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Simon never liked sickness.
He was a grown man. He had seen more blood, brutalities and death than any average man, but when it came to vomit, it was a whole different story. Something about someone violently spitting up the contents of their stomachs, making his gut twist with horror. He knew it was childish to keep that fear with him at all times, it’s an irrational fear to have, especially since avoiding vomit isn’t an easy task, even more so when you’re surrounded by a bunch of men incapable of rational decision making, but he couldn’t rid himself of the fear. So anytime anyone looked ill to his standards, he would go out of his way to stay far away from them until he knew they were better and that he wouldn’t have the delight of seeing them crouched over a toilet, hurling up whatever they had last eaten.
Sadly that wasn’t the case.
Sergeant John MacTavish was along one of the most stubborn men he had ever known. Sickness was never an excuse for him, he would always push himself through whatever nausea or congestion he had to get the job done. Persistent little bastard he is. At least until he’s shirtless and clammy, hunched over the toilet with his face pressed against the seat as he suppresses a gag.
Simon would give him the same treatment as others when they were sick. Avoid them at all costs until they were better. MacTavish was no different, he hadn’t seen the man in weeks. As smart as John was, he didn’t have a clue in the world as to why Simon would refuse to be within 10 feet of the man. It hurt more than he’d ever like to admit, especially since he had just thought that the man had started growing fond of him.
All these thoughts soon disappeared as another wave of nausea rolled over him like a tidal wave, bringing tears to the corners of his eyes as his throat spasmed trying to expel his lunch.
He knew about anyone could walk in and see him like this. He was in the communal bathrooms for christ’s sake, but right now that was the least of his concern, as he tries, and fails, to suppress another gag.
Just then he hears a shuffle and the door open with a click. Standing in the doorway was the one and only, Simon Riley.
John wouldn’t bother turning around, too occupied by his own distress to give much of a shit about whoever had to see him like this. As soon as he caught Simon’s eye, he froze. Rooted in the spot, just staring, instead of looking intimidating or scary, he was the one who looked like he had just seen a ghost. His entire body rigid, his eyes wide, and his mouth going dry.
John had noticed the absence of movement since the door had opened and huffed out an annoyed sigh, noticing the shadow Simon’s tall figure left near his stall, only difference was, he didn’t know it was Simon, yet.
“Enjoying the bloody show are ye?”
He rasps out, followed by another gag, the sound making Simon’s whole body go rigid, every muscle in his body taut like a bowstring.
“I asked ye a questio-“
He abruptly cuts himself off as he turns his head to see Simon looking absolutely horrified staring down at him. He had never seen the man this scared, it was almost terrifying on its own seeing him like this.
Simon, on the other hand, finally got a look at John’s face, the sight making his stomach churn with anxiety. His face was pale, along with his lips, his eyes were tired, and he kept swallowing, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down every few seconds, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and the front of his mohawk clinging to his forehead, wet from the light sheen of sweat covering almost every visible inch of skin. His large and rugged hands seemed to tremble ever so delicately from exertion.
Instead of running away or panicking, Simon stayed glued to the floor, not able to pull his eyes away from the other man.
“The hell have you been..?! I haven’t seen ye in weeks?”
John finally manages to mutter out, his nausea momentarily forgotten. He never expected a reply from Simon, especially not in this state, and he wouldn’t get one. He was about to shout at Simon again, like the demanding bastard he is, that was until, he notices his hands shaking. He finally manages to put the pieces together. He was scared. No. Terrified.
“Christ..Never mind I-“
John was abruptly cut off by the sight of Simon moving, instead of going towards the huge door to leave, he walks over to one of the sinks, now completely out of view from John, all he could hear was Simon’s boots thumping around with every step he took, him methodically breathing in and out, and the faucet running. A few moments later, Simon reappeared in the stall entrance, closer this time, as John was still hunched over, looking miserable as ever. There was an audible deep breath in and out from Simon, then a cold feeling on the back of John’s neck.
Through the haze of his nausea he felt a drop of cold water leave a trail down his back, the scared bastard had put a cold, stack of drenched paper towels on the back of his neck. The sensation was ever so helpful in relieving some of the nausea.
“Ye didn’t have t-“
“My Mum used to do the same when i was sick.”
Simon cuts him off, speaking through what seemed to be his clenched jaw and gritted teeth. John knew never to speak of Simon’s Mother, or the rest of his family, and he knew if he as much as uttered a word about this particular encounter, that Simon would gut him without hesitation, as much as he was a chatty bastard, he knew when to shut his mouth. Simon was still scared, let alone uncomfortable, but for whatever reason he wasn’t leaving. His hands were shaking more than ever now, but he was pushing himself through the unbearable anxiety and the urge to sob out in fear and run away.
“Ye-“
John gags, then manages to speak again,
“Ye- should go..I don’t want tae frighten ye more than i already have.”
His voice was unsteady, as he swallows more bile that threatens to rise up his throat and spill out. Instead of hearing the receding sounds of Simon’s heavy boots, he hears a small thud behind him, then feels a shaky hand on his back.
He was staying, as much as it was torture for him, and no matter how much he hated everything about this, he was staying.
His thumb drew small circles on John’s tense back. If anyone were to come in, they’d be in for a proper sight. Simon with his arm fully outstretched, trying his best to keep his distance out of fear, while still trying his best to help, it was almost laughable.
Moments later another gag erupts from MacTavish, and Simons whole hand freezes, but doesn’t retract. A few sputters and coughs later, John hurls violently into the toilet in front of him, coughing as tears pulled themselves from the corners of his eyes and scurried down his cheeks, it wasn’t a pretty sight at all, but Simon wasn’t leaving. Instead, breathing in and counting under his breath as his sat still with his hand placed on John’s back as he vomited.
After what felt like hours, but in reality was only 25 minutes, John was exhausted, vomit smeared down his chin and mouth as he laid there breathless and exhausted. Simon was still sitting in the same position, arm fully outstretched and rubbing John’s back, his eyes less scared now that the vomiting had ceased.
“You ok?”
Simon asks quietly
“Peachy.”
John replies, at least his usual sass was back.
Simon huffs out a relieved sigh, then stands up, heading back to the sinks with the familiar thump of his boots against the tile floor, returning with another damp stack of paper towels. John’s eyes drooped, then looked back up at Simon, who was staring down at him, unease laced with something that bordered on something softer. Whatever it was, John was too exhausted to pinpoint it right now, his stomach was empty, his whole body felt like a sack of sand, and his head felt spinny and unsteady. He didn’t even notice when Simon cradled his face with one hand and started wiping his face, first his forehead and cheeks, then his mouth and chin, as soon as John realized his eyes widened
“Bloody fuck-! I’m not a child..what are ye doin’-?!“
His pale face was colored pink with embarrassment and shame as he tries to squirm away all while staring up at Simon with mock resentment, who in return, tightens his grip and remains seemingly unbothered by his squirming and focused solely on cleaning the other man’s chin of whatever residue was left.
After a lot of bickering and whining from John, Simon finally tosses the paper towel in the bin, not daring to look at the vomit in the toilet bowl in front of him.
“You need me to carry you? Or do you want to keep whatever dignity you have left?”
Simon asks, a half genuine, half teasing question, he was less rigid and scared now, especially now that he knew that, even if the other man tried to vomit on him, that nothing more than maybe spit would come up, and that seemed to ease his discomfort and anxiety.
“Piss off ye git.”
John spits back, with a groan as he tries to bring himself to his feet, Simon supports him with an arm under John’s. He begrudgingly accepts the help, and toddles, with Simon’s help of course, back to his quarters.
John plopped down onto his bed, a groan ripping from his throat, as uncomfortable as the bed usually seemed, right now it felt like a gift sent straight from the gods above. His eyelids were heavy, and keeping his eyes open seemed more like a chore now than ever, so much so that what Simon had been saying to him had been completely tuned out, much to his dismay.
John didn’t remember much after that, all that he knew was that despite his complaints that, no matter how humiliating it was to his ego, that Simon taking care of him despite his irrational fear of vomit, was probably one of the sweetest things John has ever experienced from the man, and that it would remain in complete secrecy between the two.
When morning light seeped through the blinds onto John’s nightstand, the first thing that the sun illuminated in front of him was a bottle of water, a trash can next to his bed and painkillers, all left from Simon. All thanks to John, Simon Riley, the man who was seemingly afraid, maybe wasn’t so afraid anymore.