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As the adrenaline pumping through his body finally thins into nothing and the team gradually begins to go silent, John almost has to pinch himself to keep himself awake. There was something so… lulling about the thrumming vibrations through the cabin. Maybe it was the relief and the promise of safety it provided. That at the end of this ride, he wouldn't have to hold his breath around every corner, gun ready just in case. Instead, a well deserved, scalding shower with a side of sleep was beckoning him, his eyes going heavy at the thought of it. The whirl of the blades was something he'd never get tired of hearing, and that he'd never take Nikolai and his heli for granted.
Blinking a few times to wake himself up, John finds himself staring at the floor, lost in his thoughts. It'd been a long mission, an even longer time planning and strategizing. Meticulously preparing for it, countless nights with sunken eyes, going over details once, twice, five times with Price, and again with Laswell. When's the last time he had actually slept? And not just a few hours of shut eye, body alert to every creak and bang outside his door, but a proper rest? One where he could dream, hands loose in the sheets, red creases pressed into his skin from how deep the slumber had been?
A gentle nudge to his shoulder brings him out of it, his head turning and gaze flicking to the right. He isn't surprised to see the warmness of Simon’s eyes already focused on him. It's the softest he thinks he’s seen them all week, a jarring contrast to the cold stare down the scope that he had witnessed only a few hours ago.
“Tired?” The rough voice cuts through the silence over the comms, and John can't help but huff at how fatigued he sounds too. There's a concerning redness to the honeyed eyes, and it looks like Simon can barely keep himself up as well. He considers lying for a moment, brushing it off and sweeping it under the rug. The man sounds exhausted enough, he doesn't need the extra pile of John’s complaints on his mind. But… Simon’s the one who picked up on it in the first place, the one who initiated the conversation, so the least he could do is be truthful.
“Aye. To the bone.” He says, sighing with every dull pulse of his muscles. Extending his arm out, he winces at the pop of his elbow when he draws it back in. There’s a pain in his muscles that only ever hits after a mission like this, and it isn’t really surprising. “You don’t look so hot yourself, L.t.” He tries to lighten his words with an edge of humour, but can it even really be classed as a joke with the amount of truth laced through it?
Simon’s shoulders raise and drop at the comment – something akin to amusement. There’s a beating of pride in his chest that despite his somewhat terrible joke, Simon had still managed to find some comedy in it.
“I’m not the one falling asleep on a helicopter, am I?”
…
“I wasn’t either.” John mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest, finally finding it in himself to pull away from Simon’s stare. It doesn’t do too much, he can still feel holes being burned into his skull, but he doesn’t humour it. He lets his gaze wander around the cabin, counting dents from fire they’d taken, shifty patch ups from Nikolai, and… His frown softens into something sweeter at the sight across from him.
Gaz and the Captain both in a half asleep daze, leant against one another. So John wasn’t crazy for thinking about taking a nap in here. Seeing them shift, falling further into each other, he feels bad for them, especially Price. With how hard he’d been pushing himself to make this mission work, it’s relieving to see the Captain getting the rest he deserves.
Watching the support built between the two, he’s kind of… jealous. How do they make a helicopter ride look so fucking comfortable? He turns his head to the right again, Simon having finally looked away from him. He wonders if Simon would mind. They’d been friends long enough, and John won’t pretend the butterflies in his chest aren’t there when he thinks about it. Would he be pushed off? Would Simon move away? God, how embarrassing would that be? The longer he considers it, stare set on his company, the more he thinks flinging himself out of the heli would hurt less than the possible rejection.
“Johnny?” Simon interrupts the quietude of the comms again, catching his fixed look. “You alright?”
Can Simon stop asking questions that he doesn’t want to answer honestly?
John hums, acknowledging the question, but not providing a proper response. He’s not alright. He’s exhausted. There’s nausea beginning to swirl in his stomach from the deprivation of sleep, and the idea of a warm meal makes him want to cry. That, and the way he also kind of wants to lunge over and choke the other pair out for making him feel complicated things towards his Lieutenant.
Simon doesn’t say anything else, and despite wanting him to drop it, John feels the beginnings of a sharp sting in his chest. He could’ve at least fought a bit more for an answer. Except the figure next to him shuffles an inch closer, and the prickle in his heart turns into something more like a little spark of hope.
John wouldn’t usually read into things like this (even though Gaz would protest) but this can’t just be a coincidence, can it?
He waits a few extra seconds, just in case Simon changes his mind or suddenly tells him that his shoulder is in agonising pain, before he tilts his body, head making contact.
And oh, he can’t do anything to stop the sudden and intense swell of his heart when Simon melts into it, shifting so his torso sits lower and John doesn’t have to stretch as high to reach. It’s not the most relaxing of positions, with both of their gear in the way and the hardness of the seat pressed against burning muscles, but it’s better than nothing. It’s something, and it’s with Simon.
“...Thanks.” John mumbles lowly, hoping his appreciation can be heard over the rumbling of the blades. He waits for acknowledgement, the vibration of Simon’s body or for a hum to reverberate into his ear, but nothing comes. Okay. It’s just one of those things. Simon’s only being nice, and John can thank him with a drink or something like that once they’re back. This probably means nothing to Simon, he’s just being a good friend, a better teammate.
Until there’s an unexpected pressure against his temple, a gentle sigh that brushes over the short hairs of his head.
John doesn’t dare move. He even holds his breath in fear that the slightest shift will make Simon pull away. But he doesn’t, even after John starts to run out of air and has to take a sharp inhale. They’ve touched before – of course they have. But somehow, something feels different about it this time. It could be the lethargy that seeps into both their shoulders, the way they both hit and swiftly seep into each other’s company. This time, it makes his hands feel numb, emotion so deeply lodged in his throat that he's not sure if he'll remember how to breathe properly ever again after this.
The feel of fabric against his head make his chest squeeze, and the contented noise that rolls from his newfound pillow and through the earpiece is almost enough to make him sick. Simon is comfortable. Simon is relaxing against him and his chest feels tight. Giddiness swells throughout his legs, and into his stomach because when has he ever witnessed the Lieutenant like this with anybody else? Part of him wants to gloat about it later, to see the look on Gaz’s face when he tells him how much Simon had softened up to him.
… Or maybe he’ll just keep the moment between the two of them.
“Johnny.” Simon’s voice grumbles into his hair. “Can feel your thoughts in my own head.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise. Just sleep.”
John resists rolling his eyes. He wants to argue that he isn’t tired, that it’s just been a long couple of days. But the weight resting on him makes weariness wash over his body, eyes aching from prolonged sleep, and he finds them slipping shut every few seconds.
“Ye don’t mind?” He mumbles, letting the weight of his head push further against Simon’s shoulder. If he does have an issue, it’s too late now, because John is far too serene to find something else to use as a pillow. He also highly doubts that Nikolai would be welcoming of him if he suddenly interrupted and clambered into the front as well.
“No.” Simon’s voice echoes in through his head, his breaths gracing strands that happen to brush near his lips. “Not at all. Stay.”
A small shiver runs up John’s back, and his eyes finally, finally shut with the reassurance of his words. It brings him peace, knowing Simon possibly wants this just as much as he does. He feels Simon adjust, nose nuzzling into him through the mask, and fuck– can his heart please relax?
“Fine.” He murmurs, glad Simon can’t feel his growing grin through the thick clothing. “But if ye change yer–”
“Soap.”
John laughs softly, breaths warming the spot beneath his head. There’s a rush of confidence in his system at how positively Simon had been receiving his touches, and he wonders what else he can do before it crosses a line. So if Simon notices the way his fingers slide, barely and gently gripping the fabric of his pants for an extra anchor of comfort, he hopes for a moment that he won’t say anything. And when Simon returns the affection, moving his leg just a little bit closer until their knees are brushing, John doesn’t tell the fluttering of his chest to quiet down this time.