Chapter Text
Simon
--
“Bloody-” Simon cut himself off before he could swear loud enough to inform the entire base of his misfortune. As if waking up late after next to no sleep wasn’t bad enough, he’d just smashed his foot into the bed’s metal leg, stubbing his toe badly enough that it might be broken.
He hissed, dropping onto the bed rather than hop around like an idiot. It throbbed. Simon was only just back from a stint overseas, three weeks of crawling through the dirt with a group of American marines without a single scratch and it was the damn bed that would do him in. He swore again, poking at his already bruising baby toe. It didn’t feel broken but damn if he was getting a run in today. Even walking would be a chore.
“Of all the stupid things,” he grumbled as he shoved his sock back on and then got into his boots. When Simon stood, he tested his weight on his foot before deeming it not bad enough for the medical team to look at it. It wasn’t like they’d do anything for a broken toe (other than telling him to keep off of it), and Simon didn’t have time for that nonsense. He’d ice the damn thing later if it got worse. Fuck.
Tea would make things a bit better at least, he’d been looking forward to one since stepping foot off the plane late last night. Americans had the worst shit on their bases, Red Rose, god-awful stuff, and Simon was looking forward to a decent cup this morning. The halls weren’t busy at this hour, most people were already in the mess or into their duty shifts, so at least no one saw him limping until he’d gotten used to the ache in his foot.
Only, when he arrived at the mess, they were out of tea. Every box at the hot drinks counter was empty, even the lemon balm. Simon searched through the boxes and came up short, shaking the earl grey for good measure before he tossed the empties in the recycle bin. More annoyed than anything, he stalked over to the hot food line to ask after a fresh box from storage.
“Sorry, sir, we’re out,” the private behind the mess counter answered.
“What do you mean, out?”
The man cowered a little at Ghost’s glare. “The mess sergeant said there was a problem with the ordering, sir. I’m told tea will be back in stock tomorrow. We just ran out this morning. There’s coffee?”
Simon’s day only seemed to worsen by the minute. His foot hurt, he had a caffeine headache building behind his eyes (four days and counting without a good cup of tea), and the rest of the team was already through breakfast by the time he arrived so he’d eaten alone in his office, adding to the misery after spending weeks away from them. Six months ago it wouldn’t have bothered him, but having Johnny around had really brought the team together and today, eating alone only added fuel to his pissy fire.
A pen exploded on him, ruining the report he’d been working on, his mouse battery died, it was raining by noon, and Simon got soaked to the bone on the short walk between his office and the mess only for the rain to stop the minute he stepped under the awning. He hadn’t even finished half of his report, let alone the buildup of paperwork he’d missed while out in the field. Not to mention it was lasagna day, and the pasta was always somehow watery while also being burnt at the edges. Just wonderful all around.
It should have brightened his day to see an open seat waiting for him at the 141’s customary table, but the others were nearly finished by the time he sat down. The sergeants regretfully had to run to drills before he’d even picked up his fork, and Price had to take an urgent call from Laswell, leaving Simon to clean up his tray when he didn’t return by the time he finished.
Simon’s mood continued to deteriorate through the afternoon; he got bumped into in the hallway by a corporal not paying attention, the admin staff’s service dog stepped on his foot (reminding him of his bruised toe), his emergency stash of tea in the common room had been raided (probably Price again, the bastard), leaving him still caffeine deprived and pissy about needing to replace it. Hell, he was tempted to choke down a cup of coffee to make it through the rest of his day.
At four, he was due to review Gaz and Soap’s progress with the recruits, watching them run the obstacle course without the sergeant’s aid, so he left the quiet sanctuary his office provided and headed out into the drizzle. His windbreaker didn’t do shit against the blustery day. It was May for fucks sake, it should have been warming up by now.
The field was loud. Two dozen mud-covered SAS recruits were running the obstacle course with two just as mud-covered sergeants leading the charge. While not deployed or engaged in their own specialties, the 141, like every other SAS unit, took rotations with the recruits. The sergeants got a greater share of the gruntwork while Ghost was only necessary for teaching particular units and for supervisory tasks. Normally, he wouldn’t have minded getting out of the office, but with this day, he just wanted to head for his rack and get some rest.
Soap noticed him first, beaming with a bright grin as he said something to Gaz before dropping off the wall and heading over to meet him.
“There you are, LT!”
“Sergeant,” he nodded in return. He didn’t feel much lighter, but the gloom did lift a little.
“Was beginning to think we’d have to send out a search party for ye,” Soap joked, fist-bumping his chest and grinning at the muddy splotch he left behind. “Shite, sorry.”
Ghost looked down at his chest, annoyance flooding in to squash any brightness that’d been there a moment ago. “Fucking hell,” he tried to brush it off but that only made it worse, smearing the mud on his glove as well as his jacket. “Right pain in the arse you are.”
“Aye, but you knew that already,” Soap chuckled, his expression only dropping for a second before brushing the rude response off. “I’ll toss it in with my kit later, god knows I need a wash as much as the rest of these muppets.” He tossed a thumb back toward the group. “Lost cause, some of 'em. Don’t expect they’ll all make it to paras, let alone the jungle.”
Simon hummed, watching as the group attempted the wall without helping one another. Teamwork was necessary in the SAS, and these ones didn’t seem to understand that yet.
“A few will make good soldiers,” Soap continued at Ghost’s silence. He was used to filling the space between them, always the talker of the two. On a better day, Soap would get more than a grunt at least. Today wasn’t one of those days. “And Warren-” Soap kept going through the names rapid-fire, weak points and highlights, far too much information to remember half of it with any reasonable way to take notes. Half of it wasn’t relevant, like personal facts (why would Ghost need to know Armound like dogs?), and the parts that were would be in Soap and Gaz’s report later regardless.
“Then there’s Travis, a bit of a dobber. You weren’t here for it, but he-” the words were losing meaning with the constant yelling in the background as Gaz sent the recruits to form up and the group answered in unison. There was construction ongoing nearby, a jackhammer through concrete, pounding against his temples. It was still raining.
“Soap-” he tried, mid sentence, to cut him off, still Soap kept monologuing.
“Oh! And we’re still on for the pub later, aye? Gaz said he-”
All at once, Simon hit his limit.
“Shut the hell up, MacTavish!” he all but snarled at the other man, rounding on him and looming over him with every extra bit of height he had on the shorter man. “For fuck’s sake. For once in your life just shut the fuck up. I can’t take this bloody racket from you right now.”
Soap’s jaw snapped shut, and his expression shuttered but not before broadcasting a deeply wounded expression that had Simon immediately wanting to eat his damn boots. Neither of them moved other than Simon’s shoulders heaving from his outburst.
It was Gaz that broke the stalemate. Simon’s inattention became his downfall.
“Everything alright, sir?”
Ghost’s gaze snapped from Soap to the other Sergeant and the twenty-four shocked faces behind him, more than one of which was poorly attempting to hide a laugh. They’d formed up in three rows, waiting for further instruction or dismissal. Beside him, Soap had fallen into parade rest like the recruits.
“Fine.” He cleared his throat and addressed the group. They were supposed to run another lap without the sergeants for guidance, but Ghost knew he wouldn’t be able to assess shit right now; he’d undermined Soap’s authority in front of them. “Hit the showers before the mess, recruits. Dismissed!”
A chorus of yes, sir! sounded before they scrambled for the barracks, hopefully forgetting his outburst with the promise of hot showers and a meal in their sights after the early dismissal. Somehow, he doubted it. More than likely, the news of his scathing remark would be around the base before nightfall. Gaz watched them go, and once they were out of earshot, he turned on Simon.
Shame, hot and bright, simmered beneath his mask and before the sergeant could say a word, he cut him off. “I’ll expect your report in the morning, sergeants. Dismissed.”
He stalked off behind the recruits, too embarrassed to stay and apologize. He’d do it later, once he’d had a minute to calm down. Couldn’t have been the first time someone lost it on Soap, not with a mouth like his, he’d get over it. Today though, Simon just couldn’t handle any more. He just wanted to be warm, dry and in bed. He’d nuke a frozen meal from Price’s stash and forget about today.
Tomorrow, he could apologize. Tomorrow, life wouldn’t be so shit.
Only, his stop into Price’s office took more than a quick minute to steal from his mini-fridge. Laswell’s urgent call from midday had turned into a problem.
“Shipping out tomorrow,” Price said as he leaned back in his office chair and blew a long puff of smoke toward the ceiling. He really wasn’t supposed to smoke indoors, and normally Simon would give him shit for it, but not today. Not when he already felt like trash. “Short stay, hopefully. Maybe a week, Laswell said. Less if she can get that squad back from Tunisia.”
Simon rolled out his neck and sighed. “There’s no one else?”
“Not one,” Price answered as he fixed his posture and his hat. He began clicking through tabs on his computer before sending something to the printer. The room was quiet other than the printer’s electric whir and the laptop fan humming. “At least it’s relatively local. You look like shit.”
“Feel like it,” he grunted.
Price’s eyebrow rose, and he glanced up from his document to observe his lieutenant. “You up for this? I could call in a favour.”
But Simon was already nodding. “Yeah.” If anything, a mission would help him get his head on straight again. He’d been in the barren Texas desert with the marines, somewhere not too far away from where he’d once stumbled over the border half-dead. Damn Soap and his banter. In Mexico, he hadn’t felt half so bad. “I just need some sleep.”
Before Price could respond, his phone pinged, taking the attention off Simon’s well-being and giving him a new focus if the expression on his face was anything to go by.
“What is it?”
“Gaz,” Price said before typing a reply and sending it. His frown deepened as he rose to fetch the papers that’d finished. “Was letting me know the pub is off, which works out regardless. Told him of our change of plans. We’ll brief at 10h00,” he continued typing. “Give you a chance to catch some extra sleep.”
“Right.”
“No argument?” Price’s eyes narrowed, snapping up from his phone, and Simon fidgeted in his seat. A less perceptive man would have missed it, but Price knew him too well. “Is there something else I should know?”
The time to come clean about his shit day appeared, and Simon smothered it by grabbing the stack of papers. “It’s nothing,” he said before redirecting his captain. “Now, let’s go over those infil routes.”
Price stared at him a moment longer before relenting. They had a long evening ahead of them and not enough time to prepare for their mission and get to the bottom of Simon’s piss poor mood.
By the time he made it back to his room, a shitty microwave meal hastily eaten while he and Price poured over the details for tomorrow’s mission, it was late. So late that Simon dumped his still-damp gear on the desk without paying attention and knocked a few items onto the floor.
“Fucking hell, will this day just fucking end already?”
He ignored the mess and headed for his ensuite, showering and dressing in comfortable clothing before falling into bed. His throbbing foot was dulled by a mild painkiller, he’d remembered to close the blinds fully before setting his alarm for eight, and reminded himself that everything would be easier tomorrow.
Normally, it would have taken Simon a while to go down, but the day’s stress and accumulated exhaustion managed to tug him into a restless sleep with less tossing and turning than usual. When he woke up twenty minutes before his alarm after a straight shot through, he did feel better, if a little sleep lagged. Caffeine would help with that, and the mess staff said tea would be back in stock today.
He stretched, sighing as his joints popped back into place and twisted to sit up. His foot was bruised from yesterday, but some careful prodding gave Simon confidence he hadn’t broken his toe at least. When he opened the curtains, it was sunny out and getting ready for his day wasn’t such a chore.
With the extra few minutes, he set about fixing his room. His, now dry, clothes from yesterday got tossed in the hamper for a wash and clean gear went into his duffle for today’s mission. The only thing left was to fix his desk.
His knees cracked as he bent to retrieve the handful of things that’d gone flying last night. It was just his pen cup and the box of medals that Simon tended to use as a paperweight, but each item found its way back onto his desk except his tri-fold calendar. Simon had to get on his knees to check under the bed.
It was a stupid little thing that appeared on his office desk near the end of January. It hadn’t taken much to figure out that it’d been Soap’s doing, not once he flipped to February and saw Gaz’s birthday noted and circled, then had gone to August to see Price’s birthday there, too. Each month had little skeletons comedically acting out a scene depending on the season.
Simon stood and flipped it through the pages back to May. His stomach plummeted. Under the skeleton with wildflowers growing through its ribs was his own hastily written note reminding him of one more day, and he’d missed it.
Yesterday was Johnny’s birthday.