Chapter Text
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
– CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
Simon stood stock still just inside his doorway, staring into his kitchen and living room in disbelief. Every inch was spotless. The only sign there was that a human being lived there was a candle on the coffee table, and the washing machine running in the kitchen. It had not looked like that when he’d left for work that morning.
He dumped his backpack onto the floor and kicked his shoes off next to it, leaving them in a relatively neat pile just in front of the door. He stepped further inside, glancing around at his home. Windows were thrown open, the air smelled of vanilla and lemon scented cleaner, and he could faintly hear music playing from the bedroom.
He took his coat off and left it with the rest of his things, and then padded his way into the bedroom. Just inside the ensuite door he could see Johnny, humming along to his music and scrubbing the sink.
Dumbfounded, Simon froze in his spot, staring at the other man as he kept scrubbing. He’d spent the night, but Simon had half been expecting him to leave in the morning in favor of his own home. Although, he’d been doing that less and less lately. In the two and a half weeks they’d been back, he’d gone from spending most of his time in his own flat, to spending any time Simon wasn’t at work in his flat with him. Regardless, Simon had definitely not expected to come home to see the man cleaning every inch of his flat.
He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, content to watch Johnny for a moment while he scrubbed away at white porcelain.
Unfortunately, Johnny turned around, and with how silent Simon had been as he’d walked through the apartment, John plainly had no idea he’d been standing there. He let out a shout of fear, and then clutched at his chest, “holy shit, Simon,” he muttered.
Simon smiled and approached him, pulling him into a hug. “Sorry, Johnny.”
John wrapped his arms around Simon. He was still holding the brush he’d been using, and his hands were soaking wet, but Simon didn’t mind. He pressed a kiss to the side of John’s head and then let go, leaning against the door frame and looking in at all the hard work John had done.
The bed was made, Simon’s half-dirty and dirty clothes piles had disappeared, his nightstand was spotless, and he could see his clean clothes hanging neatly in the closet.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning.”
“Why? I didn’t ask you to.”
“Och, it’s nothing. It was just a mess.” John turned back to the sink, running water to rinse away all the suds, and then he washed his hands clean of the soap and dirt that had been in the sink.
“I don’t really mind,” Simon said. He pulled his now wet shirt over his head and tossed it into the newly emptied laundry basket in the corner.
“I figured.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing!” John turned around, grabbing the hand towel from the hook behind himself to dry his hands. “I’m no judging ye, Si. I just don’t like mess.”
“You think I’m so messy?”
“Well…”
“Hey!”
John could see it coming, Simon knew he could, because he saw his eyes dart past him and into the bedroom. Planning some sort of escape. Simon stood in front of the door, though, and there was no way John would get past him without knocking him down.
He braced himself just as John moved. John’s shoulder came into contact with his chest, but he’d leaned forward enough to absorb the impact, albeit the air was knocked out of his lungs.
He wrapped his arms tight around John, and John tried to yank himself away, but Simon was stronger. John hadn’t been able to exercise, yet. Simon used that to his advantage. He stuck his leg out next to John’s and threw his weight to the side, sending him falling onto the bed.
John, always a quick thinker, scrambled to get up and run from the bedroom, but Simon was quick enough to dive onto the mattress after him and get a solid grip on his shoulder. He threw him back onto the mattress and he landed with a quiet shout.
He tried again to get up, but Simon pressed his forearm tight against John’s chest, pinning him firmly in place.
“Take it back.”
“Never. Yer a mess, Simon.”
“Johnny,” Simon warned.
John smiled, “yer my mess, mo chridhe.”
“You should be nicer, Johnny. I could have killed you.”
“Whatever, Si. Get off of me and go cook dinner.”
“Yes, sir.” Simon leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to John’s lips, and then he stood up, finally releasing the other man. John sat himself up on the edge of the bed. Simon could feel eyes on him as he went to the closet in search of a new shirt. “Does the mess really bother you?”
“Not as such,” John answered. “More like… distracts me.”
“Distracts you?” Simon picked a black t-shirt, slipped it over his head, and then turned back around to face Johnny.
Simon hadn’t ever been bothered by mess, or clutter. As long as it wasn’t disgusting, moldy, stinky, or covered with bugs, he was okay with things being on the floor, scattered across every surface. He hardly noticed it.
“Guess so. I can’t work when there’s a mess.”
“What were you working on?”
“Relaxin.’”
“You-”
“I heard it. Workin’ on relaxin.’ S’contradictory.”
“Sure is.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Well, hurry up. I’m starving.”
“Hello Starving. I’m Simon.”
John reached out, giving Simon a smack on his arm. “Yer a bastard.”
Once again, Simon approached John to give him a kiss, and then he headed out to the kitchen. He dug around in the fridge looking at the food - or lack thereof - that he had. Not much. It’d be chicken and salads for dinner.
He likes to cook, he doesn’t like to clean. Johnny likes to clean, he doesn’t like to cook. Things might just work out. Simon could hear the sound of Johnny humming along to his music in the bathroom while he worked on preparing dinner. Cool air blew in the window, and Johnny shouted, “hey, Si! Close those windows. I meant to close them earlier.”
“Sure thing.” Simon dropped the chicken into the pan, washed his hands, and then went to the windows to close them. The sun had set long before he’d gotten home. It would be December tomorrow, and he could feel it in the air.
With the windows closed, he pulled the blinds closed and then returned to his cooking.
He lost himself comfortably in the monotony of it. Cutting up vegetables, mixing a dressing, flipping the chicken in the pan. John must have snuck into the room behind him, because he spoke from behind Simon, “I got ye a gift today.”
“What’s that?”
“Close your eyes and turn around.”
“If you do anything disgusting, Johnny, I’ll skin you alive and turn your skin into a lamp shade.”
“Steamin’ Jesus.”
“You’ve been warned.” Simon finally obliged, closing his eyes and turning around.
“Hold out your hands.”
Simon obeyed. He felt John place something in his hand, seemingly an oddly shaped glass bottle.
“Open yer eyes.”
Simon did. In his hands was a bottle of Knob Creek.
“That’s the kind ye were drinkin’ in Chicago.”
“Sure is. Where did you…?”
“I went to Tesco’s and saw they had it.”
“You went to Tesco’s and didn’t get anything for dinner?”
John rolled his eyes and reached out, punching Simon’s arm. “Yer an ass.”
“I’m kidding, Johnny.”
“You’d better be.”
With a smile, Simon pulled Johnny into a hug. John held him back, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. They held onto each other for a minute, until Simon remembered the chicken he had sitting in a frying pan. He let go of John and sat the bottle down on the counter, just in time to save the chicken from being burned.
John collected a couple of plates and gave them to Simon, who plated up dinner. While he did that, John grabbed two glasses and poured Simon some of his new bourbon, and a glass off of scotch for himself.
They sat down together on the couch and flipped on Breaking Bad while they ate. They hadn’t finished yet, and if Simon was being honest with himself, he was deeply interested in seeing how it would end. John, of course, was absolutely delighted beyond belief every time Simon let him turn it on. There was very little in this life that was exactly the same as it had been in his life before, Simon assumed, and that TV show was something.
Simon liked it. He liked Johnny even more, so he wouldn’t dare complain.
When they finished eating, John collected their plates and did the dishes. Simon got up to pour them each another drink while he cleaned. As he walked past him, he made sure to place a firm smack square on his arse, which prompted a curse from the Scot.
After everything was cleaned up and they had their refilled drinks, they settled back onto the couch. Simon put his feet up on the coffee table, and John put his feet up on Simon’s legs. Simon kept one hand on his ankle, loving the feeling of the warmth of his skin against his own.
Every night they spent like this, he found himself having the same argument in his head. He hadn’t ever done anything to deserve to get to come home to someone like Johnny, who would happily clean up after him, and bring him home his favorite whiskey just because he’d seen it at the grocery store. He didn’t deserve falling asleep with the other man in his arms, waking up to his face buried in his shoulder, cooking dinner for him every night and being showered with compliments for absolutely everything he cooks.
Deserving or not, Simon was grateful.
The month he’d spent with Johnny, although brief, had been one of the best of his life. His brain quieted down when Johnny was around. His thoughts slowed, his memories retreated, hiding from the sunshine the other man brought around with him everywhere.
He often felt like Johnny was the sun, and he was the rain. You wouldn’t expect to put them together, but without both of them present, you can’t have a rainbow.
When the episode ended, John shut off the TV and turned to Simon. Simon looked back at him, curious.
“How was work today?”
“Uneventful.”
“Any sign of…”
“No. We’ve been doing some trainings. Diving, swimming, teamwork stuff.”
“How’d it go?”
“Pretty well. One of the rookies tried to drown me.”
“Simon.”
“He lost track of me and didn’t pass the mouthpiece back.”
“Well, you remember how that was the first time around. Blindfolded underwater? Spooky.”
Simon shook his head and patted John’s leg twice. “You’re eager to go back.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Painfully.”
“What am I supposed to do for another month?”
“Let your body heal.”
“Feels healed enough.” Simon scoffed. John rolled his eyes. “Don’t-”
“Do you remember what you told me in bed the other night?”
“Simon, don’t .”
“‘I gotta slow down, Si, feels like I’m the one getting impaled.’”
John covered his face, a piss poor attempt at hiding the blush on his cheeks. Simon just smiled at him. “Point made,” he muttered from behind his hands.
Simon finished his drink and leaned forward to place it on the coffee table. “Why don’t you try drawing.”
“I draw all the time.”
“Painting?”
“I don’t know how to paint.”
“I didn’t know how to cook until I tried it.”
John was quiet for a minute. He finally uncovered his face, but the blush on his cheeks was still plainly visible. Simon could feel his heart glowing at the sight. He fucking loves those rosy cheeks. “Fair point,” he said finally.
It wasn’t long after that they made their way to bed. They stayed awake in the dark talking for hours about everything and nothing. John posed stupid questions, Simon told stupid jokes. They talked some about Alejandro and Rudy, about work, about the latest plot points in Breaking Bad, until Johnny finally fell asleep.
Simon didn’t fall asleep long after him.
The next morning, Simon woke to an empty bed. Naturally, his mind jumped to the worst possible conclusions. John had somehow been kidnapped, had gone outside and been part of a freak accident, he’d had an aneurysm in the bathroom. He knew it wasn’t logical, but his mind raced, anyway.
He climbed out of bed and felt around in the dark until he reached the bathroom light switch.
No sign of Johnny there.
He left the light on and used it to light his way out of the bedroom. He glanced down the narrow hallway and spotted a light on in the kitchen, so he walked himself straight over there.
The smell of coffee hit him as soon as he crossed the threshold from the living room carpet, to the hard tile floor of the kitchen.
There was a thermos on the counter, resting on top of a note which read, Going for a walk. I’ll be back after you leave. Love you.
Simon’s thoughts settled in an instant. He felt like the relief might make his legs melt out from under him. He went back to the bedroom to get showered and ready for work, and he made sure to grab the coffee John had made for him on the way out.
He also sent a text, just to ease what was left of his troubled mind.
S: Leaving for work, now. Let me know when you get home safe.
J: obviously. I <3 u
S: I love you too.
His mind finally eased, Simon hopped into his car.
It was an old thing, stained with years worth of cigarette smoke and accidentally spilled coffees. It ran, though, and that was about all he needed. It was rare he found himself commuting to the base. Given that he’d rarely had much happening outside of work, he usually lived in the barracks, leaving commuting to his squadmates that were married, had families.
Simon didn’t have that. He never had much of a reason to hang out at home until now.
It was easier to come home from work, knowing that John would be there waiting for him.
But it was also harder to leave for work, knowing John wouldn’t be able to go along with him. His heart ached as he drove away, watching the street shrink behind him in the rearview mirror.
Johnny would be alright, and so would he.
Work was just more of the same. They had to go through training with new recruits. They were back on swimming, going over the same things they’d done the day before. To his credit, Simon’s partner was much more efficient, this time. And, also to his credit, he did apologize for the events of the day before.
Although Simon wagered it was just as likely that he was simply terrified of the man. Most people are. No one seems to be particularly comforted by a 6’4 man in a skull mask.
Which is exactly why he wears it.
Only two people ever saw him differently; Captain John Price, and Sergeant John MacTavish. Why, he could only imagine.
The pair shared so much, if what they said was true, and Simon was beginning to believe more and more by the day that it was, in fact, absolutely true. Price was acting differently since John told Simon he’d told him, John himself had changed so drastically that Simon had gone and fallen in love with him.
Maybe their shared experience made him less terrifying. Or maybe they just tried harder than most to understand the man beneath the mask.
Price called Simon in to talk to him after they had finished running some of their drills. Simon settled himself at the chair opposite Price’s desk.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Price crossed his arms across his chest and cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable, almost. “I need somebody to run reconnaissance in Iran.”
“You mean me.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“We’ve got some intel that an AQ cell might be getting their shit back together, so to speak. I need someone to get in there and get me definitive proof.”
“When?”
“4 December. This Sunday.”
“That’s soon.”
“We need to move fast. We’ll send you out for 3 days, you’ll have time to look out and get in and get what you need. Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
“Good. We’ll brief on Saturday. You’ll be wheels up Sunday at 0300 hours. Good?”
“Affirmative.”
“Good. Back to training, yeah?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
Simon stood up, and as he grabbed the door handle, Price called out, “how’s Soap holding up?”
Simon paused and turned back around to look at Price. “He’s good. Healthy. He badly wants to come back to work.”
“He always did,” Price answered. “Even against the wide world’s better judgement.”
Simon smiled at the comment. He didn’t know him as well as Price did, but he knew he was completely correct about that. John MacTavish is a stubborn bastard.
“Alright, you’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir. See you in a bit for the next CQB?”
“Absolutely.”
He wondered if John had reached out to Price at all, or even Gaz. Price didn’t strike him as the type to ask after somebody like that, but he also knew that to Price, Johnny wasn’t just anybody.
He'd make sure to tell Johnny to reach out to them. Maybe he'd want to have them over some night...
He grabbed his phone out and noticed some texts from Johnny that he hadn’t gotten a chance to respond to.
J: home.
J: took ur advice and got some paint
J: gonna paint ur couch
J: jkjk
J: unless..
J: i was gonna go to the grocery store today but i dont feel like it so can we order in dinner
J: im thinking mexican
J: painting sucks. u suck too
J: get better ideas
He couldn’t help but smile at the barrage of messages. It was so very Johnny to text like that.
S: Mexican sounds good.
He slipped his phone back into his pocket and decided to get himself back to work.
He only had a few hours left, and they flew by as he repeatedly led rookies through drill after drill, reminding them of their mistakes and urging them to improve. Before he knew it, he was climbing into his car and heading towards home.
When he got there, John was still in his flat, sitting curled up on his couch, with a canvas and a paintbrush balanced on his lap.
“I thought you hated painting,” Simon commented. He kicked his shoes off and piled the rest of his things on top of them on the floor.
John looked up, and a smile spread across his face at the sight of Simon. “I don’ hate painting. I just said it sucks. I feel like a wee bairn. Look at this.”
John turned around the canvas. Part of it was painted, and to Simon, it looked fine. He’d never been much of an art critic. The part that wasn’t painted looked fine to him, too. The sketch was beautiful, and he could tell in an instant what it was meant to be.
“Las Almas?”
“Aye. Thought it’d be easy to start with. Turns out it’s no.”
Simon stepped into the kitchen to deposit his thermos in the sink, and then he walked into the living room, carefully sitting on the couch next to John, so as not to disturb his careful brushstrokes.
“You’re doing better than I would.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Simon leaned over and placed a kiss against John’s temple. John turned his head and caught Simon’s lips with his own, and Simon lingered there, kissing him for a moment longer before he pulled away. “Dinner?”
They ordered dinner, some place John claimed he was quite familiar with and rather enjoyed, and while they waited for it, John packed up his painting supplies.
“How was work?”
“Same as yesterday, Johnny.”
“You aren’t so good at storytelling.”
“There’s no stories to tell.”
“There must be something.”
Simon shrugged, and then it hit him. “Oh, yeah, there is.”
John was in the kitchen, but he peeked his head out from the doorway to look at Simon. “What?”
“Price is sending me out on an assignment.”
The frown that crossed John’s face was instantaneous. Simon almost regretted telling him. “Where?”
“Iran. Gathering some intel.”
“When?”
“Sunday.”
“Sunday!” John didn’t sound happy. Simon couldn’t place why.
“Uh…”
“How long?”
“Three days.”
John disappeared into the kitchen, and Simon heard dishes clanking louder than he was used to in the sink. He stood and walked to the doorway, and he could see John, furiously scrubbing away at the thermos. “Johnny?”
“What!” John’s voice was loud as he snapped at Simon. Simon blinked, surprised. Guilt immediately overwhelmed John’s features.
Neither of them said a word.
Just then, the buzzer rang. Dinner. Perfect timing.
“I’ll get that,” Simon insisted immediately, and he was out the door in a second.
He’s a soldier. He’s good at being a soldier. He can be ruthless, he can be tactical, he can think quickly on his feet, and he can safely command men out of impossible situations.
He’s not so good at being a person. John needs something from him, and he isn’t sure what it is.
By the time he gets back upstairs, John doesn’t seem so sure, either.
They eat together in relative silence. John puts on Breaking Bad, like usual, but he provides far less commentary.
When they’re done eating, he silently takes their plates and cleans them up, and then goes straight to the bedroom.
Simon sits in his spot for a minute, frozen solid, unsure how the hell he’s meant to proceed.
Eventually, he stands and goes to the bedroom door. John is laying on the bed, holding his journal up above his face, just staring at it.
“Johnny?”
“What.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s-”
“Nothing, I said. Alright?”
Simon surrendered. He stepped back from the door and went back to the couch. Alone, he just grabbed a book to keep himself entertained. By the time he gave in to sleepiness and went to bed, John was already asleep.
Not soundly, though. He muttered to himself and made different facial expressions as he dreamt, and despite earlier events, Simon climbed into the bed and pulled John close, letting the man settle comfortably into his chest.
They’d have tomorrow to talk. Maybe John would be willing, then. Maybe he wouldn’t, but at least Simon will have had some time to consider why.