Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John is sick. He is acutely aware of it. All too familiar with the fuzzy feeling in his head, the clammy sheen of sweat sticking to his skin and the unsettling reality that when he glanced in the mirror that morning, he had barely recognised himself. Mistaking himself for a corpse. Nevertheless, he finds himself walking down the hallway and out of the building regardless.

He strides past the crowd of recruits in training, stopping beside his lieutenant, consciously dismissing the stares that track his every move. The same expressions of awe plastered across countless faces, none of which he could place. The other man doesn’t acknowledge his sudden appearance, too absorbed in roaring at one of the recruits - a snot-nosed kid who looks far too confident for someone of that height. A naive, wide-eyed rookie who is all too convinced that he’s doing the right thing, jumping into a firefight under the guise of righteousness like they all once had. He would either be dead in six months or end up a lonely, crippled old man left spectating as a new generation makes the same mistakes.

Ghost concludes his scathing critique of the young man’s performance - sound advice if the fucker was smart enough to listen. Too many people were under the assumption that the lieutenant was nothing but a cryptid, some legend of rage and horror. John knew better, at his core Simon Riley was a man with a dry sense of humour who had a meticulous preference over how much milk went in his tea. It was hard to be intimidated by a man he had once witnessed argue with the sergeants over the Lord of the Rings books. He observes Ghost’s piercing brown eyes rake over him, narrowing slightly - a gesture John notices, yet, to his surprise and relief, the lieutenant remains silent. The man usually never shied away from verbally ripping someone’s appearance to tatters.

“That one’s certainly enthusiastic.” He comments, watching the scarlet-faced recruit turning away from Ghost, embarrassed by the public chastisement. Unfamiliar with the idea of public scrutiny, he would learn. They all would. He folds his arms across his chest as he looks over the group, sighing as he takes in just how young they all are. All baby-faced and bushy-tailed. The gentle breeze does little to alleviate his current state of half-death; cold sweat is still sweat.

“That one is an arsehole.” Ghost responds gruffly, fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically. Clearly, he had been on babysitting duty for too long. Whether it was that particular recruit or the entire crowd testing his patience, John couldn’t help but wonder. The other man resorts to cracking his neck and John can’t help but wince, he was damn sure he was going to break his neck one of these days.

He says nothing, he can’t think of a response in his ill and addled state. Even if he could, it would do little to ease Ghost’s irritation. He should be inside resting; he can hear Kate’s frustrated tone in his head cursing him out for soldiering on. Hell hath no fury like Kate Laswell in the presence of idiot men.

But the world doesn’t stop for one sick man, or at least that’s what his father had always said. The Price household didn’t do sick growing up. His father was perpetually nursing a hangover; one might assume that would be the cause of his aggression, but John’s memory is sharp enough to remember a sober man whose tone was just as venomous. He vividly remembers the one time in his childhood when he had been truly sick, a little one whose legs weren’t quick enough to drag him out of bed before he threw up the measly dinner he’d had the night before all over his plain blue sheets. He’d had to trail downstairs to his father and tell the man he had vomited on his bed. The man had hurled his half-empty beer bottle at the wall; John had barely enough time to watch the liquid seep into the carpet before he was on his knees, the familiar sound of his father unbuckling his belt from his jeans ringing in his ears. He still had those scars; the old drunk had a penchant for incorporating the buckle into his punishments and John’s skin had split easily under the metal. He’d had to sleep on his stomach for weeks. The world didn’t stop for one sick John Price.

When he heard the news, he hadn’t bothered to attend the bastard’s funeral. He had laughed, still an idealistic sergeant trying to make a difference at the time. He had gotten the phone call one night; Thomas Price had drunk himself into oblivion for the last time and had passed out on his living room floor; fucker had asphyxiated on his own vomit. John had yet to feel an ounce of sympathy or grief. Perhaps the old man would meet that God he so often loved to preach about. Once upon a time, John had believed in that God. And then he had experienced what it was like to clean someone's brain matter out from the groove of your boots. That night he took the bible his father had gifted him when he was a boy, and he’d set it alight. It burned into a pitiful pile of ash, the same way his father had.

He digs his heels into the grass below him, willing himself to stay upright. The activity before him was a blur, too disorienting to gauge whether the recruits had any promise. Truth be told, he couldn’t muster the energy to care. The task force was his life, he had an unfathomable amount of trust in Ghost and the sergeant. But the rookies were something he couldn't get attached to; you can only bring home so many dead teenagers before it becomes almost tedious. So many kids making the same mistakes and expecting a different outcome. Countless parents burying kids yet to hit twenty, people who should have lived long enough to fuck up their lives on their own terms. His men were his charge; he would sooner take a bullet to the skull than let anything happen to Garrick, MacTavish, or Riley on his watch. He could only let so much blood stain his hands.

It takes a gentle jab to the ribs to gain his attention, Ghost looks at him expectantly and he returns his gaze with a blank face. Either the man had been talking to him or a recruit had fucked up majorly and he should have caught it. He swiftly scans over the group, none of them seem to be worried about the lieutenant's ire. All training diligently. So, he must have missed something directed at him.
“Repeat that, Simon?”

Ghost's eyes flash with irritation at the use of his name in such a public setting but given that no one is within earshot he doesn’t offer him an apology. One more bitchy stare and he was resorting to Garrick’s nickname for the lieutenant, he’d like to see how much Ghost enjoyed publicly being called Phantom of the Barracks.

“Asked why you're out here, you usually don’t care for watching them fumble about like toddlers.” The expression on Ghost’s face turns to one of thinly veiled curiosity. He wasn’t wrong, John avoided training like it was the plague and he was a helpless medieval child. He usually dished it out as a punishment whenever the sergeants started acting a little too rowdy or when their flirting over comms during missions became unbearable. He was one comment about a thick ass away from scalping both of them. The sergeants would never let their banter interfere with their missions; they joked but they were damn good at what they did. Nevertheless, he will never unhear Soap muttering about Ghost hauling around a whole ass bakery back there.

He shrugs, looking at the other man with a feigned sense of nonchalance. “Someone has to make sure you don’t kill the poor cunts.” If anyone knackered them it was Ghost, he’d tire them out in ways they couldn’t imagine. It was mildly comedic, watching people under twenty gripe about the ache of their knees. Those youthful fucks weren’t prepared for the real deal.

Ghost snorts and redirects his focus back to the recruits, groaning before barking at a group of young men muttering to each other, foolishly thinking they were hidden from view. There were always a few who thought they were at school, whispering amongst friends and giggling like toddlers. That would be trained out of them eventually, either by Ghost or when they inevitably try the same on a mission and someone gets shot for their mistake.

He turns quickly to spot the culprits, ready to play the hard man so many of them assumed him to be. He despised how they would cower under his glare, and flinch when he raised his voice. It was all too reminiscent of a small boy trudging downstairs to inform his father that he’d spewed on his sheets. But being a hardass who was feared amongst wet-eyed rookies was a kinder feeling than checking them for a pulse that wasn’t there in the heat of the battle. The sudden movement sends his head spinning, a sensation too familiar. Teenage years spent smoking a joint with whatever other punks were willing to house him away for the night. Countless nights spent lying on someone’s bedroom floor as the feeling ate away at him, head full of static as he stared at the ceiling. He has enough awareness for the brief thought that the blackness flooding his eyes probably shouldn’t be there. The darkness closing like a curtain across his vision. He isn’t standing straight anymore, he knows that. That’s his last coherent thought before he’s out cold, collapsing into the grass.

Opening his eyes again is a monumental effort as if his eyelids are weighed down by lead. His vision swims, struggling to focus, while his ears gradually adjust to the sound of footsteps circling around him. Only then does it dawn on him where he is - he’s back in his own quarters. The familiar comfort of the blanket draped across his legs anchors him to reality, a birthday gift from Kate however many years ago. He’d recognise the stupid football pattern anywhere. His shoes are gone, he’s a little worried about their whereabouts. Those are his only hiking boots left that aren’t permanently marred by bloodstains. He’s still clad in the same plain shirt and cargo pants from earlier and he can feel the evidence of his earlier collapse as an ache settles through his limbs. He had passed out, right in front of the fucking recruits. The humiliating realisation has him sitting up suddenly, groaning at the quick movement.

Something falls into a lap just as a hand grips his shoulder, holding him steady before he can topple over. He rubs his eyes, blinking down at the cool cloth on his thigh. “Fuck sake, John. Can’t sit for one fucking minute.” The hand on his shoulder gently pushes him back onto his bed and returns the cloth to his forehead. He narrows his eyes at the figure above him, quickly recognising Ghost and the look of unmistakable irritation etched onto his features.

“Back with me? Good. MacTavish is currently scaring the shite out of the recruits alongside Garrick. Now, mind explaining to me what the fuck happened, captain?” Ghost’s brown eyes bore into him, the barely concealed concern flickering behind them. Simon is perched on the edge of his bed; he can feel his tree trunk of a thigh against his own. His eyes wander around the room before settling back on his subordinate’s face.

“What?”

“What? You’re going to tell me you don’t remember losing consciousness while out watching the rookies train instead of resting because you’re half fucking dead.” Simon snaps, glaring daggers at him. He doesn’t shrink under his gaze like anyone else might’ve, he was far too accustomed to the lieutenant’s odd brand of concern. “Barely caught you before you hit the ground, you twat. One second you’re standing and the next I’m having to make sure your big head doesn’t batter off of the hard grass.” He narrows his eyes at the other man, more out of defiance than actual belief - his head was not big, thank you very much.

“I should’ve known, you looked like shit.” Simon mutters, a hint of guilt lacing his tone which only deepens the sinking feeling in his chest.

He lets out a self-deprecating snort, reaching out to clumsily pat the younger man’s shoulder. “My own fault.” The response fails to be acknowledged but he can see Simon’s expression soften with amusement as his hand completely misses its target and instead, smacks Simon’s jaw.

There’s an evident reluctance on the lieutenant’s face as he admits, “Scared the tits off of me out there. You just dropped. Managed to scare the rookies as well, though Garrick has already warned them not to breathe a word.”

Relief washes over John; the last thing he needs is to have his reputation shattered by a bunch of rookies clucking around him like concerned little ducklings. He already has to manage damage control with Simon and the sergeants - Gaz would be popping in on him every twenty minutes, and Soap would all but pitch a tent in his office to play nursemaid in the next week.

“Any chance you’ll be willing to forget about this?” He asks curiously, peering up at Simon with feigned innocence. The other man, cold with almost everyone but protective to a fault over the task force members, gives him a look that screams incredulity. The fact that he can see the other man biting back the urge to slap him for even suggesting such a thing is an answer in itself. Instead, Simon reaches out, the back of his hand brushing against John’s cheek in a rare moment of tenderness before he pulls back, his expression contemplative.

“You’ll live.” He says dryly. Whether he’s currently happy about the outcome given his current irritation with John is unknown. “Don’t get up unless it’s too piss. Garrick and MacTavish will bring food from the mess at lunch. I’ll let you answer their questions then.”

“Shit.” John stares up at the ceiling of his room, willing himself to sink into the mattress and perhaps suffocate while he’s in there. He knows Simon’s eyes are glued to him; the weight of his gaze is palpable. In an uncharacteristically nurturing gesture, the lieutenant fixes the blanket around him, if only so he can be sure John sees the absolutely venomous look he’s being shot.

“There’s a basin beside the bed, if you're going to spew at least aim in there.” There’s no belt this time. He can appreciate the consideration, but he can’t bring himself to thank the other man just yet. Still reevaluating his own mortality. He doesn’t feel as shitty as he did earlier. The headache that has been lingering for the past few years remains firmly in place, he’s almost grateful. It is the only thing he knows for definite he won't lose. Maybe this was how his father felt, living with a perpetual ache. Only his father’s was self-inflicted, while John’s was simply the price of existing.

The fact that they're so attuned to each other that Simon can sense his spiralling and drag him out of it with a simple hand around his wrist, thumb rubbing across the pulse point on his wrist should irritate him. It doesn’t. It never has.

“And I told Laswell.”

“Simon, you fucking prick.”

Chapter Text

The phone call with Laswell a few hours later unfolds as well as predicated. A shitshow.

“Were you dropped on your head as a child, or do you make a deliberate effort to act intentionally dense? Is it a product of all the concussions you’ve had over the years? Is that it?”

“Thanks, Kate. I’m fine, lovely of you to ask. How are you?”

He eventually managed to successfully dissuade her from getting a flight over just to throttle him or drain the nearest bottle of gin; it was a challenge, but he had years’ worth of practice de-escalating these types of situations. She had tolerated his antics for years, and he’d become adept at persuading her not to quit or suddenly kill everyone she worked with, himself included. He knew she was capable of doing it too, barehanded.

As Simon had predicted, the sergeants popped by with dinner from the mess that night and he’d spent the entirety of his mediocre meal getting interrogated by doe eyes and William fucking Wallace. Reassuring two grown men that he could in fact take care of himself was mortifying. It would’ve been three, but he wasn’t in the mood to try and kid himself that Simon believed a word coming out of his mouth. The lieutenant could’ve offered him the respect of not rolling his eyes whenever John said he was fine, however.

He’d been naïve enough to think that maybe, just maybe the sergeants would have accepted his half-assed excuse about accidentally pushing himself too far and his assurance that it won’t happen again - I’m a grown man, I’ve been taking care of myself for years and I’m not stopping now. He was gravely mistaken. When it came to predicting the actions of his boys, he found he often was.

Throughout the week, both sergeants consistently appeared out of nowhere to disturb him and his attempt at normalcy.

“Cap, you good? Looking a bit like you might keel over. I’m not sure those geriatric hips could survive another tumble.”

“Garrick, I will make you scrub the mess hall with a toothbrush.”

“Oh, c’mon sir. He’s just respecting his elders.”

“You too, MacTavish.”

Simon was different, the man didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was surveying John like a hawk. Silently shadowing him like his own bodyguard. At mealtimes, he’d sit directly across from John. He’d feel those dark, demanding eyes lingering over every bite he took. He’d once gotten up to leave the table when he was only halfway through his dinner, something bland and tasteless that may have had a name, or a warning label and felt a rough, calloused hand gently grab his wrist and pull him back to his seat. The lieutenant all but held him hostage at the table until he’d finished most of what he could stomach from the chemical weapon on his plate. Gaz had made a comment to Soap about Simon soft domming him into finishing the meal. Garrick subsequently ended up on recruit duty for the next two weeks. As did MacTavish for laughing. He had only kicked Ghost’s shin for the almost smirk he swore he saw pass across his face.

One night he retreated to the shower in his room, a personal bathroom was one of the few perks of commanding an elite SAS taskforce. It afforded enough privacy so no one would see the hitch in your breath when you washed the blood off of your hands. He had walked out, towel hanging loose on his waist to find he was in need of a medium to contact the ghost in his room and maybe ask it why it was sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling through his battered old iPhone. Simon hadn’t even blinked, no excuse as to why he was there. His piercing stare drifted across John’s chest, lingering over old scars before bluntly stating that he needed to fix the lightbulb in his room because it was flickering. John pointedly did not make a joke about the possible cause being the spirit in his room, not when he was within whacking distance. He refused to acknowledge how Simon’s eyes sought out some kind of familial memento in the room or how his eyes narrowed when he found nothing. The other man hadn’t commented on it, John supposed it was a shared experience for the both of them.

Simon had taken to doing his own paperwork in John’s office too, sitting across the desk from him and quietly scribbling down in his usual chicken scratch writing. He was forceful with a pen when he was frustrated John had noticed, he tended to lean down with enough force that he’d damn near rip through the paper, and he’d let out an almost silent exhale of utter irritation. God forbid he ever let the big boy borrow any of his good pens.

The office was comfortably quiet, the sounds of pens dancing along paper were their only noise for the night. Other than the occasional prayer to God to take him in his sleep lest he pick up another pen. Although John was mostly sure he’d kept those in his head. His hand was starting to cramp, whether it be from the hours of his life wasted filling in paperwork or an old injury that hadn’t quite healed how it was supposed to. It was a 50/50 bet. The tips of his fingers were stained with ink, it looked like the tattoo of a masochist if he was being truthful with himself. He was surprised Simon hadn’t tattooed his fingertips. The lieutenant was one of the only people who would be able to have such a tattoo without looking stupid. It was something only Simon was capable of, doing things that would have weaker men looking like reluctant jesters in a court whereas Simon had the stride of the King. In charge of a country, in charge of a task force. Sometimes he could handle their boys far better than John could, Price gave orders, and Riley gave demands. It was admirable if not frustrating when turned on him.

Solemnly, he was almost eager to retire sometimes. Desperate to see Simon take the mantle. Make something of the task force John had created. Maybe Captain Riley would go further than he ever had and manage to do it without corrupting one of his sergeants in the process. He wondered if Kyle ever missed his old job, if he yearned for the life he had been so desperate to leave if only to try and get the smell of copper out of his nose.

He knew he’d never retire willingly; he couldn't return home, couldn’t spend his days pondering the consequences of his every decision on the field or his decision to walk away. He’d rot, bury himself under empty bottles of whisky. The greys would start appearing quicker than he could count if his vision was clear enough to try counting them. He’d become a caricature of a man long gone and ashes scattered. Maybe he’d pick up an empty glass and shatter it across the walls just to feel at home. Let the booze soak into the carpet until the living room smelled exactly like it had all those years ago. Spend days in the same clothes because he was too drunk to stand up correctly and unbutton his shirt. Ignore the pitter-pattering footsteps of another little Price walking into the kitchen, dragging a stool over to the counter and trying to reach for the week-old bread to make himself breakfast. Those wet blue eyes would stare back at him, and he’d wonder if he’d truly been that skinny back then before promptly passing out in a puddle of cheap beer, bile and piss. Lie on his back and choke, spluttering as the vomit crawled up his throat, burning in a way that made his eyes sting. Someone would walk in days later after a complaint about the smell, a man who should’ve retired years ago will look down on him and ask how many years it had been since old Thomas Price had done the same.

They’d cremate him, hand that dull, lifeless urn over to a distant cousin and the poor bastard would keep it out of pity. He’d be a decoration collecting dust while resting on someone’s shelf, going unnoticed and unremembered – a fate that was all too familiar for the Price men.

Recovering from his brief illness was made surprisingly swift under the relentless, albeit spiteful, care of Riley, MacTavish and Garrick. But the sharp throbbing in his skull only seemed to intensify the closer it got to the anniversary of his father’s death. Some years the date passed without notice; others, it was such a monumental gut-churning occurrence that he’d wake up that morning with saliva pooling in his mouth, swiftly followed by bile that had on more than one occasion splattered across the floor.

He never seemed to be capable of forgetting the anniversary of his mother’s death; the reminder lingered in every "happy birthday" that fell from the lips of those around him. Judith Price née McDowell was a distant memory to all but him. He’d seen maybe a handful of pictures of her over the years, a thin woman with sharp cheekbones, sunken eyes and perpetual bruises. According to a friend of his father’s from back in the day she was a fragile, timid young woman who cherished looking after children. The only thing she was ever sure about was having one of her own. She hadn’t lived long enough to set her eyes upon his screaming little face. He was older than she’d ever gotten to be, the crow's feet around his eyes were a testament to a time she’d never gotten to witness on her own. From what he could gather from the photos the only thing his mother ever saw when she looked in the mirror was varying hues of purple and ugly yellows.

So, the anniversary of his father’s death hung over him like a noose tightening around his throat. He didn’t miss the man. Missed him no more than he missed trying to pry their broken oven open with his scrawny hands, trying to make himself dinner because daddy was out drinking again. As fate would have it, an underweight six-year-old could work an oven with the same skill as a fish could climb a tree. Throughout the years the ability to endure days of hunger has been useful in his line of work; maybe he should have thanked the old man for that while he was still spluttering his way through breathing. He didn’t miss when his father had caught him trying to make himself dinner in the oven weeks later, he had accidentally burned whatever he’d scavenged from the freezer. In response, his father had gently placed his hands on the door to the oven and told him to hold on real tight- before slamming the oven door shut with enough force to break at least four of John’s fingers. He recalls how agonizing it had been to tug his blanket out from under his father’s unconscious body with those battered little hands after the man had passed out on it again. He didn’t miss being Tommy Price’s boy, especially not when he was a teenager with a job when those his father had swindled booze money from came knocking on their door.

He didn’t miss his father one bit.

It didn’t take Simon long to realise something was wrong with the other man; he was far too familiar with his behaviour to overlook the sudden tension and the faint sound of a pen hitting the hard wooden desk reverberated through the office like a gunshot. It was clear the captain was elsewhere, icy gaze fixed on the table with a blank stare that had Simon briefly wondering if he should check for a pulse. It was the subtle movement of his fingers that gathered Simon’s attention. It was a tick that John seemed entirely unaware of and none of the task force members would dare mention it lest the man bury it away; it offered a rare glimpse into his headspace. John rubbed his thumb back and forth over the knuckle of his index finger on his right hand, a digit faintly crooked from what he claimed was a long history of bad breaks.

It wasn’t the first time any of them had seen the man’s eyes gaze into the distance, accompanied by the telltale hand movement. It was impossible to judge when they all had their moments. MacTavish would lose himself sketching in his journal for hours, oblivious to everything around him until someone would pick up the job of dragging him off to get a meal in him. Garrick would hit a treadmill and unless someone periodically refilled his water bottle or left a protein bar, he wouldn’t stop until his legs did it for him. Simon had the self-awareness to recognise that his vice was chain-smoking. He’d step outside at night with a lighter and a pack of cigs, then he’d spend the next few days sounding like he’d gargled twice as much glass as usual. He’d at least pretend not to notice how Gaz would pass by him and suddenly his cigarettes would vanish. Or how John would use a lighter that was noticeably different than his own in the following days.

John Price spent most of his life hyper-focused. On the mission - on the mission, on his men, on the paperwork - on anything but himself. It was days like today Simon was grateful they hadn’t been able to pound his mother’s caring out of him.

He doesn’t make an effort to be quiet as he moves his chair around behind the other man’s desk, a habit so ingrained in him that it seems instinctual. It’s a tight fit for two men of their size and stature but he ignores the vague feeling of discomfort in order to sit by the captain’s side. For hands that have effortlessly snapped necks, they're surprisingly tender as he grips John’s hands, rubbing his thumbs across the older man’s knuckles. He tries to ignore the feeling that twists in his chest, scarred hands cradling something of profound importance.

He watches the subtle flutter of John’s long lashes against his cheeks, the slow return of awareness as his eyes sweep across the desk before settling on the hands clasping his own. The look of confusion that passes across the other’s face is almost instantaneously replaced by a blank expression - the default locked and loaded Price mask – but Simon doesn’t miss the faint twitch of a thumb against his hands.

“Unless you’re planning on glaring a hole through that desk of yours, I think we’re done in here, sweetheart.” The words slip from his mouth naturally, in a way that would surprise most people. Simon Riley knew his reputation; he also knew the art of letting people believe the worst because it was much easier to shield yourself behind the persona built for you than to craft one from the scraps of an old Christmas story.

The look on John’s face is almost painful - unbridled surprise. His lips twitch, as if desperate to ask for clarification on such a simple gesture of kindness. Simon wondered faintly if this is how he appears to anyone else he lets see under the mask. He carefully squeezes John’s hands, fearing that even the slightest pressure could shatter the intricate braid of nerve endings and trauma before him.

“C’mon John, our boys are watching a movie. You know how much Gaz abuses his sad puppy eyes on you when you don’t show up. They’d both love to see your face outside of this office for once.”

The feeble shake of John’s head only strengthens Simon’s resolve. He releases John’s hands, wrapping an arm around his back, gently pulling him up from the chair. John tries to argue about the reports on his desk, about the necessity of filling them in right at this very moment. It does little to deter Simon from leading them both out of the office, pausing to turn off the light and close the door behind them. The subdued manor the other man lets himself be handled in is enough to reassure him that he’s doing the right thing.

The sound of their footsteps echoes through the empty hallway until they reach the dismal, shithole of a common room they’d been so graciously provided. That’s harsh, he decides - it holds details of their lives scattered all across the room. Johnny’s mug emblazoned with an obnoxious Scotland flag, is undoubtedly in the sink where he always leaves it. Kyle’s old blanket drapes over the back of the tattered couch they’d repossessed. An ashtray is in the middle of the crate they’d upturned and sworn is now a coffee table for the rare occasion when John smokes his cigars indoors. One of Simon’s knives is lodged firmly into a wall after a drunken game of Uno between him and Kyle - a story he will take to his grave. The second at least.

Johnny and Kyle both glance up at the sudden appearance in the doorway and it takes just one look at John for each of them to rearrange themselves on the couch. Kyle presses up against the armrest and Johnny promptly settles on the floor in front of it, leaving just enough space for John and Simon. Good lads.

He situates himself and the captain on the couch, with John seated between him and Kyle. Simon’s thigh presses against John’s, and his arm rests behind John’s neck on the back of the couch. Kyle wastes no time in resting his head against John’s shoulder, grabbing his arm and clinging to it like a koala, effectively keeping the man sandwiched between them. Johnny simply leans back, resting against the captain’s legs. Almost instantly, John’s free hand finds itself running through the Scot’s mohawk, trailing through the soft hair.

If John were more attuned to his surroundings rather than the comforting warmth of the men pressed against him, he’d catch the worried glances exchanged between the sergeants, quickly directed at the lieutenant. He’d see Simon shake his head and feel how they all shift closer to him. But he doesn't, too focused on the odd feeling of being handled with care. Treated like something delicate worth keeping in one piece.

Chapter Text

John wasn’t exactly sure of how he ended up in this situation. He had agreed to go to the bar for a celebratory drink after a mission had, for once gone off without a hitch -a rarity as of late. Finally, they returned with nothing more than a few bruises. Ghost was buying the first round, poor fucker made the mistake of trying to win a bet with Gaz, and John had agreed to go for one single drink.

Now, he was undeniably drunk, not just tipsy but truly intoxicated. His cheeks were flushed, and he was struggling to resist the urge to strip off his shirt. Why the fuck was this bar so warm? His words were starting to slur around the edges in a way that was getting increasingly hard to hide. He was nearly desperate enough to snap someone’s neck for a taste of chicken pakora from the Indian takeaway around the corner. The only thing holding him back was that he’d have to ask Soap to move, and he knew he’d get interrogated about where he was heading if he stepped outside.

If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t much of a drinker, contrary to what everyone seemed to assume, he’d take two fingers of whisky every so often in the comfort of his office late at night but that was the extent of it. Yet here he was four whiskies deep on an empty stomach and half sure that he’d accidentally been staring at Kyle for the past four minutes. The other man had such long eyelashes and eyes that were mesmerizing even when John was sober; it was impossible not to get distracted.

“What do you think, Captain?” Soap’s voice cut through the whisky-induced haze in his mind. They’d been discussing the mission, or so he vaguely recalled, although given the group he was with they could easily have shifted to discussing the average size of the human nipple by now - a conversation he’d once walked in on Gaz and Soap having, prompting a hasty retreat.

“I’ll be honest, sergeant. I stopped listening the third time you started recalling that bullseye shot of yours from earlier.” He tells them, glancing between the other three men curiously. Ghost looked half amused, perhaps even fond as he looked between Gaz and Soap. Shit, he’d missed pigs flying.

The Scot rolls his eyes, but his tipsiness betrays his entertainment. “Think Man United have any chance of winning their next game, Ghostie here seems confident.”

Football, of course it was football. Whenever they got a drink in them Soap and Ghost would start bickering over their respective teams. Gaz did little to stop them; in fact, he often encouraged it just for his own amusement. Sly as a jailer, that one. John didn’t miss Soap wincing - he could only assume Ghost had kicked him under the table in response to the nickname.

He snorts, “Against Liverpool? Fat fucking chance, lad. A two-legged dog has a better chance at playing the bloody cello.” John could be just as passionate; his club might be a shitshow, but he’d defend them with everything he could – which, admittedly, was very little.

Soap barks a laugh and wastes no time in giving Ghost the fingers. “Get it roon ye, LT. Man United couldnae even- “

John notices the smirk appear on Gaz’s face, almost as if he could see the lightbulb go off in his mind. “Bold words for a Rangers fan.” Oh God, now he’d gone and done it.

He doesn’t bother trying to keep up with the ensuing uproar from Soap or the digs that Ghost and Gaz hurled at him.

He wasn’t overly fond of bars; growing up, he had dragged his father out of many. By the time John was seven, the bartender at their local knew him by name. She used to slip him a packet of crisps behind the bar, free of charge. An older woman who was never capable of having her own children, so she’d taken to watching out for the kids of the drunks that lingered in her bar. He had even said goodbye to her when he left before enlisting. But here, with his boys, didn’t mind. Watching Ghost and Soap argue about whisky, watching Gaz order the worst shots he could find just so they’d all endure them, watching Ghost’s people-watching was always a source of amusement. An older woman had caught him staring once and had very bluntly offered him a look up her skirt in the alley behind the pub. They’d all had great fun watching him stutter his way out of that one. Watching Soap pop out for a cig and then immediately come back in to borrow someone’s lighter because he’d forgotten his. He’d usually sit nursing a double of some expensive whisky, treat himself.

Tonight, though, he’d opted for a cheap whisky and was on the verge of his fifth glass. They’d been here for an hour and a half. He knows that his boys had noticed but no one had commented on it. The anniversary of his father’s death had finally come around yet again. He wasn’t drinking to honour the man, nor because he was grieving. John wasn’t entirely sure why he was drinking at all; maybe, somewhere deep down he wanted to get drunk and forget all about the man. Maybe he was drinking so that later on that night in his room he could walk past the mirror in his bathroom without flinching at his father in the reflection.

The whisky wasn’t great - no surprise, given how cheap it was - but he’d had worse. Kate’s wife had once tried her hand at making wine. John loved Sarah like family, and he truly regretted the stain on the white table cover after he spat it out. At least he wasn’t Kate who’d forced it down to be kind to her wife, only to cough it up the minute the other woman had left the room. It had been impossible not to laugh when the dignified CIA operative had to desperately try to scrub the wine stain out of her shirt before her wife noticed. They were both in stitches by the time Sarah returned, God bless her. She’d found her wife with her head on the table and John laughing so hard that tears pricked his eyes.

He'd have to visit them soon; they had recently welcomed a new addition to the family. Sarah had found a tiny six-week-old kitten on the way home from work, a fluffy little grey thing that looked a bit like a mould spore. John said as much, and Kate had told her wife. He’d then received a picture of Sarah flipping him off. One vet trip later, and they’d decided to keep the little bugger. Apparently, Minnie, their Maine Coon, had all but adopted the kitten. Her name was Dot. John had remarked that it was a better name than Minnie, and for that, he’d received a picture of Kate flipping him off. He missed talking to them face-to-face; it was much more satisfying when Kate could call him a fucking moron in person. He still feared what she’d do to him after the full flopping down like a fish incident.

John barely hides how the sudden appearance at the table startles him, someone carrying a plate of fries. Ghost had evidently made good on his earlier threat. He’d warned John that if he left his wallet unattended, he’d make use of it. Someday, John would learn to stop leaving his wallet with the three of them whenever he went to take a piss. Someday.

The sound that came out of Gaz’s mouth after he shovelled a handful of fries in was almost indecent enough to warrant a harassment charge. They’d learned that neither of the sergeants were able to eat something decent without moaning over it like they were expecting it to pull their hair and call them pretty. It didn’t surprise him when Ghost sighed and downed what was left of his drink; he would've done the same if he hadn’t been rubbing his face in shame.

“Garrick, if you’re planning to do that every time you put one in your mouth then we’re going to leave you here.” Ghost’s gruff voice cut through the sergeant's brief love affair with his fries.

They wouldn’t, of course, Gaz knew they wouldn’t. That knowledge and the alcohol were what gave the sergeant the confidence to grab the longest fry he could and pretend to noisily suck it off. The sheer look of shock on Ghost’s face would've been comedic if John hadn’t let his head fall to the table so he could hide away from the stares of the patrons around them. John found himself praying to God to kill him and burn him alive, just so he could attribute the heat in his cheeks to something other than embarrassment and maybe the faintest hint of arousal.

He almost misses the sound of Ghost cuffing Gaz on the back of the head, drowned out as it was by Soap’s laughter. He braves glancing up to see both sergeant’s shoulders shaking with laughter and the lieutenant watching them with exasperation. He sighs, reaching over to grab a few fries for himself, his gaze fixed on the table.

The fries were fucking exquisite. He was starting to understand the urge to moan like a harlot once you got one in your mouth. But being he was a man with dignity, he refrained, at least until he’d had another drink. His glass was distressingly empty. It was his own doing; cheap whisky demanded to be downed quickly. Drinking it slowly offered about as much pleasure as taking a cheese grater to your cock, or so he would imagine.

Simon fucking Riley, that big, beautiful, built-like-a-brick shithouse hunk of man must be a fucking telepath. John watches him head up to the bar, ordering them another round. His joy is fleeting, though, as he remembers the other man still has his wallet.

“Fucking bastard.” He mutters.

Gaz shoots him a puzzled look, glancing between John and Ghost at the bar. His nose scrunching up as he tries to decipher the cause of the captain’s ire - it was endearing, truly. “Thought you would’ve been pleased to get another round with how you’ve been throwing them back, Captain.”

He doesn’t acknowledge the comment about how quickly he’d been drinking. It wasn’t judgmental, he reminded himself. It was out of concern. “Not when he’s using my bloody wallet to pay for it.”
Both of the sergeants look over to Ghost, eyeing the wallet in his hand before realization dawned on their faces. Their synchronized reaction almost made John laugh. They turned to look at the other man with the same subtle tilt of their heads, like cats who know you have treats you’re holding out on them.

It wasn’t the first time he or Ghost had found themselves likening the sergeants to cats. Soap would stretch out like a kitten after a nap, loosening his limbs. The messy mohawk never helped his case. Gaz was similar; when tired, the younger man would walk up behind an unsuspecting victim, wrap his arms around their waist and nuzzle his face between their shoulder blades. It was all too similar to Minnie; the Maine Coon would headbutt John to let him know she expected some nice chin scratches whenever he was visiting. His two trusted sergeants - overgrown kittens, of course, that’s what John’s boys would act like. In all fairness, it wasn’t just the sergeants; Ghost would knock pens off of someone’s desk for his amusement. Ghost wasn’t a kitten; he was one of the asshole cats who left dead mice on your bed as a present. And John was the dumb fucker who scratched behind his ears and called him a good boy.

As the lieutenant saunters back over to the table he watches him with an amused smirk - his own Garfield in human form. Maybe John was drunker than he thought. Ghost shoots him a curious look and he shakes his head in response, if he calls Simon a fat, ginger, lasagna-loving cat to his face then he might get shot. The worst part was, he’d quite enjoy the sight of Simon behind the trigger.

Ghost places a new glass in front of him and carelessly tosses his wallet beside it, which he quickly pockets. He knows the whisky in the glass isn’t the same one he’d been drinking earlier, maybe he’s a snob but he can spot a quality single malt a mile away. He offers the other man a grateful look and revels in the hint of a smile he gets in return. What a rare privilege, to witness such a sight.

“Back to base after this round is done.” Ghost states, eyes drifting between them all and lingering on John for far longer than necessary, just to drive the point home. John bites back the retort at the tip of his tongue, instead choosing to drink. If he wanted to keep drinking when they were back at base then he’d finally crack open that bottle Kate had given him for his birthday. It was worth far more than she should ever have spent on him but trying to talk Kate out of something she’d set her mind on was like trying to swim with a block of concrete tied to every limb. A dumb fucking idea. Kate Laswell was not one to skimp out on gifts, especially not for her family, as she so reluctantly put it. Other than her wife, Kate had very little in terms of family. So, the next best thing was the morons she worked with. She could pretend to unwillingly care for them all she pleased but they’d all seen her smile when she’d handed Soap his last birthday gift - a framed, signed photo of Captain Jean-Luc Picard with a strip of film from the original Star Trek show. John knew it must’ve cost her a lot more than she’d admit but even he thought it was worth it to see the shine to Soap’s eyes before he’d launched himself at her for a thank-you hug. The sheer, unbridled joy and childlike wonder on the sergeant’s face appealed to John’s soft-hearted nature more than he’d ever admit.

He pays little attention to whatever conversation the other men are having, choosing to look around the patrons in the bar. In the far corner, he can see two twenty-something women who are very clearly a couple and desperately trying to hide it. One of them has spikey black hair and a couple of face piercings, wearing a t-shirt which he can only assume is the merch of some obscure goth band. Her partner is a brunette whose entire outfit is varying shades of pink with the occasional splash of lavender. It would almost be subtle if it weren’t for the fact that the goth is staring at her girlfriend like she single-handedly hung the stars. It’s disgustingly sappy and John can’t help but smile.

For a soldier, John was a coward. He always had been, never had the guts to go anywhere in public with his boyfriend when he was a teenager - a lanky blonde boy who was one of the only other kids his age who didn’t mind talking to the son of the town drunk. His name was Daniel, Danny, if John remembered correctly. His eyes were cobalt blue, and he’d squint whenever sunlight hit his face. There was a scar under his left eye; he’d told John a story about falling as a toddler and cutting it. He was playfully snarky, the clumsiest person John had ever met, so unathletic it was almost funny. And John had loved him dearly. It was fun, almost an act of teenage rebellion, sneaking around together. Hiding behind walls just to steal a kiss after sharing a cigarette. Disappearing into the night and returning home in a shirt that wasn’t his, bruises on his neck. John was always covered in bruises at that age, so no one thought twice about it.

John’s dad had been out on a bender for days, he was so sure that the old man would stay gone for the rest of the week. So, he’d invited Danny over. The other boy had been kind enough to ignore the absolute mess of the house. They had been getting handsy on John’s bed when his father opened the door, to this day he isn’t sure how he missed the noise of the drunk stumbling up the stairs. Thomas Price had not been pleased to find his son in bed with another boy. The both of them ended up bruised and battered, and Danny limped home missing the necklace he’d been wearing that day. Abandoned on his nightstand. John never saw Danny again.

A few months after leaving he’d gotten the phone call asking if he was going to the funeral. From what he’d been told, it had taken them a few days to realise no one had seen the teenager and the smell coming from his room had tipped them off. His father had been the one to cut him down - poor bastard. John didn’t attend the funeral, nor did he think too hard about the golden cross necklace that he kept in the top drawer of his nightstand all these years.

John grabs the glass in front of him and downs what’s left, earning him three concerned glances. He ignores them, and gently motions to Soap to move so he can leave away the table. He heads toward the door without a word, trying to steady himself against the unbalanced feeling washing over him. As he steps outside, the cold air hit him like a brick to the face, and the memory of his jacket hanging over the back of his chair made him curse his own stupidity. His back hits the wall as he stares out into the street, it’s as black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat. The urge to smoke has his hands twitching but John refuses to step foot back inside to grab his lighter and a cigar from his jacket. He can’t explain his abrupt departure to the other three men, especially not when they all remind him of fragments of the same past.

It seemed he was incapable of enjoying a simple night out. He refused to ruin it for his boys. His despondent nature had a way of casting a shadow over everyone around him. His mouth was only good for barking orders, and his hands were only good for pulling the trigger. It was why he was so highly regarded in his field - because he got the job done. It was the only thing he had. He was a means to an end.

When he was a teenager, he once got blackout drunk with someone who was almost a friend, but the details of when or where they started drinking were lost in a haze. When he woke up the next morning, the other boy could hardly meet his gaze, stammering out a half-baked story about John getting overly melancholic while crossing a bridge the night before. Teenage John had vowed never to get drunk again, unwilling to end up like his father or die before he ever could. The voice of that younger self echoed in his mind - a naive, childlike optimist whose only dream was to outgrow the confines of his home. If he could go back, he’d be torn between hugging the kid or slapping the relentless hope from his face. Maybe he’d shake some sense into him, tell the poor fucker you can outgrow Thomas Price’s home but never his face. Stop himself from capitalising on driving fresh-faced teenagers into early graves under the guise of nationalism inherited from their parents. They wanted to make a name for themselves, the closest they’d get was a rank on a death certificate.

The presences beside him aren’t the least bit surprising - his boys are nosey. They call it worry, it borders on intrusiveness, at least in his opinion. His jacket suddenly appears in his line of vision, thrust in front of him. He assumes someone offered it to him and he hadn’t heard, staring uselessly into the distance like a man incapable of handling a few drinks. It’s Kyle’s hand; he recognises the scar on the back of the younger man’s thumb. Kyle had accidentally punched a radiator while trying to grab something, John had been there and ripped the piss out of him for it. Rightfully so.

He takes the jacket silently, slipping it on and his hand instinctively curling around the same scratched, old Zippo lighter in the right pocket. The thing had survived more missions than most rookies he ever ended up meeting. It was in a battered state, and he should’ve replaced it a long time ago, but it was a worn relic of his past that he clung to like a baby to a comfort blanket.

“You good, Captain? You bolted out of there so quickly that I thought you might’ve been about to spew.” Soap steps into his line of vision, his blue eyes scanning John for some sign of sickness or injury.

He shakes his head, offering him a look that’s supposed to come off as reassurance. He’s all too aware that it falls short just from the look Soap shoots the other two men. He was better at playing the composed, put-together Captain when he was sober.

“Not much of a sociable drinker, sergeant.” His excuse is weak even to his own ears.

Ghost steps forward, his large hand clasping John’s shoulder and gently squeezing. The man was a human radiator; John could feel the warmth through his jacket.

“Told you we’d be leaving after that round was finished, back to base before Soap stops speaking English again.” None of them could go any longer than ten minutes without sniping at each other. He couldn’t complain - it was a ceaseless source of amusement, and it made missions feel a little lighter. Besides, he was just as bad with Kate on their best days. It’s football. Despite what she says, it’s fucking football.

The hand on his shoulder nudges him forward as they start walking, the playful bickering serves as a comforting background noise. He glances back at Simon, nodding down to the hand on his shoulder. Simon knew John wasn’t a flight risk, yet the grip on his shoulder only tightens in response.

Simon wasn’t an idiot, none of them were. They had all noticed John’s unusual reserve throughout the night. So when he upped and left without warning, they weren’t surprised. They finished their drinks without a word and followed him out. For a captain, John seemed to be a little stupid - all too willing to assume they’d let him rot away, lost in his own thoughts. He was their captain, theirs.

Kyle was the one who washed the captain’s hat, painstakingly scrubbing the blood stains out of the material and returning it without the man noticing after a long mission. John was inexplicably attached to the thing, refusing to ever explain why. The hat was beaten and abused but they tried their best to keep it intact, a bit like an inanimate family pet of sorts. They all had their quirks.

Johnny made sure the first-aid kit in John’s office was always stocked, replenishing the supplies in the kit he assumed they were too ignorant to notice. It was an open secret on base that John hated visiting the medics for anything he knew he could patch up himself. Most of them had their own little kit for minor things. But John would patch up anything less than a severed limb on his own, Simon suspected it had something to do with the scars on his back that he hated people seeing. Who was he to comment? Simon was a jigsaw puzzle of scar tissue. But Johnny made an effort to keep the kit stocked at all times.

Simon usually took a blunter approach, forcefully dragging John out of his head. Scruff him like a kitten, drag him into another room and drop him between a pair of worried, doting sergeants. But Simon had also taken up what Gaz had affectionately entitled lieutenant lunch duty. The general task of reminding John to eat when he started under the sheer amount of paperwork that perpetually piled up on his desk. Simon never understood the point of all that paperwork - half of it had to be redacted anyway. But there seemed to be an endless supply of it needing to be done. John would disappear into his office during the daylight and by the time he stepped out he was already on a missing persons list. So, Simon took it upon himself to barge in unannounced and badger him into eating. His success rate was high; all he had to do was use his concerned lieutenant voice, and the captain would relent.

So, John was their vaguely captain-shaped pit of crippling despondency, and they intended to keep him. So, when the older man nods down to Simon’s hand on his shoulder he tightens his grip. The man is unsteady enough on his feet for it to look like a friendly gesture instead of the possessive one it’s intended to be. He’s close enough to John’s side that they knock shoulders as they walk with Johnny on his other side, holding the captain’s sleeve and playing up his tipsiness just enough that his closeness goes unanalysed. He and Kyle are having the old Scotland vs. England debate, they could all recite it from memory at this point.

Leaning in far closer to John than can be considered just friendly, Simon keeps his voice low so the sergeants can have their lover’s quarrel uninterrupted. “Decide whose bed you want to sleep off the hangover in, love.”

Chapter Text

The bullet tears through Soap’s skull so quickly that he doesn’t have time to blink before the younger man is sprawled out on the ground, blood pooling around him across the concrete. He collapses like a marionette with its strings cut, hitting the ground with far too much slack to his limbs. The head wound is deceptively small but the rapid stream of crimson falling from it makes his stomach flip violently. It feels like John’s drowning in the other man’s blood, it’s all he can see and he can’t breathe. Everything around him seems so inconsequential. Nothing matters – not Makarov, not the mission. Everything else is insignificant as Soap falls. His sergeant is lifeless on the ground and he can feel the taunting pulsing of his blood through his veins. His head is ringing, he might be dead. He hopes that he’s dead. Maybe that bullet got planted between his eyes and he hasn’t sentenced someone else’s mother to countless Christmases staring longingly at an empty seat at the table where her son should be. Maybe he’s in a lifeless heap with his brain matter splattered across the ground behind him because Makarov has a shaky aim. He prays, he’s the one with a hole in his skull, a face mangled beyond recognition with no family left to piece it together like a jigsaw of a man they might’ve known. Instead of someone’s little boy lying there mutilated, it’s John in the oblivion.

But the eyes staring blankly into the sea of blood tell a different story.

They’re Soap’s.

He's never seen Soap so still. The sergeant was always in motion – fingers drumming a near-silent rhythm, sometimes to the beat of that ridiculous Scottish song, "500 Miles." John had caught him once, had watched him drumming along for long enough to recognise the beat and had asked. The younger man had grinned at him when he had confirmed John’s suspicions and for a fleeting moment, John had wanted to kiss him senseless just to get the smug look off of his face.

But now there’s nothing, No subtle twitch of his fingers, no flutter of those ridiculously long lashes. John “Soap” MacTavish was a corpse. He had just killed the sergeant. The Scot was devoid of his usual charming smile or determined brow. The man in front of him wasn’t his sergeant, not his Soap – just a body, remains awaiting collection. His incompetence was responsible for the blood that was haloing the man’s head, clinging to the black hair of his silly mohawk.

Soap is dead.

And John killed him.

The first feeling he registers as he wakes is the sour taste of bile rising in his throat. His eyes don’t have a chance to open fully before he flings his head to the side, retching violently over the edge of the bed. The acrid burn of bile and whisky scorching his throat comes with the mortifying realisation that he isn’t in his quarters, the horror is briefly set aside by the stinging of his eyes as he unleashes another mouthful of vomit onto the floor.

A large, warm hand rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades, and he instinctively flinches before realising his mistake. If it had been his father he’d be hearing the crack of a belt before a burning sensation enveloped his back. He’s in Simon’s bed. He can tell by the sheer size of his hands alone - John had always fantasized about seeing Simon in a boxing match one day, just to witness exactly what those hands could do, how much blood they could shed.

The night before he had been too tired to resist and allowed Simon to drag him into his bed, still wearing his shirt from the previous night and a pair of Simon’s sweatpants that hung a little too loose around the hips. He’d been far too willing to fall into a subordinate’s bed. Nothing had happened, save for sleep, though John remembered the brief kiss Simon had pressed to his cheek as he had closed his eyes. Simon had rather shamelessly lounged on John, using his chest as a pillow. He must have startled him when he jerked awake. And now, here he is, spewing on the man’s floor.

When the sensation of bile and alcohol crawling up his throat finally comes to an end, he lets himself fall back onto the pillow, the hand pulling away from his back just in time to avoid getting stuck between his sweat-soaked back and the mattress. His ears are still ringing and there’s a bitter taste lingering in his mouth. He glances over to Simon, bracing himself for the inevitable look of disgust as he prepares to stand up and clean the vomit pooling on the hard floor of his room. He’s met with concern instead, Simon’s eyes scanning him carefully as he silently rises from the bed.

He lies in wordless despair, unsure of what to say to the other man. “Sorry, I vomited on your floor and flinched like a beaten dog, I just have nightmares of you all dying and my father beat me bloody as a child.” Seems far too abrupt, and a little pathetic. “Please, put me down like the dog I am.” Is a little morbid for an early morning greeting.

It was constant, never-ending torturous dreams. One night it was Johnny, the next it was Kyle and then it was Simon. It varied every time. A bullet in the head in tunnels with Makarov, tunnels he’d never stepped foot in before in all of his life. If he found them he had the urge to blow them up and leave a pile of rubble in his wake, just in case. Sometimes Gaz would fall from Nik’s helicopter without the rope to dangle from. The younger man would hit the road with barely enough time to scream before an indistinct black vehicle was smearing his skull across the asphalt, and then another until John could drag himself back to consciousness. Sometimes he’d send Ghost away with another squad, confident in the man’s ability to handle himself only to receive a photo of his charred body in return. There was no way to shake the feeling of self-loathing that would crush his chest like a vice as his eyes opened.

Before he gets the chance to say anything, Simon walks away, disappearing into the bathroom. The privilege of a personal bathroom is one of the few perks they both share, a small comfort for all they’ve endured. It was the best he could offer the lieutenant after all he had done for John, the graves he had dragged John out of on more than one occasion with a frustrated look. Simon returns with a basin full of cleaning supplies and kneels at John’s side of the bed. He tries to sit up, ready to clean up his mess but Simon’s hand on his chest plants him back down on the mattress.

“Lie down.” It’s an order, not a request and John finds himself obeying as he stares up at the ceiling, listening to Simon move about quietly, cleaning the floor. For a brief second John forgets which of them is older.

A chemically manufactured citrus smell reaches his nose and he grimaces, ignoring how his stomach twists. “Should’ve let me do that.” He mutters bitterly, the guilt present on his face. Simon’s head pops up, looking almost amused as he peers at John. It makes him feel like a caged animal in the zoo, he’s half waiting for Simon to poke a stick between the bars of his enclosure and whack him with it.

“Used to clean up after Tommy whenever he got sick, I can handle a little vomit. Besides, you didn’t also piss yourself, so there’s that.” Simon responds dryly and John can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes him.

The lieutenant rarely ever spoke about his family so openly in the presence of anyone, but John knew a handful of stories. The little titbits were always told with such fondness, he couldn’t help but smile. Simon had let it slip once that Kate looked like an aunt of his, the next time he watched the two interact he did so with a look of understanding. He knew there was a reason Simon took to her so quickly. It wasn’t rare for people to like Kate, she’s assertive, fiercely intelligent and not someone anyone would appreciate getting on the bad side of. Nikolai had made that mistake years ago and corrected it with haste that made the typically intimidating bear of man look like a little cub. Kate might’ve forgiven the man but Nik was far quicker to agree to help out Laswell than he was with anyone else. He had learned that Kate Laswell’s good side was the ideal place to stay.

He owes Nik a call, he realizes. Nik, who’s been both a friend and something more over the years. They had never been serious - Nik doesn’t do serious - but it’s been a while since they spoke. Too long, maybe.

“You going to talk about it?” Simon asks bluntly, tact was something the man rationed. The day Simon Riley approached him with any sense of emotional sensitivity was the day John would fry and eat his hat. Compared to the food in the canteen, he might even enjoy it.

He lifts his head just enough to shoot the other man a withering look, it doesn’t have the same effect it would on Gaz or Soap. Neither of them would be ballsy enough to respond the way Ghost does. “Don’t be a cunt.”

He’d be a cunt if he wanted to be a cunt. It was his God-given right to be a cunt. The stars aligned and it was John’s hereditary destiny to be a cunt. Cheeky git, his lieutenant was. He should cuff him over the back of the head.

“Sorry.” He wasn’t alive enough in his current state to start bickering with the blonde, if he was going to be viciously insulted he’d like to do it after his morning tea. God, he wanted his morning fucking tea in his mug, specifically. Soap loved to swipe it when he was feeling like a bastard. Gaz calls it his “old man mug”, coincidentally both younger men are overdue a boot up the fucking arse. His fox mug is worth digging two graves for.

“Where are Tweedledee and Tweedle-dipshit?” He asks curiously, he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings after leaving the bar the night before. Too ready to curl up and fall asleep wherever.

He hears a snort of amusement, and he rolls his eyes, what the fuck had they done now. “They fucked off to watch a movie in Johnny’s room. Considering how handsy they were getting I’d be surprised if they’d even got Netflix open on his laptop.” Oh, to get a video of that.

“To be that age again.” He might not be that much older than the rest of them, despite how they liked to joke but there was a clear age difference between him and the sergeants. They started drinking and fell into bed with someone. He started drinking and fell into bed, period.

He’d be lying through his teeth if he said knowing they were safe, alive and together made him feel anything but relief.

“Too fucking right.” He wasn’t the only old man at heart it would seem.

Pushing himself up, John shifts to lean against the wall as Simon stands to return the cleaning supplies to the bathroom. He leaves the basin by the side of the bed; John knows to be more grateful than embarrassed.

He watches the other man walk back towards the bed and takes a second to appreciate the sight in front of him. It’s a well-known fact in Task Force 141, that Simon Riley has the single worst bedhead out of anyone to ever exist. When he lets his hair grow long enough, just enough to curl at the ends it becomes untameable in the early mornings, sticking up in every direction. John half expects to see a pigeon’s head pop up from the utter bird's nest on the lieutenant's head.

He's wearing a t-shirt that looks to be inside out, the tag visible at the back of his neck. His sweatpants cling to his arse, unsurprising but he was more interested in the very faded Batman logo on the left leg of them. It seemed they each had their silly media of choice. Kyle was constantly rewatching the Transformers movies, Johnny would sit and watch old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoons whenever he got given the good-quality painkillers for any kind of injury and Simon was a Batman fan. It had been years but John was partial to the old episodes of Scooby-Doo whenever he ended up with a joint in his hand, Scooby-Doo and Indian takeout. He missed spending his nights like that.

He feels the mattress sink next to him as Simon sits down, the man wastes no time in plastering himself against John’s side. He’s warm, the lieutenant radiated heat like a furnace. Sleep arrangements on missions in colder countries would turn into an argument, usually whoever was the most injured would call dibs on Ghost for the night. Someone would sleep with Ghost stuck to their back like a human radiator and the other two would do the same but with less warmth.

“Laswell called you,” Simon informs him, messy strands of his hair tickling John’s neck with the lieutenant’s head against his shoulder. “She also sent you a photo of a Maine Coon carrying a kitten around in its mouth. The kitten looked like a…”

“Mould spore?”

The blonde nods, looking at him curiously. They all know Kate was realistically John’s closest friend outside of the 141 but he isn’t sure if they know how close. Most people assumed they were the type to do dinner once a year and that was their version of close. Typically no one would imagine that he had stood as the best man on Kate’s side of her wedding with Sarah, tearing up. Both women had looked beautiful that day and as a half-gift, half-reward for himself, he had volunteered to cat-sit when they went away to Santorini for their honeymoon. He spent most of the day using their Amazon Prime to catch up on movies with Minnie curled up on his lap.

“The mould spore is Dot, the fatass is Minnie.” He explains, watching Simon’s lips twitch as he tries not to smile. Simon always tried to hide it from them all, but he had a soft spot for animals, particularly small ones. John once watched the younger man sop on his way to exfil to free a grubby rat from a grate the little thing had caught his legs in.

“Harsh to comment on a lady’s weight, John.” The lieutenant says, feigning offence on behalf of the tubby cat.

“Don’t start.” John groans, burying his face in Simon’s hair. The scent of eucalyptus shampoo fills his nose. Kyle’s is vanilla-scented, Johnny’s is mango-scented, and John prefers a coconut scent. He pointedly ignores how much he has to care to have the list of their favoured shampoo scents memorised.

He rests one hand on the other man’s waist, gently squeezing as he leans into his ear. “Really, cartoon ghost socks? Bit on the nose, no?”

Simon only snorts in response and John wants to eat him alive, stupid socks and all.