Work Text:
Retirement
Friday May 18, 2029
It was a day like most. Summer was coming along with a vengeance this year, making it hot and muggy in their home in Credenhill. Simon hit the base gym at 0330, a little early, mostly because he couldn’t sleep. He left his husband drooling on his pillow with an almost fond sigh. No reason to drag Johnny up yet. He could sleep at least two or three more hours and still get their recently acquired teenage daughter to school before heading in to work.
The gym was as deserted as it always was at this hour. Hell, even Garrick wouldn’t be coming in for at least another half hour, maybe an hour. Depended on what he and John had done the night before. The lieutenant was sharing a small flat a couple of blocks off base with their former captain, John Price. It had been an ongoing affair for the last, well, at least six years that Ghost knew about it. Classified and all that. The thought made him laugh.
Hard to sneak around when one of the team literally had the reputation of being some kind of supernatural specter. All rubbish. But Simon let it permeate through the ranks. Kept people away. On their toes. A bit afraid. All useful when dealing with younger soldiers that needed to remember they were nowhere near the level that the 141st operated at.
He remembered the days that he hid behind that reputation. Wore the mask like armor rather than a symbol. Growled and postured and kept people at arms length. The days when he never dreamed he’d be thinking about life after retirement. Days when he never wanted to speak to a child on any of their assignments, let alone would have considered he’d be adopting three.
Settling in on the bench press, once he was satisfied that the weight would give him a decent challenge. He let the steady rhythm of lifting and lowering the heavy laden bar comfort the rampant thoughts in his mind.
Six and a half years ago, his whole world changed. For the better. One scorching smile and wrecking ball of attitude punched him in the shoulder and settled down at his side. One John MacTavish. Soap. Stupidest nickname he’d ever heard. Matched that god awful mohawk that his husband still wore. Fucking hell. Man was thirty-six. You’d think he’d out grow it. Nope. Captain MacTavish still sauntered around the base like he owned it, ready to defend how it was perfectly regulation. Usually. Sometimes it grew out longer than it should. He’d spike it up and look even dumber. Then he’d flash that smile. Fuck. Simon adored that smile. Would do literally anything for it.
A breath. Another rep.
There was no way in hell that Simon ever believed that he’d be retiring. After being held, tortured and buried alive. After his family was murdered. After tracking down Roba. Nope. He would serve. He would be Ghost right up until he finally got erased from existence. He’d die in some god forsaken third world country defending some greater good, or taking out some horrific nightmare of a baddy. Whatever. Facts were, he was never intending to live to see forty-five.
Joined up at eighteen. Never figured he’d get out. Never wanted to get out, if he was being honest with himself.
Then he got a Johnny. That beautiful wreck of a firebug. That gleam he’d get when he blew shit up. Those crystal blue eyes that Simon could literally drown in. That smile that could power all of London. Yea. After that, the idea of living to see this day didn’t sting nearly as much as it should have.
Truth be told, he’d of stayed in, till he at least hit thirty years. Was gonna transfer out of the 141st, join the K-9 unit. He could train dogs as easily as men. Probably easier. Less wear and tear. No more solo ops and near death risks. He was getting older. Stayed in great shape, but the fact was, he was getting older. His knees hurt, and his back hurt and old scars ached when it rained or got cold. Things he wouldn’t gripe about in front of the kids, but they were still there. Unless he wanted to go into command, he was going to age out of the SAS.
All those options fell to the wayside when Johnny inherited twins last year in March. An affair he’d had before he ever made the 141st left the woman with two beautiful kids. He loved these kids. Johnny had no idea she’d actually kept the children. Guess she’d told him she was pregnant. The jackass, his first response was to decide that they had to get married. Fucking Catholic conditioning. No. Guess Fiona was having none of that. She informed her now ex whatever the hell she and Johnny were, that she wasn’t keeping the baby. She obviously changed her mind.
So, last year, when she met with a fatal accident, Johnny was informed he was a father. That was a wild ride Simon hadn’t been prepared for, but wouldn’t trade for the world.
Now they had the twins. He’d officially adopted them. Just in case anything were to ever happen to his Johnny. Put in to use up his leave last year. Here he was, at the end of it. Today was it. Today he retired.
It was a good change. You could never have convinced him a couple of years ago, that this would be where he wound up. Yet, here they were. He was dad to Izzy and Charlie, Johnny’s twins. They were working on the adoption of a third beautiful young lady, Elena. Fourteen and lost both her parents on the same morning. Simon kind of stumbled into that one too. Found her near the housing department, looking for a way to contact her dad when she’d received news about her mum.
They had an appointment in a week with the fertility clinic to work on having a baby, he and Johnny.
Simon had gone from no one outside of their unit, to a full home. Three children, soon to be four. He’d fallen into the role of homemaker and caregiver and he had to say, he absolutely loved it. Wouldn’t trade it, or any of them for anything the military could offer him.
Not at all a change he expected.
Still, twenty-seven years. Though, he’d only retire with twenty + five. Which was total fucking bullocks. Fucking hell. Prisoner of war, or whatever the hell they called his MIA/KIA status when Roba had him held captive. Took them two bloody years to sort out his status and start paying him again. If he hadn’t been living on base, he’d of been destitute. That fuck all for that small grace.
Today, he would go turn in everything considered military property, that they were aware of Ghost possessing that is. Sign the last of the papers with Major Martins and that would be that.
He was till married to Captain MacTavish. He’d still have access to the base, as military family and retired military, but he would no longer be a part of the 141st. The unit he helped create. Him and John Price. Together they built it from the ground up. Ultra elite anti-terrorist unit. And fucking hell. Had they saved the world or at least the important corners of it more times than he could count.
Ghost was a cold blooded, extremely efficient killer. It was true. He liked to at least lie to himself and say he’d done it for all the right reasons. Of course he had. Revenge. Justice. A reckoning. Whatever. It was all the right reasons.
--
The gym door opened with a creak that cut through the silence. Simon didn’t need to look up from his current set to know who it was. The footsteps were too light to be anyone else at this hour.
“Bloody hell, Ghost,” Kyle Garrick’s voice carried across the empty space. “You trying to lift the whole building?”
Simon finished his rep before responding, lowering the bar with controlled precision. He sat up, grabbing his towel to wipe the sweat from his neck below the balaclava.
“Just finishing chest,” Simon told him, his voice rougher than usual from the exertion.
Kyle moved closer, already dressed in his workout gear. He looked alert despite the early hour, that particular energy he always had in the mornings. His gaze swept over Simon’s setup, noting the weight on the bar.
“Moving to arms next?” Kyle asked.
“Aye.”
“Mind if I join?”
Simon shrugged, standing to adjust the equipment. His compression shirt clung to his torso, dark with sweat, and he could feel the pleasant ache in his muscles that came from pushing himself properly. The balaclava was starting to itch, but he kept it on. Always did in public.
Kyle settled into position at the adjacent bench, adjusting the weights for his own routine. They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, the familiar rhythm of their gym sessions falling into place.
“So,” Kyle broached eventually, his tone carefully casual. “Big day today.”
Simon grunted, focusing on his bicep curl. The weight was heavier than he usually went for, but he wanted to feel it. Needed the burn.
“Not just retirement,” Kyle continued. “It’s also…”
“Don’t,” Simon interrupted.
“your birthday,” Kyle finished anyway, grinning. “Forty-five, yeah? That’s proper old, mate.”
“Fuck off.”
“Just saying. You’re getting up there. Practically ancient. Should probably start looking at retirement homes.”
Simon set down the weight and turned to give Kyle a flat stare. Even with the balaclava covering most of his face, the look must have been effective because Kyle laughed.
“Alright, alright,” Kyle conceded, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Won’t mention it again. Unless Soap’s planning something. Is he planning something?”
“No idea,” Simon answered honestly. Johnny hadn’t mentioned anything, but that didn’t mean much. His husband was perfectly capable of keeping secrets when he wanted to.
Not that Simon cared either way. Birthdays had never meant much to him. Another year survived, another year older. The number itself felt arbitrary. Forty-five was just a number, same as forty-four had been, same as forty-six would be next year.
What mattered was today was his last day. The end of twenty-seven years, even if they’d only count twenty-five of them. The end of Ghost, at least the active duty version.
He moved to the next exercise, letting the physical exertion quiet the thoughts circling in his head. Kyle matched his pace, and they fell into their usual routine. Arms, then some cardio. Thirty minutes on the treadmill, enough to get the heart rate up properly.
They ran side by side, the rhythmic pounding of their feet on the belts filling the silence. Simon’s breathing evened out, finding that meditative state that came from pushing his body through familiar motions.
“How’s Price doing?” Simon asked eventually, breaking the quiet.
Kyle glanced over, surprise flickering across his face. Simon didn’t usually initiate conversation during workouts, preferred to stay in his own head. But he was curious. John had been struggling with retirement, worse than anyone had expected.
“He’s good, actually,” Kyle said, his tone warming. “Better than he was. Took a trip to London last week. Went to see his granddaughter without me having to drag him there or threaten him into it.”
“That’s progress.”
“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “His oldest daughter, she’s been really patient with him. Keeps inviting him to things, doesn’t make a big deal when he’s awkward about it. I think he’s starting to realize he can have a relationship with them, even if he wasn’t around much when they were growing up.”
Simon nodded, still running. He could understand that struggle. Price had given everything to the 141st, same as the rest of them. The unit had been his life, his family, the thing that mattered most. Walking away from that had nearly broken the man.
“He’s got a couple grandchildren now, right?” Simon asked.
“Three,” Kyle corrected. “Sarah’s got two girls, and his son Michael just had a boy a few months back. Price is still figuring out how to be a grandfather, but he’s trying. That’s what matters.”
The treadmill hummed beneath Simon’s feet. He could feel the sweat running down his back, soaking into the compression shirt. His legs were starting to burn, that good burn that meant he was pushing hard enough.
“You ready for today?” Kyle asked, his voice cutting through Simon’s focus.
Simon grunted. The non-committal sound was all the answer he was willing to give.
“That’s what I thought,” Kyle smirked, but there was understanding in his tone. “For what it’s worth, you’re making the right choice. The kids need you more than the unit does.”
Simon didn’t respond. There wasn’t anything to say to that. Kyle was right, and Simon knew it, but that didn’t make walking away any easier.
They finished the cardio in silence. By the time Simon stepped off the treadmill, his legs were shaking slightly and his shirt was completely soaked through. The clock on the wall read 0550.
“Right,” Simon said, grabbing his towel. “Ah’m heading out.”
“See you.” Gaz waved as he left.
Simon raised a hand in acknowledgment and headed for the exit. The morning air hit him as he pushed through the doors, cooler than the gym but still carrying that humid promise of a hot day ahead.
His truck was parked in its usual spot, the red paint gleaming in the early morning light. Simon climbed in, tossing his gym bag on the passenger seat, and started the engine. The drive home was short, barely ten minutes, and the streets were still mostly empty.
The townhouse appeared ahead, familiar and solid. Simon pulled into the drive and cut the engine, sitting for a moment in the sudden quiet.
His last day.
The thought settled over him, heavy but not unwelcome. He’d made his choice. This was what he wanted. What he’d chosen.
Simon grabbed his bag and headed inside. He unlocked the door and swung it open to find Ruby waiting in the entryway. Her tail started wagging immediately, her whole body wiggling with enthusiasm.
“Morning, girl,” Simon greeted her, crouching down to scratch behind her ears.
Ruby leaned into his touch, making happy sounds in the back of her throat. Simon straightened and moved toward the back door, Ruby following eagerly. He let her out into the garden, watching her bound across the grass to do her business.
The house was quiet around him. The quiet before the storm of children and preparation for school and work. He could hear movement upstairs though, someone walking around. Probably Elena in the bathroom she shared with Izzy. The girl was an early riser. She had to be ready to leave with Johnny. She was in secondary and started about forty minutes before the twins.
Ruby finished and trotted back inside. Simon pulled a treat from the jar on the counter and offered it to her. She took it gently, her tail still wagging, and padded off to her bed in the living room.
Simon felt good. The workout had cleared his head, and the drive home had given him time to settle his thoughts. He was ready for today. Ready to close this chapter and start the next one.
He headed upstairs, his legs protesting slightly from the cardio. The bedroom door was closed, and he opened it quietly. Johnny was still in bed, sprawled across most of the mattress with the covers tangled around his legs. His mohawk was flattened on one side, and there was a small wet spot on the pillow where he’d been drooling.
Simon felt his mouth curve beneath the balaclava. Fucking beautiful disaster of a man.
He moved into the ensuite bathroom, stripping off his sweat-soaked clothes and dropping them in the hamper. The balaclava came off last, and he studied his reflection briefly. The scars were still there, always would be. But they didn’t bother him the way they used to. Johnny had kissed every single one of them, claimed them as part of who Simon was. He didn’t wear the mask at home. That was the rule. Johnny’s rule. A man should be able to be himself in his own home.
The shower was hot enough to make steam billow around him. Simon stepped under the spray and let it wash away the sweat and grime from the gym. His muscles relaxed under the heat, the pleasant ache settling into something more manageable.
He heard movement in the bedroom. The distinctive sound of Johnny rolling over, probably woken by the shower. Simon smiled to himself and reached for the soap.
Today was going to be a good day he decided. His last day in uniform, but the first day of everything that came after.
--
Simon finished rinsing off and cut the water. He grabbed his towel from the hook and dried himself roughly, the terrycloth scraping against his scarred skin. The bathroom mirror was fogged completely, obscuring his reflection, which was probably for the best.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the door. Steam billowed out into the cooler bedroom air.
Johnny was sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. His mohawk stuck up at an even more ridiculous angle than usual, defying gravity in ways that shouldn’t be possible. When he heard the door open, he looked up, and his face split into that smile. The one that still made Simon’s chest do stupid things after all these years.
“Morning,” Johnny greeted, his voice thick with sleep. He pushed himself out of bed and crossed the room, moving directly into Simon’s space.
Simon opened his mouth to respond, but Johnny was already leaning up on his toes, hands coming to rest on Simon’s bare shoulders. The kiss was soft, sweet, sleep-warm and perfect.
“Happy birthday,” Johnny murmured against Simon’s lips.
Simon made a noise somewhere between a huff and a grunt. Birthdays. Fucking birthdays.
But Johnny was already pulling him in for another kiss, deeper this time, and Simon let himself be drawn closer. His hands found Johnny’s hips automatically, the fabric of his sleep pants soft under Simon’s palms. When they broke apart, Simon leaned forward deliberately, rubbing his wet curls and face against Johnny’s cheek, his jaw, marking him with shower water.
“Oi!” Johnny laughed, trying to push him away even as he was still grinning. “Ye’re getting me all wet, ye bloody menace.”
Simon did it again, more deliberately this time, pressing his face into Johnny’s neck and rubbing like Ruby did when she wanted attention.
“Ye’re such a bastard.” Johnny’s laugh was bright and genuine, filling the bedroom.
Simon pulled back slightly, satisfied with the damp patches he’d left on Johnny’s face and neck. Johnny was still smiling, his bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and he leaned up for another kiss. This one was longer, sweeter, and when they separated Johnny’s expression had gone soft.
“Happy birthday, Simon,” Johnny tried again, quieter this time. “The appropriate response is to say ‘thank you.’ Not to rub all over me like ye’re a dog.”
Simon’s mouth curved. His hand slid down and patted Johnny’s rear, giving it a firm squeeze before he stepped back.
“Thank you,” Simon offered, his voice rough.
He moved past Johnny toward the dresser, leaving his husband to his morning routine. Behind him, he heard Johnny muttering something about wet faces and impossible men, but there was laughter in his voice.
Simon pulled out black jeans from the drawer, the denim soft and worn from multiple washes. A black short-sleeved compression shirt came next, the fabric designed to wick sweat and move with him. He dressed efficiently, years of military routine making the process automatic.
His boots were by the bed where he’d left them last night. He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled them on, lacing them with quick, practiced movements. A fresh balaclava came from the top drawer, folded neatly. He shoved it in his pocket. Wouldn’t need it at home, but he’d want it before leaving to take the twins to school, later.
Phone, keys, wallet. All collected from the nightstand and pocketed. Simon stood and surveyed the room briefly. He pulled the sheets and duvet back up into place with practiced efficiency. Johnny had disappeared into the bathroom, the shower already running again. He wouldn’t be going back to bed this morning.
Simon headed downstairs, his footsteps heavy on the steps. Ruby appeared immediately, trotting over from her bed in the living room to greet him properly now that he was clean and dressed. He scratched behind her ears as he passed, and she followed him into the kitchen.
The kitchen was his domain in the mornings. Had been since they’d moved into this house, since he’d taken over the bulk of the cooking. He liked it. The routine of it, the control, the ability to make sure everyone started their day properly fed.
He pulled the sausages from the fridge first. The square kind, the Scottish ones Johnny loved and had insisted on stocking. Simon set them on the counter and turned to grab the bread. French toast. Yeah. Because he wanted it. Well, Johnny loved it. The man had a sweet tooth that would probably rot his teeth out eventually, insisted on coating the French toast in powdered sugar like some kind of dessert. Whatever. If that’s what he liked, that’s what he’d get.
The twins liked it that way too. Simon had made it for them a several times now, watched Izzy dump enough powdered sugar on hers to create a small mountain. Charlie was more restrained but still added a generous coating.
Simon paused, trying to remember if he’d made French toast for Elena yet. Couldn’t recall. Guess they’d find out if she liked it.
He moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency. Coffee started for Johnny and Elena, the machine gurgling to life as it began brewing. The kettle filled with water and set on the stove for his tea. Earl Grey today. He loved Earl Grey. Two sugars, no cream. Perfect.
Johnny would want three sugars and cream in his coffee. Ridiculous amount of sugar, but Simon had long since stopped commenting on it. Elena would doctor up her own coffee however she wanted it. The girl seemed to like it at breakfast, had been drinking it regularly since she’d moved in.
The sausages went into one pan, the heat set to medium. Simon cracked eggs into a bowl for the French toast mixture, adding milk and cinnamon. The bread slices went into the mixture one at a time, soaking up the egg.
The sound of wheels on hardwood made him turn. Charlie rolled into the kitchen, already dressed for the day in blue jeans and a t-shirt with the solar system printed across the front. His trainers were on, laced properly, and his hair was combed. The boy looked bright and alert, his blue eyes taking in the breakfast preparations with obvious approval.
“Morning, Dad,” Charlie greeted him, wheeling up to his usual spot at the table.
“Morning,” Simon responded. “Milk or juice for you and Izzy?”
“I’ll get it,” Charlie offered, already turning his chair toward the fridge.
Simon nodded and went back to the French toast. The first batch was already cooking, the edges starting to turn golden. He flipped them with practiced ease, the spatula scraping against the pan.
Footsteps on the stairs announced Elena’s arrival. She appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed for school in jeans and a t-shirt with her mother’s grey cardigan over it. It was getting too warm for it, but Simon wasn’t going to point that out. Whatever she needed, she would get. It was rough what she’d gone through this last couple months. He got it. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and she had her school bag slung over one shoulder.
“Morning,” she said quietly, setting her bag by the door.
“Morning,” Simon acknowledged. “Coffee’s almost done.”
“Thanks.”
She moved to the counter, pulling down a mug from the cabinet. The coffee machine finished brewing with a final gurgle, and Elena poured herself a cup. Simon watched her add cream and sugar out of the corner of his eye, noting the amounts. Not as much sugar as Johnny, but more than he would have expected.
The sounds from upstairs had intensified. Izzy’s voice carried down, loud and insistent about something. Johnny’s voice rumbled in response, calmer but firm. The distinctive sound of someone running, then Johnny’s voice again, more commanding this time.
Simon felt his mouth curve. Hurricane Izzy was in full force this morning. He could picture Johnny trying to corral her, probably attempting to do her hair while she bounced around like a pinball.
“Sit still!” Johnny’s voice carried down clearly this time.
“But Da, it’s pulling!”
“That’s because ye’ve got knots the size of tennis balls. Should’ve brushed it last night like Ah told ye.”
Simon flipped the French toast and started on the next batch. The sausages were sizzling nicely, filling the kitchen with their savory smell. Charlie had poured juice for himself and Izzy, setting the glasses on the table with careful precision.
Elena sat at the table with her coffee, quiet and still in that way she had. Not uncomfortable exactly, just observing. Taking everything in while she figured out where she fit.
The kettle started to whistle. Simon moved it off the heat and poured water into his mug, the Earl Grey tea already ready to steep. The smell of bergamot filled his immediate space, mixing with the sausage and French toast. He added two sugars and stirred, watching the water darken to a proper brown.
More thundering from upstairs, then Johnny’s voice raised slightly. “Isabel MacTavish, if ye dinnae sit still right now, ye’re going to school with yer hair looking like a bird’s nest!”
“Sorry, Da.” A pause. Then Izzy’s voice, quieter but still audible.
Simon took a sip of his tea and went back to the French toast. The first batch was done, golden and perfect. He plated them and started the next round. The sausages needed another few minutes.
This was good. This morning routine, the sounds of his family waking up and getting ready, the smell of breakfast cooking, the quiet presence of Elena at the table and Charlie organizing the juice glasses. This was what he’d chosen. What he’d retired for.
His last day in uniform would come later. Right now, he had French toast to finish and a daughter who’d probably come barreling down the stairs any minute with her hair finally tamed into something resembling order.
Simon smiled into his tea and flipped the next batch of French toast. Yeah. This was exactly where he wanted to be.
--
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Izzy burst into the kitchen like a small explosion. Her hair was braided into two neat plaits, though one was already starting to come loose. She wore her bright pink pants, her navy top slightly askew, and her trainers lit up when she walked.
“French toast!” Izzy announced, sliding into her chair with enough force to make it scrape against the floor. “I love French toast!”
Johnny appeared behind her, moving with considerably more grace. He was in uniform now, the desert tan and olive of his uniform pressed to perfection. Captain’s bars aligned and in place. No beret. Even without, he looked every inch the officer he was, mohawk and all.
Simon felt something warm settle in his chest at the sight. His husband. Still as devastating as the day they’d met, even after all these years.
Johnny caught his eye and smiled, that particular smile that was just for Simon. The one that made him look younger, softer, like the weight of command had lifted for just a moment.
“Smells amazing,” Johnny complimented, moving to pour himself coffee. He added his ridiculous amount of sugar and cream, stirring while he watched Simon plate the last of the French toast.
Simon brought the plates to the table, distributing them with practiced efficiency. Izzy’s got the most powdered sugar, a small mountain of white that she immediately began spreading around with her fork. Charlie’s had a more reasonable coating. Elena’s was somewhere in between, and Simon had added it before bringing the plate over because he wasn’t sure what she preferred yet.
Johnny took his seat, and Simon settled into the chair beside him with his own plate. The French toast was perfect, golden and sweet, exactly how it should be. The sausages were crisp on the outside, soft in the middle, the way Johnny liked them.
“Christ, Simon,” Johnny breathed after his first bite. His eyes closed briefly, savoring it. “This is perfect. Ye’re perfect. How did Ah get so lucky?”
Simon felt heat creep up the back of his neck. He took a bite of his own breakfast, chewing deliberately to avoid having to respond.
Johnny’s foot found his under the table, pressing against Simon’s ankle. When Simon glanced over, those crystal blue eyes were locked on him, warm and full of something that made Simon’s chest tight. Love. That’s what it was. Pure, uncomplicated love, the kind Simon had never expected to have in his life.
“Seriously,” Johnny continued, cutting another piece of sausage. “Best breakfast I’ve had all week. Maybe all month.” He popped the sausage into his mouth and made a sound that was borderline obscene. “Fuck me, these are good.”
“Da said a bad word,” Izzy announced cheerfully through a mouthful of French toast.
“Aye, and ye’re not supposed to repeat it,” Johnny told her, but he was grinning.
Simon’s mouth curved in a warm smile. He took another bite of French toast, letting the sweetness dissolve on his tongue. Across the table, Charlie was eating methodically, cutting his food into precise squares before consuming each piece. Elena was quiet, but she’d made good progress on her plate.
Johnny’s foot pressed against Simon’s again, more insistent this time. Simon looked over, and Johnny mouthed ‘thank you’ with exaggerated lip movements, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Ridiculous man. Simon’s husband was an absolute ridiculous man, and Simon adored every stupid inch of him.
They ate in comfortable chaos. Izzy talked nearly non-stop about something happening at school, a project involving papier-mâché that she was very excited about. Charlie interjected occasionally with more practical observations about structural integrity and drying times. Elena listened, sipping her coffee and picking at her French toast with growing confidence.
Johnny finished first, as he usually did. He stood and carried his plate to the sink, rinsing it before setting it in the basin. Elena followed shortly after, her movements quiet and efficient as she cleaned her own dishes.
“Right,” Johnny announced, checking his watch. “Elena, we need to leave in five minutes. Ye got everything?”
“Yes,” Elena confirmed, moving to collect her school bag from by the door.
Johnny crossed back to where Simon was still sitting, finishing his tea. He leaned down, one hand coming to rest on Simon’s shoulder, and pressed a kiss to the top of Simon’s head.
“See ye tonight,” Johnny murmured, his accent thick and his voice low enough that only Simon could hear. “Love ye, mo ghràidh.”
“Be safe.” Simon’s hand came up to cover Johnny’s on his shoulder, squeezing once.
Johnny squeezed back, then straightened. He pulled his keys from his pocket, checked that Elena had her bag, and headed out. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and Simon heard the truck doors opening and closing, the engine starting.
The kitchen felt quieter without Johnny’s presence, but not empty. Charlie was still working on his French toast, taking his time. Izzy had demolished hers and was now eyeing the remaining sausages on the serving plate.
“Ken I have another sausage?” Izzy asked, remembering her manners at the last second.
“Go ahead.” Simon confirmed, and she speared one with her fork immediately.
Simon finished his tea and stood, beginning to clear the table. Charlie wheeled his empty plate to the sink, and Izzy followed with hers once she’d finished the extra sausage. They had time before school. Forty minutes, give or take.
“Can we watch telly?” Izzy asked, already bouncing toward the living room.
“Yes,” Simon confirmed. “Forty minutes.”
The twins disappeared into the living room, and Simon heard the television come on. Voices from whatever cartoon they’d settled on filled the house, punctuated by Izzy’s commentary and Charlie’s quieter responses.
Ruby appeared from wherever she’d been sleeping and padded into the living room. Simon heard her settle down with a contented sigh, probably curling up next to Charlie’s wheelchair the way she liked to do.
Simon moved through the kitchen methodically, loading the dishwasher with the breakfast dishes. The kids would help with the evening cleanup, that was the rule, but mornings were his responsibility. He liked it this way. Gave him time to think, to settle himself before whatever the day held.
Today. His last day. The thought kept circling back, insistent.
He closed the dishwasher and turned it on, the sound of water filling the machine providing white noise. The kitchen was clean now, everything in its place. Simon grabbed his keys from the counter and checked his phone. No messages. Good.
The forty minutes passed faster than Simon expected. One moment he was wiping down the counter, the next he was calling the twins to get their bags and shoes on.
“Come on,” Simon told them. “Time to go.”
Izzy bounded out of the living room, her school bag already on her shoulders. Charlie wheeled after her more sedately, his own bag settled in his lap.
Simon held the door open while Charlie navigated the ramp. The wheelchair moved smoothly down the slight incline, and Charlie positioned himself by the Highlander’s rear passenger door. Simon opened it and helped with the transfer, lifting Charlie with practiced ease while folding the wheelchair. The chair went in the back, secured properly, and Charlie was buckled into the back seat.
Izzy climbed into the back opposite him, chattering about the cartoon they’d been watching. Something about magical girls and transformation sequences. Simon only half-listened, focused on making sure everyone was secure.
Ruby stood at the front door, watching them with sad eyes. She knew she wasn’t coming on this trip.
“Stay,” Simon told her firmly, and she sat, her tail drooping slightly.
He closed and locked the front door, before climbing into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over smoothly, and Simon backed out of the drive.
The primary school was less than ten minutes away, close enough to walk if the weather was good. The paving wasn’t the best for Charlie’s chair, so normally they drove.
Simon pulled up to the gate by the playground. Other cars were already there, parents dropping off their children. The playground was full of kids running around, their voices high and excited.
Securing the dark balaclava in place, Simon got out and moved to the back, pulling out Charlie’s wheelchair and unfolding it with quick efficiency. He opened the rear passenger door and helped Charlie transfer, making sure the boy was settled properly before stepping back to make room for Charlie to wheel towards the gate.
Izzy had already bolted ahead, spotting friends and calling out greetings. Her plaits bounced as she ran, and Simon made a mental note to remind Johnny to teach him how to do them properly. The girl’s hair was always coming loose by midday.
Charlie’s mates were waiting by the entrance, two boys from his class who Simon recognized from previous pickups. They greeted Charlie enthusiastically, and Simon watched the three of them head onto the playground together, already deep in conversation about something. Well, that was good. Hopefully Jack didn’t come around. He hoped his son had a good day at school.
Simon stood at the gate, watching until both twins were safely inside and surrounded by their friends. Izzy had joined a group of girls near the swings. Charlie and his mates were heading toward the covered area where the Year Fives usually gathered.
They were fine. They were safe. They were happy.
Heading back towards the Highlander, something heavy settled in Simon. Not bad, exactly. Just significant. He climbed into the driver’s seat and sat for a moment, his hands on the steering wheel.
His next stop was the base. Major Martins would be waiting. All the paperwork was ready, had been for weeks. Today was just the formality of it. Turning in his equipment, signing the final documents, officially closing out twenty-seven years of service.
Twenty-five years, he corrected himself bitterly. They’d only count twenty-five.
The dread he’d been ignoring all morning settled properly now, a weight in his gut that he couldn’t dismiss. This was it. The end of Ghost. The end of the 141st. The end of the life he’d built in the military, the identity he’d worn like armor for longer than he cared to calculate.
Simon started the engine and pulled away from the school. The base was ten minutes from here, longer if traffic was bad. He had time to settle himself, to get his head right before walking through those gates one last time as an active duty soldier.
The roads were familiar. He’d driven them hundreds of times, thousands maybe. Every turn, every landmark, all of it mapped in his head. The base appeared ahead, the gates and guard station exactly where they’d always been.
Simon slowed as he approached, pulling up to the checkpoint. The guard recognized him immediately, waving him through without asking for ID. He drove onto the base, heading for the administrative building where Major Martins’ office was located. Where Captain MacTavish’s office was located.
He parked in the lot reserved for visiting personnel and turned off the engine. The building loomed ahead, unremarkable and bureaucratic. Inside, his career would officially end.
Simon sat in the truck for another moment, breathing slowly through the weight in his chest. Then he adjusted the balaclava, and got out.
Time to finish this.
--
The administrative building was quiet at this hour. Simon’s boots echoed against the linoleum as he moved down the corridor, passing offices with closed doors and darkened windows.
Major Martins’ office was near the entrance of the hall. Simon had been here enough times this year to know the route without thinking. Before this year, he’d only come for mission prep, usually with Price. Martins was a decent guy. Simon had his number saved, had used it on occasion. He’d helped as much as he could during the events surrounding he and his husband getting guardianship of Elena.
Simon stopped outside the door and took stock. In truth, he didn’t have anything to turn in besides his phone and laptop. His officially issued comm equipment and sidearm had been returned when he went on leave last year. Any other pieces he’d acquired weren’t on any official records, and he wasn’t about to bring them in and open that can of worms. So he had his cell phone, his laptop, and that was about it.
His hand went to his pocket, feeling the weight of the phone there. The laptop was tucked under the same arm.
Simon took in a deep breath and knocked at the door.
“Come in,” Major Martins called from inside.
Lieutenant Riley turned the handle and pushed the door open.
Major Martins sat behind his desk, paperwork spread out in front of him. But that wasn’t what made Simon pause. Johnny was there too, sitting in one of the chairs opposite the desk, turned slightly toward the door with that shit-eating grin on his face.
Simon felt his mouth curve beneath the balaclava. He shook his head.
“What’s this loser doing here?” Simon asked, moving into the office properly.
Johnny laughed, the sound bright and genuine.
“Technically, Ah’m still yer commanding officer,” he pointed out, gesturing at the captain’s bars on his uniform. “Which means Ah need to be here to sign the papers releasing ye.”
“Fucking paperwork,” Simon muttered, but there was no heat in it.
“Aye, fucking paperwork,” Johnny agreed. He stood and moved to lean against the edge of Martins’ desk, his posture relaxed. “Someone’s got to make sure ye’re actually free to go. Cannae have ye wandering off without proper authorization.”
“Would be a shame,” Simon deadpanned.
Major Martins cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him. He was smiling though, clearly amused by their banter.
“Gentlemen,” Martins said, his tone professional but warm. “If we’re done with the comedy routine, we should probably get through this paperwork before Lieutenant Riley dies of old age.”
“Ah’m forty-five, not eighty,” Simon pointed out.
“Ancient,” Johnny contributed helpfully.
Simon reached over and cuffed the back of Johnny’s head lightly. Johnny laughed and ducked away, still grinning.
Martins pushed a stack of papers across the desk toward Simon.
“These are the final discharge documents. You’ve already completed the exit interview, returned your issued equipment, and gone through the medical clearance. This is just making it official.”
Simon set the laptop and phone on the major’s desk and pulled the papers closer, scanning them quickly. Standard military bureaucracy. Name, rank, service number, dates of service, reason for separation. Retirement after twenty-five years of service. The two years he’d spent as MIA weren’t counted, the same bitter fact that had been grating on him for weeks now.
He picked up the pen Martins offered and started signing where indicated. His signature was neat, practiced, the muscle memory of thousands of similar documents making the process automatic.
Captain MacTavish signed where he needed to as well, his role as Lieutenant Riley’s commanding officer requiring his authorization. His signature was messier than Simon’s, more of a scrawl, but no less official.
Major Martins collected the papers as they finished each section, organizing them into neat stacks. The process took maybe fifteen minutes, but it felt longer. Each signature felt significant, like he was signing away pieces of himself. Which, to be fair, he was. A huge piece of everything he’d been for the last twenty-seven years.
“Right,” Martins said finally, setting down the last document. “That’s everything. As of June 1st, you’ll be officially retired. Your pension and GI benefits will start processing automatically, but if you run into any issues, here is the Veterans UK help line and a point of contact for SAS directly. If they give you any trouble, you’re welcome to give me a call.”
He slid a business card across the desk. Simon picked it up, noting the mobile number written on the back in addition to the printed office number.
“Thank you, sir,” Lieutenant Riley accepted, pocketing the card.
“It’s been an honor serving with you, Lieutenant Riley,” Martins continued, standing and offering his hand. “The 141st won’t be the same without you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Simon shook his hand, the grip firm and professional.
“Captain MacTavish, make sure this one doesn’t get into too much trouble in retirement.” Martins turned to John next.
“Ah’ll do my best,” John promised, but he was grinning. “Though knowing him, he’ll find some way to cause chaos anyway.”
“Probably,” Simon agreed.
They left the office together, moving back down the corridor toward the exit. Simon felt lighter somehow, like a weight he’d been carrying had finally lifted. The paperwork was done. It was official now. He was retired.
Johnny walked beside him, their shoulders nearly touching in the narrow hallway. When they reached the exit, Johnny pushed the door open and they stepped out into the warming morning air.
“Ye alright?” Johnny asked quietly, once they were outside and away from potential listeners.
Simon considered the question. Was he alright? He’d just signed away twenty-seven years of his life, reduced it to a stack of official documents and a pension that would start in two weeks. He should feel something more than this odd sense of relief.
“A little in shock right now,” Simon admitted. “But Ah think it’ll be alright.”
Johnny nodded, his expression serious. They’d reached the Highlander now, parked in the lot where Simon had left it. Johnny moved closer, crowding into Simon’s space in a way that would have been inappropriate on base if anyone was watching. But the lot was empty, and Johnny clearly didn’t care.
“Ye made the right choice,” Johnny assured him, his voice low and certain. “The kids need ye. Ah need ye. And ye deserve to have a life outside of all this.”
Simon’s hand came up, cupping the back of Johnny’s neck. He pulled him in, their foreheads touching through the balaclava. They stood like that for a moment, breathing together, and Simon felt something inside settle properly.
“Ah know,” Simon replied finally.
Johnny leaned up, reached up and folded the fabric out of his way then kissed his husband, the gesture sweet and familiar. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright.
“Right,” Johnny said, his tone shifting back to practical. “Ye’ve got Charlie’s therapy this afternoon?”
“Aye. Three o’clock.”
“And Ah’ve got Izzy after her practice. Should be home by four.”
“Ah’ll make dinner then.” Simon confirmed.
“Look at us, being proper domestic.” Johnny grinned.
“Fuck off,” Simon told him, but he was smiling.
Johnny laughed and stepped back, creating appropriate distance between them. He checked his watch, his expression shifting to something more professional.
“Ah’ve got a meeting at 0900,” Johnny said. “Better get back to it.”
“Be safe,” Simon told him, the same words he always used.
“Always am,” Johnny responded, the same answer he always gave.
Simon watched him walk back toward the administrative building, his uniform crisp and his stride confident. Captain John MacTavish, still serving while Simon walked away. The thought should have stung, but it didn’t. Johnny loved this life the same way Simon had. He’d be fine here without Simon beside him. Had to be.
And Simon would be fine at home with the kids, building a different kind of life.
He climbed into the Highlander and started the engine. The base gates appeared ahead as he drove toward them, and the guard waved him through without stopping him.
Simon pulled onto the main road and headed toward home. He had a few hours before he needed to collect Charlie from school for his therapy appointment. Time enough to take Ruby for a proper run, maybe start prep for dinner.
The house appeared ahead, familiar and solid. Simon pulled into the drive and cut the engine. Ruby was waiting at the front window, her tail wagging when she saw him.
He unlocked the door and she bounded out immediately, circling him with enthusiasm. Simon crouched down and let her assault him with affection, her tongue finding the small gap between the balaclava and his collar.
“Alright, girl,” Simon told her, scratching behind her ears. “Let’s go for that run.”
He changed quickly, trading his jeans for running shorts and swapping his boots for trainers. The balaclava stayed on out of habit, even though he’d be running through areas where no one knew him.
Ruby was beside herself with excitement by the time they left the house. Simon set a steady pace, letting her run ahead on her lead. The morning air was warming rapidly, promising another hot day, but right now it was perfect.
They ran for forty minutes, following the route Simon had mapped out weeks ago. Through the neighborhood, along the park trail, looping back toward home. Ruby was panting by the time they returned, her tongue lolling out happily.
Simon let them both into the house and immediately went to fill Ruby’s water bowl. She lapped at it gratefully while Simon grabbed a bottle of water for himself from the fridge. He drank half of it standing at the counter, feeling the pleasant ache in his legs from the run.
The house was quiet around him. Too quiet, maybe. He’d gotten used to the chaos of children and Johnny’s presence. But this was nice too. A moment to himself, to process what had just happened.
He was retired. Actually, properly retired. No more missions, no more deployments, no more Ghost.
Just Simon Riley. Husband to Johnny MacTavish. Father to Charlie, Izzy, and soon Elena. A man with a house and a dog and a life that looked nothing like what he’d imagined for himself.
Simon smiled beneath the balaclava and headed upstairs to shower. He had a few hours yet before school pickup, and he wanted to start marinating the chicken for dinner. Something with lemon and herbs, maybe. Johnny liked that.
The water was hot when he stepped under the spray, washing away the sweat from the run. Simon let himself stand there for longer than necessary, letting the heat work into his muscles. Just a quick one to rinse off.
Today had been significant. The end of one life and the continuation of another. But standing here now, clean and warm and safe in his own home, Simon felt right about it.
This was exactly where he was supposed to be.
He turned off the water and reached for his towel. There was chicken to marinate and a house to maintain and a son who needed picking up in a few hours for therapy.
Simon Riley had retired from the SAS, but his life was far from over.
It was just beginning.
--
John MacTavish stood on the sidelines of the football pitch, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the girls run through their drills. The afternoon sun beat down on the field, making the grass shimmer with heat. Coach Williams had them doing passing exercises, weaving between cones with the ball at their feet.
Izzy was in the middle of the pack, her small frame moving with surprising speed. Her plaits had started to come loose already, dark strands escaping to stick to her sweaty forehead. She was focused though, that particular intensity she got when she was determined to prove something.
“Good hustle, Isabel!” Coach Williams called out. “Keep that ball close!”
John felt his mouth curve into a grin. His daughter was a natural at this, had been since the first practice. The girl had energy for days, could run circles around half the team without breaking a sweat. Well, that wasn’t quite true. She was drenched in sweat now, her green practice jersey dark with it.
“Come on, Izzy!” John shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Show them how it’s done!”
Izzy’s head snapped toward him at the sound of his voice, and her face split into that massive grin. She put on a burst of speed, dribbling the ball through the cones with increased fervor. At the end of the line, she took her shot, and the ball sailed into the goal with perfect accuracy.
“Yes!” Izzy pumped her fist in the air, spinning to look at John. “Did ye see that, Da?”
“Saw it!” John confirmed, giving her a thumbs up.
Coach Williams was grinning too, shaking his head. “Alright MacTavish, save some energy for the actual game on Saturday.”
The drills continued for another twenty minutes. John watched each one, tracking Izzy’s progress and occasionally calling out encouragement. Every time he did, she worked harder, showed off more. She was a striker, lived for those moments when she could take the shot and score. The girl was a little ball of pure energy, bouncing around the pitch like she had springs in her trainers.
Finally, Coach Williams blew his whistle. “Alright girls, that’s practice! Good work today. Remember, game on Saturday at ten o’clock. Don’t be late!”
The team started dispersing, heading toward parents and water bottles. Izzy grabbed her water and took a long drink, then came barreling across the field directly at John.
He barely had time to brace himself before she collided with him, throwing her arms around his waist in a sweaty, enthusiastic hug. Her hair was a complete disaster now, the plaits half-undone and sticking to her neck and face.
“Did ye see me, Da? Did ye see that goal?” Izzy was practically vibrating with excitement.
“Ah saw it, lass.” John wrapped his arms around her, not caring about the sweat soaking into his uniform. “Ye were brilliant. Best striker on the team.”
“Really?” Izzy looked up at him, her blue eyes bright.
“Really,” John confirmed. “Ye’re a natural. Coach Williams thinks so too.”
Izzy squeezed him tighter, then released him and grabbed her bag from where she’d dropped it on the sideline. John slung it over his shoulder and led her toward the parking area.
Simon’s red pickup truck sat in the lot, gleaming in the afternoon sun. John had driven it today because Simon needed the Highlander for Charlie’s therapy appointment.
He unlocked the doors and Izzy climbed into the passenger seat, still chattering about the practice. John tossed her bag in the back and climbed into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. The truck rumbled to life, and he pulled out of the lot.
The drive home was short, less than ten minutes. Izzy talked the entire time, recounting every goal, every pass, every moment of practice in excruciating detail. John listened, making appropriate sounds of encouragement and asking questions when she paused for breath.
The house appeared ahead, and John pulled into the driveway. He parked on the far side, leaving the space near the ramp empty. Simon would need it when he got home with Charlie.
“Right, inside with ye,” John told Izzy, cutting the engine.
They climbed out and headed for the front door. John unlocked it and pushed it open, and Ruby immediately appeared, her tail wagging with enthusiasm. She greeted Izzy first, sniffing at her sweaty legs and hands, then moved to John.
“Hey girl,” John greeted her, scratching behind her ears. He looked at Izzy. “Upstairs. Get cleaned up. Shower, fresh clothes, the works.”
“Why?” Izzy asked, already heading for the stairs.
“Because ye smell like a gym sock and we’re going out for dinner,” John told her.
“We are?” Izzy paused on the third step, turning to look at him.
“Aye. So get moving.”
Izzy bolted up the stairs, her footsteps thundering on the wood. John heard her bedroom door open, then close, then the bathroom door.
Movement at the top of the stairs caught his attention. Elena’s door opened and she poked her head out, her expression curious. She was still in her school clothes, jeans and a t-shirt with her mum’s cardigan draped over her shoulders.
“Hey there, lass.” John greeted her, flashing his brightest smile. The one that usually made people relax. “We’re going out for dinner tonight. Simon’s birthday. So get cleaned up, yeah? Something nice.”
Elena’s eyes widened slightly. “I didn’t know it was his birthday.”
“He doesn’t make a big deal of it,” John explained. “But he deserves something special. We’ll head out once he and Charlie get home.”
“Okay,” Elena agreed, ducking back into her room.
John heard her moving around, the sound of drawers opening and closing. He headed for the master bedroom, Ruby trailing behind him. Once inside, he closed the door and moved to the closet.
Time to put in some effort. Simon’s birthday deserved more than John showing up in his uniform, even if his husband claimed not to care about such things.
John stripped off his uniform efficiently, folding it and setting it aside. He pulled out his tight blue jeans, the ones that hugged his arse in ways that made Simon stare. They went on easily, and John adjusted them until they sat just right.
The blue henley came next, pulled from the drawer where he kept his civilian clothes. It was soft, well-worn, and brought out the blue in his eyes. John knew this because Simon had told him so, multiple times, usually right before dragging him to bed.
He checked himself in the mirror, adjusting the henley until it showed off his physique properly. Still in excellent shape, even at thirty-six. His arms filled out the sleeves nicely, and the fabric clung to his chest and abs in ways that were subtle but effective.
His mohawk needed attention. John grabbed the gel from the bathroom and worked it through, spiking it up properly. Not too high, just enough to look intentional. A spritz of cologne, the one Simon had bought him for Christmas, and he was ready.
John headed back downstairs, Ruby following at his heels. From upstairs, he could hear the girls in the bathroom. Elena’s voice, quiet and patient, was giving instructions about something. Izzy responded with her usual enthusiasm.
He smiled to himself and moved into the living room. The console sat under the television, exactly where he’d set it up after finally convincing Simon to let him get one. His husband had grumbled about distractions and screen time, but John had won that argument eventually.
John settled onto the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table. He grabbed the controller and turned on the console, navigating to his game library. Something mindless, nothing that required too much concentration.
He was three minutes into a racing game when Elena appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She’d changed into nice jeans and a light blue blouse, her hair pulled back neatly. She’d kept the cardigan on, and the bracelet was on her wrist as always.
“Can I join play?” Elena asked quietly.
“Course,” John confirmed, gesturing at the space beside him on the couch.
Elena settled in, tucking her legs under her. She watched the screen for a moment, then picked up the second controller when John offered it.
They played together in comfortable silence. Elena was getting better at the games, more confident in her choices. She didn’t talk much while playing, but John could see her relaxing, her shoulders loosening as she focused on the screen.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Izzy appeared in the living room. She’d changed into her Easter dress, the purple one with the white flowers, and her trainers. Her hair had been tamed again, pulled back into neat plaits that were significantly better than John’s attempt this morning.
“Elena did yer hair?” John guessed.
“Aye,” Izzy confirmed, spinning to show off. “She’s really good at it.”
“That she is,” John agreed.
Izzy plopped down on John’s other side, wedging herself between him and the arm of the couch. She grabbed a controller and demanded to be included in the next race.
The three of them played together, Izzy providing running commentary on everything happening on screen. Elena laughed at something Izzy said, the sound quiet but genuine, and John felt warmth settle in his chest.
This was good. This was exactly what he’d wanted when they’d started the adoption process. His family, together, comfortable with each other.
The sound of the Highlander pulling into the drive made Ruby’s head pop up. She scrambled to her feet and headed for the door, her tail wagging. John checked his watch. 1730. Right on time.
The front door opened, and Charlie wheeled through first. He was still in his school clothes, looking tired but satisfied. Therapy always wore him out.
Simon followed, filling the doorway with his massive frame. He stopped just inside, his gaze sweeping over the scene. The girls in their nice clothes, John on the couch in his tight jeans and henley.
Simon’s eyes locked on John, and even through the balaclava, John could see his husband’s expression shift. Those amber eyes went dark with appreciation, tracking over John’s body with obvious interest.
“What did you do?” Simon asked, his voice rough.
John grinned. “Charlie, go get cleaned up, lad. We’re taking Dad out for dinner for his birthday.”
The room exploded with noise. Izzy launched herself off the couch, barreling toward Simon with enough force to make him take a step back. Elena stood more slowly, her expression shifting to surprise.
“It’s yer birthday?” Charlie asked, his eyes wide.
“Yea.” Simon confirmed, and John could see the flush creeping up his neck above the balaclava.
“Why didn’t ye tell us?” Izzy demanded, wrapping her arms around Simon’s waist.
“Didn’t seem important,” Simon muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.
“It’s important!” Izzy insisted. “Birthdays are always important! What do ye want to eat? What do ye want for presents? Did ye get cake? We need cake!”
Simon’s hand came up to rest on Izzy’s head, his massive palm nearly covering her entire skull. He felt the weight of three pairs of eyes on him, all expectant, all waiting for him to say something that would make this moment what they wanted it to be. His chest tightened, not unpleasantly, just the pressure of not wanting to fuck this up.
“Charlie,” Simon managed, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. “Go get cleaned up, yeah? Something nice. Seems your Da made plans.”
Charlie’s face lit up, and he wheeled towards his room without argument.
“We’ve got reservations,” Johnny announced, still grinning like the absolute menace he was. “That Italian place ye like. The one in Hereford.”
“Johnny.” Simon’s eyes snapped to his husband. That was forty minutes away. At least.
“Totally worth it,” Johnny interrupted, pushing off the couch with that liquid grace he had. “Trust me. Ye’ll love it.”
Simon wanted to argue, wanted to point out that this was unnecessary, that they didn’t need to make a fuss. He had the chicken marinating in the refrigerator. But Izzy was still wrapped around his waist, looking up at him with those bright blue MacTavish eyes, and Elena had that soft smile on her face, and Johnny was looking at him like he’d hung the fucking moon.
The chicken could marinate another day. It would be fine.
“Right,” Simon agreed, because what else could he say?
Charlie reappeared fifteen minutes later in nice trousers and a button-up shirt, his hair combed properly. Simon helped him down the ramp and into the Highlander, securing the wheelchair in the back while Johnny herded the girls into their seats.
The drive started with Johnny immediately launching into commentary about the restaurant, how he’d discovered it years ago on a mission that had gone sideways in the best possible way, how the owner was ex-military and gave discounts to active duty. Line he hadn’t taken Simon there often enough that it was one of their favorites. Like the twins hadn’t been there several times since they’d moved down here last year to be near Johnny while he was stationed at Sterling.
“Best carbonara outside of Italy,” Johnny was saying, his hands gesturing as he drove. “Swear to Christ, Simon. Ye’re going to love the chicken marsala. Or the osso buco. Actually, maybe the veal piccata…”
“Johnny,” Simon interrupted, but he could feel his mouth curving beneath the balaclava.
“What? Ah’m just saying, it’s good food. Worth the drive. Completely worth it.”
Johnny kept going, filling the truck with his voice, his enthusiasm, his absolute inability to shut up when he was excited about something. Couldn’t imagine where Izzy got it from. Simon listened, watching his husband’s profile in the fading light, the way his mohawk caught the last rays of sun, the way his hands moved on the steering wheel.
The kids chimed in occasionally. Izzy wanted to know if they had gelato. Charlie asked about the wine list, which made Johnny laugh. Elena was quiet but Simon could see her smiling in the rearview mirror.
This was ridiculous. Driving forty minutes for dinner, getting dressed up, making a production out of something as mundane as Simon surviving another year. But watching Johnny light up, watching him embrace this with his whole heart, Simon felt something warm settle in his ribs.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad, letting people celebrate him. Maybe he could allow this, just this once.
The restaurant appeared ahead, a converted farmhouse with warm light spilling from the windows. Johnny pulled into the car park and Simon helped Charlie out, setting up the wheelchair while Johnny corralled the girls.
They moved toward the entrance as a group, and Simon noticed Johnny’s hand on the small of his back, guiding him forward with gentle pressure.
Inside, the hostess greeted them with immediate recognition. “Captain MacTavish! Your party’s already here. Right this way.”
“Party?” Simon’s steps faltered.
“Surprise?” Johnny’s grin went nuclear.
The hostess led them through the main dining area, past tables full of other patrons, toward a door at the back. She opened it, gesturing them through, and Simon stepped into a private room.
Kyle Garrick stood near the far wall, dressed in civilian clothes, a pint already in his hand. Beside him was John Price, looking more relaxed than Simon had seen him in months, his beard neatly trimmed and his eyes crinkling at the corners. Gary “Roach” Sanderson sat at the table, his quiet presence as steady as ever, and beside him was Jimena “Queenie” Garcia, grinning like she’d just won something.
“Happy birthday, Ghost,” Kyle called out, raising his pint.
“And happy retirement,” Price added, his voice warm.
Simon stood in the doorway, his brain trying to process what he was seeing. His team. His family, the military one anyway. All here, in this private room, waiting for him.
“You absolute bastard,” Simon told Johnny, but there was no heat in it.
Johnny just grinned wider and pushed him further into the room.
They didn’t make a huge production of it. No speeches, no grand gestures. Just handshakes and brief hugs, well wishes delivered with genuine warmth. Kyle clapped him on the shoulder. Price pulled him in for a proper embrace, the kind that said more than words could. Roach gave him a nod and a rare smile. Queenie hugged him hard enough to crack ribs.
“Glad you finally got out,” Jimena told him quietly. “You deserve this.”
Simon’s throat went tight. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
They settled around the table, the seating arrangement somehow already decided. Price and Kyle on one side, Roach and Queenie on the other. Simon at the head, Johnny beside him, and the three kids filling in the remaining spaces.
The waitress appeared, a young woman with a bright smile and a notepad. She took their drink orders first, then moved around the table for food.
Johnny ordered his carbonara without even looking at the menu. “Best in England,” he told Elena when she gave him a curious look.
Simon scanned the options, trying to focus on the words instead of the weight of attention on him. He settled on the chicken marsala, something safe and familiar.
“And a Macallan 18 for him,” Johnny added, pointing at Simon. “Neat.”
“Johnny.” Simon’s head snapped toward his husband.
“Ye’re retired now,” Johnny interrupted, his blue eyes warm. “Ye ken have a proper whiskey with dinner. No one’s calling ye in for a mission, an Ah ken drive ye home.”
The words hit Simon square in the chest. No missions. No deployments. No more Ghost waiting in the wings to be activated. He’d spent the last year on leave. It wasn’t like he’d felt that pressure for a while. But that said, he never would again, now. That hit home in a way he didn’t want to think about right now. Not after Johnny had gone to all this trouble for him.
“Right,” Simon managed, his voice rough.
The waitress took the rest of the orders and disappeared. Conversation flowed easily around the table, the team falling into familiar patterns. Kyle was telling a story about a training exercise that had gone sideways, Price interjecting with corrections and his own commentary. Roach listened with quiet amusement, and Queenie was laughing loud enough to fill the room.
The kids were engaged too. Charlie asked questions about the missions, the sanitized versions anyway. Izzy was fascinated by Jimena, as always, asking about her callsign and whether she’d ever jumped out of a helicopter. Elena sat quietly beside Price, and Simon watched the older man include her in conversation with gentle patience.
The food arrived, plates distributed with practiced efficiency. Simon’s chicken marsala looked perfect, the sauce rich and aromatic. Johnny’s carbonara was exactly as he’d described, the pasta coated in creamy sauce with visible chunks of pancetta.
The whiskey appeared beside Simon’s plate, amber liquid in a proper glass. He picked it up, feeling the weight of it, and took a sip. The burn was smooth, warming his throat and chest, the flavor complex and layered.
“Good?” Johnny was watching him, his expression soft.
“Very.” Simon confirmed. Johnny was the scotch man, and this was one expensive drink in a restaurant. But his husband had ordered it for him, given it to him even when he didn’t have one. Something about that filled him with warmth that the liquor couldn’t begin to touch.
They ate, the conversation continuing around mouthfuls of excellent food. Simon let it wash over him, the voices of his family, both kinds, mixing together in this warm, private space.
This was what Johnny had planned. Not some grand celebration, not a spectacle. Just the people who mattered, gathered together, sharing a meal. Low key. Comfortable. Perfect.
Simon took another sip of whiskey and felt something in his chest finally relax completely.
Maybe birthdays weren’t so terrible after all..