon said, wonder coloring his voice.  “It's...  it's good.”

     A smile spread across Johnny's face, warm and tender.  “That's how it's supposed to be, mo ghràidh.  Never pain.  Never.”

     He resumed the careful motion, working his finger in a bit deeper while his other hand stroked Simon's thigh soothingly.  When Johnny's mouth returned to Simon's cock, the pleasure pushed away any lingering discomfort.  Simon's hips lifted slightly, seeking more of that wet heat.

     “Another?” Johnny asked after several minutes of the gentle attention, his finger moving easily now.

     “Yes.” Simon whispered, his voice husky with need.  “Please.”

     Johnny withdrew slightly, adding more lubricant to his fingers before returning.  The pressure increased as he worked a second finger alongside the first, his movements achingly gentle.  Simon's breath caught, his body tensing involuntarily at the intrusion.

     “Too much?” Johnny paused immediately, concern evident in his eyes.

     Simon shook his head, forcing himself to relax.  “No, just...  different.  Good different.”

     Johnny waited, giving Simon's body time to adjust before he began to move again.  His fingers slid deeper with careful precision, watching Simon's face for any sign of discomfort.

     “Still okay?” Johnny asked, his Scottish brogue thickening with desire.

     “Yeah.” Simon breathed.  “More than okay.”

     Johnny's fingers moved with growing confidence, sliding in and out with a rhythm that had Simon's hips rising to meet each thrust.  Then Johnny curled his fingers slightly, searching, until…

     “Fuck!” Simon nearly shouted as pleasure exploded through him, white-hot and unexpected.  His back arched off the mattress, every nerve ending suddenly alight.

     Johnny froze, his lip worrying between his teeth, a mischievous glint in his eyes.  “Good?”  He was betting, but would never assume.  Simon could squash down any pain if he had to, he’d seen it too many times in their careers.

     “God, yes!  Fuck.” Simon gasped, his chest heaving.  “Do that again.”

     Johnny's smile widened as he repeated the motion, curling his fingers against that spot that made Simon see stars.  Each touch sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through him, building and building until Simon was writhing on the sheets.

     “More.” Simon demanded, his voice barely recognizable to his own ears.  “Faster.”  He had no idea his body could feel this good.  Fucking hell.

     Johnny complied, increasing his pace while scissoring his fingers gently to stretch him further.  When he curled them again, hitting that perfect spot, Simon couldn't hold back the moan that tore from his throat.  His hands clutched desperately at the sheets, his body moving of its own accord as Johnny reduced him to pure sensation.

     “Johnny…  Fuck.” Simon gasped, reaching for him blindly.  “Ah need…  Ah want.”  He couldn't find the words, couldn't articulate what he was asking for through the haze of pleasure.

     Johnny seemed to understand.  He pressed gentle kisses along Simon's length before carefully withdrawing his fingers.  For the first time in his life, Simon felt the loss keenly.  He wanted, needed his fiery Scot inside of him.  Already moving up his body, Johnny was pressing kisses to his stomach, his chest, his throat.

     “What do ye need, mo ghràidh?” Johnny whispered against his lips.  “Tell me.”

     Simon pulled Johnny down for a desperate kiss, tasting himself on Johnny's tongue.  When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, Simon found the courage to voice what he wanted.

     “You.” he said simply.  “Inside me.  Please.”

     Johnny's eyes widened, searching Simon's face.  “Are ye sure?  We dinnae have to.”

     “Ah'm sure.” Simon interrupted, his hands coming up to frame Johnny's face.  “Need you.”

     Johnny nodded, reaching for the small bottle they'd placed on the nightstand.  His hands trembled slightly as he coated himself, the cool gel warming quickly against his heated skin.  He positioned himself carefully between Simon's thighs, searching his partner's face one final time.

     “Ye're certain?” he whispered, his voice rough with need and concern.  He was overwhelmed with his own desire for the man he loved, but he needed to know Simon was okay with this.  A willing partner.

     “Yes.” Simon breathed, pulling Johnny closer. “Please.”

     Johnny pressed forward with exquisite gentleness, breaching Simon's entrance with painstaking care.  Simon's breath caught as Johnny eased inside, the sensation overwhelming yet nothing like the pain he'd expected.  Johnny paused with each increment, allowing Simon's body to adjust, his eyes never leaving Simon's face.

     Simon's hips rose instinctively to meet him, urging him deeper.  Johnny slid home, filling Simon completely, and the groan that tore from Simon's throat was deep and primal.  The sound reverberated through the quiet room, shocking Simon with its rawness.

     “Are ye…” Johnny began, concern etching his features.

     “Move.” Simon commanded, his voice barely recognizable to his own ears.  His hands gripped Johnny's hips, pulling him closer, deeper.

     A surprised laugh escaped Johnny, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  “Aye, Lieutenant.” he murmured, drawing back slowly before pushing forward again.

     The sensation was indescribable.  Simon's eyes fluttered closed as Johnny established a rhythm, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure racing up his spine.  His thighs tightened around Johnny's hips, urging him on, demanding more.

     Johnny responded immediately, his pace increasing as Simon's legs squeezed him harder.  The controlled gentleness gave way to something more urgent, more primal.  His hands braced on either side of Simon's head, his breath coming in ragged gasps against Simon's ear.

     “Simon.” Johnny breathed, the name like a prayer on his lips.  “God, ye feel incredible.”

     Simon couldn't form words, could only respond with broken moans as Johnny struck that perfect spot inside him again and again.  His hands roamed Johnny's back, feeling the muscles flex and strain with each movement, the skin slick with sweat beneath his palms.

     This was nothing like what Simon had known before.  This was communion, not violation.  Johnny moved within him and above him like they were made for this, like their bodies had always been meant to fit together this way.  Each thrust built the pleasure higher, a rising tide that threatened to overwhelm him completely.

     “Johnny.” Simon gasped, his accent thickening as his control slipped further.  “Don't stop.  Please don't stop.”

     “Never.” Johnny promised, his rhythm faltering slightly as his own pleasure mounted.  “Never gonna stop loving ye.”

     The words pierced Simon's heart even as Johnny's body pierced his.  Love.  This was love.  Not just the act but everything surrounding it.  The care Johnny had shown, the patience, the reverence. The way he watched him, taking in every detail, every sound, every gasp.  Simon was lost in the sensation, the feeling of Johnny moving inside him, the weight of him above.  This was nothing like he'd ever experienced, a giving and taking that left him breathless, desperate for more.

     “Harder.” Simon demanded, voice rough with need.  “Faster, Johnny.”

     Johnny met his demands without hesitation, driving into him with renewed vigor.  His hips snapped forward, the rhythm growing more urgent, more primal.  He shifted, changing the angle slightly, and Simon cried out as pleasure exploded through him.

     “There?” Johnny gasped, sweat beading on his forehead.

     “God, yes!” Simon groaned, his head thrown back against the pillows.  “Right fucking there.”

     Johnny's mouth found Simon's neck, sucking at the sensitive skin below his ear.  He trailed kisses along Simon's jaw, his shoulder, anywhere he could reach as he continued to move within him.  His tongue traced patterns on Simon's collarbone, teeth grazing lightly in a way that sent shivers racing down Simon's spine.

     Simon felt his climax building, a tight coil of pleasure winding tighter with each thrust.  Johnny must have sensed it too, because he slipped a hand between their bodies, wrapping his fingers around Simon's length.  The dual sensation, Johnny inside him and Johnny's hand stroking him in perfect rhythm with his thrusts… it was overwhelming.

     “Johnny.” Simon warned, his voice breaking.  “Ah'm close.”

     “Me too.” Johnny panted against his skin.  “Together, aye?”

     His hand moved faster, thumb circling the sensitive head with each upstroke.  Simon's world narrowed to the points where their bodies connected.   Johnny inside him, Johnny's hand around him, Johnny's mouth on his skin.  The pleasure built to an unbearable peak, and then Simon was falling, crying out Johnny's name as his release washed over him in waves.

     Johnny followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buried himself deep inside Simon, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.  He collapsed forward, careful not to crush Simon beneath him, his forehead resting against Simon's shoulder as they both gasped for breath.

     For several minutes, they lay tangled together, heartbeats gradually slowing, sweat cooling on their skin.  Johnny pressed gentle kisses to Simon's shoulder, his neck, anywhere he could reach without moving.

     “Alright?” Johnny murmured finally, lifting his head to meet Simon's gaze.

     Simon nodded, unable to find words for the emotions swirling through him.  He felt raw, exposed, but in a way that was liberating rather than frightening.  Johnny had seen him at his most vulnerable and had treated that vulnerability as something precious.

     “Better than alright.” Simon managed at last, his voice hoarse.

     Johnny carefully withdrew, both of them wincing slightly at the sensation.  He disappeared briefly into the bathroom, returning with a warm, damp flannel.  With tender care, Johnny wiped away the traces of their lovemaking, the warm cloth gentle against Simon's sensitive skin.  Simon watched through half-lidded eyes as Johnny tended to him with such reverence it made his chest ache.  When Johnny disappeared to rinse the cloth and return it to the bathroom, Simon found himself already missing his warmth.

     “Come back to bed.” Simon said, his voice still rough from earlier.

     Johnny smiled that sunshine smile that never failed to warm Simon from the inside out.  He returned to Simon, both sliding beneath the fresh sheets, his skin warm against Simon's as they settled into their new bed.  Simon pulled him close, tucking Johnny's head beneath his chin, arms wrapping securely around him.  The comforter settled over them like a protective cocoon, shutting out the world beyond their cottage.

     “Ah love you.” Simon whispered into Johnny's hair.  “God, Ah love you so much it terrifies me sometimes.”

     Johnny pressed a kiss to Simon's collarbone.  “Ah love ye too, mo ghràidh.  More than anything in this world.”

     Simon's fingers traced idle patterns on Johnny's back, following the curve of his spine, the defined muscles beneath smooth skin.  He pressed his lips to Johnny's forehead, his temple, the corner of his eye.  Each kiss a silent promise, a wordless declaration.

     “Never thought Ah'd have this.” Simon admitted, his voice barely audible.  “Never thought Ah'd be free of him.”

     Johnny lifted his head, capturing Simon's lips in a kiss that was achingly tender.  “Ye were always meant for more than that life.  Always.”

     Simon brushed the hair from Johnny's forehead, marveling at the man in his arms.  This fierce, loyal, dangerous man who had killed for him.  This man who had willingly given up everything, for this, their chance to live.  Together.

 

Notes:

I can't thank you all enough for coming on this wild ride with me. If I don't stop here, you'll end up with a years worth of them living on the sea and being joined in retirement by a couple of old buddies who would never, ever say they recognized these two.
It's been amazing. Thank you so much for all of the comments, the encouragement and the kudos!
I'm not at all used to any interaction or even knowing that someone's read some of the stuff I write and it's crazy exciting!
See you in Swanked and Best Crack In London and Fixing a Hole and Medusa Unfurled and Sick Day or shoot and 11/3 was three days ago. Gotta get on the anniversary piece!
Be safe and happy, even when it's the hardest thing in your lives to do. You're all precious and beautiful and don't let anyone tell you differently!

Notes:

Comments and questions are always welcome.
Thank you so much for reading!
Hope you liked reading it as much as I liked writing it.

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of Bottom Ghost Week 2025