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It had been the longest night. He had started his journey in the dark, and forty hours later, he was still cloaked in darkness. As he climbed off of the train and into his old Jeep, he tossed his bags in the back, staring hard at the velcro label that had MacTavish stitched across it, the white threads steadfast despite the wear and tear that had befallen them over the past six months. Those bags contained his whole life. Everything from his toothbrush to his diary lived inside those canvas casings, and they’d been burned, stolen, stabbed, soaked, and sand-covered as much as he had. He wished, for a moment, that he were made of canvas. He wished he were interwoven, thick and impenetrable, unfeeling, unsensing… just a container. He wouldn’t need to breathe, to fight, to sweat, or to bleed. He would just need to hold and be held. But, he was not canvas. He was made of soft skin and bruised bone. Johnny MacTavish was but a man. The only salve he had to soothe that wound was that he was coming home.
Home meant rest, which was much-needed, but it also meant Pigeon, his fiery sister. He needed a bit of that warmth right now, even if she annoyed the fuck out of him most days. She was always running her mouth about what he should be doing with his life, but he knew she only did it because she cared. So, he took his lashings with a smile.
Her fiance had been the one to call him back. It must be an engagement. Nothing less would be deemed worthy of pulling him from the field. They knew how important his work was with the SAS, but life didn’t stop back home just because he was away. It was good timing, after all. Their recent tour had yielded decent intel, and he was free to take a few days to ruminate on their findings.
The Jeep’s engine cranked over with some complaint. Hamish, the fiance, had been driving it around for him, but he’d parked it about a week ago in anticipation of Johnny’s arrival, and it had definitely gone cold. He pumped the gas, praying that it didn’t flood, and sent up a prayer when it finally roared to life.
Leaving the lights of Glasgow behind was a comfort. He wanted his little cottage and his soft bed. Johnny wondered, fleetingly, if Pidge had been having the girls over lately. Sometimes, when he came home, there’d be a shirt missing from his collection, and his sheets would smell like lavender. That’s how he knew that she had been there.
He’d ruled out the usual suspects. Bekah was never one to sleep over, and Anjali smelled of rum cakes and soap. He thought it might be Cherise, but she’d never be caught dead in one of his shirts. So, it had to be the American. Pidge was over-protective of that one. She wouldn’t even tell him her name, but he knew she liked his old football tees, so she must have good taste. He’d never even seen a picture of the shirt thief, but he slept like a rock when his sheets smelled of lavender, and he needed that tonight.
Johnny took all the corners too fast, rushing to his destination, and when he finally got into the drive, the house was dark. He’d missed supper, so he aimed for the kitchen to steal Pidge’s leftovers. When he rounded the corner, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
There she was: that thief! She was in his blue Rangers’ tee, the one with McCoist’s name on the shoulders, his favorite one. It hung off of her body like a short dress, but as she went to reach for a mug from the top shelf, teetering on those bare toes, it rode up her body, revealing her thick thighs like a peep show. He could see the heart-shaped divot of her arse cheeks, but only barely. If she reached much further, he’d see it all.
So, he had to stop her. He didn’t want her to be ashamed. Letting out a low whistle, he conveyed his approval.
She was startled, and he watched the fear flood into her eyes like tears. It made them gleam in the low light of the kitchen, but she didn’t scream. The American was pretty, but that was to be expected. She was exactly his type as well, which was a damn shame. Pidge would be furious, but he didn’t care. He’d row with Pidge for the rest of his life to have a girl like that looking at him with those big eyes, framed with those wet lashes.
He wanted to get closer to her, so he did. He took a step into the kitchen, walking slowly, careful not to spook her like a wounded deer.
Johnny knew he must have looked like a goddamn terror. He’d brought in all of his personal gear, preferring to make one big trip from the car. He probably still had eye-black on his face. More than anything, he’d wished he’d had a shower.
He glared at her, trying to snap himself out of his daze, and he confronted her about his shirt,
“You’re a pretty little thief, you are. Better gimme back my favorite shirt, hen, if you know what’s good for you.”
A little bit of a threat would make her laugh, he thought. But, he realized quickly that she really didn’t know who he was, so he softened his features and smiled a bit, trying to retrace his steps.
“Johnny?” She said it like she was making a wish, and her voice made his blood run hot.
It was good to hear his name again. He was exhausted being Soap all the time. He’d earned the nickname, and it was fine when he had a gun strapped to him in the field; it reminded him that he was tough enough to be there. But here, in his own kitchen, from a bonnie lass wearing his own shirt? It was nice to be Johnny again.
“Yeah… who are you, lass?” He asked her, hearing her name and tucking it away for later.
“Ah, Pidge won’t shut up about you,” he explained, letting her know that he’d heard of her at least, “What’re you doin’ here a’ this hour? I just got in from my tour. Got a note from Hammie that it was urgent.”
Johnny dropped his bags and ventured a little closer to join her in the kitchen. The soft light from the stove cast delicate shadows over her body, highlighting her curves where the shirt swayed over her gorgeous breasts. She looked like a dream.
All he wanted to do was touch her. She couldn’t be real. She was too perfect. It was as if he was Adam and God had stolen his rib and made her stand in his kitchen.
That kettle behind her was about to scream, so Johnny reached toward her to take it off the heat, but she flinched as if he were going to touch her. He let a low, sarcastic chuckle rumble around in his chest,
“Easy. Just keepin’ the kettle from keenin’.”
He studied her reaction like he studied the schematics of a bomb, and he was desperate to know what made her tick. As he moved the kettle, Johnny was treated to a smile, which was as sweet as could be, and a quip.
“Good to finally meet you, Johnny. I’ve heard… so much about you.”
He grimaced a bit when he heard her comment. Of course they’d been spewing all sorts of shite about him while he was away. Pidge was terrible about spreading his reputation around, and almost none of it was true. If only she knew.
But, despite all the lies about his character, she stuck her hand out for him to shake. He took it in his and shook it once, dropping it and grabbing his own tea bag from the cabinet, plopping hers and his in their respective cups. She was watching him like a hawk, and he could almost hear her thoughts she was thinking them so loudly. He’d have to do some damage control, so he grinned and said,
“It’s all lies. So, what’s the craic? What was so urgent?”
“Hamish proposed,” she said, and even though he’d figured as much, it still shocked him to hear.
“You’re takin’ the piss.”
“No, it’s true. Look,” she pulled out her phone and showed him the video.
With a bubbling, roiling joy in his chest Johnny watched his sister agree to Hamish’s proposal, and he’d never felt happier.
Johnny leaned in closer to see his sister’s reactions, and although he didn’t realize it, he was now standing right over his tee shirt thief’s shoulder. He could smell her. It was lavender, to be sure, but there was something else.
If sunlight was a smell, she had it. It was like every spring day he’d ever had as a boy, rolling around in the heather, being wild, loving the earth and all of its mischief. She smelled just like that. Like something wholly natural. It made him want to put her back there, in the tall flowers, right where she belonged… in the heather… with him.
His mind went back to his sister, and he asked about her,
“Tha’s fuckin’ brilliant. She’s asleep?”
He didn’t wait for her answer. Johnny needed to back off of the wee thief before he stole her away. Treading off down the hall, he knocked on his sister’s door. As she opened it, the wood creaked and popped from age and weight. He made a mental note to oil it tomorrow morning.
Then, there she was. Bridgette had always been pretty, but she looked like she had a glow tonight. He basked in her joy.
“Johnny-boy? Is that you, you fuckin’ numpty!? Brother,” he grabbed her as quick as he could, and as she was crushed to his wide chest, she confessed, “I’m getting married.”
“Let’s see it, then, Pidge.”
She showed him the ring, and he admired it. But, he wasn’t one for diamonds, not when there was something more valuable to be had. He cocked an eyebrow at Pidge and asked,
“You put a fit lassie in my shirt as a part of the occasion, or… what?”
She slapped him across the chest, hard, and then gave him a dark warning,
“You. Will. Not -“
“I dinnae ken what you’re abusin’ me for, Pigeon! I’m a saint!”
He loved giving her a hard time. She rolled her eyes, and fastened them into her signature glare,
“Johnathan Fergus Euan MacTavish, she’s off-limits! You’ll not lay a hand on that girl’s pretty wee head, or I swear on Mother Mary and all the actual fuckin’ saints…”
He couldn’t have that. She was already his in his mind. He’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life, and his sister was overreacting again. Johnny pointed a finger at her, threatening,
“No promises, Pidge. If she wasn’t such a smoke show, you might have had a dog in the fight, but a gorgeous wee hen making tea in my kitchen wearing my fuckin’ shirt; it’s enough to make a lad start sinnin’.”
“Start! Tell me when you stopped. Is she out there? Oh, fuckin’ hell, you arsehole.”
Pidge pushed around him and stalked off to the kitchen. The thief was still making tea, and he watched his sister try to run interference, but she was too late.
There’d been enough war for him to last him three lifetimes. Johnny was pretty sure there was still terrorist blood stuck under his nails. Enough was enough. He was good at his job, but he had to admit, he was lonely.
Every tour brought the same darkness to his doorstep. He’d leave Pidge with Hamish, and they’d have each other. They didn’t miss him, not in any real sense. No one did. No one kept him in their mind, missing him and his scent and his voice and his touch. There was no one longing for him to return.
But the thief might.
There was something in her eyes that told him she might. And now, he had to know if he was right. Besides, no one would ever look that good in his shirts. She was his new mission, and he was damn good at running missions.
“Babe! You met Johnny?” Pidge looked red in the face, and Johnny sighed, embarrassed about his sister’s meddling.
“Yeah, just came home. Showed him the video,” you shrugged.
Good. She was covering for him already. She didn’t complain about his bullying, nor did she mention his fearsome choice of dress. She was brushing Pidge off, keeping it casual. Johnny didn’t get lucky often, but he felt like it tonight.
“Great, this is just great,” Pidge forced a smile onto her face, but Johnny didn’t care. This was great, and he wasn’t going to let this chance pass him by.