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Simon always thought he’d die in combat.
Nothing dramatic about it. He just knew that one day, some lucky bastard would be faster on the draw, and he’d be declared KIA without even a legal name.
Perhaps he had almost died in combat, he mused, running water over the potatoes in the sink and watching the dirt wash away. Whatever part of Simon Riley was left had nearly died with the way his sergeant’s body hit the ground that day, like a rag doll, crumpling down, his face stained red all the way to his neck.
Simon remembered wiping Johnny’s nose and mouth for some reason.
His gloves were soaked, and he kept smearing the blood instead of clearing it.
Someone tried to pull Johnny out of his arms.
Simon punched a medic for it.
He didn’t remember Price dragging him off.
He’d broken a finger on the medic’s face. It still didn’t look quite right, a little crooked, as he set the potatoes to boil.
Simon had looked at Johnny’s body, his eyes rolled back with blue just barely visible.
He knew he’d outlived something important.
The potatoes rattled against the sides of the pot as the water began to boil. Simon adjusted the flame lower.
It had taken three men to pry Johnny from his grip. Simon remembered that part clearly. The sound he made when they did.
He didn’t remember breathing after that.
The timer on the stove clicked on. Twelve minutes.
Once the potatoes were soft enough to pierce with a fork, Simon ran them under cold water and peeled the skins away with his bare hands. The heat bit into his fingertips something nasty. The skins slipped off in wet strips, splitting under his thumbs.
Green onions would be a nice addition, he thought. Something to pick up next time he went into town. Cigarettes, too, he made a mental note.
The potatoes were still steaming inside as he cut them into squares, the overcooked edges crumbling under the knife. Simon blew on his fingers uselessly, red from the burn.
Johnny loved potatoes.
The sergeant wasn’t a picky man; the army didn’t leave much room for that, but he would rush to the mess whenever they had something, anything, with potatoes. They tasted like nothing, the same as most things there, but Johnny would talk about his mum’s baked potatoes every single time.
Cheesy. The best thing you could ever taste.
He’d said it so many goddamn times.
Simon pushed the cut potatoes to the side and started on the onions, the smell sharp enough to sting his sinuses.
He wondered, suddenly, how Mrs. MacTavish was holding up.
She was a tiny woman. Looked even smaller sitting beside him in the waiting room, her son’s blood dried on both their hands. She hadn’t cried for a long time. Not even when the doctor came out, looking as frayed as the rest of them.
She had called him love.
Patted his back while they sat on plastic chairs under hospital lights.
The onions sizzled in the butter as Simon slid them into the pan, stirring slowly. The kitchen filled with a soft, warming smell.
He reached for the spice rack, mismatched containers from different brands, and added salt, pepper, and a little paprika. He liked it when it bit back, sharp enough to hurt his gums.
Johnny would go red in the face at even a pinch of it. Sensitive stomach. Belly aches half the time.
The onions softened and turned translucent as Simon stirred them down, then he added the potatoes, folding them through the pan until everything moved together.
First couple of days, he actually felt like a ghost.
Still buried under Mexican dirt, waiting for Johnny to be buried next to him.
Every time he woke up, for a second, Johnny wasn’t shot in the face in his bleary half-sleep. Then his eyes would focus on the blank hospital walls.
Doctors said not to expect much. Simon still did. He paced in front of the ICU like a caged animal.
Brain damage was probable, inevitable, they said. Gaz made a joke about how MacTavish already had one.
Price had chuckled.
Simon didn’t.
Later, he sat beside Gaz as the other man broke down, crying into his shoulder. Simon didn’t think crying helped anything. Neither did standing there, watching Johnny not wake up.
Potatoes were covered in butter now, edges crisping in the pan. He lowered the heat and added a little more salt.
Simon tapped the spatula against the edge of the pan, shaking off the onions clinging to it. The sound cut through the morning quiet, sharp in a way the half-light didn’t match.
The sun was only just beginning to break through.
He reached for a bowl and cracked the eggs into it, whisking them quickly.
It was winter then. Simon remembered how cold his fingers were against Johnny’s when he held his hand.
It had rained for days. The sound of it on the hospital windows blurred into the machines beside the bed, steady and repetitive.
Simon sat in the chair beside the bed because standing made it worse, though sitting didn’t fix anything either.
A nurse had told him to talk. Said it helped patients in comas.
Simon didn’t.
He watched the monitor instead. Numbers shifting without meaning unless someone decides they did.
They didn’t change much.
Outside, the light stayed grey most of the time.
Johnny didn’t open his eyes.
Simon found himself missing the clear days with blue.
The butter had settled into a steady hiss again.
Simon poured the eggs over the potatoes, watching them take shape in the heat. He gave it a slow stir. His hand hovered over the handle for a moment, then dropped it back down instead. The potatoes were already crisping at the edges again, catching just slightly where he liked them.
Johnny hated runny eggs, while Simon didn’t mind them either way.
The sun was climbing higher now, turning the morning from orange to blue.
Simon reached for a plate without looking and set it down beside the stove. The kitchen was quiet enough to hear the faint pop of butter cooling at the edges of the pan.
He turned slightly to check the table for space.
Only then did it register that the chair across from it was already occupied.
Johnny was in the chair.
Not quite sitting straight. His right side lagged slightly, shoulder lower, his hand resting heavier on the table than it should have been. His eyes were open, but slow to settle on anything.
On Simon, eventually.
“Smells good,” Johnny mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
Simon didn’t answer straight away.
His hand tightened on the edge of the counter, just once. He looked at Johnny.
Worn-out shirt, boxers, hair grown out on the sides, like he still hadn’t quite settled back into himself.
Simon exhaled through his nose, slow.
“Yeah,” he said.
He turned off the stove.
The kitchen felt suddenly smaller as he crossed to the table.
Johnny was close enough now that Simon didn’t have to reach far. Even from there, he could feel Johnny’s sleep-warmed body heat, steady and real.
Simon ran a hand over his face, then into his hair, careful around the rough scar at his temple. He traced down to his neck, fingers catching briefly where things had healed wrong.
Johnny smelled like sleep, faintly sour, like their bed still clinging to him, as Simon pressed a kiss to his forehead, then another to the corner of his mouth, where it didn’t quite sit right anymore.
“Morning, Johnny,” he said.
When Johnny opened his eyes again, it took him a moment to focus on Simon.
Longer than it used to.
But his eyes were blue, and Simon cared about nothing else.
“Do you want some coffee, love?” Simon asked, already knowing the answer.
“I’ll do it,” his stubborn boy said, trying to get up like he wasn’t still half held together by effort.
Simon huffed under his breath, fond more than anything, and plated the eggs and potatoes. A little more paprika on his own. Two forks.
Johnny's hand shook something terrible, holding the mug.
Simon didn’t move to help. They’d fought about it enough times.
Johnny found a weakness in it. Simon thought it a privilege. To have him alive to serve him for the most mundane tasks.
Johnny liked doing things himself. Simon let him.
He watched him manage it anyway.
Simon set the plates down just as Johnny managed to bring over the two mugs. He quietly reached out to steady the sloshing coffee before it could spill, content to spend the rest of his life catching whatever Johnny dropped.