Chapter Text
Celebrating Christmas was difficult when there was nobody to celebrate with. For much of Simon’s adult life he had been alone, even when he was a child it wasn’t as though his father was going to get the family in the spirit of the season or his mother was going to make everything magically better for one day out of the year.
Simon knew many men in the military that spoke of what it was like back home during the holidays, how much they missed their families: mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and in some instances children. For them, there was someone on the other side who they were fighting for - someone that they were going to go back home to. Simon had never had that, and Ghost surely didn’t. It was just him in the world.
What was there back in England? A cold, empty flat that was devoid of any sort of human interaction? The reminder of everything that he was missing when the holidays came around? Simon didn’t like to think about it, and Ghost pretended like all of that didn’t exist.
Whenever Simon was given that chance though - it only happened once in a blue moon - he would go back to Manchester. That city didn’t hold anything anymore, part of the reason he had left in the first place, but there were memories there that Simon didn’t want to lose.
He would go to the store, find the best bouquet of flowers that he could, and manage the walk to the cemetery. It was a lively place during the winter time, despite the cold that seeped into everyone’s bones. There were always families that were coming and going, placing gifts for their loved ones.
There was a widow that visited five headstones down, she always gave Simon a sad smile when he would stand in front of the four headstones - someone his age shouldn’t have had so much to bury already.
His father wasn't there, and if he was Simon would have stomped on the headstone until it was cracked and broken beyond repair, but everyone else was there, six feet under the dirt. Simon would pick out flowers from the bouquet, placing them gently on the stones - sometimes he would tell military stories, never the horror filled ones, but more fun times with the 141, mostly he stayed quiet though, not offering a word.
Simon didn’t know if he would be able to go back this year, if Johnny would be alright with it. Part of him cursed himself for thinking so lowly of the other man. Of course, Johnny would be alright with it, he had introduced Simon to his family after all. This was different though, they both knew that.
He approached the topic hesitantly one night, as they both laid in bed. Riley was curled up with Strawberry on his bed, the only time that Riley had actually used his bed was when Strawberry had nestled herself down in it as well.
Johnny was laying back, Simon’s head tucked under his chin. If anyone saw them like this he would adamantly deny that it was true - besides - who could believe that Ghost could be soft like this. “Johnny?”
There was the shifting of sheets, “Yeah, Si?”
“What do you think about taking a trip down to Manchester together? Just for a little while.” There was a pause between them. Johnny must have known what Simon was implying, it was impossible to not catch onto the other thinly veiled question. “I think it’d be a great idea.”
With that they both feel asleep, Simon a bit more relaxed now that he was sure Johnny would be alright with meeting his family.
It was cold as they walked down the rows, a chilling -6 as they passed headstone after headstone. Simon had the path memorized of course, after walking down it so many times, but this time he dragged it out, scared that Johnny wasn’t actually as alright with this entire thing as he initially said. The man hadn’t said a word of hostility though, instead holding Simon’s gloved hand in his own, the warmth cutting through the freezing air.
In Simon’s other hand was the bouquet of flowers, perfectly picked as always. He hung a right and then stopped, turning to face the stones. There still hadn’t been a snow so the names were still visible, though it was obvious that many years had passed since they had originally been placed. He began his ritual, picking out the colours that complimented each person.
Johnny leaned down as well, “Do you want me to help?” His hand was extended, “I can just watch if you like.”
Simon looked at the purple foxglove in his hand, hesitantly handing it to Johnny, “This one’s for mum.”
“Alright.” They continued like that, both placing down flowers until the grey slabs were adorned with a multitude of different vibrant colours.
Johnny rested his head on Simon’s shoulder, the taller peering down at the headstones. “I think Tommy would have liked you, you’re both trouble makers.”
The other man laughed at that, “Anything else you want to say?” He said it with a teasing inflection, but Johnny knew that it was hard for Simon to open up about these things, that he needed prompting every once in a while.
So, Simon told stories, the ones that he wanted to cherish forever, and Johnny held onto every word.