Chapter Text
Chapter One - Respiratory
“Javelin? Come on, girl.”
Simon’s voice is quiet, pitched low the way it always is when he’s handling her. The flat is dim except for the glow from the enclosure lights lining the wall opposite the sofa. Humidity gauges blink softly. Thermostats hum. Everything precisely set.
Routine.
He dangles a thawed pink rat gently with the feeding tongs, careful not to tap the glass. Normally she’d be halfway out of her hide by now, tongue flicking, muscles coiling with anticipation. She’s a good feeder. Predictable. Reliable.
But today, she doesn’t move.
She curls tighter instead, a defensive spiral inside the half-log hide, her patterned body barely visible in the shadows.
Simon frowns.
“Come on, girl…” He lowers the rat slightly, giving it a small twitch. “What’s wrong, huh?”
Nothing.
His brow furrows. He sets the tongs down and opens the glass door fully, movements slow and methodical. No sudden gestures. No looming.
He slides a hand inside, palm open.
“Easy, baby…”
When he touches her, she flinches.
It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice it. But Simon does. He notices everything.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “It’s me.”
He lifts her gently, supporting the length of her body as she slides from one scarred hand to the other. Normally she settles quickly, muscles warm and heavy, tongue flicking against his wrist.
Today, though, she keeps shifting. Restless.
Then he hears it.
A faint, wet wheeze.
Simon goes very still.
Another breath. Another rasp.
His stomach drops.
“Oh, sweet’eart…” His thumb strokes along her spine, face frowning deeper. “When did that start?”
She shifts again, trying to burrow into the crook of his elbow as if hiding will fix it. Ball pythons are good at that. They conceal weakness. It’s instinct.
Simon swallows hard.
He knows enough to know this isn’t something to wait on.
He lowers her back into the enclosure, watching her closely. Slight lift of the head. Open-mouthed breath for a second before she corrects it.
Respiratory.
“Right,” he mutters. “Okay.”
He reaches for his phone.
The first vet he calls puts him on hold for nearly six minutes.
When the receptionist returns, her tone is apologetic but firm. “I’m sorry, we don’t treat reptiles here, you could try—”
“Thanks,” he interrupts, hangs up and tries another.
Same. No luck.
On the third call, however, the woman hesitates.
“We don’t have an exotics specialist,” she says, “but there is a clinic in West London — MacTavish Exotics. They’re very good with snakes.”
Simon glances back at the enclosure, worry knotting his gut.
Javelin’s head is resting flat now. She looks so sad.
“Alright. What’s the number?” he sighs.
She gives it to him. He dials immediately.
The phone rings twice.
“Good afternoon. MacTavish Exotics, this is Claire speaking.”
Professional. Friendly.
“Hi. My snake’s sick,” Simon says plainly. No small talk. “Ball python. Respiratory symptoms.”
“Okay, don’t worry,” Claire replies, calm and efficient. “Luckily, there’s been a cancellation, we can see you today. Will five forty-five be alright?”
He checks the time. Just after three.
“Yeah, that’s great. Thanks,” he exhales a breath of relief.
“Right. That’s booked in with Mr. MacTavish. Bring her in secure, and if you can keep her warm during transport, that’d be great.”
“I will. See you soon.”
He ends the call and stands there for a moment, staring at Javelin’s sad face through the glass.
“Alright, baby,” he says quietly. “We’ll sort you out.”
The hours until the appointment move slowly but productively.
Simon feeds his other snake first — a hognose. No hesitation there, clean strike and coil. Good. Healthy.
He checks on the leopard gecko, replaces water, inspects substrate. Adjusts humidity for the tortoises. Cleans one enclosure fully, scrubbing with methodical precision.
Routine settles him, always has. He can’t function without it — that was why, after his discharge, it was Price who suggested getting a demanding pet. One he’d have to get out of bed to feed every morning. One that would help his depression.
Simon hadn’t been too keen on the idea at first. Then it was Gaz who said, “Why don’t you get a snake? I bet you’d be a cool snake dad, mate.”
Javelin was the first animal he got. So in many ways, she’s special. And that’s why, on days like today when she shows worrying signs of illness, his stomach drops. Losing her would hit harder than losing any other. And while he loves his other pets just as much, Javelin is his baby.
Every few minutes, throughout the afternoon, he glances back at her.
Still wheezing.
Simon Riley has never been an emotional man. But this is killing him.
At five-fifteen, he prepares the travel carrier. A soft towel. A heat pack wrapped and positioned safely. He lifts her gently and places her inside.
“Won’t be long, love,” he murmurs, securing the lid.
The clinic sits on a quiet London street, wedged between a travel agency and a closed charity shop.
The sign reads:
MacTavish Exotics Veterinary Clinic
The windows display posters of reptiles and birds instead of puppies. Simon sighs, staring up at it. He glances left and right up the street. Bit of a random place for a vet clinic, but if it’s the only one nearby that’ll treat his girl, then he’ll have to look past it.
He parks the car, lifts the carrier carefully, and heads inside.
A bell chimes above the door.
The receptionist looks up immediately and smiles.
“Hi. You must be Mr. Riley?”
He nods, standing there a little awkwardly. There’s more people in than he thought there’d be.
Claire hands him a clipboard. “Just a few forms.”
He takes a seat in the waiting area.
The room is warm — deliberately so. Not overly clinical. There’s a faint scent of disinfectant layered with something earthy like mulch.
Posters line the walls:
Metabolic Bone Disease in Reptiles — Know the Signs!
A laminated nutritional chart with a slightly pixelated cartoon tortoise smiling beside a pyramid of leafy greens.
A framed certificate for advanced zoological medicine accredited to a certain J. P. MacTavish.
To Simon’s right sits an older man with a bright green parrot perched on his finger who will not stop talking.
“Oi, handsome! Oi, handsome!”
The man chuckles indulgently. “That’s enough, Arthur.”
Across from him, a young girl clutches a shoebox with air holes punched into the lid. Her eyes are red from crying. Her mother whispers reassurances.
Simon adjusts his mask slightly higher. One hand rests firmly on Javelin’s carrier. The other drifts, unconsciously, to the chain beneath his shirt. His dog tags press cool against his sternum.
An older woman at the far end of the room stares at him openly. Suspicious. Assessing. His size, the mask, the rigid posture.
If only she knew why.
He fills out the ‘new client’ forms quietly and hands them back.
Then, from somewhere beyond the consultation room door comes a burst of laughter. A deep Scottish brawl breaks through the silence.
Simon’s attention shifts instinctively. That must be MacTavish, he thinks.
The door opens a moment later. A woman and her young son emerge, a budgie sitting unusually quiet in its cage.
And then Simon sees him.
Standing in the doorway.
Late thirties. Mohawk — gelled back neatly, slightly longer at the nape. Well-built body beneath nice leaf green scrubs, sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms. Around 5’10. Confident stance.
And smiling warmly. He looks like sunshine.
“Simon Riley?”
It takes Simon a second too long to realise that’s him.
He stands abruptly and almost forgets the carrier.
Up close, the man is striking.
Sharp jaw. Light stubble. Faint crow’s feet. Bright blue eyes shining and intelligent.
There’s something about him that reads almost military-like — the posture and size mainly, Simon thinks — but softened too much. Too civilian. Just works out, probably.
He holds out his hand. Simon blinks at it a moment, too distracted.
“John MacTavish. Pleasure.”
Simon shifts the carrier to one hand and shakes with the other. Firm grip.
“Y-Yeah...”
Bloody hell, Riley, get a grip!
The consultation room is clean and too bright for Simon’s eyes. A stainless steel table covered by a rubberised mat. Overhead exam light. Shelves lined with textbooks and equipment.
John gestures towards the carrier. “So, who do we have here?”
Simon sets the carrier down carefully.
“Javelin. Ball python.”
John’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Och, strong name, I like it.” A flicker of amusement. Not mockery. “Respiratory issues, wasnae it?”
Simon nods, clearing his throat subtly.
“Let’s have a wee look then.”
John removes the lid slowly, confidently.
“Hello, darlin’…” he murmurs as he gently lifts Javelin out. “Let’s get a good look at ye, aye?”
She coils instinctively on the cool surface, trying to tuck her head.
“Aye,” John breathes softly. “She’s an absolute beaut.”
Simon feels heat crawl up the back of his neck and hates that he does. It’s not even him being praised.
John supports her body properly, never leaving her unsupported. He picks up a stethoscope and listens carefully along her length.
Simon watches everything. The technique. The pressure. The focus.
And the man himself.
Annoyingly handsome.
“How long have you had her?” John asks without looking up, pouting slightly.
“A year.”
“Eating well until now?”
“Yeah. Never misses.”
John hums thoughtfully. “Humidity levels?”
“Seventy-five percent average. Eighty during shed. Warm side thirty-two degrees. Cool side twenty-six.”
John glances up at that, a flicker of something unreadable passing behind his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Substrate?”
“Cypress mulch. Spot cleaned daily.”
“Bathing?”
“Only if needed. Not routinely.”
John smiles. “Sounds like ye ken what you’re doin’.”
Simon shrugs faintly. “Read a lot.”
“Got other reptiles?”
“Two snakes. Leopard gecko. Couple Hermann’s tortoises.”
That earns him a genuinely impressed look. The man looks thrilled. “Busy household.”
His expression shifts back to clinical again as he listens to Javelin’s breathing once more.
“Hmm… She’s a wee bit crackly.”
Simon’s jaw tightens.
“Respiratory infection. Caught it early, though.” John sets the stethoscope aside. “That’s good. Means we can treat it straightforward.”
Relief hits Simon harder than expected. “What’s the treatment?”
“Oral antibiotics. Once daily. She’ll no’ like it. Ye’ll have to syringe it down her throat.”
“That’s fine.”
John’s eyes flick to him. “Fine for her or for you?”
“For her,” Simon says immediately.
That seems to satisfy him.
“I’ll show you how to administer it,” John continues. “Might need to encourage her appetite until she feels better.”
“I can do it.”
“I’m sure you can.”
It’s not condescending. Just trusting.
John demonstrates positioning gently, explaining pressure points, how to avoid stressing her airway.
Simon listens with intense focus, committing every word to memory.
“Bring her back in two weeks,” John finishes, moving to wash his hands by the sink. “Sooner if she worsens. Just let us know.”
Simon nods, placing Javelin back in the carrier.
“Good catch, really,” he adds. “Some folk leave it too late.”
Simon swallows. “Yeah.”
There’s a beat. Something unspoken. Slightly awkward tension, but it doesn’t last.
John smiles again — more reassuring this time. “We’ll get her sorted, mate. Dinnae worry.”
Simon lifts the carrier. “Thanks.” He turns toward the door.
“Simon?”
He pauses, looks over his shoulder. The man is staring at him like he wants to say something. But doesn’t. Whatever it was, it’s covered up with, “Look after her, aye? She’s a bonnie lass. Credit to ye.”
Something there, just out of sight.
Simon nods and leaves before it can become anything.
Outside, the evening air is cool. It’s gone dark already, the winter’s sky overcast and drizzling rain. That faint peaty smell that reminds Simon of long nights on watch duty in places far away from here.
He sets Javelin carefully into the passenger seat and starts the engine.
His mind should be on humidity adjustments and dosage schedules.
Instead, it keeps replaying a certain Scottish voice.
“She’s an absolute beaut.”
And the way MacTavish had handled her like she mattered. The way he smiled at him. The way his—
Simon exhales slowly.
He came for antibiotics. But he’s leaving with something else he wasn’t prepared for.
And unfortunately, it has nothing to do with the snake.