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It's always been an odd juxtaposition, how violent and grim Simon's nightmares could be, compared to how calm and gradual he slowly came out of them.
There was no jumping off the mattress for him, no screams of terror. Instead, Simon simply rubbed away the dirt from his eyes and shifted onto his back, kicking the last vestiges of the throw blanket off his heated body.
He did sweat, enough to dampen the sheets and pillows underneath him, further adding to his discomfort. It was all likely brought on by the heart still thundering in his chest, racing on the adrenaline built up in his dreams.
And Oh God... the headaches.
Simon felt like his entire skull was throbbing, head pulsing with each next breath. Christ, were they the worst of his body's reactions... he'd take the vomit-inducing nausea over this in a heartbeat.
On his next breath, Simon groaned harshly and ground his palms into his eye sockets, as if it could swipe away the pounding of his head, or the visions from his nightmare still playing on a loop.
A damp network of tunnels under the London streets, trains passing by, lighting up the scenery with a hanting flash of white. Then there was gunfire, shouting, a seemingly endless barrage of Konni. No matter how fast he ran or how hard he fought, it always ended the same. Makarov would run away like the fucking coward that he is, Garrick would step in to shout some sense into Price and Simon would look to his right only to find-
No. Not that.
He's not gonna let that image float in his head again. Simon moved to grab onto the very lifeline that was the subject of his bad dream a moment prior, only to find the spot next to him vacant. A peak over his shoulder let him know that it was still rather dark out, the faintest glow of the morning sun just barely making itself known.
Right. Not here.
Simon threw his head back into the pillows. He figured that Johnny must've gotten up to piss or something sometime earlier in the night. Maybe it was for the best, he thought, that he wasn't around to see the state Simon'd woken up in. The last thing he wanted to do was to worry him on a week like this, especially after the night they'd just had.
Still though, a selfish part of him wished that he had had the sergeant next to him in the moment, wished he could at least feel his pulse beating strongly in his hands, just to confirm that everything was just a dream. Simon flipped onto his stomach and smothered his face into the pillow, muffling the long exhale that flowed out of him, letting the last bit of anguish and grief leave him before he made a move to get out of bed.
He didn't find Johnny in the bathroom, but Simon did get a glance at his reflection in the mirror. His appearance certainly echoed the storm brewing in his head, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes a lovely compliment to the heavyset scowl on his face.
Frigid water was splashed onto his face in an effort to wipe away some of the evidence of his harsh start to the day. Simon was leaning over the sink, head hanging low and listening to the running water to ground himself when the faint, yet unmistakable sound of music drifted in from the main portion of the house.
Simon poked his head out of the washroom to glance at the alarm clock. 6:58, it read. Definitely a touch early for someone to be having their own concert.
What the fuck was Johnny up to at this hour...?
Passing the many, many MacTavish portraits hanging on the wall, Simon shouldered his way into the living room. He fondly brushed his hand along the family photoshoot dubbed 'The Lorna Pack'; a bright-eyed, pimply-faced, future-sergeant among the MacTavish matriarch's children, beaming at the camera like a nutcase.
His grandparent's cottage that they were staying in had only a few rooms to it, not a lot of walls dividing the space. It let Simon see straight into the kitchen from where he stood, and he was immediately greeted with the answer to his previous question.
It looked like a battle had just taken place, only instead of rubble and carnage lying in its wake, several discarded bowls, spoons, and measuring cups lined the countertops. Some of the pots from the cupboards lay abandoned on the floor, swept up in the frenzy to find the right cookware, no doubt, and a few dozen splotches of flour dotted the cabinets.
And in the midst of all the chaos, there he was.
Somehow, in spite of all of the mess surrounding him, Johnny managed to make the picturesque image of something out of an oil painting, one of the ones meant to capture a simpler, home-life men like them never got to relish in. Soft rays of light fell in from the right, casting the room in a soft glow, green plants in the corner soaking up all of the sun. The tiny kitchen appeared to be full of life, something about the mix of plants and the body dancing about the space, a trail of flour being left behind in his wake, that gave the impression of animating the whole room.
With the soft drone of the music complimenting the domestic scenery before him, Simon let himself fade into the background and opted to observe the man as he moved about the kitchen, shuffling through the cabinets and lazily swaying his hips to the slow beat. The display tugged a cord on that cold, dead heart Simon swore wasn't capable of such a feat years ago.
And yet here he was, watching that mohawk bounce around the kitchen, smiling to himself like an idiot, watching the gold ring around Johnny’s finger catching and shimmering in the light. He still couldn't believe it was real, couldn't believe that a man like him could get to wake up to this.
To Johnny.
His husband.
Funny, he was still getting used to hearing those words together.
Okay. Right, he could do this. Just a few minutes of simmering in the pan, flipping the meat and veggies over every now and then, simple enough. He's got this. Johnny would have to be an idiot to fuck up the breakfast portion of the dish.
The part that was throwing him for a loop was his probably ill-fated, last minute decision to make some home-made shortbread to go with their coffee and tea.
If only he'd known the wee little bastards would've taken him an hour in the oven to heat up in advance.
Sure, it might've been his fault, since he skimmed through the videos rather than actually taking the time to watch them in full. But could he really be blamed, seeing as he was already a third of the way through the latest tutorial and the granny baking the treats was still going on about her nan, and her nan's nan's childhood and- Steamin' Jesus, now she's pulling out the photo album.
When was she gonna get to the damned measurements for the flour!?
Three more anecdotes and many helpings of flour and butter later, Johnny had made it through the grueling process of getting the shortbread batter on the tray to bake. With only the slightest apprehension at the back of his mind, he set a timer for forty-five minutes from now and got to work prepping the remainder of the food for the stovetop.
While the shortbread was a new recipe that he was more than a little anxious about, everything else was going to be a breeze. Tomatoes and mushrooms were dropped into a pan with a light drizzle of oil and left to simmer on a low heat, meanwhile, Johnny placed the meat; Lorne sausage, black pudding, slices of haggis, and some bacon, to cook in a second pan. All that was left to do was flip the components over every now and then, making sure that they didn't burn.
Easy. Simple. Perfect to whip together in a pinch before Simon could wake up.
Johnny smirked to himself, prematurely patting himself on the back with his idea to surprise a sleeping Simon with breakfast in bed. Little thing he should've warned him about what was to come on their honeymoon, this was just the tip of the iceberg for the spoiling and pampering he had planned to subject Simon to.
But for now, there was still plenty of time to kill while everything was left to brown. Johnny figured he may as well get some background noise going while he waits for a decent time to start the kettle. He did always hate the sound of a quiet house.
Popping open his laptop and clicking on the first thing he could find, Johnny failed to suppress a fond smile as the most recent songs to play kicked up right where they left off again.
A gentle guitar riff started to sound out, bouncing off the walls of the small room, seemingly rousing the house from its slumber as the morning sun started to filter through the curtains. He tapped his foot along to the melodic harmony that complimented the acoustic strings, then the soft hum of saccharine words started to be sung.
/Never in my wildest dreams/
/Would I be loving you/
/Never in my wildest dreams/
/Would my dreams come true/
The lyrics instantly took him back to the previous night.
For as such a short notice as they had been given, he had to hand it to his kin for turning it out with the arrangement. The two men had driven up to his parent's countryside home last night, the faint glow of fairy lights and candle-lit lanterns lighting the way like a beacon. His Da had evidently been hard at work sprucing up his Mam's garden for all the tables, and cleaning out their tool shed for all the buffet tables lined with the as-to-be-expected starchy and fatty foods.
His Da, bless the old man's heart, had been the one to go the least overboard with the decorations. His Mam on the other hand, he'd swear to Christ himself he'd never seen so many flowers in one place. Hydrangeas, roses, lilies, you name it, what she didn't get from her garden she must've completely bought out the local flower shops whole inventory.
And with the way his sisters had damn near turned into bridezillas over the song selections, and finding the right outdoor lighting (had to be an off-white glow but not too white, but not too yellow or it'll wash out the tablecloths!), you'd have thought it was their own damned ceremony they were planning!
Was it all beautiful once it was all set up? Yeah, absolutely! Was it way more than either of them had asked for? Yes. Absolutely!
In true MacTavish fashion, not one member in his family had headed his pleas to keep their hitch elopement ceremony a small-scale affair. Infuriating, the whole lot of them.
...
To their credit though, he can't fault them too much this time around. 'Specially seeing as it might've been one of the best nights of his life.
Still fresh in his mind, Johnny rocked with the song, same as he and Simon had a mere twelve hours ago. He's not a religious man, but Christ does he pray that he'll never forget the image Simon made in his suit jacket, buzzed hair catching the glow of the lights, creating a halo that perfectly framed that gorgeous, scarred face.
And that's not even to mention the kilt! He'd surprised them all with the gesture, Johnny the most, stealing his breath away while looking quite dapper in the MacTavish clan tartan if he did say so himself.
Johnny hummed along to the tune, food at the back point of his mind as he reminisced, the staccato tempo of horns crescendoing with the music. It was later into the night when it was finally just the two of them, sneaking out onto the path leading to the open fields once some of the guests started to thin out. With the moonlight and sprawling hillside making for a rather decent backdrop, the newlyweds managed to find some semblance of a tempo, and waltzed under the stars, the music from the makeshift venue carrying over enough for their own private musicale.
Yeah, alright, it was the best night of his life.
/Never in my wildest dreams/
/Would I roam this land/
/Sail across the seven seas/
/I'm a hard luck man/
/I know where my purpose is/
/It ain't on some pilgrimage/
/It's wherever my baby is/
/My love supreme/
Never in their wildest dreams indeed.
"Sometimes I forget how much of a sap you are."
Johnny whipped his head around at the intrusion, faltering in his movement and being taken out of the memory.
Well shit, so much for the element of surprise.
"Oi, play nice! My ma picked that song out for us," Johnny warned, "if she heard ye were takin' the piss out of her playlist, she'd string ye up by yer neck."
A dry chuckle came from Simon, who was leaning on the hallway entry, still done in from just waking up, by the looks of it. Despite that, Johnny could still see a subtle uptick at the corner of Simon's mouth. "Hmph,” he chuckled, “why do I actually buy that she might?"
"Tha's cause she can be terrifying! There's a lot of heat packed into that 5'4'' frame of hers."
"Mm, short and feisty, I see where you get it from."
"'Ay!" Johnny wound up the hand towel hanging off his shoulder and flung it at Simon. The flimsy cloth barely fazed him in the slightest, his hand quickly shooting out to catch the towel and tossing it right back at him.
"Right prick ye are," Johnny playfully teased, wringing his hands out with the towel before tossing it to the side.
Simon padded the small distance over into the kitchen and came to a rest by his side. Up close, Johnny got a better look at him, and could see the layers of bags under his eyes he hadn’t noticed before. To say he still looked knackered would be an understatement, he looked positively dead.
"I didn't wake ye up this mornin', did I?"
Simon shrugged. "Was already up for a while. Body's still accustomed to the military schedule, I suppose."
Which, God, they sure are well on their way to becoming an old, married couple, aren’t they? Cause right away Johnny could tell that there was more than Simon was letting on.
Ignoring the fact that Simon very well could and would sleep through those standard-issue alarms on any given normal day, Johnny kept his suspicions to himself. "Ye sure ye don't want to get some more sleep in,” he carried on. “Ye look tired, Si."
"Nah," Simon shook his head, "think'm up for the day now." He motioned to the couple of skillets on the oven and asked, "Care to tell me what all this is about, then?"
Johnny huffed and poked his ribs. "Ye ruined your surprise, ya numpty. I was gonna treat ye to a whole platter in bed this mornin'!"
He really should be more mad that all his hard work, beating the sun in its rise across the sky in order to finish cooking before Simon woke up, all went to nothing. But to hell with it, he can't stay too mad at the man, can he?
And those loose PJ bottoms hanging low on his hips certainly do a decent job of making up for it.
"Mm, sorry," Simon mumbled.
'Ye should be,' was on the tip of Johnny's tongue, but something about Simon's tone, the apology said without any of his previous mirth, had him holding back his teasing remark.
Instead, Johnny softly grinned, nudging him affectionately with his elbow. "Bah, don't worry about it. I just hope ye're hungry, cause I may have gone a lil' overboard with all the food."
Speaking of food, he really ought to check and see how it's coming along so far.
While Johnny grabbed a spatula and moved around the black pudding, he talked Simon through their proper Scottish breakfast, going on about the Lorne sausages and the amount of labor that goes into making the haggis just right. Simon seemed content enough to listen while he talked his ear off, giving the occasional hum or grunt along the way, perking up a touch at the mention of the shortbread, coming around to try and sneak a peek at the treats baking in the oven.
At some point, there was a lull in the conversation, Johnny focusing on turning over every other mushroom and cherry tomato in the veggie pan. He was lost in thought when he felt the feather-light press of hands on the edge of his hips. A moment later, a looming presence was at his back, pressing flush against his backside and trapping him in a loose hug.
Johnny snuck a look over his shoulder, snickering like a schoolgirl as Simon pressed a few chaste pecks to the back of his neck, buzzed hair scraping along his own shaved-down sides of his head.
"Si!" Johnny wiggled, the sensation bordering a touch too much on the ticklish side. "Oi, ye know how I get with the neck stuff, ya weapon!"
"Hmph, fine," Simon grumbled. "Mind if I stay like this, then?" Simon whispered the question into the start of his mohawk. In between the beats of the songs still on shuffle, he brought his face nearer and took a deep inhale at the base of his skull, sighing contently after.
And this is the man who says he doesn't have an affectionate bone in his body, Johnny mused.
"I'd mind if ye didn't," he chuckled. "Just lemme move to get the kettle going in a minute, aye?"
A raspy hum, then a perfunctory, "Can do," followed.
And Simon did let him move when the time came, albeit, with him still plastered behind Johnny.
It was... a bit distracting to say the least, being joined at the hip with someone as you try and cook. Not that Johnny was complaining much by any means. In fact, it was actually quite soothing, the warm huff of air at the base of his scalp, and the arms around his middle shielding him from the typically-frigid chill of the highland air.
The hands at his side moved across his chest every so often, coming to rest at his pectoral before moving back down. At first, Johnny dismissed it as him being cheeky and copping a feel, but he realized that his motives weren't as suggestive as he had originally thought when those hands also started to rest on his neck, fingers subtly compressing right on his carotid pulse line.
Simon was looking for his pulse, feeling for the blood still pumping in his veins.
A lot.
His right hand kept circling back to his chest, right over his heart, feeling for the steady beating of the organ laying underneath. The realization tugged at Johnny's heart strings, now starting to put two and two together on what's been dragging Simon down this morning.
"S’there something on yer mind, Si?” he tried.
Johnny could sense the man behind him tense up, his hand halting its movement.
"Nothing in particular," he shrugged off, the stubborn-arse.
"I'm not buying it. Ye know ye haven't gotten off of me since ye came into the room?"
"What?" Simon raised his brows at him, "I'm not allowed to touch ya cause you're a 'married man' now, or somethin'?"
"I'm bein' serious, Simon," Johnny glanced over his shoulder and held his gaze. He was struck with how beautiful the man was, the faded pink and auburns of his scars cutting striking lines on the planes of his face.
He was also struck by the storm he could see floating behind those eyes. The man could lie all he wanted, but he could never hide from those expressive eyes, Johnny's learned to read them like a scholar.
"Ye know I love ye, right, Si?" See, and that emotion right there, that was a boyish sense of love blooming in those honey brown eyes. "And I care about ye. Just want to make sure everything's okay, y'know?"
He saw his shoulders relax, and Simon finally relented.
"It's-...had a rough night, I suppose… bad dream."
And that's all Johnny needed to hear.
He coaxed the hand laying at his waist into moving, entwining their fingers together and bringing it to his lips. He placed a long, gentle kiss onto the ring finger, right over the new golden band wrapped around his ring finger.
"Anything I can do to help?"
"This... this helps." The arms wrapped around him squeezed tighter. "Can ya go back to talking like before?"
"Ahh, so ye do like my rambling, aye?"
Simon groaned, not so gently jostling him and rolling his eyes. "Don't push it."
Johnny cackled, his mission to crack a smile out of Simon, a success. Christ, did he love this stupid little tango of ragging on each other that the two always danced.
"Well, I was doing some thinkin'," he continued, "and I've decided that after this, we should do some sightseeing, yeah? We could go and hit the subway and head into town? Plenty to see in the city, galleries, theatres, bars, music venues, whatever catches yer eye. But ye tell me, I say we go with the flow and just see what catches our eyes."
Simon hummed, and Johnny could feel it rumble with his chest pressed so tightly to his own. "No specific plan for today, then?"
"Naw! S’best to just roll with it, I say! See where the night takes ye, find all the best sights that're tucked away like that, I reckon."
Simon hummed an affirmative. "'M fine with whatever," he said into the base of his hairline.
"I did want ye to pick something out for us to start from, though."
"I'm good goin' wherever you decide to go."
Johnny had to laugh, elbowing Simon in his ribs. "Well that helps narrow things done for us then, doesn't it?"
"You're the one who made no plans for us on our honeymoon," Simon barked back.
"Our honeymoon! And ye could've very easily added yer own input too, ye know."
"Told ya I'm fine with whatever we do! Figured I'd let you decide, it bein' your country and all."
"Well it'd help if ye gave me some sort of starting point, ye thrawn dog."
"Well now who're you callin' a dog? Ya twat," Simon nipped at his neck, causing Johnny to chortle.
"Oi! Quit, ye bamstick!"
"You love it, daft wanker."
"Hellish lil’ devil."
And there they go to the dancefloor once again. One step, two step. 'Temperamental Scott.' 'Irksome Brit.'
They continued the charade for a while, jabs at each other bleeding into the casual conversation the two shared. The sun slowly started to rise higher and the food neared closer to its completion, the smell of a hearty, greasy breakfast floating through the house.
And all the while, Simon remained glued to his side. Every grunt or murmur sent a warm huff of air directly onto his nape, a pleasant sensation that was more than welcome.
The only thing they had to wait on now was the shortbread. While those finished off in the oven, Johnny set the burner to a low heat, satisfied with the way the rest of the food was turning out. Now that the hard part was over with, he felt like he could finally fully relax, his head lolling back and bumping into the man hunched over him.
A serene quiet fell between the two of them, the only sounds breaking the silence being the sporadic spitting of the pans and the low, mellow choruses still playing out from the speakers. Johnny, powerless to the temptation to take the opportunity handed to him, clamped his hands tightly around Simon’s and started to lightly sway them to the music. Simon, not one to take to dancing, practically glowering at Johnny’s suggestion to dance in front of his whole family last night, actually followed his sashaying, sidestepping and leaning into the gentle rocking to the slow beats.
Granted, it wasn’t without a grumble, held barely under his breath. But hey, Johnny’ll take his victories as he gets them.
The playlist faded into the last few songs in the queue. As the most recent song faded, a beautiful string arrangement introduced the next one. A catchy strumming of guitars, followed closely by the melodic baritone of the Irish singer kicked off the ballad.
/Remember once I told you about/
/How before I heard it from your mouth/
/My name would always hit my ears as such an awful sound?/
/And the soul, if that's what you'd call it
/Uneasy ally of the body, it felt nameless as a river/
/Undiscovered underground/
This next song had Johnny grinning like an idiot.
It became one of his favorites in the last few years, the words hitting eerily close to home. He hummed along lowly to the lyrics, his fingers tracing up and down the tattooed arm. He attempted the higher notes as the beat picked up, the dry chuckle from Simon better than any standing ovation any actual singer would’ve gotten.
The upbeat tempo of the song cleverly disguised the almost bittersweet, but poignant meaning behind the words being sung. Not to Johnny though, who knew every word from his countless listens, or Simon, the poor hapless soul subjected to his constant personal concerts, the hold on him growing tighter with the rise in the chorus.
/Some part of me must have died/
/The first time that you called me "baby"/
/And some part of me came alive/
/The first time that you called me "baby"/
/These days, I think I owe my life/
/To flowers that were left here by my mother/
/Ain't that like them, giftin' life to you again/
/This life lived mostly underground/
/Unknowin' either sight nor sound/
/Till reachin' up for sunlight just to be ripped out by the stem/
A rather somber song when you really listened to the lyrics, talking about falling in and out of love so deeply, the fear wrapped around the inevitable downfall and the love persisting still after. Tragically beautiful, a perfect echo to the reality the two of them have been living all this time.
Caught between a love so strong, so intense it almost hurts at times, knowing the dangers that come with their line of work. A relationship wrapped up in so much fear, yet they're both helpless to its pull, diving in and risking it all despite the pain and the heartache that comes with it.
At least that's how Johnny interpreted the song, and part of why he always loved it.
/Some part of me must have died/
/Each time that you called me, baby/
/But some part of me stayed alive/
/Each time that you called/
/Each time that you called-/
"Johnny."
Johnny snickered at the timing. “Aye?”
“... Promise me you'll never leave.”
The request came out as nothing more than a whisper into his neck. Johnny heard it loud and clear though, opening his eyes and almost popping his neck with how fast he whipped his head around.
“Simon, what are ye goin’ on about?!” A disbelieving laugh poured out of him. “I thought I made it perfectly clear that there’s no escaping me now, ya numpty?“ He nudged the hands on his hips into moving and turned himself around, not caring about the bits of flour on his shirt he was rubbing off on Simon, pulling him into a tight embrace. “Oi, I meant it when I said I loved ye to bits, aye? Now why’re ye goin’ and asking me to do that?”
“It’s- nothing, sorry. Didn’t even mean to ask that, to be honest,” he chuckled darkly. One look at him up and down and Johnny could see some of that former despondency coming back, those eyes trained on him but not really staring at him, a cloudy, faraway gaze to them.
“Hey, Simon. Tell me what’s on yer mind… please?” Johnny reached forward and cupped his face, swiping a thumb along his Glasgow scar.
And his hands felt the downward cast of Simon’s mug, him shaking his head. “It’s nothing, Johnny. You don’t need to be worried about me.”
“And ye know ye don’t have to hide from me,” he countered.
“Johnny… I don’t want to disturb the peace, is all.”
“Ye are my peace, Si.”
Johnny felt the huff of air Simon let out right on his nose. “Fuckin’ hell, Soap. Ya been reading some of your mom’s romance novels now or something?”
Johnny simply beamed at him. As much as he can try to hide behind his farce mockery, there was no hiding the effect Johnny had on him, the blooming shade of pink on his cheeks making the freckles and marks on his skin stand out further.
“Ye can tell me what’s on yer mind, we’ve seen and gone through far worse, haven’t we?” The Mexican cartel, torture, Russian terrorists, brutality, covert military factions, betrayals, and in the end, it was being vulnerable with their emotions that seemed to be the hardest obstacle for them to overcome. “Please, what’s on yer mind? I want to know.”
“Mmmn,” Simon finally sighed in defeat, “It’s nothing much. I’m just… worrying, I suppose.”
“Worrying,” Johnny’s brows furrowed, “about what?”
“Hmph,” he exhaled. “A certain short-fused Scotsman managed to find a way to get me to care about something other than my own survival, for once. Throwin’ me a loop, I think.”
It took Simon's own thumbs brushing gentle circles along either side of his temple for everything to start clicking, long fingers carding through his hair as the digits traced over the entry and exit points of the scars on either side of his head.
He put a stop to the movement by grabbing a hold of Simon, bringing down a hand and resting it squarely on his chest, pressing it right over his heart again. “Hey! Feel that, yeah? Focus on that for me, will ye?”
“Mm, sure,” Simon hummed. The simple gesture did wonders in bringing Simon back to reality, the browns of his eyes already clearing up.
“Yeaah, that’s good,” Johnny drawled out. “Still nice and strong, just like his owner, wouldn’t ye say?” He wondered if the snort he got in response was as cathartic to him as the hand on his chest was to Simon.
“So, is that what yer dream was about?”
Simon blinked slow-like, almost reminding him of a cat with the motion. “Can you consider it a dream if it actually happened?”
It pained him to hear the unspoken anguish concealed within those words. He had his own trauma from the event that threatened to debilitate him at any given moment. And although he had his own experience with it, he couldn’t even begin to say he understood what it must’ve been like for Simon, especially considering his own previous experiences in the past.
As an alternative to stupidly relating Simon’s emotions to his own, Johnny had a different approach he wanted to try.
“Right. Well how about this, remind me again what did happen, if you will?”
“Johnny,” Simon warned.
“You remember the tunnels, right?” Johnny loosely threw his forearms around Simon’s shoulders, pads of his fingers coming to rest on the base of his buzzed scalp.
“How could I not?” was spoken with uncertainty, Simon still unsure of where this was going. “There was gunfighting, it was a constant fuckin’ barrage.”
“And you remember the bomb?”
“Johnny.”
“It’s alright, SI. It’s alright,” his hands started to stroke the back of his neck, cupping the bend of his nape and caressing. The gesture worked like a charm, the man remembering to breathe at a steadier pace, his neck being one of his biggest sensitive spots. “That help?”
“Mmm, a lot,” he hummed.
And wasn’t that pleased lil’ purr of his charming.
“Good,” Johnny continued, “Now then, you found me and Price, yeah?”
Simon visibly winced, his eyes clamping shut. “I- I ran in and Price was on the ground and you- Christ, and this is meant to help, how?” He squinted at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Trust the process, love. Ye’ll see where I’m goin’ with this in a sec, humour me a little?”
He still had some reservations, Johnny could tell, which made sense considering the next part of the story that took place.
“I came up and we- Garrick and I shot at Makarov, I looked over to my right and you were… God. You-”
“And what happened after?” was said, sparing him from having to give out the details.
“I-... Hell, I fucking sat there. I was frozen to the spot like a useless fuckin’ sod.”
“Aye and I don’t blame ye,” Johnny doubted he’d have been much different had the positions been switched around. “But I mean after that, Si. Price started to make the call to ring me in as dead, but you-”
“I couldn’t leave you,” Simon sighed and opened his eyes, a lot of emotions stirring in those irises. Pain. Sadness. Adoration. Devotion.
Johnny fully enveloped his arms around Simon’s neck, body arching into him, coming in nearer as if to pull those last two emotions to the forefront.
“And ye didn’t, aye? You got down on your knees and began to perform CPR, gave me me medical aid, yeah?”
Johnny had heard it from Price, a few months into his recovery over a lit cigar late into the night, what Simon had done. How it was like he became a man possessed, ignoring both his and Gaz’s calls to accept the reality of the situation, how his refusal to stand down ended up being the reason he was still up on his feet.
“Ye saved me, Si. Ye cradled my head to slow the bleeding and kept at it until-”
“You choked.” His voice has rarely ever sounded so unsteady as it did then, barely more than an exhale. “You choked up a mouthful of spit and blood into my mouth.”
Johnny chuckled at the grisly description. “Not our finest kiss we’ve shared, eh?”
“There’s been better,” Simon agreed.
And if that wasn’t exactly what Johnny had hoped to give him from then on, ‘Better’. Their lives up to this point may have been trailed with enough heartache for two lifetimes, but that didn’t mean it had to stay that way from here on out.
And for starters, Johnny leaned onto his toes and connected their foreheads.
“I'm here, Si. I haven’t kicked the bucket yet,” he placed a short peck on the edge of Simon’s lips. “I'm not leavin' ye anytime soon. Hell, not even a bullet to the head could keep me from ye."
“Hm, stubborn bastard you are," he said with no real mirth in his voice.
“And don’t ye go and forget it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Simon pulled him tighter, crushing him with his arms and kissing the crown of his head. “Thank you for this,” he said into his mohawk, “needed this.”
“Ye dont have to hide from me Simon,” Johnny relaxed and rested his cheek on his collarbone. “Next time ye start having these thoughts, ye come find me.”
“Dont want you worrying about me all the time.”
"That's part of the job now isn't it?” Johnny tapped a bicep with his ring finger. “In sickness and in health."
"Heh, Til death do us apart."
Johnny grumbled and made a displeased face. "I always hated the phrase 'Til death do us apart.' Makes it sound so inevitable, yeah?"
Simon shrugged. "S’bound to happen at some poin-"
"Not anytime soon," Johnny interrupted, fixing Simon with a resolute stare. "Not for us. Not for a long, long time if I can help it. I'm yours, Simon Riley-MacTavish, for the rest of yer days. Come hell or high water."
"You make it sound like a threat," Simon went back to placing his hands on his hips.
"It is one," Johnny used the newfound freedom to plant another kiss on Simon’s lips. "And you should be terrified," and he went in for another, longer one this time.
Simon pulled off but stayed near, near enough to share each breath, his eyelashes fluttering open. “You know nothing scares me."
A "good,” was mumbled onto chapped lips before Johnny went back in again. Now that they’d made it past the hard part, he figured Simon deserved a reward for being such a good sport.
And yes, maybe it was a reward for him too, the hands that dwarfed his waist digging into his side, every gasp and sigh he swallowed from the Brit the divinest of drinks rivaling any Holy Grail.
Johnny ended the languid, unhurried embrace with a playful nip to Simon’s bottom lip, tempted to go back for more by the grunt he was greeted with.
"Hmm, that's-... Christ. Johnny, you're on fire."
"Mm, oh am I? Cause there's plenty more where that-
"No, Johnny! The pan!"
The pan?
A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the slowly spreading warmth at his lower back was not in fact from the hand on his frame, but rather from the frying pan, and what he thought was the leftover acrid, smoky air from an earlier cigarette was in fact, from the open flame gradually billowing off the bacon and haggis.
Fuck.
ShitFuckFuckFuck.
Thank God his career has desensitized him to the dangers of a spontaneous combustion. Johnny made quick work of throwing open the cupboard and finding a container of baking soda to pour on the fire. At the same time, Simon reached for a stray lid hanging in the sink, the combined effort quickly putting out the flame before the whole house went up in flames.
The powder clouded around the air in the kitchen, both of them coughing up lungfuls of it along with the acrid smell of burnt baking product and charred meat.
In the disastrous aftermath, Johnny came to the realization that he meant to turn off the burner and let the food cool down a good chunk of time ago.
He made eye contact with Simon, who was busy fanning away the smoke from the pan and coughing into the crook of his elbow. He could only hope his face conveyed enough of his sincerest apologies to the poor sap.
“And the mushrooms?” he asked.
Simon clutched one of the chopped button mushrooms with a pair of tongs, turning it over to reveal the blackened bottom side of the shroom, the tomatoes and thyme in a similar state, no doubt.
And as a final hurrah to the spectacle, the timer set aside for the shortbread began to ding off, humorously marking the end to the tragedy that nearly took out his granda’s summer cottage.
“So, uhh. Think the food’s done,” Simon said, barely containing his amused laughter only for Johnny’s sake.
Yeah, so their breakfast was absolutely trashed. At least he managed to get a smile out of Simon for his efforts.
Well, it looked like neither of them had had the start to their honeymoon that either of them had wanted.
Should they have really expected anything different though? Fire and trauma always followed them like a ghost wherever they went, it only made sense for both to make an appearance on this trip at some point.
Regardless, it didn’t mean that their day had to become a complete bust. In all actuality, once the huge mess of the kitchen had been cleaned up, they did manage to salvage some of the breakfast, namely the shortbread, and found a decent enough greasy, hole-in-the wall diner to order an actual plate of food from.
They got sat in cheap, plastic booths that’ll cling to their skin the moment they try to get up, the windows of the diner giving them an unobstructed view of the dozens of rolling hills, the gloomy forecast of clouds painting the landscape in the typical grey undertone.
Johnny sipped on his steaming mug of coffee, and Simon on his tea, gazing outside the window and observing the clouds floating across the sky. They were content with simply resting in the booths and waiting for their orders, the only activity the sporadic swiping of the baked goods from the tin Johnny brought with them.
Which to his credit, came out good. Really good. Made him mourn that breakfast that could've been, Simon thought, taking a bite out of his fifth piece of shortbread.
"Ye gonna have any tea with tha', or just the shortbread?" Johnny asked, looking rather smug about it.
"Mnhmm. Just the shortbread," Simon grumbled. "Doesn't need the tea.”
"Well I'm glad something made up for this crappy start to the mornin'." Johnny’s chuckle bordered more on disheartened than on cheerful.
"Oi! There's been worse mornings for us yet,” Simon dispelled any misgivings about the beginning of their honeymoon. “Hell, I’ll take a grease fire over that deployment in Moscow any day of the week.”
“Christ, don’t remind me,” Johnny shuddered. “Divin’ into that water in the middle of the night, swear I haven’t had as much feeling on the left side of my big toe ever since then!”
“See. Could be worse.”
Could always be way worse, Simon thought, reveling under the dazzling stream of Johnny’s smitten smile. A secret to only him and Johnny, Simon would happily bask in his husband’s adoration until the world stopped turning if he could. Probably because his whole world did stop turning for a terrifying few minutes not so long ago.
He was over the nightmare by now, didn’t mean that he still didn’t think about how lucky they both were, how impossible this near-novel ending is.
It'll probably be a memory that will always haunt the both of them. Some days will be worse than others, some days the grief of what could've been will be too much, and some days neither of them will have a balm strong enough to heal the lingering trauma from the whole deal. Yet somehow, Simon had a feeling that as long as they had each other, somehow they'd end up on the right side of things, today was proof of that.
It's almost funny to think about, Simon desperately clutching at Johnny's vest, clinging to him long after all the others presumed him dead. At the time it felt hopeless, performing CPR so long after the pulse went from fainter and fainter to deathly still. But something took hold of him, grief, anger, desperation, whatever it was compelled him to keep trying. In the moment, Simon would've done anything, puffed enough air down his mouth till he ran out of oxygen in his own lungs, would've taken the blood out of his own body and poured it into Johnny if it would've helped, anything, just to see those deep blue eyes shine with light again.
They said it was a one in a million miracle that he survived, that he shouldn't have been able to walk away from something like that. They said that it was Simon's bullheadedness that helped save him.
And yet somehow in the end, it was Johnny who's been the one that’s kept Simon alive...
Simon reached for the hand distractedly tapping at his half-empty mug, and gently coaxed the fingers to lace with his. He felt Johnny turn his head back to regard him, but Simon played off the gesture by gazing back out at the rolling hills. Even then though, there was no missing the near face-splitting smile emanating off of Johnny, the warmth seemingly pouring out from around him, heating Simon to his core.
And the hand tightened its grip around his palm, thumb brushing circles onto calloused skin in a dance too serene and pure for men like them.
"Whatcha thinkin' about over there?"
A shrug. "Trying to think of where we're gonna find a fireproof oven for you to use from now on."
"Ahh, right. Think yer blood pressure can handle a lifetime's worth of more house fires."
"My blood pressure's fine! I'm not the one who eats all the starchy foods all the time."
"Aye? Says the man who's on his fifth piece of shortbread!"
"Well something managed to survive your cooking. Have to celebrate that somehow."
A snort from Johnny. "Never gonna let me live it down are ye?"
"Probably not."
"Arsehole."
"Firestarter...
Could do this all day."
"Aye? Everyday, huh?"
The hand on Johnny's twitched, and that corner next to the cheek scar jumped up. "The rest of our lives, however long that may be."
And the hand gripped onto Simon's squeezed back.
"That's what I'm hoping for."