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Ghost had lost his bearings; not in the way that would prompt Soap to make a joke about being unable to spell “lost” without “L and T,” but in the way that the same grocery store employee had passed him four times and obviously wanted to offer assistance but found Simon too intimidating to offer. Something Simon didn’t fully understand as he’d entered the grocery store ten minutes ago and hadn’t gotten any farther than the produce aisle. He knew what he needed—carrots, cabbage, peas, lettuce, and spring onions—but had no idea how to make sure he bought the right ones.
Despite being a trained killer and excellent soldier, Simon would not describe himself as naturally self-sufficient. His father had been very strict about tasks he considered to be beneath men, so most basic life skills had not been included in his adolescent education. Basic training not only taught him how to shoot a rifle and throw a grenade, but also how to clean, do laundry, and properly take care of his hygiene. However, he had never had to learn how to cook; on base he ate at the canteen, in the field he ate MRE’s, and during leave he survived off of microwave meals and take-out. Simon hadn’t had any desire or need to learn how to cook until he and Johnny became partners outside of work hours.
Johnny loved to cook; something Simon didn’t learn until he and Johnny shared a leave six months into their relationship. The first morning Johnny had gotten up early, so he could run to the store to buy “actual food,” and Simon had woken up to stuffed omelets and breakfast potatoes. Those weeks off Simon spent a lot of time leaning against counters, listening to Johnny talk while he diced vegetables, cut the fat off meat, and mixed sauces in a pan.
When Simon had asked when Johnny had learned to cook, he’d been surprised to hear that he had been raised in the kitchen. “Was a good way for mum to keep an eye on me, although that didn’t help much; plenty of things to hurt yourself with in the kitchen.” Johnny had grinned as he gestured with a knife to the boiling pot of water on the gas stove. “Whenever mum complained about my job, I liked to tell her that cooking was what made me good with explosives. What are ANFO, RDX, and PETN but ingredients to an explosive dish.”
Considering the pyramid of cabbage in front of him, Simon didn’t quite understand the metaphors, but he’d also only ever seen the mechanical side of bomb creation, not the chemical. Which was actually fairly accurate to his cooking experience too.
“Can I assist you with anything?” The woman standing next to him was not the employee that had passed by him previously. Her name tag read “Janet,” and her grey hair didn’t match the youthfulness of her face.
“Uhh, yes. Please.” Simon cringed at his own awkwardness. “I don’t know how to buy produce.”
“Oh, that’s an easy thing to learn.” Janet picked up a cabbage. “With vegetables you want firm and consistent, vibrant color.” Simon took the offered cabbage and squeezed gently, unsure what exactly he was checking for. “Ideally you want to avoid soft spots and brown discoloration, although a little bit of bruising doesn’t mean it’s spoiled.”
Simon reconsidered the cabbage. He didn’t see any brown spots nor did he feel any points where his fingers sunk in. “Is there a way to tell what it tastes like?”
“Not really. Vegetables don’t vary as drastically as fruit. Textures may change a little, but getting a red cabbage instead of a white shouldn’t impact most recipes. The biggest thing to keep in mind with flavor is the size. The larger than average the vegetable the less potent the taste.”
Simon nodded, commuting the information to memory the same way he would when getting instructions for a new piece of tech. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Oh, none of that. Just doing my job, but you let me know if I can help with anything else.” Janet patted Simon’s arm before walking away. He half expected her to hover behind him to make sure he didn’t mess-up any of his selections. Then, Simon reminded himself that it would be bad for business if grocery store clerks behaved like Drill Sergeants.
Simon puffed his chest out in pride as he left the produce section. He’d taken about thirty more minutes than the average person, but he’d wanted to make sure that he picked the right Ingredients. He wanted as many pieces to fall in his favor for his first real attempt at cooking. And, as childish as it felt, he wanted to impress Johnny with his ability to pick good vegetables. He considered seaking out Janet to get her approval before purchasing, but with the amount of people in line for check-out, he decided to trust his decisions.
His stop at the butcher on the way home was decidedly quicker and easier than his trip to the grocer. Simon walked to the counter, asked for two pounds of lamb, then waited in silence as the butcher hacked off a slab of meat. The sure strokes of the large knife reminded Simon of the years he’d spent as a butcher’s apprentice. He’d become proficient with the knife quickly, but had never been good at guessing the weight of a cut.
Simon finished at the butcher’s in under fifteen minutes, but wasn’t in a rush to get home. Johnny had been recruited by his brother-in-law to help renovate the bathroom at his sister’s house. He wouldn’t be home until six, which gave Simon at least two hours to cook before he had to worry about embarrassing himself in front of Johnny. He’d purposefully picked an easy recipe and had researched the best techniques for chopping vegetables, but he still worried that the meal was going to be a disaster.
The recipe started with boiling the meat for two hours, so Simon moved the vegetables to the fridge. Finding a pot big enough for the meat required Simon to practically crawl into the corner cabinet where Johnny’s prided stainless steel cookware was kept. The pot needed a good rinse before the meat could go in. Then, Simon was met with his first hiccup. The recipe called for cold water to be added to the pot, enough to cover the meat, as well as a generous helping of salt and two bay leaves. Simon’s preparatory research taught him that starting with cold water when boiling kept the water clear and less foamy, but there was no measurement for a “generous helping of salt.” A lot of chef’s recommended using ¾ of a teaspoon of salt, but Simon wasn’t sure if that counted as a “generous helping.” He knew that the salt was added to prevent the broth from leeching too much of the meat’s flavor, so he settled on a single full teaspoon of salt. The two bay leaves were easy.
Simon had intended to spend the time it took the meat to cook by reading on the couch and occasionally checking the water for scum, but his paranoia kept him lent against the counter right next to the stove where he could peek into the pot every couple of pages. Even though scum did nothing but make the broth cloudy, the recipe called for it to be skimmed off the surface of the water while it was still simmering and not yet boiling. The amount of attention Simon paid to the pot rivaled his focus while taking overwatch for Johnny on missions.
When the timer for the meat finally went off, Simon had gotten through about half of what he anticipated reading, but the broth wasn’t cloudy and the meat had been properly cooked. He allowed himself to feel a little bit of pride as he fished the meat out of the pot with a pair of tongs and set it on a plate off to the side to cool. The vegetables were theoretically the easy part since they only had to be chopped then put in the pot. The tougher vegetables — cabbage and carrots — went in first. The peas, lettuce, and spring onions would be added ten minutes after that. The recipe didn’t have a specific size that the vegetables needed to be, so Simon cut larger pieces that would remain a little firm even after thirty minutes of cooking. He and Johnny had spent many meals complaining about the mushy texture of the canteen vegetables.
Once the vegetables had cooked to a satisfactory consistency, Simon added the now shredded lamb meat back into the pot. He fiddled with the dial on the stove for a few seconds until he felt that he’d found a temperature that would keep the stew warm but not continue to cook the food. However, that also meant he no longer had something to keep him occupied. There were no dishes to do since the only things he had dirtied were two cutting boards and a couple knives, and his side dish didn’t require much of any preparation since it was a loaf of sourdough that Johnny had bought from the Thursday evening farmer’s market.
Simon was staring at the loaf of sourdough with the bread knife in his hand, wondering if he should wait to cut the bread, when he heard a car coming up the drive. Simon’s pulse jumped. For a moment he considered tossing the pot into the garbage and pretending that he never made the attempt to cook. The inkling of paranoia grew stronger when he heard the deep thud of a car door closing, then the crunch of gravel as whoever dropped Johnny off backed out of the driveway. Logic told Simon that it was counterintuitive to abandon a mission where nothing had gone wrong, and Simon had once vowed to hang up the mask if he let nerves prevent him from finishing an objective; however, that didn’t mean he couldn’t change tactics. Simon set the bread knife on the cutting board and headed for the front entrance.Sometimes instead of waiting for the target to approach you the strategically superior option was to go to the target.
He had no idea how to properly greet his significant other. Simon remembered how his mother approached his father getting home like a pit crew changing tires in the middle of a Formula One race. She gave him the briefest kiss possible, helped him out of whatever jacket he was wearing, and even had to take his shoes off for him on occasion. Then, depending on the time, his father was escorted either to the dining table or the recliner where a fork or remote would be placed in his hand. It played out like some kind of fairytale where the lowly servant had to stay in the good graces of a tyrant king, who would end up dying from his own ego for the sake of morality. And even though Simon wouldn’t mind being a loyal subject in John MacTavish’s royal court, he knew Johnny would reject the treatment. He got uncomfortable when younger soldiers looked at him with stars in their eyes. He blamed it on Catholic Guilt saying: “it doesn’t sit right to be seen as someone mightier than God.”
Simon had only witnessed his brother welcoming his wife home a few times. While love oozed from the interaction, his brother had still been rushing to get his wife comfortable. Beth had been pregnant at the time and dealt with a lot of pain and swelling in her feet and knees. She’s always been a petite woman and Joseph had been a big baby. If she had permitted it, Tommy would have pushed Beth around in a wheelchair at all times to keep her feet from aching. Since he hadn’t received a call from the hospital Simon assumed Johnny remained unharmed, and he had enough experience with an injured Johnny to know that a perfectly healthy Johnny would not appreciate being treated and cared for that way. He hated anyone seeing him as weak and unable to care for himself. Only in the privacy of his own room would Johnny permit Simon to help redress a wound, which he only permitted because he knew it alleviated Simon’s worry.
Referring to how they greeted each other on base wasn’t helpful either. Any scenario where a greeting would be appropriate usually required meeting military decorum standards. Ghost couldn’t walk into a meeting and kiss Soap on his way to his seat at the table. Nor could he playfully slap Soap’s ass while lifting weights or running hand-to-hand combat drills. They tried to meet up at one of the other’s room at least a few times a week, but Simon usually just opened the door and invited Johnny in without saying anything. It was harder to deviate from his Ghost habits while on base. If Simon visited Johnny’s room he may receive a soft “hey” but rarely anything beyond that.
Simon knew he didn’t have to greet Johnny at the door; he could return to the kitchen and finally cut the loaf of bread, but he still wasn’t sure how thick he was supposed to make the slices. A part of himself had also come to crave the soft intimacy. He wanted the experience of welcoming Johnny home because he had never expected to have it and he couldn’t count on getting the opportunity again.
The rubber seal framing the door releasing caught Simon’s attention. He pulled the door open, knowing that Johnny’s hands were probably full with whatever food or treat his oldest sister had sent him home with. Simon had spent a fair amount of time on sleepless nights debating whether sending guests home with food was a MacTavish family thing or just a general loving family thing.
“Thanks, Si. Don’t know who Eilidh thinks is going to eat all these. It’s only the two of us here.” Johnny passed Simon the Tupperware packed to the brim with oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies while he took off his shoes and jacket. “Ken says the baking has been a weekly occurrence now that Maisie’s started to regularly bring friends home from school. Not sure which one’s the chicken and which one’s the egg though.” Simon smiled at the mention of Johnny’s niece. He hadn’t met her yet, hadn’t met any of the family yet, but he’d heard enough stories to know that trouble and a sweet tooth ran in the family.
Johnny reached for the container of cookies after hanging up his jacket, but Simon didn’t release them. Instead he used the connection to pull Johnny into a one arm hug with the container and their hands caught between them. It was awkward and uncomfortable; Simon still managed to land a kiss. “Welcome home, Johnny.”
“Quite the welcome indeed.” Johnny freed his hand with the cookies so he could wrap them both around Simon’s neck, encouraging him to bend slightly. Simon huffed lightly as a corner of the container dug into the back of his head. “Think this might beat out the glass of scotch Ken gave me as the best reward for helping tile my sister’s bathroom walls.”
“It’s a reward for coming home, not manual labor.” Johnny’s face scrunched in the way it did when Simon unintentionally said something romantic. It sort of reminded him of a child who desperately wanted to share a secret they just learned. Simon wondered what Johnny wanted to say, but knew he wasn’t quite ready to hear it. “Besides you won’t get a reward for putting up the tile until you prove it won’t fall off the wall.”
“Awa’ an bile yer heid. Tiling a wall couldn’t even rank in the top ten most challenging things I do on a regular basis.”
“Is properly cleaning your equipment on that list because you regularly struggle with that.” Simon ducked out of the way of Johnny’s retaliating punches. If he let the hits land they’d end up getting distracted, and Simon had a mission to complete. “You can try to convince me that I’m wrong after we eat.”
“Food sounds amazing. What did you order?”
Simon didn’t allow himself to falter as he led Johnny into the kitchen. “Didn’t order out.”
Simon stood a few steps back as Johnny peered into the pot. They both remained silent while Johnny swirled the paddle around.
“Simon, did you cook me Hotch Potch?”
“I attempted to, can’t say how it turned out yet.”
“Then get the bowls so we can find out!” Johnny’s excitement infected Simon the way it always did, making his heart beat faster and the corners of his scarred lips turn up despite the nerves. Gaz once described the feeling as more energizing than main lining pure caffeine. Simon thought it felt more like being hypnotized. It was so easy to be caught up in his energy and find yourself agreeing to a ridiculous but harmless challenge, running an extra five miles in the pouring rain, or serving up two bowls of homemade soup despite wanting to run from the room.
Johnny had already set the table by the time Simon brought over the bowls. The loaf of sourdough sat at the center of the dining table, cut into thick slices. Next to it was a couple inches off a stick of butter. Finally each seat had been bestowed with a round soup spoon and a glass of water. Simon wondered if he should have found some wine or whisky to go with their meal, a good bottle of scotch would have worked well.
“If it’s shit, don’t force yourself to eat it.”’
“Pretty sure this is going to be the second best thing I put in my mouth today.”
“Shut up and eat your soup, Johnny.”
Simon waited until Johnny had spooned a generous amount of soup into his mouth before dipping his spoon into his own bowl, making sure to get a few pieces of cabbage, carrot, and a bit of lamb. Without any fanfare he brought the spoon to his mouth. The lamb had flavored the broth nicely, although it probably could have done with a little bit of seasoning. The vegetables were softer than he wanted them to be, but they hadn’t quite made it to the repulsive mush stage.
It wasn’t a sign that Simon should abandon the military to become a chef, but it also wasn’t close to the abismal sludge he feared it would be. Primarily, it reaffirmed Simon’s ability to follow directions. He hadn’t created anything new or unique, just completed tasks given to him by someone else until he achieved a satisfactory outcome. However, it gave him a different kind of satisfaction; one that didn’t come with guilt and fatigue and adrenaline. Simon felt warm, a little proud, and when Johnny smiled at him and praised his work, there was no weight keeping a smile off his own face.
“Tastes just how I remember it. Though Ma made it with chicken so Eilidh would eat it. No surprise she went vegetarian in secondary school.” Simon watched Johnny’s eyes go a little unfocused as he lost himself in old memories. He’d once mentioned that his mom would make Hotch Potch whenever someone in the family got sick; Simon wondered if Johnny was remembering one of the times he’d woken up from a sickness induced nap to find his mom bringing him soup in bed. Or if he was reminiscing about a time when he reaped the benefits from his sister feeling under the weather.
“Do you want more?” Simon regretted interrupting Johnny, but they’d finished eating a while ago, and Simon was itching to clean-up the remaining evidence.
“Nay, we still have a couple of weeks before we go back, and I need it to last. Unless you’re planning to cook something else for me?”
“Don’t know why you’d want more of my cooking when your food is better?” Simon began clearing the table, ignoring the way Johnny pushed his lower lip out in a pout.
“Then maybe we should cook something together since we both like each other's cooking so much.”
Instinctively Simon wanted to decline the offer. He’d avoided thinking about what had driven him to cook, but his father’s mentality was undoubtedly included in the reason. The self-consciousness he felt while making his bed for the first time bordered on paranoia, but he’d done it because otherwise the drill Sergeant would have humiliated him. Cooking wasn’t the same as learning how to take a fast yet thorough shower because Simon had decided to cook out of his own free will. Simon didn’t care about the ghost of his father seeing him as less of a man because he could chop vegetables and boil water; he’d gotten over the childhood need to please his parents decades ago, but he feared that Johnny would lose respect for him. Simon knew the thought was ridiculous. Johnny had done some kind of cooking almost every day they’d been on break. That was reality. Johnny wasn’t thinking about manliness at all when he proposed cooking together. The romantic bastard probably just jumped on the opportunity to spend more domestic time with his partner.
“What would we make that requires two people?”
“Anything. Just means prep-time is faster.” Johnny interrupted himself with a yawn. “I’ll figure something out later. Right now I want to put comfy pants on and try to get through a couple episodes of Forged in Fire before I fall asleep.”