Work Text:
The sound of water cut off in the bathroom, followed by a high-pitched whine in the pipes. Seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. That’s how long it took for Johnny MacTavish to take a shower.
Not that Simon was counting.
He came back to bed smelling like his soap. Simon quirked a smile into the dark.
Heh. Soap smells like my soap.
The mattress dipped under Johnny’s weight as he crawled into bed behind Simon, a wall of heat against his sore muscles. The soft hair on Johnny’s chest pressed into his back and his wet hair dragged across Simon’s jaw as he reached over to click off the lamp like this was just something that people did.
“You’re welcome,” Simon said into the dark.
“Aye, cheers.” No shame. None.
Simon closed his eyes as Johnny settled in beside him. It had been longer than he wanted to think about since he’d had the weight of another person in his bed. The smell of his soap on someone else’s skin. Someone to wake up next to.
This isn’t so bad. He didn’t think about that.
Simon had nearly drifted off when Johnny shifted. Then again. Then, exhaled long and pointed, his breath hot against the back of Simon’s neck.
Don’t.
Simon didn’t move. Johnny would talk himself to sleep eventually if he just didn’t engage. He’d learned that about the Scot during their op in Las Almas.
Johnny turned over. Then back.
He just needs to tire himself out. Like a little pup – what the fuck?
Johnny pressed himself against Simon’s back, face nestling into the crook of his neck.
There it is.
Simon’s hand moved before he could stop it, finding the back of Johnny’s neck. His thumb rubbed a small circle along the curve of his jaw, “For fuck’s sake, Johnny.”
He felt the curve of Johnny’s lips against his neck. Simon huffed. The bastard had laid a trap and he’d marched right into it.
Johnny, naturally, reached over him to turn the lamp back on. Simon made a mental note: get the little shit his own lamp.
“Aye, Simon,” he said, bright and completely, infuriatingly awake, “Would ye still love me if ah was a worm?”
Simon chewed on the word a moment. “A worm.”
“Aye, a worm.” Johnny’s brogue wrapped itself around the word as he nestled his chin against Simon’s neck.
He sighed and pulled the comforter up around his neck, burying himself, “Go to sleep, Johnny.”
Simon closed his eyes again. He had engaged. One lapse. This was fine. Johnny would tire himself out and he’d get to go back –
“LT, ye’ve gotta take this seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously. I am seriously telling you to go to sleep.”
“Simon.”
“Johnny.”
A beat of silence. Simon could feel him winding up. Like a fucking toy in a kid’s meal.
“Would ye. Still love me. If Ah was. A worm.”
Fucking hell. Fine.
“What kind of worm?”
Goddamnit, Simon. No, it was an important question. The type of worm mattered.
The mattress shifted next to him as Johnny sat up in bed and snorted, “It doesnae matter whit kind of worm, Simon. Just a wee worm.”
Well that’s stupid.
“It does matter what kind of worm, Johnny,” he said, opening one eye, “Now who’s not taking this seriously, Sergeant?”
Simon smirked at the offended inhale behind him, “Fine, ye grumpy bastard. A regular worm.”
“Just a regular worm.”
“Aye, a wee garden worm.”
Simon thought about it for about two seconds, “No.”
“Oi!”
Simon didn’t open his eyes, “I don’t love you now.”
Johnny gasped next to him — actually gasped — his hand flying to his chest like he’d been fucking shot. Dramatic little shit. “Whit?!”
Simon didn’t even move. Threat assessment: zero. Johnny was putting on a one-man show and they both knew it.
“Would ye still go on missions with me,” Johnny said, carefully, “if Ah was a worm?”
Simon rolled his eyes. “No.”
The mattress shifted violently as Johnny sat up. Simon frowned at the receding heat against his back. “Whit dae ye mean nae, Simon? Whit dae ye mean nae?”
Fine. Simon rolled halfway on his back, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. “I go on missions with you because you’re a demolition specialist.” He tucked his arms behind his head, “Worms aren’t demolition experts.”
There. That’s the end of that.
Simon closed his eyes and started to shift back on his side. He froze when he felt Johnny shift again. He heard the rustle of sheets and the creak of the bed springs. Simon sighed and settled on his back again. His eyes widened when he was met with a fully upright Johnny, sitting cross-legged with his arms crossed over his broad chest. The full weight of his indignation was aimed at Simon like it was the middle of a briefing and not a quarter past midnight in a room that still smelled of sex.
He watched Johnny’s eyes narrow. Oh, here we go.
“Aye, a’right.” Johnny’s mouth settled into a pout that did something complicated and warm in Simon’s chest. Like sticky toffee pudding. No. Stop that. “Would ye still go on missions with me if Ah was a magic worm?”
The fuck?
Simon sat up, “A magic worm?”
“Aye.” The dimples were out now. The bastard was enjoying this. “A wee worm with wee magic powers.” Johnny unfolded his arms and did a stupid little waving thing with his fingers.
Simon leaned against the headboard. The wood was cool against his scarred shoulders. He thought about it, genuinely, though he knew he should have known better.
“Hm. Probably not,” he said with a shrug.
Johnny’s eyes went wide and soft. Stupid puppy dog eyes. The ones that made Simon’s cock twitch and made him want to put Johnny against a wall until he made those low groans that went straight to – Focus, Simon.
“Whit? No’ even if Ah was a wee magic worm with wee magic powers?”
“I don’t want to hang out with a worm, Johnny.”
Johnny crossed his arms. The dimples vanished, replaced with pure Scottish indignation. His jaw set and his pout deepened, “Aye, well, Ah’d still love ye if ye were a wee worm. Even if ye dinnae have wee magic powers. Even if ye were a regular wee garden worm.”
Simon looked up at the ceiling. The crack in the plaster hadn’t moved in months. He’d noticed it the first night Johnny ended up in this room. He hadn’t spent the night that time. It was just a flurry of clumsy touches and rushed orgasms that had left him staring at the ceiling and refusing to think about why he wanted to wrap his arms around the man next to him.
“You don’t love me now, Johnny.”
Soap looked at him, silent. His eyebrows furrowed and his teeth caught his lower lip before settling deeper into his pout. Goddamn that pout. “Simon –”
Right. “Johnny.” He kept his voice flat, “We work together.”
Soap stared at him, “Aye.”
He reached for the pack of fags on the nightstand. This was his own fault. He had asked what kind of worm. “We are paid to be in the same place. At the same time.”
Simon’s thumb flicked against the lighter until a flame sparked with a sharp snick. The cigarette hung loosely between his lips as he lit it, taking a long drag.
“Johnny.” He took another deep drag and exhaled. “What’re you trying to get out of this conversation so I can go back to sleep?”
The silence stretched. Soap stretched his legs out across Simon’s and leaned against the wall. His eyes stayed on Simon’s face. Warm, fond, waiting. Simon loved hated when he looked at him like that.
He exhaled through his nose and let the smoke curl up toward the ceiling, watching it disappear into the dark. Shouldn’t have asked about the type of fucking worm.
Soap didn’t miss a beat, “If ye were a wee worm,” he said quietly, “Ah bet ye’d be a lot less grumpy, Simon.” He reached forward and stole the fag from Ghost’s fingers and took a long drag and blew a curl of smoke toward the ceiling.
Simon grunted. “Doubtful. I’d be a fuckin’ worm.”
Johnny snorted a laugh and handed the cigarette back. Simon’s lips curled into a smirk. There he is.
Johnny’s hand dropped to Simon’s forearm, his index and middle finger walked slowly across the skin, a tiny undulating crawl across the ridge of Simon’s scar. A wee worm making its way across the terrain of his arm with absurd, deliberate sincerity.
The corner of Simon’s mouth twitched as he watched Johnny’s fingers move. “The fuck are you doin’?”
“Ah’m a wee worm, Simon.” His finger crept higher, the worm making its determined way toward Simon’s shoulder. His face was deadly serious, his eyes enormous and wounded and his fingers were doing .. whatever the fuck that was .. and Simon was about to lose his goddamn mind.
Simon felt the laugh building against his sternum, deep and awful and trying to escape. He cleared his throat and tried to keep a straight face.
“Ah’m a wee, magic worm,” Johnny’s finger crept higher, “wi’ wee magic powers.” His finger reached Simon’s shoulder and shook with righteous, wormy fury. “An ye dinnae love me.”
Simon’s jaw tightened. “Johnny.”
Johnny lifted his chin and looked at Simon with that stupid Scottish smile, “Ah think yer full of shite, LT.”
Simon shot him The Look™ that usually made recruits piss themselves.
“Naw, naw, LT. Ah’ve had yer knob in ma mouth, Simon. The big bad Ghostie act doesnae work on me,” Soap leaned in, blue eyes dancing.
Simon sighed. His shoulders shook with a low chuckle. Shithead.
Soap went quiet. His eyes narrowed. “Simon.”
“Johnny.”
“Yer havin’ a laugh.”
Simon’s mouth flattened and he cleared his throat, “I am not –”
“Ye are,” Soap’s voice was low and teasing, the corners of his mouth twitching, “Ye are, Simon. Yer laughin’ at me.” The worm had stilled on Simon’s shoulder. “Ah ask ye a simple question –”
“A simple – Johnny, in what world –”
“ – a simple question, Simon! Would ye love me if Ah was a wee worm, and yer sittin’ there like it’s the funniest fuckin’ thing ye’ve ever heard –”
“I’m not –” Simon’s jaw tightened. His shoulders shook again. “ – I am not laughing, Sergeant.”
“Ah can see yer shoulders, Simon! Yer fuckin’ nekkid, takin’ up half the bed with ‘em, ye glorious bastard. Yer shoulders are right there an’ Ah can see ‘em shakin’.”
Traitorous shoulders.
“Johnny, I’m not –” Simon looked down at his fag, almost burned to the filter. He stubbed it out and left the butt in the ashtray.
“Naw, Simon. Ye’re laughin’ at me, an’ ye’ve the bare-faced cheek tae sit there wi’ yer bloody fag an’ yer bloody ‘paid coworkers’ an’ tell me ye wouldnae love me as a worm!”
Simon’s face cracked. His shoulders shook as he huffed air through his nose, trying to smother it.
“Ah’m fair scunnered!” Johnny teased, settling under the blankets. He laid his head on Simon’s chest, arm across his waist. Simon felt him smile against his skin. “Ah’m bloody scunnered wi’ ye, Simon Riley.”
Simon lost it. His hand shot up to cover his face and his shoulders shook. The sound that came out was warm and rough, a deep rumble that echoed through his chest.
Johnny went quiet against his chest. Simon tried to stop and couldn’t. When he finally managed to drag his hand down his face, Johnny was propped up on one elbow and grinning like a bastard, clearly pleased with himself, like he’d been waiting for this all night.
“Don’t,” Simon said. A small grin lingered on his lips.
Johnny looked at him with painful sincerity and affection. “Aye, Ah love hearin’ ye laugh, LT,” he said quietly.
Simon scoffed warmly, “Didn’t laugh, Johnny. You’re off your head.”
“And yer a terrible liar.” Johnny settled back against his chest, his fingers idly tracing the scars on Simon’s chest. “Ah’d love ye if ye were a worm, Simon.”
Simon stared at the crack in the ceiling. “I wouldn’t love you if you were a worm,” he started, “because I wouldn’t know it was you.”
The quiet settled around them. “Something with a face,” Simon said, still looking at the ceiling, “Something that still looked like you.” He ran his fingers through Johnny’s mohawk, “or something with a stupid haircut.”
Johnny buried his face against Simon’s chest with a snort, hand stilling over his heart. “Ah’d find ye,” Johnny said softly against Simon’s skin, “If ye were a wee worm. Ah’d find ye.”
Simon’s hand covered Johnny’s. ”I’d find you first.”
Johnny laughed at that, a bright, warm sound that made Simon’s chest ache. “Och, of course ye would. God forbid Ghost doesnae get there first.”
Simon huffed. Cheeky bastard.
He pressed his lips to Johnny’s temple, “Go to sleep, Sergeant.”
“Aye, LT.” Johnny settled against him, his head nestled under his chin, breath warm against Simon’s throat. Simon closed his eyes and had exactly four seconds of peace.
“Simon?”
”What?”
“Would ye still love me if Ah was a snail?”
Are you fuckin —
Simon turned over so fast Johnny didn’t have a chance to react. He pinned him to the mattress, one hand flat on Johnny’s broad chest, their faces inches apart.
“Johnny.”
“Wi’ a wee shell?” Johnny was grinning up at him now, one hand coming to rest on Simon’s bicep.
“I’m going to smother you,” Simon said, pressing a kiss to Johnny’s lips. “Smother you dead,” he said against his lips.
“Ah think ye would,” Johnny said, grinning into the kiss. His hands found Simon’s hips, pulling him against him. “Ah think ye’d put me in yer pocket..”
”Sleep.”
“… carry me tae briefings …”
Simon’s weight dipped into him, pressing him into the mattress. Johnny let out a rough ‘oof’, but the grin never left his face. Stupid Scottish dimples.
“I will end you.”
“… set me on the table so Ah could hear the mission …”
Simon’s forehead dropped against Johnny’s collarbone. His shoulders shook. “I would step on you.”
Johnny’s arms wrapped around Simon’s back, “Aye. Ah’ll be a snail another night, then,” he said with a smile.
Simon lifted his head and looked at him. That grin. Those dimples. Those ridiculously blue eyes. He kissed him again, gentle and brief. “Go to sleep,” he said against his mouth.
Simon rolled off him and settled onto his side. Johnny followed immediately, pressing himself into Simon’s back. His arm snaked across his waist, pulled Simon close. It was just a few moments later that Simon felt Johnny’s warm breath even out against the back of his neck.
Simon focused on the weight of Johnny against him and the sound of his breathing. Not too bad at all. He closed his eyes and smiled into the dark.