Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No one expects to have the trajectory of their life uprooted when they've settled comfortably into what they've built from the ground up.

Especially not if your career is just taking off, everything feels perfect and right for once, and then something goes wrong out of nowhere. The next thing you know, you’re bleeding out on the ground, your vision tunnels and everything fades into this overarching nothingness.

Add onto the fact that the overarching nothingness extended for more than a few months, six months to be exact, and you wake up being told that you can’t go after the cunt who put you there in the first place.

The big stamp of ‘honourable medical discharge’ was on your file and you were sent back, expected to move on just like that, a military vet with absolutely no direction in your life. 

I might’ve overstated the relatability bit of my story.

Truth be told, you wouldn’t have understood unless you were a sorry eejit like me. Military life’s not for everybody and for a good reason too. It was a choice for me, something I dove headfirst into because every other option didn't fit; I guess it was just extra tragic that I happened to like what I was doing, and I was good at it too.

A special kind of hell trying to adjust after thinking you found something you were going to do until you died.

Or retired after being unable to serve, guess that’s what happened to me.

The worst part of it was stumbling your way through forced retirement. Trying to hype myself over returning to an empty house took more time than I'd care to admit. This place hasn’t been ‘home’ for a while, and considering how much I was travelling all over, I never thought I’d need a concept of home beyond a base to recover before, during and after missions. 

Everything was left as I remembered — which meant everything was draped in the sterile silence that held the vaguest trace of life, worse than a hospital's atmosphere because at least people were there when I was under active care. All I was left with was my mam and da’s belongings, and the random stuff that my sister didn't bother taking, scattered around. She would’ve visited, maybe, if she wasn’t over in Wales with a new kid running around. A handful that bairn was, and her constant apologies made me feel tired, so I waved the concern off. 

I don’t think I can handle having a kid around alongside her, not with my motor functions still feeling a bit fucked up. It wasn’t anything unmanageable, the main reason I’m not rotting in some hospital bed, but it hurt like a weeping bastard at times, and it was ten times more annoying when I had to deal with flares. 

Other than that, everything was your usual business. Eat, scroll and watch things on my laptop, think about what I’m supposed to do with my life after all hope fucked off, eat more, and sleep. 

A monotonous hell. 

I woke up today feeling like I needed to stretch my legs, so I walked straight to the door, slipped a coat over my shoulders and faced the Scottish winter head-on. 

Like an absolute eejit, times two. 

Feeling winded after two hours of walking was embarrassing enough, I had to grasp the mailbox before I fell over in the final stretch. Credit to the mailbox though, I managed to catch the sight of a fancy-looking envelope, from some law firm I’d never seen or heard of. 

Since I didn’t have anything better to do for the rest of the day, I opened it immediately.

-

Most people wouldn’t hop on a train and leave the next day after inheriting their grandpa’s property.

Those same people would’ve called me a hot-headed bastard who needs to think twice before jumping the gun, they would’ve never understood the true meaning of being tactical. There wasn’t an active threat in most of Scotland, all the ‘threat’ was the cold weather and I was well prepared in my da’s winter clothes. 

Watching the hills, covered in thick snow, through the train’s window was peaceful for once. It almost lulled me to sleep. The trip wasn’t long though, so I found myself awake once the train stopped, snapping out of the vaguely asleep daze. 

The village that my grandparents lived in looked the same as it did all those years ago. 

I used to visit with my family in the holidays and summers, it was a lot simpler back then. The weather felt less like it was planning to make me feel incompetent and there was a whole life in front of me. I’d tell my grandma about my dreams, and she was the only one who didn’t immediately dismiss it—listened to me rant and rave about how I was going to be a strong army man to serve the country against the bad guys I saw so often in those military films. Of course, nine-year-old me was more susceptible to the glamorised view of the military, those films don’t tell you how horrible things are once you’re on that side of the war. It didn't help that I idolised my cousin, someone who had been selected as a SAS in his military career.

It’s brutal, rotten work, and maybe in a kinder world, I’d have different ideals. I would’ve wanted to be someone else, didn’t hate the suffocating feeling at home to the point I chased the high of every adrenaline-filled escape, I would’ve had people to rely on who cared enough to properly hear me out.

Walking through the village gave me some curious looks, I recognised some of them, waved in a short greeting and shouted that I’d visit later on. Seeing the older and familiar faces of these people I remember from a decade or two ago felt sobering. My family wasn’t here anymore but the atmosphere reminded me of their history, mine too. The main stores were lined up in the street that led up to the village. The bakery where my grandpa’s friend worked, giving me free cupcakes for the family whenever I visited with other boys from the area, the cafe that my family would take me on the odd weekends, the farmer’s market where we got all of our groceries from; everything was the same, a scene straight out of my past.

All except the people that used to be there, I guess.

The group of kids I ran around with back then were also from families who were visiting their relatives, close and distant—there were the recurring faces, and faces that only lasted one winter, but all of them managed to fit in the little group we had. I’d assign them different made-up roles if there weren't more, it was nice to have a group, and nicer when more could join in on the fun. Make belief was our everything, the monsters we fought, and the cities we ruled were in our wildest imaginations. Things were simpler back then, when the monsters that we needed to defeat were figments of an imaginary world where justice ultimately reigned supreme.

The good guys won, the bad guys died, allies survived.

I wish things were as simple as that.

Shaking my head, I cleared my thoughts when I saw the path that led directly to my family’s farm come up. It was a separate path that went uphill, isolated from the rest of the village by the rocky greenery, it looks creepier in the dark when every echoing sound is ten times louder. I never liked trudging through the dark alone. I wasn’t the one to jump over every little noise, but walking through the dark enough left a lot of room for imagination to fill in the gap.

There was a boy who noticed my hesitancy when no one else did. I was used to being alone once the uphill path came up, everyone else had their homes and family’s business somewhere in the village. Being too used to things wasn’t good either, it took me a good while to realise a smaller figure was following me around. I nearly jumped my skin because he was quieter than everything else, and with his pale skin, I thought I’d stumbled upon a ghost.

The boy shook his head quietly when he saw me flinch, flashing his slightly crooked teeth at me in a soft smile. He was different like that. Others would’ve teased and tried to make fun of the moment, but Simon was different. He stood out like a thumb when he first visited too, a bit too awkward and isolated from the group, like someone had forced him to be there against his will. 

The grownups tended to do that back then. They told the kids to play with each other in the village while they got busy with whatever task or work they needed to do to prepare for the holidays. He was from England too, visiting some distant relatives in the village for the winter, which added a whole layer of ‘otherness’ alongside his quirks. It took a single glance to realise he wasn’t going to join in without help, and I gladly stepped in, offering my company in the name of friendship.

Simon was quieter than other kids but he was reliable in every way that mattered. Whether it was having my back in the games, or front of the adults, any shit that we got into was more fun with him by my side. Simon was always willing to stay back as much as he could, admitting to me once that it was nicer with us than his family. I didn't think much of it back then, I had a sister and understood how annoying siblings and parents could be at that age; looking back, there was probably more to the story than I was given.

Nonetheless, his presence when I was walking up to my grandpa’s farm eased the worry that usually clung to my back until I reached the bright light of the house’s front porch. I didn’t ask how he knew I was scared, and he never gave a reason for why he followed. We awkwardly stood in the light that night, and my mouth was half open, trying to ask him if he wanted to stay over; when my grandma noticed and invited him in any way. Simon’s face had eased in a sort of boundless happiness that relieved me back then, I didn't realize my attachment to him would spiral from that point.

It was a memorable night. We played in the house until our legs burned, and practically gulped down the food that my family made. Grandma made honey apple pie as extra for dessert since Simon was visiting and I remembered telling him giddily that he should visit often since she was willing to indulge both of us with more sweets when he did. I never forgot the bright smile on his face that he tried, and failed, to hide from me, it lit up all of his features like he was a Christmas tree himself. 

We slept in the same bed that night, and sometime during the night, I found his hand in mine.

That winter was the most memorable for me. Simon visited every day, stayed every day too, and it hadn’t struck me as odd until the winter ended and the next year, he wasn’t there.

He didn’t return after that winter. 

There used to be days when I missed him to the point it hurt. His boyish smile and warm dark eyes, wondering what he was doing, where he went. I belatedly realised that I had developed a crush on him. My first crush. For many of the years that followed, my Christmas list included ‘I want to see Simon again’ and nothing else. Looking back, it was no wonder my grandpa kept asking me to put down actual gifts instead of a person. I even argued with him, for days on end, that Santa wouldn’t have too much trouble getting him there because Simon would’ve wanted to come anyway, and he’d fit comfortably in a large box if he gave him a blanket to make sure he wasn’t cold during the trip to the farm from England.

It got to the point that my parents had to sit me down and explain that Santa couldn’t kidnap people as a ‘gift’ for others, and especially not for me, since I was being ‘naughty’ by troubling Grandpa with the constant questions about Saint Nicholas and his capabilities as Santa Claus. It wasn’t the main reason I was disillusioned with religion, but it was pretty high on the list.

I stared at the rusted sign in the corner of the path, the ‘Mactavish farm’ that was half buried in snow, and allowed my thoughts to clear.

My past was where it’d always be. There wasn’t a point in reminiscing about it when I nearly drove myself mad doing that during recovery. I learned a very important lesson during the mandatory therapy sessions—dwell in the past long enough, and you’ll die in it too, unable to move on or make anything of yourself.

The trip through the path was more annoying than nostalgic. Snow was starting to fall, and it made the barren, uphill slope feel more traitorous than before. I didn’t fall, thank Christ for that. It took the wind out of me, though. I decided on a small break, letting the familiar sight sink in.

The sun was starting to disappear on the horizon, snow was growing thicker and falling harder over the canopy of trees surrounding the farm, and the house stood right at the corner, opposite the barn where most of the work happened. My grandparents had a Christmas tree and log business, and contracts with people that probably died when they did. The influence was still there, quietly overlooking the abandoned property as if my grandma could wave from the window to usher me inside any second now. But she won’t, because, like most of my family, she was claimed by history.

I trudged quietly through the snow, focusing more on not falling face flat than everything else. Maybe if I wasn’t dealing with the consequences of my recovery, I would’ve noticed the small candlelight burning at the corner of the kitchen window.

But I didn’t until it was too late.

The front door latched open quietly, much to my surprise. I’d expect it to creak and crack, not swing open quietly at the first go. That wasn’t the only strange thing about the house. It wasn’t dusty. Like someone was living, or cleaning, actively instead of the abandoned mess I was expecting. My heart was starting to beat faster, so I moved quicker through the rooms, dragging every bit of my training out to quietly clear the rooms. 

For very obvious, and UK reasons, I didn’t have a gun. I decided on the next best thing—a broom that was sitting next to the front door. The wood was sturdy enough to defend myself with, put enough force behind the thing and it would be enough to knock someone unconscious. I would’ve preferred something more tangible, like a rifle, maybe even the standard glock, but it’d have to do. The ground floor was easy to clear, there was only a living room, kitchen, hallway and a bathroom to check. It took a while for me to get through the first and second floors, it was a good twenty minutes before I cleared the entire building. 

If I wasn’t injured, it would’ve taken me less. 

‘Soap’ didn’t exist anymore, unfortunately. 

I was leisurely making my way down the stairs when I heard something that made me stop dead in my tracks.

Thwack.

From the ground floor, the kitchen if I had to estimate.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound of a knife slicing through meat was slick and deliberate in its consistency. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the house. My grandparents died a few years ago, after my parents did and my sister was on the other side of the country. 

I gripped the stair railing, careful in my steps. It took a while to sneak down quietly, timing my steps exactly with the sound of the knife so it wasn’t obvious if I made a mistake. I managed to pass the first floor when my right foot slipped.

Thud!

I hurriedly grabbed the edge of the rail, correcting myself before I tumbled down the steps. But the damage was already done, it sounded like something fell when my foot knocked against the wood. The rhythmic thwacks stopped. 

My breath hitched for a second before it returned like a cruel, eerie relief.

Thwack.

My steps continued, slower and more carefully than before. It might’ve been my imagination but the noise was louder, and slower, filling the supposedly abandoned house with a spark of life that was guaranteed to send shivers down a man’s spine. 

Thwack. Thwack.

I didn’t exactly have a plan. The odds were stacked against my favour, and the best-case scenario revolved around situations where I’d get the upper hand somehow. I was used to things being uncertain, especially during the missions I got as a SAS—we were always dealing with the worst kind of threats back then. But, that was the difference, there was a level of preparation alongside good men accompanying you, and here, in bumfuck nowhere of Scotland, I was alone with a broom as my primary weapon. 

Against a cunt with a knife, or worse.

I could make a beeline for the exit. Although the odds of outrunning someone armed in the snow, with no light to navigate the path back to the village, was just as bad as fistfighting the said cunt with a knife. Training could give me an advantage but that’s where my options ended. The signal was out too, so no calling for backup unless I got a hold of the landline, which was also in the kitchen.

By the time the ground floor came up, my mental tally was lining up with an ‘I might die today’ outcome. The only guarantee I had was that I wasn’t going down without a fight. That’s all a man can do sometimes. 

The kitchen was lined up in the furthest corner of the ground floor, overlooking the front and back of the farm, which made it very easy for my grandma to keep track of the family whenever we visited—which also meant that if the intruder was in the kitchen, they’d see my attempts to escape. It was more of a miracle that they hadn’t noticed me when I first arrived, pure FNG luck, I’m guessing. 

At least being the 'fucking new guy' gave me the element of surprise if they hadn’t noticed the noise from earlier. 

Thankfully, nothing was waiting for me underneath the staircase. I did my best to continue quietly, and the thwacking steadily accompanied me in that stretch until I was midway through clearing the living room. The knife stopped abruptly. My breath hitched, and I plastered myself to the wall next to the door that led to the hallway, hating the pin-drop silence that draped the house the second that knife had stopped making a noise.

Clearing the area always had that level of uncertainty in it. 

You never know who, or what, you find when you enter the combat zone, one of the reasons it took a while to clean out all the available areas was because of the need to prioritise safety over everything else. Because, if you made a mistake in the process, you would have to pay for it in blood and lives. Living with that regret sucks the most if you were unlucky enough to survive through it like me. I’d had more than enough experience dealing with how fucked up things can be, and how stupidly frail the human body is. Getting a reminder of it, in what was supposed to be my family home, was especially messed up.

There wasn’t much I could do about the past, but the present was something happening to me; it was a moment to make everything right, even if it didn’t contribute to anything in the long run. 

I strained my ears but there wasn’t any movement I could catch. Either the cunt was a master of stealth, or he wasn’t moving, and I didn’t like both of those options for a variety of reasons. The broom was tight in my head as I braced myself to slip as quietly as I could into the darker hallway. The lights weren’t fully on, it was something I was planning to do once I settled myself in front of the fireplace but I guess that can wait for later. If there was a ‘later’.

Angling my body to face most of the space, I stepped into the hallway, legs moving to plaster myself against the wall outside the kitchen; only to find my back bumping into something warmer, and definitely not ‘wall-like’ in the slightest. 

Fuck. 

A larger, far more muscular than it needed to be, arm moved through my peripherals to a beeline for my neck, and my body screamed in panic. Adrenaline flooded through my veins in response, training kicked in quickly, and I used the broom to blindly stab at whatever was behind me, my elbow following the trajectory of the broom just as quickly. I wasn’t the best at hand-to-hand combat but I knew more than enough. I heard a low groan slip out of the intruder’s mouth and made a run for it to the kitchen, the light was on in there like it was my sole salvation, and I reached for it like I needed it to survive. 

Which was way more accurate than it needed to be.

I almost made it too, until my right leg gave out right as my hand gripped the doorway. I nearly stumbled to the ground, but the mistake was already made, and it took far too long to stablise my footing by grasping the wall. Two large hands fell on my shoulder and back, ready to yank me into whatever fate the intruder had decided on; so I used the momentum to angle my body and headbutt the intruder backwards, far too full of adrenaline and blind anger to care about the pain, righting myself as I heard a nice 'thud' from the impact.

The headbutt had landed around a jaw, or at least, it felt like a jaw. Whoever they were, they were taller than me by significant inches and it made me want to curse life for not leaving me alone for one second. The worst odds, all for me to deal with or fuck up, just like how it was on duty.

The momentary distance gave me a second to push myself into the kitchen. Much like I expected, there was a knife out in the open—on top of a cutting board, to be more exact, and it was dripping with blood. There was a huge pile of raw meat on the cutting board beside it but I ignored it for the obvious pick; a weapon was far better than worrying about what the cunt was cooking for dinner, I didn’t want the darker thoughts to distract me from survival. I made a break for it, there were heavy footsteps behind me, so I pushed further until I was close enough to grip the handle. 

However, a heavy hand grabbed my wrist at the same time I held the knife in my grip. My eyes instinctively flickered up to the intruder, freezing immediately when I did so. 

Apparently, it wasn't enough that life stacked the odds against me with an intruder on my family farm, the cunt was wearing an entire skull mask on his face. The macabre pattern and stitches at the edge of it made it seem handmade, and dear Christ, if I didn’t want to laugh out loud at how ridiculous it was.

Life couldn’t just give me a bad situation where the odds were stacked in my favour, it had to make everything dramatic in the worst way possible. Add ‘Surviving Scottish Ghostface’ to my list, because of-fucking-course, why not? Get the entire ultranationalist crew and Makarov in the house while we’re at it. 

Looking at my face seemed to have given the intruder the same amount of shock it did to me, looking at his ridiculous mask, which:

1. Was incredibly rude, I wasn't a cunt with a skull mask and I kept my hygiene up while maintaining my hair (facial & otherwise) properly, thank you very much. 
2. Was good, because I was about to make them feel a world of hurt.

Using the brief window of opportunity, I slammed my entire body against the intruder’s hold. The force was enough to send a grown man tumbling, and tumble I did, making sure to take the man down with me by grabbing their clothes. The knife was my main focus, I manoeuvred it properly when chairs were knocked over. I used his body to cushion my fall, but it wasn’t enough for him to back down. We fumbled on the ground in desperate flurry of a power struggle, twisting and turning, grasping at any and everything to gain the upper hand—but I eventually prevailed, the knife proving more than useful as it made the man flinch away whenever it got a part of him. 

I pinned his shoulders down with my knees, used my entire weight to push down on his chest and sat over him, knife poised right at his neck. A wave of relief flooded through me, I was slowly coming down the high of adrenaline. 

For once, I had the upper hand; my life finally felt like mine.

“Finally got you, creepin’ cunt.” 

This close, I could see his eyes through the mask. Something was concealing the man’s skin, black paint or eyeblack if I had to guess—it has been a while since I’ve seen anything of that sort as a civilian, it was used in some of the missions and by soldiers during modern warfare. I wasn’t expecting to see it here. 

But his eyes itself were dark and eerily focused on me. 

The man shifted under my weight and I tightened the grip of the knife, pushing down with more force.

A warning was thick and ready to leave my mouth, alongside a lethal threat if he pushed his luck, but I wasn’t ready for what he said next.

“Johnny.” 

A thick British accent came out when the mask’s cloth moved, one that was covering his mouth. I was still as the name, voice and accent registered. There was only one person that called me that in this world, I hadn’t seen that person for so long. 

No, scratch that, I thought I would never see him again.

It felt like my hands were burning when I threw the knife away, not caring about where it landed, I was far too busy gripping the grotesque mask and yanking it off the intruder’s head.

What stared up at me was the most disarming handsome face I’d seen in a while. 

His blond hair was tussled and slightly matted, likely from our little ruffle, but it was the same light gold I remembered. There were new scars littered on the side of his jaw, one across his slightly crooked nose, and his face was a lot sharper, with age probably, pale skin rougher than I remembered. The rest of him was so different yet, so familiar all the same.

“Simon?”

His eyelashes, long and pretty, blinked slowly when I spoke his name. I was taken back to my childhood; sat in a silent daze, drinking in the warm brown eyes that held me steadily in his gaze, creased lightly at the corners, like it always did when he was on the verge of breaking out in a smile. 

Maybe Saint Nicholas wasn't a fad after all.

“Took you long enough to get here, Johnny.” 

Chapter Text

Simon fucking Riley, in the flesh. 

Underneath me. 

“Jesus Christ on a fuckin’ bike…” I trailed off, openly gapping at the man beneath. His lips twitched at that, shifting under my weight to lay properly on his back, the awkward arc his head was resting at eased when he did. I had yanked his mask off too much ease earlier, not noticing until now that he’d help me in the process.

“Substituting me for a bike, Johnny?” he joked horribly. I finally registered the state we were in. He was comfortably cushioning my legs with his broad chest, I could imagine how much it’d hurt when he fell on his back during my assault. I caught his knowing gaze again, and this time, he didn’t hold back from openly smirking at my dismay. “Missed you too.”

Simon looked thoroughly amused despite what had just happened. I had a knife to his neck seconds ago, and here he was, smirking handsomely like a menace. 

“Should’ve said somethin’, ye blighter,” I grumbled, face feeling a bit warmer as I slowly moved to remove my knees from his shoulders. He was looking at me blankly as I pushed myself up to my feet, silently still until I offered him my hand. “I nearly stabbed you.”

He took it but I noticed he wasn’t using my strength to pull himself up. He slid to his knees first, dark gaze fixated on mine, bracing himself on thighs that bulged through the pants he wore. Everything he did felt deliberate, the sweet time he took getting up working in time with my steadily increasing heartbeat. His hands were warm through the gloves, and his face was three inches away from me as he pulled up; until he was standing straight, towering over with colour on his cheeks. 

From the exertion of our earlier or our closeness, I wasn’t sure. It felt too loud in the quiet that settled between us, the tune that my heart strummed right in my ears.

"Would have," Simon spoke, suddenly breaking the tension. His eyes hadn't left my face, and I was slowly starting to get self-conscious of it—of the intensity that he didn't acknowledge but freely offered up for view. "I didn't recognise you at first." He paused, tilting his head to the side. He was staring openly at my head. "A mohawk, Johnny?"

"Aye, like you can talk." I jabbed my finger accusingly at his chest, which was oddly soft underneath my fingertips; I hurried along my words, hiding every indication that I noticed. "Ghostface’s mask hidin' all of that. Yer not that far off from a mohawk, that's supposed to be better?"

Simon's gaze flickered to mine, his lips twitched at the corners again.

"Just Ghost."

My brows scrunched up further, and he sighed as if he expected it, shaking his head with that annoyingly compelling smirk.

"And it’s tremendously better, Johnny."

I was ready to cut his smugness off, but my mouth went notably dry when he raised his hand close to my face, reaching over to lightly entangle his fingers through the backend of my hair.

"Surprisingly," Simon muttered, his breath came out in a heated mist, close enough to touch my lips. It was soft in its caress, moving in time with his chest. “You make it look good.”

He saved himself by a hair’s width. 

The heat from his presence burned me in ways I didn’t want to acknowledge, not when there were other pressing matters to inquire about. I waited until he withdrew on his own accord, when his gaze finally lifted from my face. I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding, trying to appear busy righting the things that were sprawled due to our scramble, while keeping him within my peripherals. 

He lifted the chairs of the dining table with ease, putting them back in their place, and fished out the knife from the corner of the floor. He retrieved his mask too, putting it on the table without any intention to wear it. The questions were waiting to spill out of my mouth.

I didn’t speak until he returned to prepare dinner like it was the most natural thing ever, running the knife under water to clean the edge. 

“How long have you been here?”

Simon didn’t stop to consider my words, too accustomed to the required domestic activities for the day. 

“Years. I was here when your grandparents…”

Died, he didn’t say. That was a good few years before they were gone, which brought into question what he was doing the entire time. Or, what he was doing now. 

He was cutting the meat swiftly, turning the oven off and pulling a tray out, but he stopped for a bit after he was done, looking at me with a curious tilt of his head. No more? He seemed to say with that gesture alone. Simon was never the talkative type, I’d learned to read his body language, the subtle shifts of his expression and the implications between his words when I was younger to understand him better; the fact that he had those habits despite the years that stood between us reassured an anxiety within me that made itself known only in this moment. 

He wasn’t any different from the boy I fell in love with all those years ago.

“Why did you stay?” I asked, my words were sharper than I intended but I didn’t say anything else to soften it.

It was important for me to know.

That gave him a pause. He returned to the meal he was preparing, moving over to grab things out of the fridge, vegetables, and later spices out of a cabinet. His acknowledgement came after he arranged a few of the vegetables on the cutting board, swiftly putting down the knife and turning towards me to focus, his hips slightly leaning against the countertop.

“Remember the future you used to talk about?”

Of course, I remembered. 

Simon, who didn’t talk as much as others, was an excellent listener, second only to my grandma. I’d often fill the silence with whatever chatter I could think of and he used to listen without interrupting or telling me to shut up. It took the pressure off his shoulders when others were looking, and I was more than happy to get things out of my chest, to pour my heart out to someone who let me ramble on about everything and nothing at once. 

“Joining the military was something I wanted to do as well, enlisted the moment I turned sixteen,” Simon continued. I didn’t miss the ‘as well’ part, he knew I’d been in the military, probably from my family; I wasn’t expecting my enthusiasm to rub off in that sort of way. “Things happened, I ended up in retirement earlier than I expected.”

That sounded far too similar to my predicament. I almost asked if he regretted it, but when I met his gaze again, I quickly stifled that question. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to know the answer.

“I visited when I could, your family was here but you weren’t.” His voice was barely above a whisper, like he was recounting a secret to me—a confession. “They took me in, offered me a job when they heard what happened ‘n the rest is history.”

He returned to the cutting board, neatly chopping through the assortment.

“Now, you’re here.”

I stared at him for longer than I should.

“You were waiting for me?” I asked. The implications were clear, and yet I hesitated before assuming his intentions; this answer was something I needed, something I was more than prepared for. 

“Finally catching on, Johnny.”

He tried to hide a smile, but I caught it right as he turned to get a pan out of the cabinets. I took a seat on one of the chairs of the table, the entire day was starting to weigh heavily on my body, mind and heart too, if I factored in everything Simon had done and said into the equation. 

“I could’ve never returned.”

“You could’ve,” he agreed, his back visibly relaxed when he did as if he wasn’t admitting to being a bit ridiculous about his life decisions. “But you did, we’ll consider it a Christmas miracle.”

I frowned at the lacklustre dismissal. Even as an excuse, it didn’t fully work; Christmas was a few days away.

“Absolutely off your heid, Simon Riley.”

“Am I, Johnny?” He exhaled softly, messing with the stove and pan. The smell of cooking filled the kitchen gradually, and slowly the emptiness of the house disappeared, replaced by nostalgic warmth. If I closed my eyes, I could delude myself into thinking Grandma was there with us, making dinner for us. “You’re here, that’s all that matters.”

I almost wanted to argue against it—I wasn’t anything, didn’t have a direction in my life or any sense of what my future was going to be. Putting expectations on my shoulders was like holding out hope for a falling star to fulfil his dreams and ambitions.

Like waiting for a miracle.

It wasn't dissimilar to the sight of him here, waiting for me after all those years.

The light caught his hair and I watched as the wavy blond strands moved with it, allowing my thoughts to anchor themselves to the present; the sides of his head were neatly shaven, leaving room for plenty of fluff on the top of his head, the wavy strands falling over to the front of his face, framing it in a handsome sweep. 

It hadn't been subtle. Simon Riley was openly jabbing at me with statements that were borderline, almost completely, flirting. He could handle a few for himself.

He was a big boy now, wasn’t he?

“Didn’t think you’d be a hopeless romantic at heart,” I said, propping my chin up on my palms, my elbow braced on the table and focus completely honed on the bulk of the man overshadowing the kitchen.

Simon slowed his movements at my comment, although he seemed determined to continue stirring the meat on the pan. I could admire his back from my position without shame. He didn’t look like he was retired, the amount of muscle in his frame was the ones I was used to seeing on duty; I was almost envious, I hadn’t been able to exercise as much as I used to, recovery was the priority and I felt it earlier when we were on the floor too. 

It felt oddly homely like this, like how my da used to return from the village around this time in those winters and stay in the kitchen watching my mam fondly finish cooking. 

He’d help around too but with how my body felt and Simon’s resolute determination to prepare, whatever it was he was making, I didn’t offer for the tiniest voice in my head that said I’d make a mess if I did without knowing shit. I was a bit too tired, captivated and enamoured to trust that my limbs would work like I wanted them to.

Then again, Da didn’t have to deal with his first crush cooking in his grandparent’s house after a few decades of not seeing him, did he? 

“Neither did I,” Simon whispered, yanking me out of my thoughts. It took a few seconds to realise, by the virtue of not being a mind reader, he was responding to what I had voiced earlier. 

It should’ve been concerning how easily I slipped into reminiscing bouts in his presence, but I was too tired to care. He set the stove on low heat, he stopped stirring and flipping as if momentarily satisfied and turned towards me with a lopsided grin. My breath hitched for the tiniest second, and I buried my face further into my palm, hoping that it wasn't noticed.

In my previous daze, I hadn’t noticed that he slipped a white apron on. The apron was almost ridiculous with how cute it looked, the design had light blue frills over a mostly white cloth, and a small stitched pattern on its chest pocket spelt out ‘Mactavish’ in the same blue—it didn’t take long for me to remember it was my grandma’s signature style, I had some of it on the sweaters and socks she made me. 

She only indulged her family with her work. 

I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to not smile like an idiot over the small detail. 

It looked good on him, my surname.

“Self-discovery after retirement, Johnny.”

Was it too late to tackle him to the ground again and hold his face in my hands?

Simon caught my stare, sending me a considering glance over but he didn’t do or say anything beyond that. He started pulling plates out, two exactly and arranged the food on it. A quick whiff and glance told me all I needed to know what he had prepared. 

It wasn’t roast dinner exactly, he fried the meat instead of roasting it to cook quicker, but the rest of the elements were similar; the gravy, stuffing, potatoes and array of vegetables I’d been too used to eating at my home. A proper dinner for guests and family alike.

“It’s like you were expectin’ me,” I muttered, following the plates intently when he gathered it in his arms and placed one in front of me. 

I was quickly made aware of how empty my stomach felt, the dryness in my mouth springing my awareness in a mixture of hunger and thirst. He placed his plate down, filled two glasses with water and took a seat across from me. 

I didn’t hesitate to start digging in, a  thank you  spilling out of my mouth the moment the taste melted in my mouth. 

“You like it?” Simon asked, he hadn't touched his plate, seemingly content watching me eat. I lifted a forkful of the meat and hummed in quiet delight when the gravy it was dipped in added to the flavours twisting through my tastebuds.

My family's recipe too.

“It’s fucking perfect.”  I was already shovelling the rest of it down, far too hungry to care about how I looked or sounded. A ‘tsk’ escaped very audibly from Simon. 

“Language, Johnny,” He scolded lightly, as if he wasn’t the one being ridiculous by enforcing dinner table rules between two grown men.

“Oh, fuck right off,” I grumbled, shoving the rest of the food in my mouth while rolling my eyes at him. 

“Gonna be difficult to get rid of me now, I'm afraid,” he said, voice deceptively mellow, not realising that he was throwing a bone right in my direction.

“Aye, got you on yer back once,” I smirked, feeling proud of my achievements from earlier. It was very likely Simon had held back because he managed to recognise me at some point, knowing that neither of us came out of the tussle with serious wounds. Nonetheless, it was a feat worth considering. “I can do it again.” 

“That’ll make me want to stay more,” he admitted casually, not realising that he had claimed my heart and coiled firmly in it.

“Then, stay,” I said, half in a daze. 

His smile was borderline devilish, lashes framing deceptively innocent and warm eyes. “Wasn’t planning on leaving you anytime soon, Johnny.”

Bleeding Christ.

I guess I figured out what my plans for the future were.

-

The snow was starting to fall heavily by the time we were done with dinner. 

I helped him clean up, despite the man’s insistence that he was fine without any assistance.

He was really starting to make me wonder whose house we were in. 

It didn’t take long before I was settled in the living room with a cup of tea warming my hands. Simon, very britishly, insisted on a drink and he won this time around because coffee was a swift ‘no’ for the evening. He disappeared into the house for a bit, allowing me to take a leisurely look out of the windows before sitting down comfortably on the couch. 

I couldn’t see much from the windows. The winds looked harsh and the way the falling snow blurred any discernible features from the environment showed the signs of a heavy winter storm. I hadn’t checked the weather report before I travelled. If I had, I wouldn’t have set out in these conditions. Which was a good thing, in hindsight, considering that meant spending a miserable Christmas in the city without knowing that Simon was waiting for me. 

Speaking of the man, he arrived a few minutes later with a handful of neatly cut logs. His eyes lingered on my cup and back at me, it was half empty by now, and he crooked an eyebrow up as if to cheekily say ‘Not as bad as you thought, Johnny?’.  His accent had managed to make its home easily in my mind, alongside how comforting that nickname sounded in his voice; I would’ve floored any cunt who used it otherwise. 

Simon was the exception. 

When he said Johnny for the first time, I knew I didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. He’d whispered my name so fondly, smiling as if he was happy he could be close to someone like this, and he looked at me adoringly expecting to share that happiness. I melted before I could think. Ever since that day, Simon was the only one who could get away with saying ‘Johnny’ without annoying me. 

There was something about childhood nostalgia that made me crave the simplicity of back then. He held a piece of my heart that no one had touched yet, which resulted in silent privileges I wasn’t in a hurry to point out.

I already had a sneaking suspicion that he knew.

Instead of answering, I raised the cup for his eyes and downed the rest of the tea with a satisfied sigh leaving my mouth soon after. He shook his head in amusement, and I smirked in response, setting the cup down and taking most of the space on the couch with my legs.

Simon took one look at my overtly relaxed posture, an indistinguishable expression softening his face, before he turned to the fireplace to dump the logs beside it. Within minutes, a fire lit up the room in its warmth. I couldn’t take my eyes off him the entire time. 

“You’re staring, Johnny,” he said without turning towards me. The light from the fire danced across his scarred jaw, casting him in a soft golden glow. My hands itched to immortalise the scene in front of me. 

“Hard not to when you look like that.” My words slipped out breathlessly, far too honest and blunt like the charm of this isolated domestic space had absolved me from the consequences of my actions—like nothing mattered other than the man in front of me, and the feelings I’d suppressed for decades. 

I had imagined it for so long. The way we’d meet again, know each other properly, fall in love like nothing else in the world mattered. That life would eventually allow perfection to fall right on my lap, and I would hold him so tightly in my hands that nothing could tear me away from him again. All those years of wondering, all those nights of yearning for what could’ve been if we met again. 

And, here he was. 

I wasn’t going to let him go this time. 

“Look like what?” Simon asked, tilting his head to meet my gaze. Half of his face was bathing in light, half of it in shadow, and my heart slowed down to a steadier beat. The relief, the catharsis–

Like the love of my life.

The confession was on the tip of my tongue, I twisted it in favour of participating in the verbal dance we were performing, skirting around the truth that stood unwieldily in front of us.

“Like a bonnie lad.” I watched his face as he slowly registered my words, rejoicing when light pink dusted the top of his cheeks. The gold accented the pink, deepening it steadily. “Pretty.” My tongue was spilling; praising the sight in front of me like I was merely a man admiring a piece of art that was bound to outlive me. “Handsome.” Simon’s entire face was red, the pale skin flushing the most delightful shade—I found myself smiling again. I’ve been doing that a lot in his presence, my cheeks were starting to ache but I didn’t mind it. “Really fuckin’ handsome.”

Not when Simon looked like a man straight out of my wildest fantasies. 

He hadn’t moved much, but he softly averted his gaze; searching the rest of my face as if to find anything but the sincerity that I was trying to convey. 

I wanted to hold his face in my hands. Kiss every inch that he’d allow me and drill the fact that he was nothing but the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life. 

He looked at me like no one had ever told him this before.

Which was almost hilarious to consider, wasn’t it obvious to him? Obvious to others?

Were there others? 

“Is that why you wear the mask?”

My question managed to snap him out of his daze. 

“What?” Simon asked slowly in return.

“The mask,” I explained, gesturing towards my face with my finger to mimic the shape of the skull on it. “Hidin’ your pretty face so your teammates don’t get distracted.”

He blinked at me, long lashes fluttering absentmindedly, like my words weren’t fully reaching him, until he abruptly turned his head towards the fireplace. I caught a glimpse of his face before it was completely out of view; he was biting down on his lower lip, breaths deep and laboured, shoulders squared with restraint yet shuddering silently in spite of it.

The pretty bastard was laughing at me. 

“I’m being serious.” I glowered at him, my lips already pulling down in a small frown.

“Sure you are,” he muttered under his breath, his shaking hadn't stopped in the slightest.

“Why else would you wear that ghoulish thing?!” 

It made perfect sense to me, that if Simon wasn’t some fucked up serial killer on the loose, there should’ve been some tactical reason he preferred the mask over the standard balaclava like the rest of the soldiers. 

For intimidation, maybe?

I couldn’t imagine any other reason for the mask to look like it did.

“To hide my face,” Simon answered after a second of pause, his expression was carefully guarded but I could read him easily like this. 

The smirk he was suppressing, the glint in his eyes that was almost mischievous in the low light. 

“Bolt ya rocket,” I growled out, pointing my finger accusingly at him. Simon dared to smile at me like he didn’t understand why I was getting riled up. “I said the same fuckin' thing!” 

He was fucking with me.

“English, Johnny.” 

I was sure of it.

“You don’t deserve English.”  

My chest aching with a need to bridge the gap that stood with years between us, but an alarm went off in the kitchen, the loud beeping noise making both of our heads turn.

“Dessert’s ready,” Simon murmured, getting up to his feet slowly. When he caught my questioning gaze, he winked at me and disappeared through the hallway. I was left staring at the space he previously occupied, my face was warming up again and it took far too long to settle back to my spot. 

I was starting to realise a very fundamental truth today. 

Simon Riley was going to be the death of me. 

Or I was going to be his, he was certainly tempting fate through my hands. 

When he returned, I had adjusted myself a bit to allow him some space on the couch. He took the cue without my input, handing me a plate while he sat down with his own.

I looked down, recognising the dessert immediately. It was pie, honey apple pie to be more specific. I cut a piece of it with my spoon, raising it to inspect it closer; turns out, that cooking wasn’t the only thing he learned from my family. He hadn’t moved after I inspected the pie up close, his eyes were intently set on me, waiting for me to eat. 

I raised an eyebrow and waved the spoon towards him.

“You’re lookin’ at me like you’ve poisoned it.”

He exhaled loudly from his nose. “Bloody hell.”

Without warning, Simon rested one of his arms on the couch’s frame next to me and he leaned close. It was almost comical how easily he covered the space above me, going from occupying the barest amount of the couch to fully enveloping me in his shadow, his lips twitched and he scooped in, taking a mouthful of my pie from the spoon.

I couldn’t move, let alone breathe.

He was pinning me with his gaze, deliberate in the way his mouth was wrapped around the steel, and when he pulled away, I didn’t miss the pink tongue that flickered out to lick the corner of his lips. 

“Not poisoned,” he declared, dissolving the moment by gesturing towards my pie with his spoon. “I heated it for you because there was some left from the last time I baked.” He took a bite of his pie, some of the crumbs fell to his chin, and he repeated the gesture from earlier, using his tongue to sweep all of it back to his mouth. “Your favourite.”  

I felt warm from the inside out.

“You remembered?” I asked, not thinking twice about how vulnerable I sounded.

“Hard not to when you look like that,” Simon replied, parroting my words back at me in a playful tone, his expression eased into fondness and I found myself clinging to it; the details of his face, his words; his everything. “I never forgot you, Johnny.”

There was a childish part of me that wanted to demand why he hadn’t returned earlier if he didn’t forget. It was easy to let that voice stomp its feet for a bit in my mind, let the built-up anger and frustration run its course before eventually allowing Simon’s words to soothe that inner child—I knew, logically, whatever kept him away was likely out of his control, and expecting a person who I’d known for a winter to come back for me wasn’t realistic. 

Until it wasn’t.

Simon came back for me.

“I didn’t either,” I confessed. “Couldn’t, even if I tried.” 

His gaze softened. I nearly jumped when I felt his hand on my knee, barely keeping myself from flinching.

His palm lightly ran in circles as if he sensed my discomfort, and I slowly allowed myself to relax under his touch. There wasn’t anyone to judge me for who I liked and what I did, I wasn’t confined to the expectations of my past. I was allowed to have this.

I was allowed to have him.

“I’m glad you didn’t, Sergeant.”

With the jolt that ran through my body, he might as well have electrocuted me. 

“How the fuck—” I growled, reeling back to my spot on the couch. 

“—your sister,” Simon answered, cutting me off.

“Of course,” I muttered under my breath. “Of-fuckin’-course.”

Evelyn was always a snitch when it came to my secrets, I was going to have a word with her when the storm eased up.

-

“We might have a small problem,” Simon said later on when he opened the door to my bedroom. 

The bedroom from my memories was big enough for me, for barely five-foot tall me, I meant. My parents had the sense to keep my sister and me separate, there would’ve been so many fights otherwise, and since the bed took most of the room, it was enough to fit when Simon was sleeping over. The window was my favourite part of the room aside from the bed, since it was right next to it, I spent countless nights spending my time star-gazing out of it instead of sleeping on time.

I stepped in after him, finding it in a state that was very different from what I remembered. For once, it was bigger, like someone renovated to merge my sister’s room with mine to make one master bedroom, and there were things scattered around like someone was actively using the room. It wasn't messy but it was definitely used. 

At the sight of a balaclava hanging on the edge of the nightstand, I turned towards Simon with a pointed glare.

“Your grandfather’s idea.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

I resisted the urge to say ‘of course’ again. The old man’s threat of turning my bedroom into a storage room if I didn’t visit added up to Simon’s explanation, except that they didn’t mention his existence in their farm before and instead of a storage room, they'd just given it over to him. Granted they didn’t have many opportunities to mention anything, I wasn’t usually in the UK after passing the selection for SAS and I’d steer clear of most family-oriented events; including the holidays, knowing well that their disapproval of my choice in life would ruin the mood for everyone involved. Mine especially.

I was deployed in Urzikstan when my parents died. Their funeral was the last time I saw my grandparents, deployed in the Middle East when their age caught up to them. It hadn’t been long since my grandparents died, a couple of years if I had to count—I wasn’t able to attend their funerals. My sister had handled everything when I got the news of their deaths on the other side of the world. It was strange to think about, Simon staying behind on the farm to wait for me, and stranger was thinking about how he made himself at home with my family. That they'd accepted him without a question. 

They knew about my crush on him, although they often dismissed it as a ‘phase’ I was going through. They should’ve known the mention of his name would’ve more than roused my interest. 

I would’ve requested my leave early just to meet him again.

“Why didn’t any of them tell me you were here?” I asked quietly, unsure if I wanted to know the answer at all. None of the conclusions I reached were nice, to say the least. 

Simon stopped in front of the bed, suddenly growing quiet. I followed him after a while of standing and took a seat on the mattress, forcing proximity to make him look at me directly.

“Your grandparents…”

Forbade? Denied? 

Kept you away from me because they didn’t want you to consume all my waking thoughts like you used to?

“They thought you were going through enough after your parents,” Simon sighed. He was struggling with words, I could tell. He paused for a few seconds and his breaths softened. I drew his attention back with a gentle nudge of my feet when the silence stretched, a weary crease formed at the corners of his eyes but he understood my gesture for what it was; I needed to know. “They didn’t want to interfere with what you wanted to do, said you’ve always wanted to focus on your career more and…” 

He painted an image of my grandparents I hadn’t seen since my childhood days.

“They discussed it with Evelyn, and decided that they wanted you to have the farm.”

I didn’t hide my disbelief. 

I hadn’t considered the inheritance to be intentional, for them to specifically name me as their successor—the letter didn’t give all of the details, just the legal part with the deed included, and I wondered if the unfamiliar law firm that’d sent the thing knew anything about my grandparent’s intentions like Simon did. 

My heart suddenly felt heavier, an emptiness I’d grown far too accustomed to made itself known again; I didn’t notice how easily Simon had erased the feeling until it returned with a vice grip, spiralling further as the pieces clicked into place.

Regret.

They were waiting to tell it to me directly. 

Now, they can’t.

“But they didn’t want to impose it on you,” Simon continued, oblivious to my thoughts. He took a seat next to me, and I allowed his warmth to coax the unease off my chest, sinking subtly into his side when he was close enough to touch. “It was decided that you’d get the land ‘n the business after you retired.”

I listened to his voice and watched his chest rise and fall after his words.

“I offered to look after the farm till you did.”

There was a pause, his breaths shorter and tighter, pulling his muscles taunt. His voice softened immensely when he spoke again, his arm hesitantly moved until it encircled my torso, pulling me close in a side hug.  

“They loved you, Johnny.”

I closed my eyes, leaning into his warmth, resting my head completely on his chest. I didn’t deny the urge that sprung up, wanting to bury my body into his, my ear was pressed right below his clavicle. His heartbeat was loud and steady, lulling me to a tender haze, his warmth and scent had intertwined with the comfort of the house and it beckoned me to consider the shards of memories I’d buried deeply to keep it untainted. I could smell the pie from earlier on him, the one he reheated just for me because he remembered it was my favourite. 

It meant everything that he was here with me.

I remembered how my grandma made me cookies when I couldn’t go back to sleep no matter how late or early it was, how my grandpa used to make sure I got whatever I wrote down on my wishlist once I stopped writing Simon’s name, how my parents tried to spend time with me as much as they could during the holidays; they’d been vehement opposers against my career of choice, dismissive of my personal choices when I was growing up, relegating to things outside what they expected from their worldview as rebellious and a phase I was meant to grow out of; it was almost cruel to consider that they might’ve realised that they were wrong. 

They had finally accepted who I was, and who I wanted to be when the damage was already done and I was too far away to listen to their apologies or heal from words and actions that stung like shrapnel that was lodged under my skin.

But I knew they loved me, in their way they had tried to love me the best they could. 

It hadn’t been enough. 

They didn’t love me in ways that mattered. They didn’t love me in ways that reached me, it’d almost been too late for any type of forgiveness. 

Yet the bitterness that swirled with my thought was contrasted starkly by how warm Simon’s arms felt. I tried to imagine what he described earlier, my family’s open acceptance of his predicament—allowing him to stay and work with them, teaching him family recipes, giving him things with our surname and keeping him close when he needed it. I buried myself deeper in his arms, allowing the thoughts of a happy Simon to soothe the almost rebellious ache that spurned tightly around my body.

Was this their plea?

I wasn’t sure.

When Simon’s arms tightened around me, when he manoeuvred us to envelope me in a proper hug, the bitterness dissolved like cotton candy in my mouth; the only thing that remained was a sweetness stored at the moment between us. 

The apology was too late, I couldn’t give my forgiveness to the dead.

But I could make peace with them. 

I could acknowledge that they had tried, that while life had stood between us and proper closure, they had managed to make their effort count. 

They loved me. 

“I know.” 

I smothered my face in his hoodie and he held me as my tears disappeared in the warm fabric, we stayed like that for a long time. It’d stopped snowing when I pulled away, Simon let me untangle myself from his ridiculously comfortable arms, and I caught sight of the one window of the room before flopping down unceremoniously on the bed. The sky was clearer, stars peeking from the clouds that lingered; the promise of a storm-less day tomorrow made my heart feel lighter than before.

“I’ll take one of the guest rooms,” Simon said, drawing my attention away from the window.

I craned my neck to look at him, feeling far too lazy to sit up. He was lingering near the doorway, hand latched on the doorknob like he was seconds away from leaving, yet he didn’t move. 

“Thought you didn’t have any plans on leaving,” I muttered, slowly arching my eyebrows in subtle challenge.

He smiled loosely when he noticed. “Not on my back yet.”

“I can fix that.” I pulled myself up, scouting over to one side of the bed and patting the spot next to me. “C’mon, there’s plenty of space here. Grandpa must’ve really fucking liked you if he was willing to hand over my bed like that.”

“Johnny–” Simon started.

“For old time’s sake,” I reasoned quickly, blinking up at him to shut down the excuses that I knew were going to spill out. It worked. Simon didn’t respond, dark eyes glazed over like a memory had him tight in its grip. I wondered what a glimpse from his side would be like, what he remembered from those days, whether he had treasured the memories as fondly as I did. 

When his gaze roved over my face, I took the opportunity in stride, tilting my head enough to catch his gaze before it slid away, letting a smirk stretch deliberately on my lips.

“Pretty please, pretty man?” 

He blushed visibly, yanked out of the daze in a matter of seconds, his gaze lingering on my smirk in disbelief. It felt more exhilarating than landing a perfect headshot; watching his pale and scarred cheeks bloom to life with the world’s most kissable red. 

He huffed out a breath, relenting by closing the door behind him. 

Victory.

“Bloody hell,” Simon cussed when he noticed my expression of the shit-eating variety, my grin widening under his gaze—all too pleased with the outcome. 

He strode over to the bed, holding the hem of his hoodie and pulling it over his head in a swift motion. My knee-jerk reaction was to gape openly at him, I shook my expression away quickly when I remembered that it was normal to not want to sleep in a hoodie. 

His hair came out more ruffled than before, golden strands sticking out in every direction adorably, and his black hoodie was discarded to reveal a t-shirt in the same colour.

I was starting to figure out his favourite colour might've been of the monochrome variety.  

His arms were bare for the first time in the evening, and I caught a glimpse of a sight worth gaping over. His left arm was covered in a sleeve tattoo, not too dissimilar from the ones I've gotten used to seeing on other soldiers, the difference being that... well, there were human skulls included in it. 

Correction: lots of human skulls included in it. 

The kind you'd see scribbled straight out of a kid's sketchbook of an approximation of what military tattoos look like. 

I leaned closer to get a better look at it. Was that a missile with a cartoonish shark's mouth on it?

Simon caught my stare, sighing audibly, and I sucked my cheeks in to tightly suppress the chuckle that was threatening to turn into a full-blown laughing fit.

It took a while to reign it in, Simon was already standing over the edge of his side of the bed when I felt assured that I wasn't going to bend over and wheeze hysterically when I opened my mouth.

"Real serious about the skull 'n mask thing, aren't ya?" I teased, shrugging the jacket off my shoulders. 

He looked away from me, but I noticed the tips of his ears turning red, "Got it inked in my teens, Johnny."

"It's not that-"  

"It is." He waved away my attempt to soothe his ego, the mattress dipped when he climbed onto the bed, and I moved to allow him to settle in comfortably. Our bodies didn't touch but I could feel the heat of his presence warm up the space between us. "No need to sugarcoat it."

"I've got one too." I grabbed my sweater, rolling it off my torso with ease and tossing it to my lap before extending my right arm towards him. "Not a sleeve, though." My tattoo was far more simplistic and smaller than his, it was an emblem of the unit I belonged to, the cause I had wholeheartedly dedicated myself to; the only thing missing were the words. "Suits you better."

When I looked at him to gauge Simon's reaction, his stare was boring holes directly in the tattoo, dark eyes intense and transfixed. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't get my question out before his bare hand grasped my forearm, pulling it close. His fingers were long, palm comfortingly warm, tracing the tattoo that felt far too sensitive than it should. I almost lost myself in the sensation when he whispered something that instantaneously grounded me.

"SAS?" 

Like a bucket of ice water being dropped right on my head, my attention snapped back to him. My arm stiffed, and I nearly tugged back on instinct, but Simon kept a firm grip on me, his lips tugged down in a small frown. There wasn't anything malicious in his expression, just an intense amount of intrigue, and I knew there wasn't anything hostile about his interest but it took time for me to speak anyway, the unpleasant memories spiking unease for a few more seconds.

"Aye," I muttered, allowing myself to gradually relax in his hold. "Didn't tell my family about it."

He swiped his thumb over the tattoo. "How old?"

"Youngest to pass the selection, actually," I answered truthfully, not wanting to lie to him. I didn't mind smudging the details for my family, but it was different with Simon. 

His expression morphed through the different stages of confusion before he levelled me with a steady gaze, and finally, something akin to understanding settled in. 

It took a while for me to understand what it meant, the question already out of my mouth before I could stop myself, "Which unit were you—"

"SAS," he answered quietly.

Well, that explained a lot. 

The fact that we were that close even in our career of choice was oddly comforting, I wasn't necessarily a believer in fate and things that were meant to be, but if there was one man who could convince me otherwise, it would be Simon.

“Ghost was your callsign?” I asked slowly, the pieces suddenly clicking together. 

Simon nodded curtly, slowly letting go of my arm. The warmth lingered insistently despite his absence, spreading like a silent fire throughout my body. 

I ignored it in the favour of putting away my clothes. The house was well maintained, the blanket was large enough for the both of us, and it didn't take long before I was comfortably tucked under the blanket, occupying my side of the bed fully. A yawn slipped out of my mouth when Simon made himself comfortable after me, he'd switched the lights off, draping the room in peaceful darkness. 

Simon was lounging on his side when I turned to him, a surprisingly fond smirk on his face I could see due to our proximity. 

His everything was making me feel too cosy. My inhibitions slipped, just like my regard for my words.

“Soap was mine,” I confessed. It was a fair exchange since he'd confided in me, not to mention the fact that I  wanted  to be known by him. “Before you ask, it’s 'cause I cleared rooms in record time.” 

“That’s what you were doin’ earlier,” Simon mumbled, voice deeper and more relaxed than before. “Impressive.” 

“Aye.” I got more comfortable on my pillow, stretching to snuggle my face further into the softness. Simon's scent was everywhere, especially on the bed, a comforting musk mixed with cinnamon and mint; for me, it was turning into something distinctively reminiscent of home. “I can guess yours.”

“Tell me,” he murmured.

“Something relating to stealth. Clean exterminations.” It was nothing but speculation, stuff I pieced together after watching him again. His actual skills, apart from the impeccable housekeeping, cooking and maybe knife-related ones, were beyond me. 'Ghost' was a pretty telling callsign, though. I'd imagine it's something one would have for very specific reasons. “Infiltration, sniping. Stuff like that.”

After I stopped rattling off my estimations, there was a brief silence between us.

“Close.” Simon nodded.

“I didn’t even hear ya earlier either,” I rambled on, a bit of my frustration slipping at how easily he had caught me off guard. It was impressive, considering his build—I wondered how many rules of physics he broke just to have cattish feet. “Sneaky bastard.”

“Rules of engagement, Johnny," he stated casually. "Can't die if you kill 'em without being noticed first."

"Guessin' yer not a Sergeant, then?" 

"You guessed right," Simon answered, spurring my estimations and imagination further. Carefully, the image of a not-Sergeant, possibly a superior, Simon Riley was crafted in my mind, and I dwelled on the possibility of what it would've been like if I'd met him out there; the mask hiding his face from immediate recognition. "Lieutenant."

"I can see it." His face was hidden partially by the pillow and partially by the dark, I latched onto what I could; the sharp edge of his jaw, the smooth plane of his cheek, the scars that were etched deep; stopping right over the curve of his lip. “Fancy yourself an L.t, eh?”

"Naturally."  

His lips twitched and I closed my eyes to the pleasant thought of Simon smiling because of me. 

I expected sleep to rush to me in the instant that I allowed it. My body was certainly sinking into those familiarly tired depths, but something about having my childhood crush right in front of me was making it impossible to keep my thoughts from roving with renewed energy. 

It was one of those nights, when my thoughts were too loud for me to peacefully pass out.

“I would’ve been distracted, y’know,” I whispered, testing the silence between us like an undisturbed surface of water. His breathing was a steady, hypnotising tune that would've lured me to rest if it were any other day. 

I didn't want to wake him up if he was asleep, but a shuffle and some noise indicated that he wasn't yet. 

“Hm?” He hummed, voice smothered by what I assumed were pillows and the heavy blanket.

“If you didn’t wear the mask,” I explained, far too gone to feel any bit of embarrassment. “You would’ve gotten me killed on duty.”

He didn't respond and the seconds passed between us, the quiet extending the moment. I opened one of my eyes, taking a peek over to him.

Simon's lip was pulled in a taunt line, but as my gaze roamed over the vague outline of his body, I saw the smallest of shudders vibrate through his shoulders in steady beats; his muscles looking tight and controlled otherwise. 

“You need sleep, Johnny.”

His nonreply coaxed a chuckle out of my lips, and I pressed my face into the pillow to muffle it; imagining his face flushing because of my words more than made the experience worth the ridiculousness I spewed, it wasn't my fault he grew up to be such a pretty boy anyway.

The prettiest fucking man I've laid my eyes on.

“Stone cold, Simon,” I spoke, redirecting the conversation and my thoughts elsewhere. “You could at least offer up a lullaby.”

He regarded my words for a moment before answering, “I’ve got some carols memorised.”

“Spare me,” I blurted, quickly shutting down the option as the memory of my family's constant singing of every Christmas carol in existence flooded my thoughts; it would be far from the soft, sleep-inducing lullaby I was expecting.  

"Suit yourself."

Despite my insistence on keeping my eyes closed, sleep was proving to be quite the elusive mistress. Frustration crawled all over my body, and I found myself shifting and repositioning to find that sweet spot in the bed. My ceaseless movements came to a stop when a larger hand caught my wrist, twisted it slowly and intertwined my fingers with his own.

The heat that radiated from his palm stilled my body in an instant, my breath fluttered and my heart calmed; it was astonishing how quickly he subdued my restless panic, but I was far too busy relishing the sweet respite of his touch to care.

“I’m surprised we didn’t meet.” My voice sounded distant to my ears, consciousness floating to the rest that eluded me before him. 

Flashes of memory, merged and modified, swarmed the back of my eyes and I followed it to visualise Simon in tactical gear, wearing that mask and commanding troops, effortlessly sniping enemies from his hide site; taking overwatch while I cleared the buildings with enemy combatants, the things we'd say to each other through the comms, how well, and effortlessly, we'd work together.

“Maybe it was for the best.” Simon's voice blotted through the scenes, painting the picture of the bitter reality of the job; the injuries, the deaths and betrayals.

I almost agreed with him. 

Maybe it was for the best that we met each other here instead of a place where we would have to deal with active threats against our lives, or maybe the time I would've gotten to stay by his side would've erased the value of whatever could've happened to us out there. 

Maybe life was meant to be lived regardless of how much we were destined to lose. We were meant to love, regardless of what was waiting for us at the end.

“Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley.” I couldn't help the reverence laced on my tongue, testing the name with a fondness I reserved only for him. It was another part of Simon I was entrusted with, one that I was planning to cherish. His grip tightened around my hand, and I grasped his lithe fingers in response, allowing mine to linger and loosen periodically like a pulse. “Childhood friend extraordinaire under the mask, deadly killer outside of it.”

He pulled my hand closer, tucking both of our hands under the pillow. “You’re more than a childhood friend to me, Johnny.”

“Vice versa, L.t.” 

Sleep reached out to me, yanking me into its embrace with Simon's heat, and I surrendered willingly, sighing at the overwhelming amount of relief it offered. 

I hadn't felt this satisfied with how the day went in a long time.

Chapter Text

I would've blamed the nightmares on the hectic way that my past was brought back to life, but my sleep wasn't filled with flashbacks of my childhood.

It focused on another topic altogether, the day that kick-started this whole mess. 

Everything came in flashes and blurry images, the faces of my comrades and my captain, the ones of my enemies and then, the final shots that rendered my consciousness blank for months. I thought I'd been accustomed to the sound of gunshots, the ensuing pain and shock of impact, yet those bullets that day took my entire being with them. Took the ‘Soap’ right out of my name, leaving behind a poor John Mactavish to gather up the mess.

I should've died, bleeding out on the ground; I was certain I was going to die.

There were parts of me that accepted that fate — I didn't have much to return to, my home was an emptier coffin than the one that awaited me. My death would've been honourable too, if not anything else. Despite the odds, I survived; credits solely reserved for one John Price who managed to pull me out of gunfire and temporarily patch me up before I bled out on the ground. 

Not without cost, of course, nothing was without a cost. They took the purpose of my existence and tore it right from my hands, rendering me useless like it was inconsequential from the start. 

Maybe it was, my life didn't have much of a point to make if I was disposed of that easily, discharged and left out of any hope to get back to the cunt that was threatening the world with things I wasn't privy to anymore. Every inch of agency was stripped from me quicker than I could breathe. The Captain promised that he'd get him, looking as solemn as he did when he visited me in that hospital bed and that was the last time I heard from him.

Everything the taskforce did was classified. I wouldn't know if they've dealt with the threats or been dealt with in the process. The most I could do was check international news and breathe a sigh of relief when there wasn't a major war or incident happening around the areas where I knew the group operated.

That didn't stop my dreams, or nightmares, although it was better than nothing.

It usually started by rendering me useless, like always. Forced to face the horror of that day, where I couldn't move or act as I watched the blood drown me with it, the cold recreation of the floor that I lost everything on usually left me waking up in sweat and shivering worse than a wet dog. No less real than the symptoms of an actual fever. Alone and confined to my bed, the physical reaction usually took more than an hour to subdue and my sleep was destined to be ruined for the rest of the night.

Not that I had anything to lose if I ruined my sleep schedule, I had nothing to do anymore. No job, no family, and no one who required anything from me anymore.

All because of that one day — that one mistake.

I tried to yank myself away from the memories, half-conscious and somewhat aware of what was happening to me, waking up before it reached that specific part of the dream often saved me from the worst of it. 

That moment was worse to relive than others, the exact second the bullet hit my body, the shock concealed everything while my brain registered my fate with clinical indifference. The pain that recreated the aching feeling of doom more certain than anything else in the world.

I'm dying. My body agreed. The way it slumped over to the side as ragged as a lifeless doll, the blood that pooled from one wound, and there was another bullet, slamming the remaining breath out of me, and then another. I couldn't move, couldn't even scream. 

I became all of the men I killed in my line of duty. 

It was hypocrisy, I was aware, and yet my mind wandered anyway.

Did they feel like I did? 

Did they know that it was it? That life — that death — was so close and there was nothing they could do about it? Did they think about every apology and I love yous they didn't get to say, to their grandparents, their parents and the boy they were never going to meet again? Did they regret holding the gun that led them to their death?

Not now, I thought desperately despite everything, ignoring the finality that was stamped over my fading consciousness. There was something to be said, about the irony of wanting to live, wanting to hold on, regardless of the choices I've made in my life; live by the sword and die by it, they said, but I had hardly lived at all.

I fumbled in the dark to grasp anything to anchor myself in the world. The image of my present bled into my fading mind, the soft smile of my first love, the house that I ran away from that finally smelled like home. I didn't want to lose any of it. I wouldn't survive death again.

I can't lose him again.

It was the part where I woke myself up. Either by rolling off the bed or painfully bumping a part of my body into something. However, my restless movements were caught in gentle hands before I hurt myself in my pursuit of consciousness — something was anchoring me down.

Someone was.

There was a touch on my hand. Another person's hand, larger and warmer, and then, there was a whole arm, a body that pushed so terrifyingly close and firm, I wasn't able to breathe until I realised that it wasn't the cold vice of death that held me in its embrace.

Heat spread around my body from the contact, the embrace of a hearth inviting me to rest.

"I've got you, Johnny," a familiar voice whispered. The weight around me was the reassuring presence of someone who refused to leave me alone, far from the oppression I feared. "I'm here."

My face was partially pressed against something soft, and then I felt it, the tender caress of his breath, gently touching my forehead and ghosting over the top of my head. 

His, his.

So close to a kiss, yet so irritatingly far.

I buried myself in those warm, reassuring arms. 

It was safe, I wasn't dying. There wasn't a part of me that was full of open, bleeding wounds. He was here and I wasn't alone. 

I was home.

"Good man," He murmured soothingly, coaxing me back to sleep. "You'll be alright."

My consciousness slipped through the cracks, in the descant I caught a string of words that felt too good to be true. It was the only reason I managed to drift to sleep at all.

Love.

I didn't deserve him, didn't deserve his kindness, or his love, or his anything.

Love, love.

I wasn't willing to let him go.

-

When I woke up again it was to the brightness of the room and a soft shuffling of clothes. I squinted my eyes open, stretching to peek my head out of the cocoon of the blanket to catch Simon pulling his hoodie over his head and smoothly the creases down his broad chest.

"You're real." I yawned, shifting to a more comfortable position in the bed as I watched him adjust his clothes for a few more seconds.

He turned his head towards me, roving over my form with a hooded, dark gaze, something akin to satisfaction sparking within.

"Expected me to disappear overnight, Johnny?" Simon asked.

"Considerin' yer callsign…" I shrugged, not resisting the soft smile that perked up after basking in the sight of his face — my morning sun. "Felt too good to be true, if I'm being honest."

"You should be grateful that you're not my enemy," he murmured, amusement laced at the edge of his voice.

"Oh yeah?" I wiggled a bit out of the pile of comfort around me, pushing myself to a sitting position. "What am I to the Ghost then?"

He shook his head, lips tugged into a disbelieving smirk.

"Your answer's there, Johnny," Simon said, gaze flickering to my chest, after a pause he recentred his focus, dragging his eyes deliberately slow to meet mine, scorching me in the process. “You don’t have to look far for it.”

I suddenly felt him everywhere.The lingering warmth I'd siphoned from his side of the bed, his scent that floated from the sheets, pillows and blankets around me; a comforting musk so nostalgic, I was convinced he had made a home for himself under my ribs. He was leisurely taking me in too, a disastrously knowing smirk over his pretty lips that challenged me to address it; to voice what he saw, what I knew.

Jesus Christ.

Not here. Not when he was too far away to reach.

"Simon." I frowned, sinking down on the bed, letting the blanket pool over me in an instinctual urge to seek comfort. "Not even a hint, then?"

The corner of his lips twitched, very obviously suppressing his delight; which only made my lips turn down more. 

"Things I do for you." He sighed, taking a few steps back. "You have to be the most oblivious fool alive to miss it."

I grinned. It was the most obvious answer, then. Simon would have more than enough ammunition to call me an oblivious wanker if I got it wrong. I wasn't planning on it, my head worked fine enough — Russian bullet-less.

Yet, when I watched him get ready for the day, hand instinctively reached for the balaclava hanging off the dresser, and then paused at the last second, something made me reconsider. His gaze found me again, trailing from my head to the fluffy cocoon around me before he pulled his hand back as if a single reminder of my presence was enough to reconsider ever putting the mask on. 

I found myself at the cliff of uncertainty, an inch off the edge.

Love.

It felt too good to be true. His voice had coiled sweetly around that word, softer than I've ever heard it, whispered against my skin like a promise meant to be fulfilled. Certainly, that softness was something I needed to cope with the nightmare and not…

I looked at him again. The expression on his face was unlike anything I'd ever seen on a person. I couldn't make heads or tails of that intensity. It almost made me ask for more, or any clue or indication of what he actually felt, if he felt like I did, after all those years.

You have to be the most oblivious fool alive.

No, I was going to figure it out. There was time, neither of us was going anywhere anytime soon. There would be time.

I'd make sure of it.

"I'll get breakfast prepared," Simon said, snapping me out of my daze. He was zipping up a winter jacket over the hoodie, likely to account for the cold. "You're fine with pancakes, right?"

"Aye." I managed a nod. "Coffee this time, please."

He pursued his lips. "You liked tea yesterday."

"There's a difference between drinkin' tea instead of coffee because it's not the crack of fuckin' dawn," I explained. "And preferrin' it over coffee." 

Simon made that little 'tsk' noise of disapproval before turning away from me and heading towards the door.

"You can rest more, I'll call you when it's done."

I hummed in approval, already putting my head back on the pillow.

"Such a doting lad," I muttered lazily, closing my eyes again.

"You have no idea, Johnny."

He closed the door, and I allowed myself to sleep more, finding myself in a listless dream instead of the nightmare from before.

-

By the time I made my way to the kitchen, the house was warm, the smell of breakfast drifted through the rooms and there were already plates of food on the table.

I found Simon in front of the kettle, pouring himself a cup of tea, the same apron around him. I took my seat on the table, my food already in front of me with the smell of fresh coffee floating from the cup; as promised it was pancakes decorated with syrup and fruits, banana and strawberries cut neatly to be more specific, and he'd prepared scrambled eggs and bacon on the side too. A good, full meal.

"Steamin’ Christ." I took a spoonful of the pancake and some of the strawberries, taking an appreciative bite the moment I could. The taste was perfect — a blend of sweetness fine-tuned for deliciousness. "You're spoilin’ me with the food here, Simon." 

Simon had moved to his seat on the table, one directly across mine, a matching set of food in front of him. His lips twitched at the corners, a fond glimmer in his eyes as he watched me devour my plate.

"Impressing you, am I?" He rested his arms on the table, bringing his cup to his lips. It did nothing to hide his delighted smile, but he sure did try.

"Forget me, you'd impress Gordon fuckin’ Ramsay with this," I said, shovelling more of the food in my mouth. It wasn't a particularly graceful display but the entire dish blended perfectly together and I couldn't stop until there was nothing but my plate left to lick.

I leaned back with a satisfied sigh, tipping my head to the side as I relished in the blissful afterglow of having a great breakfast in handsome company.

"You eat like you're still deployed," Simon murmured under his breath, forcing my gaze back to him. 

He was staring at my empty plate with his brows furrowed, and I licked my lips to do anything but address the subtle discomfort that settled at the observation. 

"Hasn't been long," I murmured. "Compliments to the chef. They don't make food like this when you're out there." 

"MREs are hardly worth the comparison, Johnny." He was stating the obvious but his expression eased, like he understood my predicament, nodding his head once. "Learned from the best."

I swallowed thick, my eyes sliding over the apron that he hadn’t bothered taking off.

"Was that a gift from the best too?" I asked, jutting my chin towards it. 

"More or less." He tapped the Mactavish label on his chest, almost showing it off, and I had to bite my cheeks to not smile like an idiot. "I was helping around the kitchen enough to warrant getting my own. Your grandmother let me pick the colour."

My eyes lingered on his hands, the way he traced the frills at the edge in absentminded splendour, the particular shade of blue standing out in its own way. 

The most oblivious fool alive indeed.

"Learned a lot from her, I'll show you what I've been working on later," Simon said dismissively, turning towards his food to finish it, oblivious to my thoughts. I lingered with my coffee, enjoying the enigmatic sight of him — it was hard to believe that he was here, even now.

"You've got somethin' to do?" I asked.

He nodded. "Gotta make sure everything's up 'n ready before we start decorating for Christmas."

I raised my brow at him in question.

"I don't usually celebrate it, your grandparents roped me in a few times back then. Didn't have anyone to celebrate with after them but since you're here…" he trailed off, there was a twinkle in his eyes that was reminiscent of that winter. "Figured it wouldn't hurt."

I exhaled, gripping the edge of the table. I didn't have anything to celebrate, or at least, I thought I didn't have anything to celebrate. Yet, Simon Riley was seated across from me, waiting for an answer with that same expectant spark of joy that melted my resistance quicker than anything in the world; I didn't want to say no to him, I couldn’t.

I was so down bad for him.

"Fuck it, sure," I confirmed, releasing the edge of the table from my grasp. The house was far from decorated but it wouldn't be a problem getting a tree inside and busting some old Christmas stuff out for the celebration part. "What do you need help with?"

"No." His denial was instant, a certain stubbornness present in his intense stare.

I frowned. "No?"

"You're still recovering, aren't you?" He looked at me pointedly, and my frown deepened, wondering where the fuck —

Evelyn, I remembered with muted resignation.  Who else besides her?

"We're not gonna make it worse, leave the heavy lifting to me," Simon said resolutely, in a tone that signalled that he didn't want any arguments coming from me. 

He sounded right like a commanding officer, taking no shit and ending the question directed towards his orders, as resolute as any. The only problem was, he wasn't my superior. 

It was getting on my nerves a bit.

"That's not an order," I said plainly, biting back the sharp edge to my voice that'd normally be present for others who crossed that line.

He blinked a few times with a start. "I didn't—"

"—I'm not going to watch ye do everything, Simon," I stated, shaking my head at him. "Can help out a bit, it's my home too."

He made a small noise at the back of his throat, one that indicated that I’d won. 

"We can do the supply run and decorate together, then."

I grinned in victory.

"In the afternoon." Simon sighed. "Still need to do the morning chores 'round here before we go to the village."

My grin disappeared immediately.

"You want me to sit pretty 'n give you a kiss before you’re off workin' in the farm for the day?" I grunted, narrowing my eyes at him.

Simon smiled. "That'd be a start." 

"Piss off," I growled.

"Without the kiss, Johnny?" 

My face burned hot and I considered throwing the spoon at him to make up for it, but he saw my contemplative glare between the steel and his face, it was then that he decided to move and get out of the way. Smart man.

Handsome and a fucking weapon in the same breath, too — never mind the fact that I desperately wanted to. If things were clearer between us, I would’ve grabbed him by that ridiculously cute apron and given him that kiss he was begging for.

Isn’t that a thought?

He gathered the empty plate from the table and moved towards the sink, leaving me and my coffee alone to cool down.

-

After being abandoned, I decided to spend the rest of the day rummaging for decorations and things that could be used to bring the holiday spirit back to the house. It wasn't hard to find. The wardrobes housed my family's age-old Christmas lights that still miraculously worked and red socks to hang up. I scoured the rest of the rooms in my search, finding nothing until I was standing at the basement door.

The place was more of a storage unit than an actual basement but I descended anyway, ignoring the prickles of goosebumps climbing my arms when I noticed the darkness blending perfectly with the abandoned furniture and trinkets.

I pulled back some sheets lined around different stacks of furniture, looked through some dusty and old boxes and went through crates of old books, rusted utensils and random pieces of wood before uncovering a box full of ornaments. 

It wasn't the only thing in the box, there were some tree toppers, wreaths, mistletoe, more lights, an advent calendar and scented candles. I grinned, noting that the size and weight of the box meant that I wouldn't have trouble enough to call Simon over for the 'heavy lifting' part. It wasn't like I didn't appreciate his sweetness for offering to help and take care of everything earlier, and I might've sounded a lot harsher than I wanted to; I just hated not being able to help or do things like I used to. 

It was a reality I was starting to adjust to, slowly accepting and working together with my recovery; slowly being the key word.

My work represented everything I wanted from my life — the agency I was never allowed to have. Yet, it had only taken a few bullets to take all of it away again. I wasn't planning to endanger myself, I wasn't that stupid. While I would've loved to throw myself back to the workout stage, mobility and fatigue issues —alongside the pain— meant I needed more time to recover. 

It already felt like ages had passed since the incident, I hated the fact that Makarov still affected so much of my life.

My family, my enemy.

Was there ever going to be a moment I would get to choose a life of my own?

I dragged myself away from my thoughts once I noticed I was standing still in the middle of the basement, staring off at nothing in particular. Completely normal behaviour. Gathering the box in my arms, I made my way up the stairs, ready to dump it in the living room when something shiny caught my eye.

It was in the corner, placed next to the stairs.

I leaned in to get a better look at it, a wave of nostalgia running through my body when I identified what it was.

A record player with a bunch of old vinyls next to it. They were my parents', and while I never looked for it back at our house, I always assumed it was there and not in my grandparent's basement.

I made a mental note to take it out later in the evening, as a little surprise for Simon. Good music went hand in hand with celebration, after all.

After putting the Christmas decorations in the living room, I took a nap and woke up when the sun was dipping over the horizon. The house was silent. It took a few seconds to realise that Simon hadn't returned from the chores he needed to finish. I grabbed my jacket from the armrest and pushed myself up from my cosy sofa nap to find the elusive Brit.

It was way past afternoon.

The snow was thick enough to make the journey towards the barn tedious but not undoable. It was easy to guess where he was, considering that the barn's door was somewhat open and it looked illuminated. When I was close enough, I heard noises too, of wood and loud  thwacks  that felt too reminiscent of what happened the day before.

It made me stop in my tracks, and reconsider for a split second before I shook the deja vu off. Nothing could stop me from reaching Simon again. It was my turn to be the stealthy one. I considered my every step as I advanced quickly, crossing the distance between the snow to the barn's half-opened door. I poked my head in first, and my gaze fell to the middle of the room where the sound was coming from, recognising him immediately.

Simon was standing over a tree stump with a massive axe in hand, logs were scattered everywhere around him and his face was angled towards a particularly large one perched over the stump.

It was then that I noticed the rest of his appearance. Simon's jacket, and hoodie, were carefully hung against the wall in front of him, leaving him in a long-sleeved shirt that was appropriately rolled up. Like this, the tattoos didn't look out of place in his arms, quite the opposite actually, it suited him more than ever.

His muscles in actions made every bit of him fall into place like a man primed to be perfect by the military. When he raised the axe, twisted it midair and bore down on the log in one strong, clean split, I watched in breathless anticipation; the world dissolved, and it was just him standing there, putting on a hell of a show.

Bleeding Christ.

He made the feat of strength look so easy. His shirt was tight, too tight, clinging over his form like a second skin. The way his arm flexed before he decimated massive pieces of wood cleanly made me wonder why I thought I had a chance against this beast of a man.

Simon Riley was an absolute weapon, in more ways than one.

I had never wanted to kiss someone as badly as I did him. The only question was how, when and where. Whether all crumbs of his dedication led to where I thought it did.

When, mostly.

I ended up staring at him more than what would be considered appropriate, it was the perfect opportunity to, and Simon seemed more concentrated on cutting wood in creative, sweat-riddled ways to notice. It wasn't until the last intact log was placed over the stump did I mentally prepared to make my presence known.

I took a few steps back first, putting some distance between us before confidently placing my palm over the door and shoving it open the rest of the way.

"Yer takin' way too long," I announced loudly, stepping fully into the warmly lit barn. Simon was picking up the split pieces, putting them aside on the ground when I did. "It's almost dark."

"Stroll's more scenic in the dark," Simon replied, watching me as I closed the distance between me and his pile of logs scattered around his feet, I pretended to be interested in the sheer amount of wood around like I hadn't seen them before.

Like I hadn't spent a good few minutes watching him from a distance. To be fair, my focus was more on Simon than what he was working on, and the pile of his work was impressive to behold.

"Big fuckin' pile." My comment pulled a chuckle out of him, and I tipped my head over to him with a small smile of my own.

"Been workin' on it since noon." Simon placed the axe on the stump and moved towards the wall where his clothes were hung. "I'll clean up tomorrow, let's stock up."

I nodded enthusiastically, he dressed himself and we were off.

-

The walk towards the village felt familiar. It was dark enough to blur out the weathered difference from back then and the presence of a one boy, man really, beside me made the nostalgia more palpable. There was enough light to walk through the path but we pocketed a flashlight for the walk. Simon didn't say much, which was familiar too. I was the one who usually filled the silence but I didn't want to today.

The atmosphere was contemplative and quiet and I let the events of the past day sink into me deeper than my boots went through the snow. Things had been overwhelming, that was for sure, but I managed to feel happy and safe for the first time in a long while.

I didn't realise I needed to feel safe after what had happened. It was frankly embarrassing to admit it at all, but the dream— reality that Simon Riley crafted by mere presence alone soothed me more than anything in my life did. I needed that desperately, I couldn't risk losing that, losing him again.

A sense of dread settled into me when I considered the depth of my feelings for him.

I love him. 

Christ, I loved him more than anything else in my life. I hadn't expected that childhood feelings to return with vice, stronger and deeper than before, a fault of my own making. I wasn't the one to second guess myself most of the time but my career-ending injury forced more caution and perspective in me than I needed it to. 

I hated being controlled by my fears as much as I hated not being able to do anything about it.

What if he doesn't…

I turned my head towards Simon, twisting my head to shoot him a glance and say something to fill the silence, realising a bit too late that he was lingering a few steps behind and my balance was far too off to not make me stumble.

"Fuckin' shittin' piece of—" My myriad of cussing as I ungracefully awaited a face full of snow down the fall was interrupted by two solid arms pulling me to a broad chest. 

I shuddered when, suddenly, there was nothing but Simon around me. His scent, his warmth, his arms; his everything. 

"Johnny?" He was breathing over my hair, arms steadily holding me in place.

"I’m solid," I whispered, allowing myself a second to appreciate the hug before I pushed myself back to my feet, embarrassment belatedly crawling in. "Just slipped is all."

Simon didn't look convinced. When I scoffed at him, turning back to the path to prove that I could walk the rest of the way properly, his shadow followed to my side. In a seamless ease, he slipped his hand between my arm and intertwined his fingers snugly between mine.

I stopped in my tracks, flexing my hand around the grip and ignoring the heat that climbed up my neck at the small gesture. "Simon?"

His answer was as nonsensical as his actions, his grip tightened, "Hand's cold."

Bullshit.  

Simon's hand gloved hand —with a skeleton pattern on the back and everything— was burning hot against mine. I had a colourful choice of words reserved for him but when I snuck a glance at his profile, I noticed that he was completely fixated on the point where our hands met, a ghost of a smile drifting on his lips.

He looked happy.

I returned the hold, turning my grip into vice.

"Roger that, we can't have you freezin'," I affirmed, trudging along the path with his hand in mine. He followed obediently, like a good lad. "I'll keep ya warm 'n safe, L.t."

"Fuckin' hell, Johnny," Simon murmured. 

A part of me wondered if he was going to pull back after the teasing but my thoughts were quelled when he stuck closer than before. 

He didn't let go of my hand until we reached the village.

The first stop was the bakery. Simon took the lead, the light of the stores warmed the brown in his eyes and when he released my hand to open the door for the both of us, there was a certain eagerness in him that rubbed off on me. I found the source of it when the smell of the pastries and bread surrounded me, the festive specials on full display in the front of the counter.

Simon had a sweet tooth too, I recalled.

He greeted the baker and I followed suit, quickly realising that it was the baker's son who was running the store. We exchanged some banter, and some throwaway jokes and talked about family while Simon started his shopping spree.

I said ‘his’ shopping spree because I mostly ended up being an extra pair of hands as he swiftly picked the bread, pastries, cupcakes and some baking supplies from the selection. All of it miraculously fit in one bag and we were off to the next stop.

"Remember when…" Simon started when we were walking towards the general store, far away from prying eyes. "You used to share the stuff your family bought there with the rest?"

"I do." I didn't know why he was bringing that up, my family always had excess food lying around; it felt natural back then to share whenever I could.

"Should've thanked you for it." Simon was staring at the street ahead with his hand in his pocket, resolute in the pause that followed. "There's a lot I should thank you for." He snuck a fleeting glance at me from the corner of his eyes, softening when he met my own. "I knew you gave me yours too sometimes, when I stared too long at it."

"You liked it." I shrugged. What were a few sacrificed sweets to make the boy I liked happy? "Grandma always baked plenty, alongside the shopping."

Simon was quiet for a while. We were close to the convenience store, and there were a couple of interesting shops along the same street. I was planning to head towards the little shop in the corner that usually prepared Christmas gifts for kids and adults alike this time of the year since I didn't have anything for Simon. If we were celebrating Christmas, gifts would be essential.

"It was the only time I got to have any."

We stopped in front of the store's door, he hadn't turned towards me.

"You didn't usually…?" I asked in quiet astonishment.

He shook his head. "My father forbade anything that made us happy, bastard of a man."

I was speechless. 

Baffled by the absolute audacity of Simon's father, whom I had never seen, and partly by myself too for not noticing, or asking, about Simon's situation better. I had a sense that something was off but my young brain didn't connect the dots, not enough to make it matter; I could've helped him so much more if I had known.

"I'm sorry." My apology was pathetic, rushed and partially because I didn't know what else to say but to convey my sincerity.

I was sorry, in more ways than I could ever express.

"Sorry for what, Johnny?" Simon's question was sharp, he scanned my face intently, a narrowed precision present in his gaze, and I tried to not squirm under it. "Sorry for being the best memory of my childhood?"

My lungs felt tight against my ribs.

"Sorry for being the closest thing I had to a best friend?" He seared my heart with his words, affection etched behind the heat of the iron. "Sorry for making me happy?" 

Simon Riley deserved everything the world could fucking offer. 

"Sorry for making me feel lov—"

Loved.

He looked away, shoulders drawn sharp and tight, letting his words trail off; I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. He has never looked this devastatingly beautiful before. His face was porcelain fragile and yet there was resolute tension solidifying it, guarding himself from hurt. The warmth of his breath fogged up in front of him as he inhaled and exhaled deeply, delicate and strong. A contradiction that made him stand out more, one that only he could pull off. 

The streetlights bounced off his angular face, highlighting the scars that each had a story of their own, each that I wanted to know.

It started snowing again.

The white flakes fell gently on his hair, resting over the gold in delicate strokes; a makeshift crown, ordained by the spirit himself.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me." 

Simon startled at my voice, jerking his head towards me, dark eyes swirling in the light. My heart was pounding in my chest but I wasn't going to stop now, not when he was staring at me more intensely than before, looking for a lie underneath everything — anything besides the truth behind my words.

"Sorry that I couldn't floor that sorry excuse of a father for you."

Simon didn't say anything for a while. 

He stood there with his expression trained, giving nothing away. I didn't mind. While it was getting darker, and the cold was starting to seep through the layers, I felt like I could wait a whole lifetime for him. Maybe some more, if he needed it.

Thankfully, he didn't make me wait for too long.

"You're too late," Simon said. "Floored 'n threw him out when I could."

"Good man." I couldn't help smiling fondly at him, and when he looked at me and nodded, I hoped he knew that he was loved, that he always would be, as long as I lived. "If something comes up in the future, I'll be at yer side, trading blows."

His lips twitched at that. "Gotta bulk up then, Johnny."

"Aye." I blew out a foggy, dragon breath of my own. "I was holding hope out for spring."

"I'll help you," Simon said with the certainty of a man who was going to stick around for spring and more. He added softly, "If you stay." 

I laughed. "Only an oblivious fool would wanna leave."

He tilted his head upwards and away, smiling that beautiful bashful smile I was starting to wholeheartedly cherish.

We got our things from the convenience store and walked a couple of minutes until the gift shop came up. I took a glance at the display, feeling adequately pleased. There were plenty of Christmas decorations within, which was always a good sign when it came to the credibility of seasonal items. 

"I need to buy something here, ye can go on without me," I said, turning towards the inquisitive face of one expressive Brit. Considering how easy it was to read him, maybe there had been another reason for that mask to exist. "Can't have you knowin’ what your gift is."

Simon hummed in agreement. He seemed oddly serious about it, not refusing nor saying I didn't need to; I wondered if he prepared one in advance too. "Don't wander too far, Johnny."

"Will do, Simon." I gave him a thumbs up as he turned to head down to the other shops in the area. "You'll know where to find me."

I didn't move until he was out of sight. Not out of paranoia that he would try to sneak a glance, mind you, but I wanted to etch the memory of the sight deep, somewhere safe. The world felt scenic — everything was peaceful and I relished every second of it. When I turned to step into the shop, the door rang those little bells I remembered it had.

The 'gift shop' was more of a combination of a souvenir shop, a stationary, a book store and an antique store. It was one of the pricier stops, one where you'd need more than a handful of quids to get what you needed, and there were many things displayed within that would make you want more than you needed. 

Mr. Anderson was known to be well-connected to the city's vendors and sellers, he always made the winters more festive for people like me. He was a good man through and through, back then, he used to allow a group of ragtag bairns to hang around when it got too cold; letting us gather around the tables to draw and sketch on the odd days our parents needed us out of the house but indoors, somewhere safe and warm. 

I guess it helped that we made most of our folks buy us stuff from the shop too. Friendly, good-natured and having plenty of festive trinkets was the key to our hearts.

"Good evening," Mr. Anderson said. I stepped into the shop and let the door close behind me, greeting the old man with a friendly smile. "My eyes are deceiving me. John Mactavish?"

"One 'n only," I confirmed. "Haven't seen you in a while, Mr. Anderson. Business' still thrivin'?"

He laughed. "Not much since your group grew up, that's for sure. I didn't think I'd see you back again."

"Aye, well," I started, moving closer to the counter while slowly browsing the shelves and the new arrivals. "I'm thinking about staying here, this time."

"You've grown," Mr. Anderson noted, and then he nodded, pleased by my response. "About time one of you lingered, poor Simon has been taking care of the entire farm by himself."

My eyebrows shot up. 

"You've…?" 

"Aye, boy." His eyes grew sterner but it was warm, with a strong familiarity and pride extruding from his gaze. "Don't look at me like he's a secret, he has been helping folks around the village when he can." He leaned against the counter. "Has grown up well, that one."

I scoffed, shaking my head at the memory of a boy who wasn’t a towering Englishman back then. "Too much, if you ask me."

"He barely used to reach the top shelf." Mr. Anderson chuckled, following my gaze to one of the said shelves. There were festive snow globes decorating most of it, depicting various scenes with Santa, castles and random snowy views within. "So, what are you getting him?"

"How did you know I was getting a gift for him?" I asked, sparing a glance at him.

"Who else? Unless you're telling me that your sister will be here for Christmas too." He shook his head, turning his back to me as he rummaged through the shelves of the counter. "Be sure to buy whatever you want, John, but I might have something that'll please the lad too."

He was holding a shiny camera.

"Is that—?" I blinked in astonishment, stepping closer to the counter when he gestured for me, and leaning over when the contents of its memory were shown to me.

The photos within were perfect.

"I don't do it as a service, but if you want to give Simon a gift, I can get it developed and framed for you at a price," Mr. Anderson said. I nodded furiously, the prospect of price out of the window now that the option for a decent gift was on top of the table. 

Frankly speaking, I wasn't sure I'd be able to buy anything meaningful for him at such short notice. Maybe a fancy, decorative gift, but not something that had me genuinely looking forward to seeing his reaction. I discussed the details and payment with Mr. Anderson before bidding him farewell, a wide smile on my face when I exited the shop.

Simon was standing in front of the shop when I stepped out.

He caught the sight of my expression, gaze flickering to the absence of anything in my hands, and back up to my face, a furrow forming in his brows.

"You didn't get anything," he stated. The question was there but it stayed invisible, curiosity contained carefully if I didn't want to give it away.

"It'll be ready before the Eve," I reassured, walking closer to inspect what he had gotten. His hands were occupied, bags of groceries easily balanced in them, he likely got them at the farmer's market. "Don't worry your pretty head about it."

"I'm not, Johnny," he stated plainly.

"Not what?" I reached out to hold some of his groceries, he stepped back from my advances, face dusted pink, dark eyes insistent, oddly enough.

"I’m not pretty as you make me out to be," Simon muttered.

He was off his head.

"Aye, well." I tilted my head up to him, staring at him hard, squinting my eyes for a good measure, then after a while of visible assessment, I added, "Yer foolin' me well if that face's a mask too." 

Simon pursued his lips briefly, the scar that ran raggedly on the corner of it met with the one beneath, inexplicably drawing my attention to it. My hands twitched with the urge to trace it. "Even with the…" he trailed off, tilting his head to the side as if it explained everything.

I frowned. "Makes you handsome too, but feel free to add sprinkles of beautiful in there." I shrugged, not entirely sure what he was on about but not willing to let him linger in the thought for much. "Bonnie lad, through 'n through."

He stood there unflinchingly, mulling over my words. I couldn't understand what was so confusing about it, although I shamelessly used the moment against him.

Taking advantage of his silence, I wrangled some bags out of his arms, shooting him my winning smile before he could protest. It was all done for a noble purpose, aside from helping him out. 

I slipped my hand into his, tightening my hold. "Gotta keep this warm."

Simon's cheeks turned a delightful shade of red; from my words or the weather, it was yet to be determined. He huffed and said nothing the entire walk back, but his hand was tighter around mine and it was comfortably warm throughout. 

I had a feeling I was going to enjoy Christmas a lot more than I initially thought.

Chapter Text

It didn't take long for Christmas Eve to loom close. 

I made an early trip with Simon to the village. He disappeared in the stories to stock up on more supplies while I retrieved his gift for him. The entire village was draped in white, snowfall in the night decorating the place appropriately for Christmas — it was as perfect as it could be.

The thick wad of snow over the path to the village would've been a problem, if Simon didn't loom close to me like a wingless guardian angel; he mostly offered me his hand without asking or explaining anything, more than willing to match his pace with mine. I appreciated the gesture for a variety of reasons. First off, his hand was nice and warm to hold and secondly, because it meant Simon had to stick closer like a reassuring pillar in case of emergencies. Conversation, and some teasing, flowed easily between us. He made me forget my worries almost seamlessly, and the added delight of his company was a bonus all around. 

When we were back in the house, he moved to place the groceries for a ‘fancy dinner’ in the kitchen and I found myself in the living room, staring at the box full of Christmas stuff and the undecorated tree next to the fireplace. 

“We should get started on that.” Simon’s voice called out, and I turned towards him, raising my eyebrows at the cups he was holding in his hands. He extended the red one towards me. “Coffee for you.”

I smiled at the first sip, the taste of milk, coffee and sugar was blended perfectly; catered specifically to me. 

“Yer gettin’ the hang of this.” The fact that it didn’t take even a day for him to figure out my preferences and make it without any errors was endearing, to say the least. 

“Gotta get used to having you around, Johnny,” Simon said, eyes creasing lightly as he took a sip of his drink before he raised his cup and added softly, “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Aye.” I took a seat on the sofa, sighing at another sip of the warm coffee, the extra dose of energy and heat melting the chill from the early morning walk. “Would’ve came runnin’ if I knew you were here, y’know.”

Simon huffed, moving to stand in front of me. 

“That’s what I was afraid of, Johnny.” 

I cocked my head in question and all he gave was an amused tilt of his lips, as if he read my mind. 

“Didn’t want you to be hasty when you’re supposed to be recovering.”

I frowned. Recovery would’ve been aeons better if I had one Simon Riley by my side during all of the nonsense, not that I knew it from experience or anything, but something told me his bonnie face would’ve been enough to accelerate my recovery to some extent. 

“Couldn’t have been worse if I did,” I grumbled under my breath. 

“It could have,” Simon said, narrowing his eyes.

“How?” I scoffed, leaning back to rest my back against the sofa. “Got everythin’ taken from me, lucky my arse.”

“You are.” He stepped closer, legs casually invading the space that mine was occupying, forcing me to part my thighs more or move. I stretched my knees back instead of backing off, a sort of stubborn defiance bleeding through when I noticed that he was searching my face, hyper-focused on making a serious, short-lived catalogue of the details, completely ignorant of how much of him I could feel. “If you died out there, Johnny…”

He didn’t seem to notice his knees digging into my thighs nor the heat that perpetuated because of it, the lick of solemn consideration made me want to take the conversation properly too, but my past was relevant in a different way now. The what ifs reduced to what came out of it; what ultimately came to be. 

Every bit of that pain resulted in Simon Riley staring down at me as if I were someone who he couldn’t bear to lose.

How could I not feel happy about that?

“I didn’t die,” I stated instead. 

Something intense and consuming flashed through those hooded eyes, it felt like his focus narrowed exponentially, like I reached beyond the Simon I knew and peeled off a layer I had yet to see.

“Johnny.” His voice curled around my name softly, dangerously low and enticing. “I would’ve personally made sure none of those who touched you would want to live enough to tell the tale.”

There it was, a mental image of that same intensity burning as he slaughtered his way through the ultranationalists, all the way up to Vladimir Makarov himself until there was nothing left of the man. Dangerous, handsome and unstoppable in black, white and red. 

“Not a single one.”

“Jesus.” I resisted the urge to exhale shakily and pushed my legs closer to his, hoping that a reassuring touch would help him remember that I was very much alive and breathing. “Is the whole vengeful thing because you’re the Ghost too?”

“I could be a lot more than vengeful for you, Johnny,” Simon answered, body stiffening momentarily as he registered how close he was, I couldn’t help my smirk as the tension in the air shifted to something palpable, a gentle sort of pink dusting his cheeks and if it weren’t for the hot drinks in our hands, I would’ve probably done something neither of us would be able to step back from. 

Simon did try to step away, and I let him for the reason that was the same as before — he wasn’t close enough.

It wasn’t time yet. 

“Tempting,” I muttered, bringing my coffee up to my lips. “What else are ye willin’ to do for me?”

Simon pondered for a second, his face cooling from the little too-close-for-comfort moment, still a pretty, pink sight regardless, casting a wry smile down for me to devour. 

“Decorate the house.”

The tension snapped quicker than a thin sheet of ice when he turned towards the rest of the living room, revealing an awfully bare tree and the box of decorations sitting in the middle of the room. I followed his gaze with a drawn-out sigh. We had work to do, that much was obvious. 

“I don’t mind helping, ya’know.” I drank the rest of my coffee in slow sips, watching Simon walk closer towards the tree, taking a quick gulp of his own to finish his tea. 

“Take the tree, I’ll deal with the rest,” he declared in finality.  

“Simon.” 

He didn’t miss the warning in my voice, making his shoulders lax when he tilted his head towards me, casually taking me in from head to toe. 

“For once, it’s not cus of your injuries,” Simon said with a coy lith in his voice.

“What then?” I asked slowly, genuine curiosity making me suspend my disbelief, even if I knew it was for nothing good when Simon opened his mouth again. 

“Your height.”

He did not.

But he had. There was a boyish glint in his eyes that seemed too pleased by the fact that he managed to surpass me in height after those years of being the lanky, short one, flaunting to my face it even. Completely unnecessary if you consider that he already did that whenever he stood straight.

“Bastard,” I growled under my breath.

“Not my fault you don’t meet the criteria by a few inches,” Simon murmured silkily, making me gap at his audacity, not that it did anything to stop amusement from splitting his face into a handsome, striking thing. 

“Yeah? Why don’t ya put so—” I caught myself before the horribly inappropriate retort fell out in seamless ease, biting my cheeks for a second to focus. “—put a sock in yer mouth.”

Nice save, great save, I thought as I watched Simon’s lips twist in a horrible attempt to stifle his amusement, his eyes glistening in knowing mirth. My face was starting to get warmer by the second, burned incessantly by the focused stare of my childhood crush. I was going to faceplant myself in the snow outside to cool any of it down at this rate. Maybe stay out there all winter too. Fuck me in particular, and my mouth. 

Who the fuck even says sock in your mouth?

“Fine.” I agreed, it was better than being the centre focus at least. “But the tree ‘n fireplace is entirely my domain.”

“Solid copy, Sergeant.” Simon nodded, ignoring my very obvious frown that formed from his retort.

“Piss off.”

“Is that an order too?” He raised an eyebrow with his question, craning his head back to down the tea like he was doing a vodka shot. Making me crane my neck to look at him, to catch the smile that was oh-so-cleverly not hidden behind the cup. 

Arsehole.

“I’ll make it worse than one,” I warned, the heat dissipating from my threat the moment he levelled his gaze, the corners of his eyes were creased, fondness etched everywhere and the warmth in his eyes wasn’t bad. 

He was truly enjoying himself, as if the single source of his happiness was sitting in front of him for him to indulge and enjoy, the kind of stare that could make anyone head over heels in a matter of minutes — like he had fallen in love all over again. 

Like I had fallen in love all over again. 

It wasn’t bad at all. 

“Better get started on it, then,” he murmured, breaking the gentle haze. 

He was right. We needed to get everything ready before night fell, and noon was already catching up on us. I nodded in spite of myself, soothing myself that there would be moments to explore what we wanted to do later. 

If Simon would have me, of course.

He placed our cups aside and started on the box of decorations, helping me separate the tree decorations from the pile. It felt natural and easy, having him next to me, sorting through little ornaments and different tree toppers, making little comments and jokes about that winter. His warmth was reassuring, everything I needed to have and hold in this life, perhaps the next one too. 

As it turned out, it didn’t take long for that moment to come. 

It was in the afternoon when I carried the record player out to the living room.

-

“You found that?” 

I looked up after placing the record player next to the tree. 

Simon was almost done decorating the living room, draping the room in different lights, tactically placing the advent wreaths and hanging the mistletoes around the corners. I didn’t linger on the details much but it looked like Christmas touched most of the house we were going to use, my handiwork with the tree was going well too, everything was properly decorated except for the tree topper. I decided on the lucky, and very conventional, star for the year. Hope had been a fleeting, spiteful thing my entire life but whenever I looked at Simon, it shone brighter than anything I’d ever seen.

Like a star I was allowed to make a wish upon.

I was going to ask Simon to put it up later since he was so adamant about pulling his height around the house.

“It was my parent’s.” I dusted off the corners of the record player, pulling up the old vinyl for his view. There was an assortment of old music there, all classical. “Thought we could use a little bit of music for Christmas.” 

Simon nodded, then finished hanging whatever it was in the middle of the room while I sorted through the vinyl, remembering distinctly why they existed. My mam was a bit of a dreamer, someone who enjoyed the lighter, finer things in life, she loved laughing and having fun whenever she could, though life was always a bit too busy for things. It was around the holidays, Christmas in particular, when she could let loose. She spent most of it with Da, but we were occasionally around to join in on the fun too. 

“No Christmas music?” Simon’s whisper came right from my side and it took everything in me not to flinch, realising that the brief moment of nostalgia stole my time away from the present again. 

“Not much, thank god,” I murmured, offering a vinyl up for consideration, and he took it slowly, turning the cover to read the name of the composer. 

“Johann Strauss.” He raised his eyebrows. “This is…”

“Classical. Waltz, wedding music, stuff like that,” I explained, waving the rest of the titles in my hands. “Mam used to be a big fan, pulled Da into dancing with her durin’ snowfall ‘n everythin’.”

“Romantic,” he commented. 

“Not always, she taught me too.” I hadn’t forgotten how she dragged me and my sister to practise with each other, because ‘we needed to prepare for our future’ or whatever she meant. Mam probably expected me to settle down with a nice Scottish lass, so she taught me the men’s dance and my sister the woman’s. 

My sister danced to the music she liked at her wedding, and I still remembered the moves like I had been taught yesterday.

Simon’s face brightened with interest. “Didn’t know you could dance, Johnny.” 

I hummed lightly, going through the assortment to pick a random vinyl out of the bunch and place one on the record player, before long, the soft, sweet notes of the music filled the room, setting an oddly serene scene in the room. I pushed myself up, dusting the corners of my clothes and offering my hand down to the crouched Simon in front of me. 

“I can show you,” I offered with a smile itching at the corner of my lips, and from the way Simon’s hooded gaze travelled the length of my open palm to my face, intrigue splattered everywhere, I knew he wasn’t going to refuse. 

He took my hand in his, the smooth lines of his scarred hand firm against my own, and he allowed me to pull him up this time, the weight of him strong and steady in my arms. It was good to know I still could, but trying to dip him during the waltz seemed out of the question for now. 

He didn’t move away when he rose to his full height, lingering in my space with silent, shallow breaths, crowding me in. And Christ, he was so close too. It’d take only a step to crash into that steady, warm chest, I knew he’d be there to steady me regardless of how abrupt my actions were, and how tightly those muscular arms would embrace me to make sure I was okay. 

He didn’t say anything — expecting, watching and waiting for the touch he seamlessly invited without a thought of its consequences. 

This was dangerous. 

But I couldn’t help myself. 

I placed my free hand above his waist, palm slowly stretching over the meat of his stomach before I curled my fingers around him. The permission to touch buzzed with anticipation I hadn’t felt before; when I tried to imagine giving in to the impulses I had of pulling Simon in and kissing him senseless, I had a feeling he would’ve let me easily. I got lost in him, tracing the soft lines of his stomach through the layers of his clothes, the haze reaching from the heat of his skin to his scent clouding in my head. 

“Johnny.” His voice was soft, delicate against my skin, and it was then I realised he had dipped his head close, lips next to my ear; punched-out breaths travelling down the length of my neck while goosebumps pricked over my arms. I moved before his closeness wiped every thought clean from my brain, intertwining my fingers through the hand that I still held.

The music curled around us with a growing rhythm.

“Dance with me.” 

That wasn’t what I meant to say but when we started, he managed it seamlessly, in perfect tempo for a person who never mentioned that he knew how to dance too. I guided him towards the middle of the room step by step and he followed me more ardently than my shadow. With his breath on my neck and my grip on his waist, the tune of the instruments dragged like an anchor through time, slowing everything down until the sway of his body against mine was the only thing that mattered. 

We weren’t exactly following the beat or the dance steps as my mam taught me — which wasn’t possible in my current physical condition anyway — but Simon didn’t complain and I didn’t want to stop. 

I readjusted the dance to skip the twirls and dips, focusing mostly on pulling him closer, matching the rhythm of our bodies to each other. He took the stance of a waltz partner perfectly, one hand gripping mine while the other draped itself securely around my shoulder. It was an intricate thing, stepping close, feeling his hand tighten against mine and his breathing louder and moving away in another beat, his pulse thumping underneath my fingertips; the upbeat tune did nothing to dampen the intensity in the air. 

I couldn’t focus on anything but how he felt when he moved.

We flirted with the closeness, floated through the dance with everything forgotten until the instruments leisurely slowed down and dropped off. Then it was just us, lungs burning and faces heated against the glow of the Christmas lights. I hadn’t consciously done it but we ended up entangled in each other's arms, too close for comfort but unwilling to move away all the same. We didn’t for a while, simply focused on coming down from the trance we found ourselves in. 

Simon pulled his head away from my neck, the ghost of his touch dragging across my skin from the movement alone and a strange sort of melancholy settled deep in my ribs when I thought about how the moment was going to end, we were going to return to the reality that existed outside of us. 

Away from us.

My grip around him tightened before I could think better of it.

“Johnny?” Simon’s voice was soft, and when I turned towards him, he was searching for something. Signs of discomfort, maybe, or the elation that lingered from the dance, unwilling to let go. Whatever it was, his consideration eased when he focused on me again, pale lashes fluttering over dark, glistening eyes. “Take your time, not going anywhere.” 

I didn’t say anything. 

I couldn’t — not when the words lodged in my throat felt like a thirty-year-old secret that started with I and ended with you. The words after that were a question, a silent one that demanded attention. I was being ridiculous, off my fucking head more than a few times over and yet I was going to take my time; Simon had offered so sweetly, how could I refuse? 

I drank the sight of him in. Sipping slowly, fully focused, like he was a Ten Year Kentucky Straight, the bitter, burning taste of him certified to be the best, reserved solely for me, sultry brown framed by flitting gold that was meant to be worshipped on its way down. I wanted to keep him there. Tight in my grasp, his scent fresh on my lips, taste burning down the stretch of my throat. 

I hadn’t painted in forever but I studied him like I did, stored every detail in the deepest corner of my brain so I could recreate it properly, on a giant canvas that would convey my devotion to anyone that visited.

My eyes travelled up his profile in silent reverence and stopped, momentarily interrupted by the tuft of hair sitting unevenly and ruffled over his forehead, something obscured laying flat on top of it. 

“You have...” I leaned my body closer, almost tiptoeing to get a better look at it. “You have somethin’...”

Simon tilted his head up because of my interest, eyes darting while the item in question fell more into view. 

It was a mistletoe. 

A tactically placed mistletoe. 

“Ah, that’s…” Simon mumbled, his voice deceptively innocent as if he hadn’t been the sole contributor to the decorations that hung overhead, and he leaned back towards me like he was waiting for me to comment on it, ulterior motive shining through. 

“Johnny…”

Sneaky fuckin' bastard. 

He was smirking, a devastating, handsome devil in disguise. 

“Aren’t you going to wish me good healt—”

I grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie and yanked his face down to mine before he could finish that sentence. 

His words died against my lips, and the desperate urgency in which I pressed my mouth against his muffled every sound that was meant to escape, his body was still, almost slack against mine, and I used the moment to feel my other hand from his hold to grab his face and pull him closer. Then, like a spark that was meant to collapse an entire building in a single beautiful blaze, he responded with the enthusiasm of timber lying in wait. 

Sparks flew, the fire blazed and smoke gathered. 

It was everything I’d ever dreamed of. 

The heat of his lips, the muffled, rumbling noise from his chest as he pulled me close until I was flushed against him, the arms that snaked around me like tight bands of possession, seizing the moment with a flick of his tongue and the almost bruising pressure as he sucked my lower lip in his mouth. Everything. He was everything; in front of me, around me, and when a particularly soft nip made me gasp, his presence invaded my mouth too. 

Both of us understood at that moment that we had waited our entire lives for this. The crushing, overflowing sense of euphoria that threatened to steal everything from our lungs, the lunging, unyielding desires of our hearts pouring into each other with a sense of urgency that voided any sense of logical comprehension. 

I’d never felt it clearer then, of how deeply I was loved, had been loved. The lips that greeted me weren’t the anxious exploit of a new lover but that of a man who had waited, patiently, for his entire life to be reunited again with the love of their life. I lost myself in it. The burning, scraping tear of a kiss that was going to change my life forever. 

When Simon pulled away, cheeks rosy and lips slightly swollen off with heavy, drawn-out pants, I concerned myself with the sight of him again, ignoring the emptiness in my chest to burn for a second more. 

“Johnny.” His voice was raw, rough and incredibly affectionate, his arms squeezed around me more and I inhaled, unable to deny myself as I buried my face in his neck. 

“Simon,” I said, feeling my mouth spill over the words clumsily. “I love you.”

Relief and anticipation followed, but I knew the answer already and I wasn’t done yet. 

“Fuckin’,” Simon managed, and it seemed like he was trying to catch his breath, to respond properly to what I earnestly confessed. “Johnny—”

“I’ve loved you for a long time, Simon Riley,” I muttered against the collar of his shirt, compulsion willing me to confess like I was in front of a priest, but this wasn’t sin, was it? There was nothing sinful about the love that consumed every individual cell in my body. It was the exact opposite, his love saved me. “I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you.”

His hold tightened around me. 

“I’ve loved you…” I swallowed a breath. “...ever since I’ve known what love was.”

There. 

Everything laid bare, my insides gutted for display. All for the only man that had grown to matter intimately in my life. Despite being yanked out and left bleeding, my heart was beating weakly, waiting for the words to soothe stammering vulnerability. His hand softly caressed the side of my face, the answer revealing itself when he grabbed my chin and slowly guided it upwards. I opened my eyes in time to see his pretty face lean close, that golden brown flit in the light, and his lips pressed against mine. 

The kiss was softer, gentle, quieting the lull of the wild, raw thing with reassurance that wrapped me in its embrace. His answer was clear but when he pulled away, he stayed close enough to let his words dance against my lips. 

The confirmation I craved.

“You are the only one left in this world,” he said, resting his forehead gently over mine. “The only one I love, Johnny.” 

When I pulled him in for a kiss again, my hand grasping the hair at the back of his head, I felt that infuriating, handsome smirk that had been troubling me the last few days against my lips, and I realised that it wasn’t so bad, up close.

-

We ended up kissing a few more times after the confession, during dinner preparations and during the dinner itself. Even after we settled in the living room again with soothing music and a cup of tea each, we couldn’t quite keep our hands to ourselves. 

It felt like we were making up for the time spent apart, like we were teenagers who figured out how good the presence and touch of another felt. It was mostly kissing, though. The day was a bit too emotional for more and I wanted to indulge in the exhilaration of a newly formed love, it was perfect as it was. I didn’t remember the last time I was this happy and content, curled up on the sofa cuddling with someone I wholeheartedly loved; worries lost and forgotten in the bliss of satisfaction.

One could even say it felt like… merriment. 

“Ya’know,” Simon said, pressing his lips to the top of my head as he pulled me closer in his embrace. “I don’t mind opening the presents right now.”

I perked up, propping my chin on his chest to look up at him. 

“Breakin’ traditions, Simon?”

“It’s for you.”

For me. 

Seems like I got my answer from before.

“I want to see if it fits you or not.”

I raised my brows at him, leaning back to sit up properly.

“Ye got me clothes?”

“Made.”  

That caught my attention. 

I knew he was handy, in more ways than one and I had seen him wearing some handmade stuff around the house but this exceeded expectations; he had to have made it before I arrived, with how busy he was preparing everything alongside me there was no way he had time to sit down and make something for me. 

I slid from his arms and he let me, following me to the tree. Our two presents were underneath it, the lack of company and people to give for telling, but it was more than enough for the year. I would have more time to prepare presents next year, and I planned to, Simon deserved to be buried in a pile of thoughtful, useful gifts; not that the one I got for him was any less thoughtful and useful.  

It was mostly a coincidence that I managed, and it was going to be intentional the next time — he wasn’t going to escape being loved in an equally undeniable part from my side. 

“Thought of me all along, did you?” I grabbed my gift. It was a perfect square wrapped up in shiny blue and silver, with a little brown bow on the top too. On a closer look, it did seem like there was a piece of clothing underneath. 

“Everything in this house…” Simon trailed off, sitting cross-legged next to me as I tore through the wrapping as delicately as I could, which was to say, not delicately at all. The reveal was a blue knitted fabric, which I proceeded to slowly unfold. “...reminds me of you.”

It was a soft blue and white knitted sweater that had a ‘Riley’ stitched over the top left half.

Sneaky bastard indeed.

If he hadn’t pulled that little stunt in the afternoon, he would’ve got me with the present itself. 

I pulled the sweater up to my neck, holding it out for him to see that the length was almost perfect, a tad bit oversized but I didn’t mind that in my sweaters. I couldn’t hide my stupid grin or my excitement in the slightest — he had thought of me in the same way I thought of him. How could I not be?

“Take that you like it?” Simon asked with softness in his breath. 

I scoffed, pulling the sweater to my lap as I shrugged the jacket off my shoulders, and the long sleeve underneath, it wasn’t until I was in my sleeveless vest, scrambling to pull the sweater on that he spoke, eyes wide enough to look like saucers.

“Johnny—” 

The cold air lingered on my bare skin for a moment before the woollen fabric replaced it, his gaze was on me the entire time. Speechless. Searching.

Wanting. 

The sweater smelled like him too. 

Like home. 

“I love it,” I said, pulling the sleeves up to cover half of my hands. He might’ve overestimated an inch or two but it was perfect for me. I leaned close enough to press my lips to his cheek, slowly dusting kisses over his pretty face until I felt his smile break through. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Johnny.” He chuckled, tilting his head to brush his smile against my lips. “If that’s enough to make you happy…”

“You have no idea, sweetheart,” I purred, too giddy to care about how casually the pet name slipped out. It was madness swimming in a pool of drunk love, and I was the ever-enthusiastic fool.

He huffed out a laugh, giving me a small peck on my nose as he pulled away.

Simon looked at his gift and I took the moment to scoot closer to him, taking a seat while rightfully claiming the spot on his shoulder to rest my head. I handed him his present. It wasn’t much, but I wanted to see his reaction for myself. 

Mr. Anderson had wrapped the gift up nicely, the main attraction neat in a box to make sure it wasn’t too obvious. Simon meticulously unwrapped the paper, making sure to not tear through it like I did. He had the box in his hand before I knew it, curiosity brimming on his face as he slowly lifted the cover to reveal the picture frame. 

Simon inhaled sharply, his body suddenly going still. There was an odd tension in his hand as he held the box, enough to make me a bit cautious, and I parted my lips to ask if it wasn’t something he wanted, if I shouldn’t have overstepped, but he interrupted me before I could. 

“How?” He lifted the picture from the box, his grip tight along the edge of the Christmas-themed frame. “How does this…”

“Exist?” I asked softly, not wanting to offend, and I felt him nod to my question, tilting the picture closer. 

I hadn’t known it existed either.

Not until he showed me the photo in the store and sent me back to the past I cherished. 

The photo itself depicted the front of Mr. Anderson’s shop where the street was filled with thick enough snow to make traffic impossible for days to come. It was snowing a lot and we had decided to play in the snow under the man’s supervision. The only thing different about that day was that Simon wasn’t alone when he joined us, his older brother was there too, forced to linger around because the grown-ups ditched him with us. Tommy, Simon called him. He was a bit older than us so getting him to join in on the snow fight took effort, especially since he insisted that whatever we were doing was child’s play and nonsense, but I tried my best since Simon was more awkward and uncomfortable than usual that day. 

I figured it would do him good to have a fun time regardless of his mouthy brother. 

It did end up doing him good, it did both of them good actually. I managed to split the group into two for a proper snowball fight and got the brothers involved. As it turned out, the need to win compels even the awkwardest of tension to melt, what followed were lots of snowball showers and unbridled wintery fun shared between outrageous cries and unstoppable laughter. 

The picture captured the moment of our sweet victory. My winning smile, Simon holding a suspicious amount of snowballs in his hands and Tommy on the ground with a face full of snow, laughing in the way only a kid who forgot all of his worries could. Mr. Anderson took quite the shot, I’d have to say. 

His voice came to me softly.

‘You are the only one left in this world…’

The pieces clicked in place.

“You can thank the shopkeep for that,” I said, stretching to the side to get a better look at Simon’s face, and  Christ, he wasn’t hiding anything at all. 

His words echoed again, stronger this time. 

The only one I love, Johnny.

His eyes glistened in the light and it didn’t spill and it was then that I knew that Simon must have suffered from something unspeakable as well. I almost wished that he would let himself cry because I was here with him, he didn’t have to be alone like I had been.

I realised that wasn’t his main focus when he lowered the frame in front of him to effortlessly pull me in his lap, muffling the sympathy that was starting to overwhelm with his soothing presence. Simon’s hands were tight around my waist and I barely got a chance to get comfortable before his lips were on me, searching, yearning, kisses dragging through tear-stricken skin until his mouth was sweetly pressed to mine. 

He reached for solace in me. I pulled him closer, wrapping my arms around his neck to feel his heat skin tight and secure; allowing him everything that he needed, everything I could give.

Something that sounded suspiciously like a heavily accented ‘thank you, love’  slipped during the drawn-out kiss, his love a palpable, physical thing I could touch, taste and inhale; we stayed like that, joined and lost in the moment, relishing in the bright, new thing growing between us; there wasn’t anywhere else I wanted to be. 

We settled down in a tangle of breathless embrace. 

“Best Christmas ever.” I leaned my face against his chest, searching for the reassuring thuds of his heartbeat. I found it, louder and faster than I expected, and I leaned closer — seeking that everything from him too. 

“Even better than our last one?” His voice rumbled pleasantly and I thought for a second, the reason we were here was because of that winter, and it was a memory that was both formative and precious; something I was going to cherish for the rest of my life, and the only thing that didn’t fill it with forlorn longing was the fact that he came back for me. That he allowed me to have a future I never imagined possible. 

“Merry Christmas, Johnny.”

This was my present. 

My future. 

And I accepted him with the joyful heart of a man who finally got what he wanted for Christmas. 

“Merry Christmas, Simon.”

Love.